A reflection from the front lines of grief, resilience, and hope

After a week of travel, teaching, and countless sacred conversations, I’m sitting in Nashville reflecting on all I’ve seen and felt. My journey to Ukraine this time was unlike any other—a collision of beauty and brokenness, resilience and sorrow, silence and song.

It began on a crisp Friday morning in Nolensville, Tennessee. My senior dog, Maci, seemed to know I was leaving. Her eyes followed every movement as I packed, full of the kind of knowing that only comes with years of companionship. The airport goodbye was tender—quiet, weighty. And from that moment on, I was caught in the current of something much larger than myself.

A turbulent flight to D.C. almost caused me to miss my connection, but grace intervened and I made it to Krakow. Slavik and his young son greeted me, and we drove the three hours to the Ukrainian border, winding through quiet villages and rolling fields. A stop at McDonald’s for cheeseburgers and coffee felt oddly grounding—one last moment of Western normalcy before stepping across the threshold into war-torn Ukraine.

We crossed the border on foot.

Each step on the cobblestones carried weight—leaving peace behind and walking into grief. The change in atmosphere was immediate, not just politically, but spiritually. In Lviv, I returned to the same hotel I stayed in last time. Familiarity helped, even as the city felt different. The golden domes still caught the light, but the air was heavier. The grief more palpable.

Each morning in Lviv began the same: a beautiful, generous breakfast followed by a moment of collective stillness at 9 a.m.—a city-wide pause to remember the fallen. Forks rested. Conversations ceased. For one minute, all of Ukraine stilled to honor those lost in the Great War.

It became a ritual that shaped the rhythm of my day. A sacred reminder that even amid the ordinary—coffee, eggs, chatter—grief walks with us.

At the seminary, I met 24 students training to become counselors in a country still at war. These were not theoretical learners—they were survivors. One student had a prosthetic leg. Another was a combat medic. A young woman had fled Kherson alone. Another had watched her hometown be destroyed.

They brought their full selves to the classroom—grief and hope, pain and persistence. And together, we created space for deep learning: neurobiology of trauma, treatment planning, post-traumatic growth, and narrative healing.

The classroom became holy ground.

Tears came freely. One student broke down mid-case presentation. Another asked, “How do I keep going?” after months of serving on the front lines. And yet, laughter showed up too—in role-plays, over coffee, and in the quiet joy of shared understanding. Hope insisted on making space.

Outside the classroom, beauty met me again and again.

Late-night walks on cobblestone streets where violinists played in the open air. Dinners at Jewish-Ukrainian fusion restaurants. Candles flickering during quiet conversations. One woman said, “There is more to save in Ukraine than has been destroyed.” I saw that truth lived out in every corner.

My translator had been sent to the front three times. He carried trauma in his body but translated with such care—turning pain into something redemptive. A young assistant in the department became a steady source of joy, always ready with help and encouragement.

Students offered small but deeply meaningful gifts—bananas, coffee, earrings, handwritten notes. One told me, “You are Ukrainian now.” I felt the weight of that blessing.

As the week ended, I was given a rushnyk—a traditional embroidered cloth used in Ukrainian weddings. Couples step onto it as they take their vows. Receiving one felt like a vow had been made between myself and this land, these people, this sacred work.

The journey back across the border was long—five hours in cold rain, every bag searched, every body tired. But still, kindness lingered. Strangers held umbrellas for one another. No words needed—just shared humanity.

In Krakow, I allowed myself one quiet day. I wandered through medieval streets. I watched a parade from a glass-walled café. I listened to the trumpet call from St. Mary’s Basilica—its abrupt ending a centuries-old tradition honoring a fallen hero.

It felt fitting.

Now, back in Nashville, I carry a strange mixture:

• The deep trauma entrusted to me by students who are still living in the storm.
• The ache of uncertain news from the front.
• The warmth of dinner with Macon.
• The soft glow of patio lights I strung with tired hands when I couldn’t fix anything else.
• The anticipation of tomorrow’s table, where stories and laughter will meet again.

This work is heavy.
But it is holy.
And it is not finished.

How You Can Pray

• For my students at UBTS, who are learning to help others while carrying their own unhealed wounds.
• For those on the front lines and the families waiting for their return.
• For the children growing up in war—may they one day know safety, peace, and joy.
• For the church in Ukraine—that leaders would be renewed with strength and hope.
• For the restoration of Ukraine.
• And for my own heart—that I may hold these stories with reverence and release them with trust.

To those who prayed, who followed, who lifted me up from afar—thank you.
Your love was felt in every step, in every word.
Your prayers made space for this sacred work.

With love and deep gratitude,
Sandy