Wilted and Wounded by War

If it wasn’t for the thick haze of smoke that lies on every horizon, I would snap a photo and send a post card, but nevertheless the war rages on. The missiles continue to send waves through the earth, the shells continue to fly, and the clusters continue to rain fire on villages, towns, and cities alike. It makes for crude humor, but the truth is I am glad that I’m alive. I wanted to share the following story with you all. 

A few weeks ago our convoy was moving slowly but surely through the vast countryside of Ukraine. It was a gloomy day, and the rain was looming and imminent. Although it was uncomfortably crisp, it was fitting, and the atmosphere was heavy. We went along. Village after village, town after town, field after field. We had seen them before time after time, but had never understood what they were for: the occasional roses, sunflowers, and orange and yellow daisies spread across the village roads we drove on. This day in particular we would come to a point of understanding. We would come to understand why there was wilted flowers and women with umbrellas, standing with a patient resting face, omitting any resemblance of joy. 

On this particular day, despite the temperature and the rain, we stopped our convoy. “What is going on?” We asked… It was a funeral. A soldier from one of the surrounding villages had been killed in action, and a procession was being held. The women (and men) standing on the side of the road were waiting to salute the soldier in honor, as his body was carried home inside of a casket on the back of a truck. The village saw that we were volunteers, and asked us to stay – they asked us to meet with them in what it seemed nobody else in this world even cared to acknowledge. 

One of the women on our team at the time was in heavy conversation with some of the Ukrainian women waiting for the procession. It started to rain a bit harder, making the breeze feel uncomfortable, and you could hear the droplets hit the leaves in the forrest as more umbrellas began to open. The sky was grey, the road was wet, and the day was dark, even though it was only lunchtime. The Woman from our team returned to the side of the road we were on, and she began to speak with us again. 

“They want to know if you can take pictures,” she said. “They want you to tell this story. His story. They want you to share; they want others to see what goes on here in Ukraine.” Upon hearing their words, and without hesitation, I pulled out the camera and began to take photographs – it was then that the truck carrying the former soldiers body began to come around the turn leading into the village. 

Without command, everyone knelt down. The ground was cold and wet scattered with puddles and little streams, but every present man, woman, and child knelt on one knee as the truck became visible. 

It was only a moment, yet it was frozen so impossibly still in time. The silent tears from the silent weeping of the women and mothers who also had husbands and sons on the front lines. The emotionless faces of the men kneeling with no umbrellas, their hair getting soaked by the drops of rain. They reminded me of the sunflower fields that we passed one after another. At one point in time, they looked up, reached out, and stretched toward the sun; now they are grey. The green in the leaves is gone, and they are leaning further and further down every day. I met the eyes of no one, as I was not the important one that day, but in everyones eyes was the weight of reality and of what reality had yet to come should another Ukrainian fall at the hands of the war.  

The tears continued to flow as the casket continued to pass, and nobody got up off of the ground until the truck was out of sight. People slowly began to clear the shoulders and umbrellas began to close. Those who had vehicles returned to them, but the majority of the population simply set off on foot to their homes within and around the village. I tried so desperately to try and think of some analogy that would end this entry positively, but the truth is that their reality is ugly. It is full of sorrow, grieving, and graves that are fresh in the ground. It is plagued by sleepless nights due to the air raids and the earth shaking paired with the sounds of major explosives. 

These people are wilted by the weight and wounded by the war – My heart was broken – My heart is broken. Because of this, and because of how, I will share their stories to the best of my ability. 

To help support me in efforts to deliver aid to villages and cities affected by the war, please donate here using the link, or the link below. Thank you for your support and prayers.