Recently, Dan Onu and I made yet another trip into The Republic of Moldova.

Gene Recher and Barry Coffee, two lay businessmen from Alabama, traveled with us. Our first stop was in the village of Tirnova. We visited with some of the town folk who had been evangelized by the new Moldova church plant we helped start two years ago. The four of us walked down a typical village dirt lane not far from where our church met for worship. Dan recognized the man, Valeriu, walking towards us from the other direction. Dan knew him as the father of the handicapped and bedridden little girl we were to visit. We greeted Valeriu, and then followed him through the open gate of a small picket fence, ducking to avoid badly overgrown vines.

Prior to even crossing the threshold, we were instantly assaulted by the pungent odor of human degradation. Instinctively, I sensed that the Lord had a specific purpose for us beyond a mere casual greeting. In a second room, nine year old Valorica lay helpless in bed. The room's air was odious, reeking of urine. Ancient strips of blackened fly paper slung carelessly over a broken ceiling light fixtures were dotted with hundreds of dead insects, while dozens of their kin still taunted tiny Valorica. The floor was littered with metal pots and pans that held the remnants of long ago cooked meals, now neglected and rotting. An eclectic mix of putrid debris, festering and maggot ridden, littered the floor.

Valeriu self-consciously slumped down on a narrow cot as Dan approached Valorica with a tender greeting, gently stroking her cheek. Her tousled brown hair was teeming with life. Nonetheless, the child's face immediately brightened at his soft touch and warm presence. Valorica is afflicted with something from a head injury sustained three years ago that has left her arms and legs bent and crippled. She has difficulty speaking, but her mind is clear and she is very responsive. Valorica seemed to be aware of everything and everyone in the cramped room where she lay under a filthy blanket on a second cot. Alertly, she cocked her head to follow each new sound and movement around her. Obviously, visitors interested in her were something new.

I backed out of the bedroom, slowly moving to inspect the balance of the interior. Two other rooms, similarly appointed, had dozens of empty vodka bottles strewn, stacked, and discarded throughout. Beyond a doorway was a dark recess, over which hung a rotting blanket, fetid and grimy. I could not even bring myself to enter. I recoiled as the air reeked of raw human waste. Collectively, the place had the feel of a three-room petri dish. The entire house was a garbage dump. Back in the entryway, I spotted a tiny wheel chair on which was piled yet another heap of moldy rubbish. Returning to the bedroom, I flashed a smile at Valorica. She was a cute little girl, who seemed delighted to have company. Any company.

My steely-eyed gaze then fixed on her father Valeriu. My mind strained to grasp what my acute sensory struggle failed to comprehend. Dan informed us that the small State-sponsored monthly stipend paid to Valorica for her care was taken, instead, by the father for vodka. Many a night, he and his cronies would booze it up right in the room where Valorica lay. Clearly, she was subsisting in deplorable conditions that would be considered inhumane even for an animal, let alone a precious little girl. Something seemed to snap inside me. At once I was disgusted, horrified, repulsed. And I was livid.

But then, God's grace made a play for my attention. The Lord revealed a glimpse of what He saw. I was reminded that His will for me was to no longer regard anyone from a human perspective (2 Corinthians 5:17). Thus chastened, I gazed for an instant through the lens of the Father. What I saw was a disturbing fragment of myself reflected in the eyes of a fallen, earthly father. This vaguely familiar image was both staggering and humbling. And it was all too true. Beneath this haggard, hollow-eyed facade was a beating heart and a bleeding soul like mine before Jesus. Here was another of God's creation. All that remained of that father, son, husband and brother was mirrored in a dark and desperate countenance.

Spying something, Dan began sifting through the rubble on the rotting floors boards. Finding a half buried, black and white photograph, he handed it to me. It was a picture portrait of Valeriu and his oldest daughter, taken more than fifteen years ago. Here was an attractive teenager and a proud, beaming father. In the snapshot, I saw a clear-eyed, dignified man of perhaps thirty, with strong facial features and black wavy hair. Glancing from the photo to the man slouched on the cot, I could just apprehend those now sunken, alcohol-ravaged features in Valeriu. More would be revealed about this tragic family's story in the hours ahead.