A War-Torn Heart
Located between Armenia and Azerbaijan lies a parcel of land called Karabakh. It is a disputed area but internationally recognized as part of Azerbaijan. Still, most of it has been governed by the unrecognized Republic of Artsakh. The majority of those living there are Armenians. This land has been torn apart for decades by war. Recently, in 2020, war broke out again, and Armenians were forced to flee their homes. This is the land of my childhood.
My name is Lena, and I want to tell you about an event in my life that changed my way of thinking and my relationship with God.
I am Armenian by nationality, but my life began in Azerbaijan, where I was born. When the Armenia-Azerbaijan war broke out in 1988, my family was forced to flee the country by night. It was a terrifying ordeal. We fled to Armenia, where the government gave us space in a dormitory that had become housing for refugees. We had fled Azerbaijan with only the clothes on our backs—our pajamas— and there were good people in Armenia who gave us clothing. However, to feed our family of five, my mother needed to work hard, long hours wherever she could find someone to employ her. We barely saw her at home. As there were no legal paying jobs in Armenia at that time for refugees due to the war, my father left for Russia to work. During this season of my childhood, the only adult around was my grandmother (my grandfather had passed away shortly after arriving in Armenia). Grandmother had to take care of three children with my mother being away so much.
In the beginning, my father’s work in Russia went well, and he returned periodically to help the family. We were able to get back on our feet financially. We even helped some of the families that lived near us. However, during one of his ‘visits to Russia’, he left and simply never returned, leaving the care of my two siblings and me to my mother. His abandonment left a massive gaping wound on our whole family. My mother was forced to work days and nights. My siblings and I took on responsibilities not typically placed upon children’s shoulders. But.. we were refugees and it was wartime.
In these years, during and following the war, there were power outages lasting months. We also had to walk for several kilometers just to bring water to our 5th-floor apartment. Instead of resting and playing in the summer as children often do, we would walk 15-20 kilometers (about 10-plus miles) each way to collect firewood in the forest outside of the city. I was only seven years old at the time. We would also gather berries and sell them in the market. Because of the lack of soap and water, I had a buzz-hair cut until I was 13-years-old so as to not get lice. There were other days when we were given one piece of bread to eat. It was our choice as to whether that would be breakfast, lunch, or dinner. I was often hungry. Through all of these difficulties, my heart was filling with anger and bitterness towards my father. How could he leave us? I continually blamed him, thinking that if he hadn’t abandoned us and stayed with the family in Armenia, our lives would have been much more manageable.
I believed there was no way I could ever forgive my father for what he had done. My mind was ravaged with hateful thoughts and I would blame him when we had to work all summer instead of playing like the other children. It was far worse in winter because we didn’t have regular boots or coats. We would have to stay home from school for weeks on end. Jealousy took over my heart watching my girlfriends who had fathers, even if they were very strict. I deeply resented my father when we wouldn’t see our mother for days because she had to go straight from one job to another. She aged visibly before our eyes. I even blamed him when I couldn’t have normal friendships with boys my age. Sadly, a memory fixed in my mind was at my graduation celebration from school, when all the fathers came to take their daughters home, an on-duty police officer had to accompany me home.
Somehow, as I look back, I managed to survive those years. When I was 17-years-old, I began going to church at the invitation of one of my girlfriends. With time, I became a Sunday school leader, and ironically, I would often talk to the children about forgiveness and the love of God. But as I continued on with my life, I felt this heavy burden like carrying a backpack filled with rocks of bitterness and anger. I knew I was not really happy and there was something wrong deep inside. As the years continued to pass, this pack continued to get heavier and heavier. As I would pray, I fervently asked God for renewal but did not know how to do anything to get rid of the feeling of this enormous weight I carried. Sadly, deep inside, I didn’t even want to be rid of the burden. I felt I had a right to be angry.
In 2006 a missions team came on a short-term trip to our town. I listened to their sharing and began to watch their lives. After hearing Biblical teaching and vision, I knew God was calling me to be a missionary. They shared many things but what stood out in my mind was the training school they offered. I was very excited about the possibility of attending, and I dug into my pockets for my last cent to pay for it.
It wasn’t long before I was sitting in the classroom, ready for my training adventure. However, I was hit with a bombshell on the first day of school when I learned that the week’s theme would be ‘The Fatherheart of God.’ Our teacher was a man from Australia with Russian heritage. He had many stories to tell of God’s faithfulness towards His children. But when he began to talk about God’s Fatherheart and Him loving us as a good father, this giant uncontrollable ball of anger rose up inside of me. I could accept God in many different ways, but definitely not as a father. This teacher, Jim, shared from his own woundedness being abandoned by his father. I could actually sense the Spirit of God bringing to my mind the wounds and hurts I had experienced in my own life with my father. I could not see as a wave of black anger took over. I could not even sit through the first lecture. I abruptly jumped from my chair and stormed out of the classroom, determined not to return. Needless to say, this act shocked the teacher, as well as the staff and fellow students. The week very slowly progressed. This kind teacher reached out to me as only a father can. He made an effort to talk to me outside of class, but I diligently avoided him and refused to return to the lectures. My pain was overwhelming. This was not what I signed up for. I saw no way out of my current dilemma, and I refused to believe anything could change between my father and me. A war had quite literally torn us apart. And the war in my heart continually raged on and controlled me. However, God had other ideas.
On the last day of this week, I hesitantly returned to the classroom. We had an open session in which each student was allowed to share with our group what God may have dealt with in their hearts during the week’s teaching. No one was forced to share but different ones realizing it was a safe place to share and be prayed for, began to tell of their wounds from the past. Amidst heart-wrenching tears, forgiveness was expressed towards fathers and others who had abused them. In my mind, I repeatedly told myself that I could never share and never forgive the one who had hurt and damaged me so badly. When it became my turn, this colossal battle continued to rage inside of me. To this day, I cannot even remember how I started, but it was as if God gently picked me up and opened my mouth. I began to share my story. Tears streamed down my face, my lips kept moving, and a life of pain and sorrow came pouring out.
“I have loved you with an everlasting love;
I have drawn you with unfailing kindness.”
When I finished, the teacher then took a step that ultimately broke the hard shell which encased my heart. He knelt down and symbolically started asking forgiveness in place of my father for each of the past wounds. He moved through from childhood to my teenage years to young adulthood and all the suffering I had endured. I laid my head limply on his shoulder, and I wept uncontrollably. He then asked my friends to join him, and they gathered around to pray for me. He quietly waited and then asked if I was ready to forgive my father. In the middle of this emotionally charged time of prayer, I began to feel a peace that was very new to me. Surprising myself, I was actually able to declare the words, “I forgive." As I uttered these life-changing words, it was as if that pack, which I had been lugging around with me all those years, fell away, and I was able to stand with a lightness I’d never known. It is difficult to express in words. Only someone who has sincerely forgiven and from deep places of hurt and abuse can possibly understand what happened to me in those moments.
“Start by doing what’s necessary; then do what’s possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
I give glory to God that He led me to attend the training school. He brought this teacher with a fatherheart across the ocean, with a message of forgiveness, and helped me forgive someone I hadn’t been able to forgive for 16 years—my father.
God continued working miracles around my life. One of them was my brother, who had gone to Russia for work, and was finally able to locate our father. They certainly would not have recognized each other on the street, but mutual friends made some phone calls and helped them to connect. By this time, my father was very sick, and my brother sent word to family back in Armenia that he’d found our father. Amazingly, I was sitting in the very classroom where I had forgiven, when I received the SMS that my brother had found our father! I was in shock! How could this even be possible? My brother was asking us whether he should bring our father back to Armenia. How I praise God that my heart had already been changed by this point, and I agreed to welcome dad back rather than reject him. All this was happening just before his birthday, and on November 25, 2006, I was able to call and wish my father a happy birthday for the first time in 16 years! It was a short conversation as both of us were very emotional and could not really speak. I told him that I loved him and couldn't wait for him to return home. I continued to marvel at the lovingkindness of God in bringing families back together.
Following the lecture phase of our training school, we had an outreach and went to Turkey for 3 months. When I returned, I learned that my father had not lived long enough to return to Armenia and had passed away in Russia. My brother brought his body back to Armenia for burial. I only was able to tell him on the phone that I had forgiven him. Still, if I had lacked that forgiveness in my heart, I may have rejected the only chance I had to speak with my father while he was still alive.
From that point on in my life, I always encourage people if they have somebody they need to forgive, they should do it now as tomorrow might be too late. Because of the healing God performed through my new understanding of forgiveness and the significant impact on the health of my life, I've shared my story with many. I've had the honor of praying and seeing others break the chains of unforgiveness, and their lives move forward in freedom and wholeness. I give God all the glory and praise for His Fatherheart and His love for us. He will move mountains to show us His love.
Lena and her husband, Paul (American), met in Armenia, where Paul served with the Peace Corps. They have worked together in ministries of reconciliation all over Armenia, especially in the Karabakh region, amongst those affected by the war. Today they have three lovely children and continue to share their story as a family.
