I grew up on the border between two different universes, not geographically but spiritually. There, across that fine line, lived more than half of my extended family, with a different worldview.
Although there were many voices urging me to explore the world beyond the border, I did not. I had found beauty in the simplicity of my life. I was content and fulfilled in my universe. I may not have had a house full of valuables, but I had a meaningful life. Books were my portals to other worlds, and the television—which for a considerable time we didn’t even own—seemed insignificant in comparison.
In time I came to understand that the real pillar of this rich life was my mother. Every day I would see her praying in a corner of the house, a space made holy by the sincerity and intensity of her prayers. Without realising it, this small, unpretentious sanctuary became an anchor that set me on the path of right decisions as a teenager.
A biblical scene unfolded before me with unexpected depth: it was Jesus in Gethsemane, trying to comfort the hearts of those around Him (“Do not let your hearts be troubled” [John 14:1]), even though His soul was overwhelmed with sorrow (“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” [Matthew 26:38]).
By the time I turned 20, I was a student and had been away from home for two years. New and unexpected perspectives caused my well-defined universe to blur at the edges… Deceptions both big and small, taken together, began to pour doubts into my mind and soul. In spite of my silent cries for help, it was clear to me that I had a journey ahead of me that I had to do alone. Or more precisely, alone in God’s presence. However, I felt that a barrier was being erected between me and Him: prayers seemed to be lost in the wind, the Bible was in danger of becoming just a textbook, and theology courses were turning into expositions of mere theories. I tried to escape my inner emptiness on the football field, and the more the sorrow grew, the more I felt the need to withdraw into myself. I had less and less to offer to the world.
One of those days, a biblical scene unfolded before me with unexpected depth: it was Jesus in Gethsemane, trying to comfort the hearts of those around Him (“Do not let your hearts be troubled” [John 14:1]), even though His soul was overwhelmed with sorrow (“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death” [Matthew 26:38]). The image of this poignant contrast conveyed so much authenticity to me that I decided to try what Jesus did. I jotted down an encouraging verse on a bookmark and left the refuge of the room with it in my hand. On the ground floor of the dormitory, I realised I was the only one who had noticed a tear-stained face slipping unnoticed through the cheering crowd. I saw this suffering because I was finally ready to see it…
I offered her the bookmark, without many words, and walked out into the campus courtyard. A wave of calm and clarity washed over me. I had been so wrapped up in my own suffering that I had stopped noticing the pain of others around me, but God changed my perspective, making me see the world through His compassionate and unconditionally loving eyes. It was His way of freeing me from my troubles and redirecting me to the needs of my fellow humans. It was His way of speaking to me and reminding me who He is and what perspective matters. It was an epiphany that filled the emptiness in my heart with a new confidence in Him that has never wavered since.
And so, at the age of 20, I understood that God allows Himself to be revealed and waits patiently for us to be willing to be led to Him.
Norel Iacob is editor-in-chief of Signs of the Times Romania and ST Network.
