Visiting Ukraine for the fourth time felt a lot like coming home. Kiev is familiar and we don't feel as though we are so easily lost (misplaced, my husband calls it). I'm still stunned by the beauty of the ancient buildings and churches, and the statue of "Mother Russia" still takes my breath away, even though I know some of my Ukrainian friends have reason to wish it was gone.

We stayed at the Music Mission Kiev offices behind the opera house, which is close to the metro that we're getting pretty comfortable taking to get around. I'm able to read some Russian now, though I can't translate it all. Our friends Sasha and Olya have a new baby, so much of our time was spent traveling to their house and finding excuses to sit Marta while they had some time to themselves or just some help.

I'd like to describe just one special "God moment" from this trip, though. As with many of these "windows of the soul," it happened when I was least expecting it. We were rushing through the constant stampede of the metro through the underground passages full of shops, noise and movement, bundled up in our furry coats, when I saw an old woman standing by the stairwell leading up to the main street. 

This is not uncommon in Ukraine. The number of poor widows is astonishing, and many of them beg with paper cups in the subways and on the streets when it is warm enough, just to survive. Randy and I have gotten into the habit of dropping anything we have into their cups as we pass by, and I personally take time to touch their faces or arms, look into their eyes and bless them. This is always a holy moment.

But I could feel this particular woman's misery. She had a scarf and coat, but she was shivering with cold, her eyes closed, not even speaking. I was drawn to her like a magnet. Randy handed me an especially generous gift, and I went back to put it in her empty cup, touching her arm and rushing back into the crush of people. I didn't get to see her response.

As we mounted the stairs, I felt my heart physically breaking for this woman. I haven't felt such a sensation since my mother died. I started to weep, and couldn't stop for blocks. We climbed some very steep streets up out of the Maidan square, and Randy kept asking me if I needed to stop. But in my heart I was seeing every scrap of poor and needy humanity in every country and dark corner of the world, my heart going out to them, my mind again asking, "And why am I safe and warm?" I could feel God's heart for these unseen people who are passed by every day by others more fortunate. I could sense their questioning what their lives were for, and I wondered myself.

Most importantly, I knew in my heart that those lives were important to God, and if God were to ask me to serve tea to those ladies in the subway for the rest of my life, I could be happy doing it. What a small thing to ask in light of what He's done for me. What a joy it is each time I look into one of those ladies' eyes.

I remember another time I felt that kind of joy. My mother was in the hospital with cancer, and I stayed in the room with her one night. The chair I slept in was the slipperiest chair on earth. I simply could not find a comfortable position, and when I did, I practically slid to the floor. I even slept on the cold, hard hospital room floor part of the night because it was easier!

But that discomfort was almost non-existent in the light of being with my mother. The privilege of her presence made me laugh at my circumstances. What a joy to suffer a slippery chair on her behalf!

What joy should come to us as we suffer on behalf of any human being in need. Whether we part with money, give up our spot in line, sleep in a smelly orphanage or a slippery chair, we can do it with joy and feel just an iota of what Jesus must have felt, even in His dying for us. May He daily give us that kind of love for others, that serves out of a heart of joy and gratitude. And may your Thanksgiving be filled with such feelings, friends …