A few years ago we met an older man in Ivanivka named Yura. He quickly became known to us as Ded Yura, the Ukrainian equivalent to calling him Grandpa Yura. For the past few years now, we have seen him anywhere from once a week to every day, either around the village or knocking at our orange fence. About a month ago, we found out that he passed away and I have been thinking about him and our attempts to love and help him ever since.
Sasha was actually the first one to meet him and I doubt Ded Yura ever even remembered the meeting. He was drunk and trying to get home in the snow in the dead of winter. He’d fallen and Sasha saw him, stopped the car and walked him the rest of the way home, all the way down at the end of our same street. That was the beginning of a sad and sweet relationship with Ded Yura. As long as we knew him, he had a lot of struggles. He battled alcoholism, had problems with his legs and couldn’t walk well, his house had no heat or electricity, his vision was pretty bad and he was always breaking his glasses. He’d show up with two pair on at once, his attempt to double the prescription on used glasses. Sometimes he needed help getting himself home after too much to drink. Sometimes he needed food. Sometimes he needed his bike fixed, or a blanket, or batteries. He would come to our house and knock on that orange fence looking for help. Maybe just looking for a friend.
Sometimes he was exhausting, showing up days in a row, telling us rather than asking for whatever he needed that day. But other times he was sweet and would bring things he found to give us – a bag of walnuts from his tree, or a semi-squishy orange he’d saved as a thank you. We celebrated his birthday for the past few years (he turned 70 in May this year) and he loved it. He’d blow out his candles and eat as much food as we’d serve him and smile as he told us whatever stories popped into his head. He’d come to church at our house on Sundays and sit while we listened to a sermon. Once he was overheard in the store telling the clerk that he comes because we have great food. We laughed when we heard, happy to have him come regardless of his true motivations.
He always knew Sasha’s name well, but mixed up me and Melissa fairly often. And he couldn’t ever seem to remember my name… He often called me Natalochka. Melissa made him sandwiches to take home more times than any of us could count. A few times I gave him a haircut. So many days he would sit and sip coffee or tea with one or all of us in silence, just happy for company. Many times Sasha would offer him our shower and would physically help him get in and out. He’d come to our house a mess, dirty, stinky, his clothes beyond washing. Sasha would often give him his own pants, shoes, shirts, etc to go home in. He would come in looking like one version of himself and leave a whole new man. Not because we were so amazing or the clothes or haircut were the best, but I think because he was able to walk out with a little more dignity.
He never quit drinking or announced any change he was going to make in his life. Sasha would always tell him how God loved him and would forgive him of whatever he’d done in the past. We heard all kinds of rumors and gossip about who he was and what he’d done. People tended to steer clear of him around Ivanivka, seeing him as not much more than a drunk and whatever else they’d heard. He may not have been loved by many and he may have been a mess, but he still mattered to God and he mattered to us. When we found out he died, we were heartbroken.
He was a big part of our outreach, but also our lives and routine in the village. And he will be missed. He wasn’t honored by any big service or memorial but we’re honoring him here , because he was loved.