A Day in Rural Serbia with my friend Biba, 

I’ve written about some of  my Serbian friends and how they work to make their homeland and villages a better place to live. They want to preserve and revitalize the villages of their ancestors. It is much like it is here; outward migration has taken the young people from the villages to cities where they can find work.

            My friend, Biba, drove us through “the village of my mother” as she referred to it. In her broken English, Biba explained, “My mother came to the city when she got older so she could be near doctors. She lives with me and my husband so we can help her.” She drove us around a narrow mountain road close to the Bulgarian border. The one lane dirt road hung to the cliff edge. With no guard rails to block the view we look out the car window straight to the river basin.  It must be at least a mile to the bottom. The view was spectacular. Stara Planina, or Old Mountain, is rich with breathtaking panoramic views. Pure water gushed from the mountain and followed a familiar path to the river below. Green fertile valleys with remnants of farms where once sheep grazed under the watchful eye of the farmer and his dogs dotted the landscape. A peaceful relaxed feeling swept over me. I felt at home in this distant land.

            It was Biba’s day to teach Ron and me about Rural Serbia. She decided to drive us to a small country church, one that isn’t used much any more. “Most of the young people have left the village and the old people can not make it so far to go to church there”, Biba told us. “There is a woman who lives by the church, she lives all alone. I love her, she is my friend. I must take her a gift”. Biba said.

            As we drove through the village Biba saw friends and distant relatives that she knew as a child. Her emotions took control and tears fell from her eyes. “I must stop, I must speak, they will not understand if I don’t speak to them”, she said as if to ask permission for a few seconds of time. She stopped her car and backed up. There, beside an old house with a rock roof stood an elderly woman, Biba rolled down her window, and with a quivering voice called her name. “Do you remember me” she asked the old woman. When she spoke her mother’s name a smile spread across the old woman’s face and a gleam came into her eye, she and Biba embraced and held hands out the window.  They spoke in their native language. Silence over ruled the conversation as we drove away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Biba wipe away her tears.             

Biba explained that her friend at the church was getting old and not in good health. She expressed her concern about her living alone so far from people

            We arrived at the church welcomed by a woman in a long black habit. She had a huge brown long-haired dog walking with her. Biba translated her native language so Ron and I could understand. “He just came here”, she said, I don’t know if he has an owner but he has been a great friend to me” she said as she extended her hand to Ron and me. Emotion was once again Biba’s companion. they greeted each other with a heartfelt embrace. Then she smiled into Biba’s eyes and said, “My dear, you look tired, you should slow down, live life, enjoy while you are young, you work too much, you should have a baby”. Biba smiled.

            Dim light filtered into the church through vibrant stained glass windows. Ron, Biba and I lit candles and stood them in containers filled with sand. One soft flickering glow was in memory of someone we had lost, another in honor of someone living.

Biba and her friend spoke their farewells in their native dialect that I couldn’t understand but a hug and a smile and a tear, they’re a language all by themselves. Ron and I thanked our hostess for her time and wished her well. I noticed the dog, her companion, stayed right by her side. While we were in the church, he lay beside the door and stood to greet her when she met him on the outside. She explained that he leads her to her front door but won’t go inside the house. He lies beside the door until she comes outside, then, once again, he accompanies his new master on her journeys to and from the church. With a soft hand, she patted him on the head as we walked down a narrow path to the car.

As we drove away, I looked back at that small church sitting under huge trees  that would take five people to reach around. They must be more than a hundred years old. My mental snapshot recalls a wooden footbridge that greets visitors and leads them across a clear babbling stream to a well-worn path that guides them through tall grass until they reach the tiny one roomed church.  A swing, much like the ones on porches in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, welcomes company to sit under those giant trees and talk a spell. How peaceful it is here where there are no car horns, no loud noise, no phones, and no electricity. How noble of someone to accept a life of solitude dedicated to the study of Jesus and the bible.  I wish I could remember her name. She is a guardian angel  for a tiny one room church that has been standing more years than our country is old; the church of Biba’s childhood and her mother’s village. I think about that big brown dog and wonder if her surprise companion really has a worldly owner.