We Didn't Choose this Story
- 3 days ago
- 3 min read
By Sharon T. Markey
Nearly four years ago, our family lost everything except each other. What we’ve experienced and learned since has reshaped not only our lives, but the lives of many other women.
In December 2021, we were living in Kyiv, Ukraine. My husband and I had called Ukraine home for a combined five decades, and our six children had never lived anywhere else. When Russia invaded in February 2022, we made the wrenching decision to flee, leaving behind not just possessions but friends, relatives, and a faith community that was the backbone of our life there.
We crossed into Hungary, assuming we’d soon go back. Three chaotic weeks later, we settled into a cramped two-bedroom apartment in downtown Budapest. Reeling with loss, I focused on doing the next necessary thing—feeding my children, creating a cocoon of safety in a strange city, counting the days until we could return. I couldn’t imagine then that we would not only build a new home, but help others build theirs too.
Compelled by love for Ukraine, even before we found permanent housing, we began asking, “How can we help?” We joined forces with a handful of other refugees and began visiting displaced families across Hungary. Driving from city to city, we quickly realized the greatest need wasn’t food—it was connection.
We met mothers and children who were isolated and hopeless. From the very first trip it was obvious that these families, who truly had nothing, were more grateful for a visit from someone who spoke their language than for the groceries we brought. Many didn’t know a single other Ukrainian in town. We began dreaming of drawing them together, so aid days turned into simple lunches. We met wherever we could find space: in churches, parks, cafes, and parking lots.
By the first Christmas, kind friends had given enough to buy gifts for the children. A wrapped present in a new country can’t restore what war has stolen, but it can remind a child that he is seen. One mother sent us a photo of her little boy sleeping with the toy we’d given him.
Now, as we approach our fourth Christmas in exile, I feel a complicated gratitude. I still miss Ukraine fiercely—the language, the neighbors who became family, the courage that has inspired me to be more courageous myself—but we have a life in Hungary.
Many women and children we first served have moved on, but of those who stayed, many have become dear friends.
We’ve traded mass deliveries for presence. Our team now focuses on weekly visits with women in five cities. We drink tea around kitchen tables, swapping stories about our children’s illnesses, job challenges, and the welfare of relatives still in Ukraine. We celebrate wins and sit with the hard things, even holding memorial services for loved ones whose lives were cut short by the war. We pray for each other and turn to the Bible, because that’s where my hope has always been. Together we’re learning to recognize the goodness of God amidst a world gone horribly wrong.
We didn’t choose this story, but we do get to choose how to live inside it. = For our family, that means staying present, listening more than we speak, and helping other women gather enough safety to start dreaming again. If the war ended tomorrow, we’d still carry these people and this place in our bones. Until then, we’ll keep showing up—one day, one city, one shared meal at a time.
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