Hugs from God

In 2010 our air force family found itself stationed at Incirlik Air Base near Adana, Turkey—about forty-five minutes from the Syrian border. A few months after arriving with our two toddler boys, we found out we were expecting another baby.

For some reason (and I’m still not sure what we were thinking) we thought it was a good idea to celebrate our first Christmas overseas in Istanbul. We joined two other families and flew across this new country we called home for a long Christmas weekend.

Our rationale included the fact that Turkey did not celebrate Christmas at all. It’s approximately 98 percent Muslim, so what did it matter where we were? We might as well make the best of it and do some traveling while we had the chance. But staying on our American base, where we at least could celebrate Christ’s birth with other Americans, might have been a better choice. As we toured Istanbul, the absence of anything resembling Christmas or Christianity started to work its way into all our hearts.

Where were the Christmas trees? The nativities? The music? Where were the lights? The Christmas pageants? The presents?

They were 6,386 miles away. That’s where they were. Back in America. Back in the country which, for all people complain about it, truly was home.

To make it worse, I felt as though all my American friends and family had abandoned me. Normally I see the glass as half full, and I’m sure they actually hadn’t forgotten me, but it felt that way. No one was checking on me. No one seemed to be wondering how I was doing. They were celebrating Christmas in their towns and communities as they always had. And I was trapped in a foreign country that didn’t believe in Christmas.

They all probably thought, “Wendi has this traveling thing down. Wendi’s strong. She’s got this.”

But I didn’t.

By Christmas Day, the adults in our group were feeling the sadness. (Did I mention I was traveling in a Middle Eastern country with a couple of two-year-olds and my morning-sick self?) We began to intensely search high and low in this foreign place for anything resembling the holiday we knew and loved.

We finally found a Catholic church holding a Christmas Day mass. None of us were Catholic, but it didn’t matter. We jumped at the chance. It was a good effort, but we left the building still feeling as though this was the worst Christmas in any of our lives. The priest had a thick, African accent. We couldn’t understand anything he said. And nearly everyone there was a foreigner and seemed to feel just like we did. We all wanted to be somewhere else.

And then, suddenly, a small miracle. We rounded the corner from the church, and there in front of us was a group of Christian Turks passing out Bibles and playing instruments. We listened, and there it was—a song about our Savior! In the middle of a country that didn’t believe in Christ, God gave us a great big hug!

Great is the Lord
He is holy and just
By His power we trust
In His love
Great is the Lord
He is faithful and true
By His mercy He proves
He is love

Great is the Lord
And worthy of glory
Great is the Lord
And worthy of praise
Great is the Lord
Now lift up your voice
Now lift up your voice
Great is the Lord
Great is the Lord

I managed to grab my camera and start recording a video. You can hear me in the background, a bit dumbfounded. Were they really passing out Bibles? On the street? Were they really playing this Christian Michael W. Smith song? We had trouble believing it. (Later we would also stumble upon Krispy Kreme donuts in a mall. But that’s another story altogether.)

Here is what I learned over that long weekend: in the places where we feel farthest from God, we can most feel him. Without a doubt, when I look back over all the holidays in my past, that one in Istanbul is when I most felt the Lord’s presence. That celebration stands out as one of the greatest memories of my life.

As you move through the holiday season, look for the small hugs God gives you. They may not be easy to see in the midst of normalcy, but they are there. A kind word. An unexpected present. A special surprise. A call from an old friend. An opportunity to volunteer. A thank-you from your child. A lick from a puppy. These small things are how we feel God’s presence.

Whether you are alone, surrounded by people you love, or smack-dab in the center of the Middle East, God’s there.

Wendi Kitsteiner is a former city girl now living on a farm in the middle of nowhere, Tennessee with her husband and four young children. She is passionate about the causes of infertility, adoption, and keeping it real as a mom. You can follow her at flakymn.blogspot.com or becauseofisaac.org.

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