Only old babushkas who couldn’t remember their names believed in God. They huddled inside elaborate churches that had stood for 2,000 years. I would walk through my city of Kyiv and see them through the stained-glass windows—rocking, praying, mumbling.

My family was too smart for that. It’s not only that we didn’t embrace Christianity; we didn’t go to synagogue either. Which made us pretty normal—in a time and place where atheism was the mainstream, there was only one way to advance: education.

In school, of course, I had heard of God and Jesus. But it was in the same way I heard of Zeus and every other imaginary deity. All these “gods” were myths, legends, fairy tales. And legends were for old people.

Some things made their way into my family that came from ancient Jewish traditions—but nobody called them that. Every spring at my grandmother’s insistence, I scrubbed the floors till my knees ached, but I just thought we were “spring cleaning.” I had no idea our tradition was connected to Passover. And now looking back, I understand why my family tried to keep quiet about our Jewish identity.

They were yelling bad things at us because we’re Jewish.

When I was eleven years old, I overheard my parents shouting with the neighbor in the front yard. I couldn’t make out their words, but I felt their fear. Later, I asked my mother why the neighbor was mad at us. Mother said, “They were yelling bad things at us because we’re Jewish.” I connected the dots: being Jewish was something to hide, like a disease.

So, I would advance myself in the way I knew how, the safest way: education. I excelled in school and made my parents proud. But then it was school, in a way, that brought me back around to the question of religion when my high school English teacher invited me to a Christian church.

I was curious, but my parents wouldn’t let me go alone. So, my father came with me. It was unlike any of the churches I’d seen before. This congregation was not Orthodox—they met not in a grand establishment, but in the conference room of a hotel. We walked in and saw 50 attendees, all of them in the prime of their lives. I studied their faces. Every one seemed open, intelligent, and curious. Everyone seemed like someone I could relate to.

Then the preacher, a Gentile Christian named Uri, started speaking, and it was clear to me that he was logical too. And to him, God was very real.

I relaxed into my seat, and for a minute, my mind flashed back. Just the other day, my friend and I had laughed at the ladies in the churches and called them “old fools” for imagining that there was a God sitting up on a cloud somewhere creating things.

But in this moment, in this church, with this preacher, God sounded like more than a fairy tale. If he was something more than that—what was he? I leaned in to hear more.

There was a problem with listening to Pastor Uri’s words—when I saw a different version of God, I also saw a different version of myself. Before that day, I’d always assumed I was good enough. I had excellent relationships, good grades, and zero problems. At 14 years old, I knew that there were good people and bad people in the world. And I was a very good girl.

But the pastor made a very good point that even the best of people are sinners in God’s eyes. It was the first time I considered the word “sin” because it was the first time I was considering God. I realized: Everybody around me believes me to be a good person. But in God’s eyes, I really am not. If he exists, he knows all about me—even the thoughts and fears I try to hide. Whatever words the preacher used at that moment seemed designed for me to hear and to understand.

My sadness about sin was dwarfed by the joy I had that God wanted me to know him.

I was sad to learn about my sin, but the sadness was dwarfed by the joy I had at hearing that God wanted me to know him! I couldn’t get over it. I could only keep thinking, Wow! God? Really? This impossibly high, omnipresent, omnipotent God? He actually wants a relationship with me? Are you kidding me?

Then, pastor Uri said that although our sins separated us from God, “We can reconcile through Jesus.” That struck me in a deep way I can’t fully explain. And it seemed wonderfully simple. I thought, Perfect, God made a way, I’ll go and accept Jesus.

But as I stood up to go pray, my dad ordered under his breath, “Don’t you dare.” I sat back down and watched as my one chance to be right with God passed in front of my eyes. All these people went forward—they prayed and the preacher prayed. I had lost my one and only chance to reconcile with God. I fought back tears; Dad was watching.

The music started playing, and then came my Red Sea moment.

Pastor Uri suddenly jumped up and stopped the worship. He said, “Listen, if there is just one person here who did not go forward but would really like to, this is your chance.”

At that moment, I forgot about my father—my one thought was, That’s me!

This was a second chance, and it was personal. That made it irresistible. God had stopped a service just for me. I walked up as quickly as I could and made a decision. I would follow Jesus.

When I got home, I didn’t have to tell my family anything. Dad did that for me; when we walked in the front door, his first words to my mom were, “Guess what she did.” The only explanation I could give at that time was, “I prayed, and I think I believe in God now.”

I was determined to go to church every week. That was my first ever act of disobedience. And it began weekly arguments with my family that would last for 20 years. Every single Sunday my parents would say, “You’re not going.” And every single Sunday, I would say, “Yes, I am.”

Church quickly became my home away from home, but I still kept my secret. I told no one that I was Jewish.

My parents said,  ‘You know, all Christians are antisemites. So, wait till they find out you’re a Jew.’

My family was certain I was throwing my life away. One day, my parents said,  “You know all Christians are antisemites. So, wait till they find out you’re a Jew—just wait till they kick you out.”

Two months later, my new friends did find out. Another pastor, Vladimir, came up to me and out of the blue, he asked, “Irina, do you happen to be Jewish?” I thought, Oh, my mom was absolutely right. This is where I get kicked out. Church has been good—and now it’s over. I hung my head and answered sheepishly, “Well, yeah, I am Jewish. Sorry.” Suddenly the pastor exploded in smiles. For the second time, I saw him jump up in excitement. He said, “Oh wow, you have great blessing! Blessing upon blessing!”

I later learned that he and the rest of the Gentile believers at my church understood the Jews to be God’s elect—his chosen people. So, I was blessed from the moment of my birth! Then, to be a follower of God and a disciple of his son Jesus: blessing upon blessing.

While I kept attending, even taking part in home Bible studies and serving as a translator, I wasn’t baptized until age 18 (when Mom couldn’t say “no” anymore). And after baptism, I received a whole Bible.

Possession of an entire Bible was a rare gift at that time in Ukraine. Bibles weren’t banned, but they did have to be shipped from the West. So, pastors waited until they knew you were really serious to give you the whole thing—a copy of the Old and New Testaments, side by side.

I read it—and when I did, I found my place in the story. I learned that though my immediate family didn’t have faith, the tribe I came from certainly did. I was picking up a long tradition from my Jewish people, one that says, “Trust in God.”

I was picking up a long tradition from my Jewish people, one that says, “Trust in God.”

I also started attending Jewish Sunday School classes—another thing urged by my pastor. So, Gentile Christians were the ones who taught me to love my Jewishness. If it hadn’t been for that community, today I would be just another assimilated Jew.

I learned Hebrew and I learned the history of my people. I went to University and majored in Jewish studies. For the first time, I understood that Jewishness was connected both to the Bible and to Christianity. Now I knew: my Jewishness was not a disease. We are a people. We are a people that has seen God act again and again.

Many words from my new Bible spoke to me, but Romans 1:16 spoke the loudest:

For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.

This verse connects my Jewishness to my purpose like lightning connects the sky to the ground. I have found my place in one long, true story—a story of faith in God.