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When Darko arrives, there are hugs and handshakes. Everyone in this tiny living room in Jackson, Mississippi, is smiling and the affection seems genuine. Never mind that Darko is Serbian and these people are Bosnian. Never mind that their relatives were on opposite sides of the civil war in Bosnia.

"Back home," Darko says, "ffft," making a slashing motion across his throat. "We would have killed each other. But here, we are friends. We have love."

Darko Velichkovski has embraced his enemies, refugees from the conflict that destroyed the former Yugoslavia.

"When they arrived, Catholic Charities called me to interpret. There aren't many Slavic people in Jackson." And none as well-known as the president and CEO of the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra. The heavy-browed musician has the larger-than-life presence of someone accustomed to the stage. And though he seems sure of himself, Darko is modest about his work with the refugees.

"My first thought was how I could help them, how I could share the love of Christ. Much later, I thought about their being Bosnian," Darko says. "A lot has changed in 15 years."

His English is excellent. His accent is tempered by a slight drawl and he drops in an occasional "y'all" as he tells his story—how an atheist Serbian teenager found faith and fame in the southern United States.

Welcome to America
Darko grew up in a world without God. His parents, like most of his countrymen, were atheists. They taught him to celebrate accomplishment.

At 15 Darko was a prodigy, the youngest student at the Belgrade conservatory. One day he met an American tourist at a coffee shop. Eager to try his English, Darko offered to show the man around town. The tourist took home a recording of Darko playing the clarinet.

Two years later, the man, Kelley Travis of Jackson, contacted Darko. He had arranged a full scholarship at a university in Louisiana, but Darko, at 18, was about to begin compulsory military service. The man promised to call again the next year.

He did.

Darko's parents sold an old upright piano to purchase a one way ticket to the United States, "the land of opportunity, McDonalds, and Hollywood." Arriving, Darko learned Travis had arranged an audition for him at the prestigious Juilliard music school in New York. In the two months he waited for the audition, Darko stayed with Kelley and his wife Jean.

"Miz Jean had Bibles in every room in the house—even the bathroom. I had studied about the Bible in anthropology classes, but to read the Bible, that was laughable, beyond the realm of possibility."

Jean invited Darko to attend church with them at First Baptist. "I fully expected to find a bunch of delusional, irrational people there. But I found such a feeling of warmth, of love, of belonging in a place where I had never been."

Jazz night, miracle morning
One evening after rehearsing, Darko happened to look through his papers, reading something he had overlooked before. He had been given 30 days to report to the school in Louisiana. Otherwise, he said, he had to leave the country. It was day 29.

The three rushed to New Orleans that night so Darko could plead his case at the immigration office the next morning. They checked into a hotel that was hosting the New Orleans Jazz Club's annual jam session.

"I had my clarinet with me and these Dixieland musicians invited me to join them. We played all night. It was great."

In the morning, the atmosphere at the immigration office was quite different. "The hearing officer told me Mexico was not far away, and unless I made it there first, I would be arrested, jailed, and deported. My world came crashing down.

"I remember thinking that there was no God, I was the master of my fate, and I had ruined my life. No scholarship. No Juilliard. Nothing."

But as he left the hearing, Darko learned otherwise. In the hallway a man said, "Hey, you're my clarinet player. Remember? I played the banjo last night."

"We chatted, and I followed him into his office—a senior manager's office," recalls Darko. "In a few minutes, I had a new visa."

And the beginnings of a new faith. "I didn't know who to thank, but I knew I was no longer creating my own destiny."

The notes fall into place
Back in Jackson, Darko committed his life to Christ. And his destiny was clearly being directed for him.

Darko was accepted at Juilliard. He moved to New York and lived in a spare room at a Times Square church. He married a woman from First Baptist of Jackson (Anne, and they now have a nine-year-old daughter, Lydia). He began a music career that included international performances. And God was at work in every area of Darko's life, except one.

It was in a worship service at Brooklyn Tabernacle that Darko realized he was withholding something from God: his music.

"I had an attitude about church music that some kid playing two chords on an out-of-tune guitar couldn't say much to me musically. But, hearing that choir at Brooklyn Tabernacle, I realized that the Spirit was in their music. And that he was not in mine."

In 1997 Darko was invited back to Jackson to head the Mississippi Symphony Orchestra. This time he brought with him a commitment that all music is the Lord's, something he tells his audiences.

"The Christian background of some works must be told—Bach, Mozart, and others. Sometimes I simply say before the program that God can speak through the music if the people will listen."

The audience has been receptive. In addition to their regular classical repertoire, the symphony orchestra has scheduled sacred concerts and appearances at local churches and gospel music events.

"When I speak on behalf of the symphony, I share my testimony of how Christ came into my life and what he is doing now. I can't help it."

And now, as a clarinetist, Darko brings classical and jazz influences to his new endeavors in contemporary Christian music. The title of his newest CD describes Darko's commitment to give God control over all aspects of his life and work: "I Surrender."

New home for refugees
Back at the apartment complex where the Bosnian refugees live, Darko embraces a young couple. The walls in their apartment are clean and bare, the furniture is sparse but sufficient. Omer and Mariana Seferovic share the space with another Bosnian couple who arrived from Germany three weeks earlier.

When the current conflict between Catholics and Muslims erupted in 1993, they fled first to Germany. Five years later peace was declared among the warring parties, at least on paper, and Germany passed a law requiring the refugees to leave.

With the Muslims in control of their homeland, this group of refugees, all Catholic but one, sought sanctuary in the United States. Four families, two with children, have relocated to Jackson since last summer.

Seated at a card table dotted with Twinkie wrappers and glasses of grape Nehi, Mariana searches for words as she speaks for the group.

"We were content in Germany." She looks away. "It was not war. That is what mattered." Mariana brushes away tears. "We did not want to start over again."

Omer says something and Mariana interprets. "We never dreamed that we would be in the United States." She smiles. "And we like de' Sout'."

After a few minutes, Darko excuses himself. He must meet with another family in a nearby apartment. A crisis, albeit minor, reveals how much they have come to rely on Darko. He is patron, counselor, interpreter of culture, father figure, friend. "He is good man," Mariana says, a phrase repeated often. "Dobero."

More than dobero
"That's the first Bosnian word I learned," Gina Cutrer says, breaking into the room. Gina and her daughters are bringing home the Benic children after their first Girl Scouts meeting.

"These are just the nicest people," Gina assesses. "Remember when we first met? We cut a big ol' watermelon." The children hold out arms to depict its size. Gina is part of a loose network of caregivers who assist the refugees. She met them through Darko, who spoke at her church.

Ljuban and Zora Benic, the girls' parents, come in behind Gina, and suddenly there aren't enough chairs. In the crowded room, attempts at polite conversation become a multi-lingual free-for-all, punctuated by hand gestures, with Mariana, Gina, and the girls inserting English words here and there.

The girls like their school. Sandra is in the fifth grade and Irena is in the second. Their language skills, learned in Germany, are excellent. Their father is pleased that the girls are safe, Sandra says.

Ljuban knows that their new home isn't perfect, but they are satisfied. "We came here for the children," he says.

And they are grateful.

With help from Darko and his church and business friends, the refugees were able to move from Catholic Charities' temporary shelter to their own apartments within three months. All the adults have transportation and are working—laying carpet, cooking and serving in restaurants, cleaning hotel rooms. And they're learning English.

"Darko helped us with these things. We have a new life here," Mariana says. "Darko is good man," she adds to nods of agreement.

"I want them to understand that this is more than Southern hospitality," Darko says in the presence of those who would have been his enemies. "This is the love of Christ."

A Christian Reader original article.

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