Amid winter’s darkness and the trauma of war, the SSpS mission in Ukraine reveals a profound resilience, finding guides among the wounded and witnessing an unbroken spirit within broken bodies.
Ukraine stands once again on the threshold of a cold winter—a winter promised to hold power outages and darkness. Transformation begins when a person learns to listen attentively to a world that changes so quickly it leaves no time for habit or calm. We live like this in Ukraine: just as we adjust to one reality, another rises before us. At a recent evening Mass, a priest asked us to pray not only for a warm winter, but for warm hearts—so that each of us may carry faith and hope to others, especially to those who have not yet encountered God.
Despite pain and exhaustion, life persists. It pushes through suffering with songs, jokes, children’s drawings, and the smiles of people fighting daily for the right to live. These fragile rays of light shape our path of service.
Each week, my fellow sister and I visit a military hospital. We do not rush to give advice or offer quick comfort. We simply listen and look into the eyes of people who have walked through hell. And it is they who often give us what they themselves seek—hope.
Vlad: A Story Written in Miracles
When I first walked into his ward, he did not even wait to introduce himself. The space filled with his words: “I want to go to church. As soon as I can stand on my feet—I will go to give thanks.”
I smiled and replied, “The Church is already beside you. God has long heard this desire.”
At that moment, Vlad lifted his eyes. I saw a smile that neither fire, nor metal, nor death—which had approached him more than once—had been able to break.
His path is a sequence of miracles that defy statistics. Vlad was born in a region that endured a year of occupation. He has a wife and two children. In the first days of the full-scale invasion, he went to defend his home. Since then, he has survived four severe wounds.
The first came from the sky. A bomb fell next to him, flames engulfing his face and hands. Doctors said skin grafts were inevitable. Yet within a month, the burned skin regenerated—so completely that doctors could only shrug in confusion.
Later, his arm and shoulder were shattered twice by enemy fire. Shrapnel then destroyed his leg. He spent a week in a pit without water or food, in total darkness, until an evacuation team with a chaplain found him. On the way to the vehicle, another Russian shell hit. The explosion threw him into an open field. A Russian drone hovered above, dropped two grenades—and neither exploded. This verges on the impossible.
Vlad crawled to a tree, where he spent another week. His leg festered, worms inhabiting the open wounds. He felt every movement and heartbeat, repeating a short prayer, for he had no other strength left. When he was found again and brought to doctors, he kept smiling. Now, in a western Ukrainian hospital, he tells his story not of horror, but of the greatest grace of his life:
“God loves me very much. I am alive. He saved me.”
His wife traveled across the entire country to bring their children for autumn break.
I have not heard a single word of complaint from him. Not a shadow of anger. Only gratitude, peace, and an inner strength. When we return to the convent, I often think: Today I sat next to someone who has seen God as closely as few ever do.
Holding Space for Children in Wartime
In Kyiv, we work with children living in the reality of war. We organize meetings, camps, and walks, helping them name their emotions, process fear, and find joy in simple things.
Before one camp, a nighttime attack caught us in the metro. At six in the morning, we returned home, packed quickly, and went to church. The first girl we met said, “I didn’t hear the Shaheds. The rockets woke me. They fell on the street next to ours.”
The children on the bus admitted they hadn’t slept all night. So, on the first day of camp, we simply slept. Then we rewrote the entire program to be as gentle and restful as possible. They swam in the river, walked in the forest, bought sweets, and prayed. We encouraged physical activity to release stress. They sculpted, painted, and named their emotions to begin healing. They prayed, made an examen together, and traveled to a pilgrimage shrine to offer prayers for fallen soldiers—because every soldier is someone’s father, son, and brother. We spoke of a love that does not end, even after death, because it lives in those who remember.
The Foundation of Unhardened Hearts
In all this daily motion, we rediscover a simple truth: the world stands on those who do not allow their hearts to grow hard. On those who continue to seek meaning when surrounded by darkness.
Sometimes we come to support others, only to find we ourselves are most in need of warmth, a word, or a shared silence. Yet these moments are easier to endure because God is near, never tiring of lifting us up, and because our Congregation holds us in such a way that even in exhaustion, space for light remains.
Sr. Liudmyla Kmet, SSpS – Province of Ukraine
