From Transylvanian Nights to the Kalahari Sands

Some of my earliest and most treasured memories are rooted in the small village of Cincșor, tucked away in the heart of Transylvania. Life in Communist Romania was often marked by scarcity and uncertainty, but those challenges also created moments of unexpected beauty. Power outages were a common occurrence, plunging our home into darkness without warning. Yet in those quiet evenings when the electric lights failed, another kind of light filled the room.

We would gather around the crackling fireplace, its flames dancing across the walls, as my grandfather began to speak. To me, he was a giant of faith, a man whose voice carried both authority and tenderness. With wide eyes my cousins and I leaned in as he recounted stories from the Bible or told us stories of brave missionaries who had carried God’s Word to distant and unfamiliar lands. Those moments, wrapped in both the warmth of the fire and the warmth of his faith, left an indelible mark on my soul.

As I drifted to sleep after those evenings, my imagination would soar far beyond the borders of Romania. I dreamed of Africa, with its vast savannas and hidden deserts; of the Amazon, with its dense, mysterious jungle; and of a God who called ordinary men and women to extraordinary journeys. Before he passed away, my grandfather entrusted me with what remains my most cherished earthly possession: a bundle of Signs of the Times magazines from the 1930s and 1940s. They had survived a house fire, their pages charred and fragile, yet alive with stories of faith. For hours I would pore over those yellowed pages, captivated by photographs of faraway places and inspired by the courage of missionaries who had gone wherever God had led them. That humble bundle of magazines was more than reading material. It was a legacy—a call to mission, a reminder that faith is not meant to stay still but to move, to go, to serve.

Called to Namibia

Fast-forward to 1996. A year earlier my friend Sebastian Tirtirau and I had left Romania to continue our theological studies at Helderberg College in South Africa. We were young, full of questions, but also filled with eagerness to serve. Near the end of that academic year an appeal was made that would forever change the course of our lives. The Southern Africa Union Conference was calling for volunteers to begin work with the San people in Namibia, one of the most remote and marginalized communities in the region at the time.

We barely hesitated. Without fully grasping the challenges ahead, we said yes. We did not know that November was the height of the rainy season in the Kalahari Desert, bringing both flooding and an explosion of mosquitoes that carried the ever-present threat of malaria. We had no idea how vast, dry, and isolated Tsumkwe would feel—or how unprepared we truly were.

I dreamed of Africa, with its vast savannas and hidden deserts; of the Amazon, with its dense, mysterious jungle; and of a God who called ordinary men and women to extraordinary journeys.

When we finally arrived, the reality was sobering. We spoke neither Afrikaans nor the San dialects. We had no vehicle to reach the scattered villages. And, in our youthful ignorance, we had unknowingly purchased secondhand clothing that resembled military uniforms. To the San people, this was no small matter. For years, young men had been conscripted into the South African army as guides, and so they assumed we had come to recruit them. They kept their distance, wary and silent.

Discouragement pressed heavily on us, but we prayed earnestly for God’s help. A few days later an answer quite literally knocked on our hut door. Standing there was a young man named Erastus. He greeted us—in English. Though not San himself, he had grown up among them and was fluent in several local dialects. With kindness and humility he offered to be our translator. That moment changed everything. Erastus became more than a translator; he became our brother in mission, a bridge between cultures, and a reminder that God provides the right people at the right time.

It did not take long for me to discover that ministry in the Kalahari required more than zeal. It required patience, humility, and an openness to be shaped by the people we came to serve. In Romania punctuality had been ingrained in me. So when I scheduled our first Bible study for noon, I arrived 15 minutes early. I waited. And waited. Hours passed. The meeting finally began around 4:00 p.m.

At first I was frustrated. But then I learned: In the desert, life bends to different rhythms. The heat of midday silences activity; the shade of late afternoon welcomes gatherings. More important, I discovered that there it was not the ticking of the clock that mattered, but the value of the encounter itself. Time was measured not in hours but in presence, in relationships, in shared moments of listening and learning.

Despite our inexperience and frequent mistakes, by the end of those first six weeks God had done what we could not. Thirty-two men and women chose to be baptized. What began as a short-term mission trip planted the seed of a lifelong calling.

A Ministry That Spanned Continents

After completing my studies, I began serving as a pastor in South Africa. Sebastian, meanwhile, moved first to the United States and later to Canada, but his heart never left the Kalahari. He returned again and again to those desert communities and, eventually, expanded his reach to other parts of the world. With a deep sense of purpose, he founded a charitable organization that grew into a multifaceted ministry—installing solar-powered water systems in parched villages, distributing mosquito nets in malaria-affected regions, delivering food and aid, and constructing churches and small clinics.

In 2005 I rejoined him, and together we embarked on new journeys of service. We found ourselves deep in the Amazon rainforest, navigating the lush jungles of Africa, traveling to the islands of the South Pacific, the remote communities of South America, and even the icy vastness of the Canadian Arctic. Each place was different, each culture unique, but everywhere we went we saw the same truth: God’s love transcends geography.

True mission is not about delivering answers, but about walking alongside people on their life and spiritual journeys.

One of the most remarkable milestones during this period was our partnership with It Is Written, then under the leadership of Shawn Boonstra. Together we were able to distribute hundreds of “God-pods”—small, solar-powered audio devices containing the Bible in the San language—to communities in the Kalahari. We also carried hundreds of Bibles translated into Inuktitut to Inuit families in the Canadian north, where long winters and isolation made access to Scripture difficult.

Another highlight was the missionary training school we established in Romania. For me, it felt like completing a circle: the faith planted in me during my childhood in Transylvania now returned to inspire and equip a new generation. Dozens of young men and women trained there, preparing to serve as volunteer missionaries in regions in which doors for service had opened. Watching them step forward, ready to carry the mission further, was among the most rewarding experiences of my life.

Looking back, I see how these experiences transformed me. I began with dreams of preaching and teaching, yet what I found was something deeper. I learned that true mission is not about delivering answers, but about walking alongside people on their life and spiritual journeys. It is about listening before speaking, learning before teaching. It is about recognizing that it is God who changes hearts and minds. Our calling is to help create the conditions, the sacred spaces, where people can encounter Him for themselves.

This shift in perspective also reshaped how I understood evangelism. Being welcomed into communities so different from my own forced me to confront my assumptions and to see the beauty of God’s image reflected in faces, languages, and cultures across the world. Humility became not an abstract virtue but a daily necessity.

A Legacy of Faith

In 2011 I returned to pastoral ministry in South Africa, grateful for the foundation those years of mission service had given me. Two years later I moved to Ireland, where I was blessed with the opportunity to serve as president of the Irish Mission from 2016 until 2024. Leading in that context brought new lessons—about administration, community building, and the challenges of faith in an increasingly secular environment—but it was always informed by the experiences I had carried with me from my time in the mission field.

Today I serve as principal of Newbold College of Higher Education, where I continue to invest in the next generation of leaders. Meanwhile, Sebastian has returned to some of the communities where we once labored, continuing the mission in a personal capacity. Our paths have diverged, but the calling remains the same.

When I trace the thread of God’s providence through my life, it always leads back to that Transylvanian fireplace, to the flickering light that illuminated my grandfather’s face as he told stories of faith and courage. The bundle of worn magazines he entrusted to me was never just about ink on paper. It was a sacred inheritance, a reminder that the call to mission is passed from generation to generation, each adding their own chapter to the story.

What I inherited from him was not wealth or property, but something far greater: the conviction that God can use anyone who is willing to go where He leads, even when the road is uncertain. My journey—from the quiet nights of Transylvania to the burning sands of the Kalahari, and from there to so many corners of the globe—has been one of grace upon grace. And through it all, I have learned this: when we entrust our lives to God, He takes even our small beginnings and weaves them into a tapestry far more beautiful than we could imagine.