The experience of Olena, That Day

This past Friday, we were once again on our way to see the children.
Before our meeting, we stopped at a Kherson bakery called “Tvogo Mista.” They prepare food for our children—burgers, sausages or meat patties baked in dough, and different cream-filled pastries.
We always try to bring the children something special to eat.
For some people, a pastry may seem like a small thing.
But there are families in Kherson who can manage to cook a pot of soup, while buying their children a special treat has already become a luxury.
So there we were, walking with bags full of food for the children.
We still had to make it to the bomb shelter where they were waiting for us.
And suddenly, we heard a Shahed drone.
It began circling directly over the neighborhood where we were.
We rushed into the archway of a nine-story apartment building.
The building itself had already been partially destroyed by a missile strike. One of its entrances is essentially gone. A missile once struck there and took lives.
And now we were standing under the archway of this wounded building, holding bags of food for children and listening to a Shahed circling above us.
We knew perfectly well that this was not a real shelter.
If it came down on either side of the building, the shrapnel could reach us there too.
But at that moment, there was nowhere else to go.
I turned on my camera and began recording the sound.
Our defenders were trying to shoot it down.
There was energy infrastructure nearby, and we understood that the drone might be searching for a target somewhere very close to us.
It kept circling.
It would not leave.
And we stood there praying:
“Lord, help our guys. Let them hit it.”
And suddenly—an explosion.
They shot it down.
We froze, listening, waiting to hear where the debris would fall.
Not on us.
We were alive.
It is difficult to explain to someone who has never experienced anything like this how overwhelming the joy can be when you realize simply—
I am still alive.
A minute ago, you were wondering where that drone would come down.
And now you pick up your bags of burgers and pastries—and keep walking.
Because the children are waiting.
And once again, we made it.
Once again, we smiled.
Once again, we played.
Once again, we fed them.
Once again, we talked about the things that truly matter.
And inside, my body was still flinching at every unexpected sound.
I do not want to give the impression that we are not afraid.
I am afraid. Very afraid.
I flinch at sudden noises, even when they have absolutely nothing to do with the war. Many people who have lived in Kherson for a long time react the same way.
So our mission is not to take risks simply for the sake of taking risks.
Quite the opposite.
Our mission now is to use the trust we have spent these past two years building to help people stop risking their lives.
So that a mother will agree to take her child and leave.
So that she will know that when she arrives, she will not be abandoned.
So that a month later, when her last money is gone, she will not have to pack her belongings and return to the drones.
Lord, help us.
Because this truly is difficult.
Finding apartments. Finding houses. Finding enough money to cover at least three or six months of rent. Finding people willing to support a family they have never met. Helping them with documents, finding work, finding a school for their children, and slowly beginning life again in a new place.
But we keep going.
We keep searching.
We keep asking.
We keep finding ways forward.
And we do not give up.
Because the most precious gift God has given us is life.
And if today we can help someone preserve that life, then we must do everything within our power.

Olena (That Day)