I first discovered Cefa, Romania on a visit to a small church in the village back in the 1990s. We were invited by their pastor. It was the hottest day of July – the year that Chicago had a heat wave that killed hundreds. At that time, the Baptista Romilor met in a small house – actually a shack – near the main road. Crowded into a room about 12 feet square, were about 30 people. There was only one window. A cow appeared there at one point during the service.

The heat was oppressive, but the spirit of those assembled to worship was celebratory – except for six Chicagoans who were a bit uncomfortable with the sardine-like surroundings. (You know, we Americans love our space. When we enter a waiting room occupied by one other person, we take the chair farthest away. The Eastern Europeans take the one adjacent to the person already there.)

So there we were, cramped in upon each other, hot as the hereafter, and singing “This is the day that the Lord hath made.” I remember a dirt floor, but that may be faulty. It would stand to reason based upon what I know of the Gypsy village today, but I am not sure. I do know that there was very little air circulating and I was seated very close to my neighbor.

We sang to the accompaniment of a cheap guitar and intense clapping. There was also a tambourine which was a prized possession of a dark-eyed Roma woman. Inverted, it became the offering plate for the day. (You could see the Americans, still unfamiliar with the Romanian currency, mentally struggling to know how much to place in the jingling plate. What I thought was $20, turned out to be less than $1.)

The time of prayer was moving. I have often said, after first hearing their prayers, that no group prays with the zeal of the Romilor. It is chant-like in delivery and punctuated repeatedly with “Ameen”(Amen) from those who are listening. Many times, the females who pray aloud, will accompany their litany with tears of joy or sadness. It is rare to hear a male voice. The Roma men are conspicuously quiet or simply not present at worship.

The sermon was delivered in the Romany tongue, so I could only imagine the theme. However, from time to time I did hear “Chicago” and figured we were either being extolled or exposed. (I have always felt that the Pastor would have preferred me to be more fundamental in my approach to my faith.) Either way, ignorance is bliss.

After the service ended, we greeted each other standing in the blazing July sun. The children chased the ducks that wandered by the crowd.

We crowded into the mini-bus and drove to an empty house about a half-mile away. The pastor had an idea for a new church building.

This building now houses THE HOMEWORK PROJECT. A wing has been added for bathrooms, a kindergarten, kitchen, and classrooms. Nearby is a shower facility so that the villagers can come to bathe. There is a playground for the kids. There is even a site to build a community center.

The original building from that hot July Sunday still stands near the main roadway. When I pass it, I am reminded of how things began and rejoice in the progress.

The Traveler