Back from the dead. Yesterday I woke up around 4 am with the certainty of impending doom, that is, puke...the tummy bug had infected me, too. I laid in agony till 4:30, when I got up and did the inevitable, went to bed for an hour or so, got up and puked again, and repeated the process. I hope Deb's world famous curry (which I had the night before) is not forever ruined for my taste buds.
The day seemed to slide by quickly, though I spent it languishing in bed in a mass of blankets until about 2 or 3. The sunlight came in around the edges of the curtains, and I guess I slept a good bit.
In a bold effort I rallied and set up camp on the couch in the lounge room, picked like a bird at a handful of cheerios, and tried to read. Massive headache. Then wobbled through a dizzy haze to the stereo and put in the first audio cd of the Chronicles of Narnia book The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.
That was beautiful. For the next few hours I was whisked away on the Narnian breeze with Edmund and Lucy and noble Prince Caspian, and the incorrigible, nuisance- turned-nice Eustace. In spite of myself, I giggled aloud over the Dufflepuds and the kind old grandfatherly magician and Lucy's accent.
The hours pulled on. Tried to eat soup. Too puny to take a shower. Attempted another book, against my better judgement. Finally lay listening to music, letting it soak into my helplessness. All day, in the intervals between books and Narnia, scenes from the past couple years of my life played themselves over in my mind like a movie. They were jumbled, and I wanted them to come out clear so I could see what really happened. It was odd. Narnia was better.
Finally I went to bed, thinking I might not sleep well after being in bed all day. But with some painkillers I went to sleep and slept almost normally, and woke this morning still a bit unsteady, but much, much better. Deb picked me up this morning, because she and Bruce had an important visit to make with their good friends at the OVIR office for registration (oh joy!) So we're taking it slow around here today. Tuck is the only one who has been sick at the Crowes, which I'm glad of. In his words,
"It was sweating all over me like lava, and that's what made me sick!"
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Scoop of Brain Soup
I've had a lot of disjointed goobledegop going around my brain the past week and haven't wanted to blog because of it. But the less I blog, the more disjointed the jumble grows, so I may as well force something out and hope the writers block melts away on its own.
I'm rocking Noah on my hip and hoping his cookie is taking effect and will quiet the wailing. His mom just went to the store and he feels a bit bereaved.
I'm tired of writing about spring. Spring this and spring that. Spring comes to mind first because it's all around me, but it makes for boring writing after a while. Case in point.
Today Deb played a song in the house from Slumdog Millionare, a new favorite movie of mine. It's called Jai Ho, and it's sort of Indian, and wild, and beautiful, and roused my blood. I felt freaked out and wanted to know why in the world God gave us crazy emotions our brains and bodies don't have the capacity to hold or express. I have no idea why music creates such powerful emotions in me, but maybe eventually I'll start dancing and get some relief. Maybe music gives us glimpses of heaven that we crave and can't get enough of. There was something in India like that. Something in the drums, I think.
There is a little old man who lives down the street; his house is on the corner of the Crowes' street and another one. He seems to always be outside, puttering around or working on what I assume to be a chicken coop. And he has a huge grin that I look forward to every time I walk by. I've started saying "Dobry Dyen" a little more often to people I meet when walking througth the neighborhood, and I enjoy the results. Most people here are really friendly.
My brain is still mush and the writers block isn't subsiding. Maybe it's the headache I've had all day...so I'll say goodbye...
I'm rocking Noah on my hip and hoping his cookie is taking effect and will quiet the wailing. His mom just went to the store and he feels a bit bereaved.
I'm tired of writing about spring. Spring this and spring that. Spring comes to mind first because it's all around me, but it makes for boring writing after a while. Case in point.
Today Deb played a song in the house from Slumdog Millionare, a new favorite movie of mine. It's called Jai Ho, and it's sort of Indian, and wild, and beautiful, and roused my blood. I felt freaked out and wanted to know why in the world God gave us crazy emotions our brains and bodies don't have the capacity to hold or express. I have no idea why music creates such powerful emotions in me, but maybe eventually I'll start dancing and get some relief. Maybe music gives us glimpses of heaven that we crave and can't get enough of. There was something in India like that. Something in the drums, I think.
There is a little old man who lives down the street; his house is on the corner of the Crowes' street and another one. He seems to always be outside, puttering around or working on what I assume to be a chicken coop. And he has a huge grin that I look forward to every time I walk by. I've started saying "Dobry Dyen" a little more often to people I meet when walking througth the neighborhood, and I enjoy the results. Most people here are really friendly.
My brain is still mush and the writers block isn't subsiding. Maybe it's the headache I've had all day...so I'll say goodbye...
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Aroma of Spring...
Spring. Freshly plowed earth and cow dung. Shy green buds and sunshine. Short sleeves and concerned looks from Ukrainians...
I guess I always thought if you lived in a cold climate, you'd strip down to shorts and shortsleeves as soon as the sun showed its face and the temperature was the least bit tolerable. I know that my aunt, after a particularly vicious cold snap in Upstate New York, reportedly donned her shorts when it reached a cozy 14 degrees Farenheit.
But that's not the way it is in Ukraine. Here I am, shedding my jacket at the first possibility of sun on my deathly white arms, and I get these looks. I've been told that the wind is different here, blasting out of the wilds of some Artic Waste, I think...but it feels great to me.
The aromatic pungence of cow poo if wafting into my nostrils from the great outdoors, where someone is preparing that rich black Ukrainian earth for planting.
Yesterday, Bruce had a guy with a tractor out here disking up the back yard. I stood at the kitchen window in the full morning sun scrubbing the dishes, listening to the familiar drone of the tractor that, to me, signifies spring. It was so much like home that I kept looking up from the dishes, half expecting to see Dad on the tractor with one hand guiding the steering wheel and one arm around Ethan's waist. But I was disappointed. There was only an old guy with a wooly beard.
Bruce and Deb made their trip to Poland to have a few days together and get their visas renewed. The kids stayed here, with me. We stayed up here some and at the Gollans some, and managed to come through it fairly intact :) The two youngest missed mom, I think, but I got a lot of cuddles out of the deal.
One night the four older kids stayed at the Gollans and took Clark and Noah home after supper. The sun was almost down, and wind was tossing the trees. I pushed Noah up the hill in the stroller and he sat dociley, bundled in his coat, without making a peep. Clark, however, was scared of the trees and his face crumpled up to cry. He ran to my side and grabbed my hand, glancing fearfully around him at the waving branches overhead and the lights twinkling in the dusk.
"Wanna hold your hand, Cass, wanna hold your hand!"
"Ok, you can hold my hand. Help me push the stroller," I said. "Listen to the birds, Clarky," I told him. "They're singing themselves to sleep." He listened, alert, with big eyes.
"Yeah, I hear them. They're singing to sleep?"
"Mmhmm."
And then we tried singing the English equivalent of the lullabies the birds were singing, one about the sheep in the pasture and the moon being a shepherdess. But I couldn't remember all the words properly.
I've been homesick this week for no apparent reason, missing family and friends, old familiar sounds and smells and places and memories that I try not to dwell on too much. But it's ok.
"Why are you downcast, oh my soul? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God."
Well, I'll be off...time for Lady to walk me. We'll see how that new leash I found at the center works :)
I guess I always thought if you lived in a cold climate, you'd strip down to shorts and shortsleeves as soon as the sun showed its face and the temperature was the least bit tolerable. I know that my aunt, after a particularly vicious cold snap in Upstate New York, reportedly donned her shorts when it reached a cozy 14 degrees Farenheit.
But that's not the way it is in Ukraine. Here I am, shedding my jacket at the first possibility of sun on my deathly white arms, and I get these looks. I've been told that the wind is different here, blasting out of the wilds of some Artic Waste, I think...but it feels great to me.
The aromatic pungence of cow poo if wafting into my nostrils from the great outdoors, where someone is preparing that rich black Ukrainian earth for planting.
Yesterday, Bruce had a guy with a tractor out here disking up the back yard. I stood at the kitchen window in the full morning sun scrubbing the dishes, listening to the familiar drone of the tractor that, to me, signifies spring. It was so much like home that I kept looking up from the dishes, half expecting to see Dad on the tractor with one hand guiding the steering wheel and one arm around Ethan's waist. But I was disappointed. There was only an old guy with a wooly beard.
Bruce and Deb made their trip to Poland to have a few days together and get their visas renewed. The kids stayed here, with me. We stayed up here some and at the Gollans some, and managed to come through it fairly intact :) The two youngest missed mom, I think, but I got a lot of cuddles out of the deal.
One night the four older kids stayed at the Gollans and took Clark and Noah home after supper. The sun was almost down, and wind was tossing the trees. I pushed Noah up the hill in the stroller and he sat dociley, bundled in his coat, without making a peep. Clark, however, was scared of the trees and his face crumpled up to cry. He ran to my side and grabbed my hand, glancing fearfully around him at the waving branches overhead and the lights twinkling in the dusk.
"Wanna hold your hand, Cass, wanna hold your hand!"
"Ok, you can hold my hand. Help me push the stroller," I said. "Listen to the birds, Clarky," I told him. "They're singing themselves to sleep." He listened, alert, with big eyes.
"Yeah, I hear them. They're singing to sleep?"
"Mmhmm."
And then we tried singing the English equivalent of the lullabies the birds were singing, one about the sheep in the pasture and the moon being a shepherdess. But I couldn't remember all the words properly.
I've been homesick this week for no apparent reason, missing family and friends, old familiar sounds and smells and places and memories that I try not to dwell on too much. But it's ok.
"Why are you downcast, oh my soul? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God."
Well, I'll be off...time for Lady to walk me. We'll see how that new leash I found at the center works :)
Saturday, April 4, 2009
In Which Lady and I Walk Each Other and Enjoy the View
Folks have been asking me how I like my new house these days, and I stare at them blankly for a few seconds before answering. The fact is, I don't know, because I've hardly been there at all the past week and a half. I've become a sort of nomad, wandering from place to place.
For two weeks Masha and I camped out at our house, and got the heating system working a week or so into it (Thanks, Tom!). I slept in Masha's room because it was much warmer than my room. When my room had stopped producing icycles and become comfortable, I slept there one night (or part of one night) and then we were off to Zhovti Vodi for the weekend. I then visited my room once more before heading to Cheryl's to housesit while she is away. Today I'm moving in with the Crowe kids for a few days while Bruce and Deb go to Poland. We'll be spending some time with the Gollans, as well.
I like it. Several months ago I was in some sort of phsycological terror of moving. It just upended me every time I even went somewhere even for a night or two. All part of culture shock, I suppose. Now, maybe somewhat due to Spring-in-the-Air, I feel carefree and happy to be a gypsy, chucking my stuff in a backpack and strolling up the road to the next house. It's not like I'm actually camping. Cheryl's place is like a little haven to me. The Crowes' house smacks of home. And Zhovti Vodi was a pleasant, mild type of adventure.
I told Masha as threw my clothes, etc. into a borrowed backpack the day I went to Cheryl's, that I felt like a runaway. But then, my Mom doesn't mind. I already ran away from home, and mostly she's fine with that.
I feel like that commercial slogan (for what, I can't remember) "You are now free to move about the country." Free to just go and love Jesus wherever, and I hope I'll learn to truly serve.
I'm learning how to walk a dog. A large, energetic dog that could knock me over and lick me to death if the whim took it. Since I'm staying at Cheryl's house it's also my privelege to walk Lady, her huge furry beast that looks sort of husky-german shepherd-I'm not sure what else-ish.
She needed a walk desperately yesterday, so I decided to brave it. Cheryl said that maybe I'd need to get Masha (who is used to dogs) to walk Lady because I might not be able to, ah, control her. But I felt I must at least attempt to overcome my cowardice and distaste.
So Lady and I went for a walk. I'm not sure who walked who exactly, or if it was really a walk or a run or a sort of trotting treasure hunt for tasty garbage. We started off on a run with me gripping the short, rather fragile looking leash with both hands. I was laughing and my hair was flying around and the neighbors were looking up from their garden plots, a little startled.
When my heart rate was sufficiently stimulated, my charge slowed to a gentle trot. But she didn't want to stay on the road. Every dog, cat, shrub, and scrap of rubbish in the neighborhood captured her interest. However, since this gave me an opportunity to stop and breath, I didn't mind so much.
The day was gorgeous. I think spring took April seriously, because since April 1 the sun has been shining, a fresh wind blowing, and the new green trying very hard to come out. It has to work harder here than in East Texas. We walked, ran, trotted, tugged, sniffed, pulled, and cavorted all over the neighborhood, enjoying the grand view of the windswept Dneiper from the hill.
Everyone in the countryside seems to be burning their fields to be rid of the dead winter stalks, and green grass bristles up everywhere throught the blackened earth like so much fresh beard on a very large face. The sun was so warm and good and the view so intriguing that I let Lady roam at will.
The twenty minute walk turned into an hour and more as we wandered. I tugged Lady down a dirt and stone track that led past a tiny cemetery. Following it down a steep hill, we came to the river. Moss covered rocks and patches of shy purple snowdrops lay under the trees. And at a lonely place near the water a giant hunk of what used to be a barge sat sagging and rusting in the weeds. It gave me an eery feeling, especially when I got up close and peeked in the portholes at the stagnant water and ruined insides. Then I caught a glimpse of the shining wide water ahead and ran towards it, with Lady bounding along at my side. The water rolled up on the sand with a rythmic sound that may as well have been the ocean for me. I felt like I was in another world, maybe Narnia, maybe better.
The sound of water brought up some deep emotion in me, like the attachment sailors have to the sea. I just wanted to fall down on the shore and worship God. Since it's a little hard to do that when holding onto a dog leash for dear life, I just darted delightedly after Lady, who sniffed and sputtered at the water, jumping and running up and down the sand strip with great vigor and trying to drag me under dead tree branches I couldn't fit through.
Finally we started home. I'll never understand dogs. Their goal in life appears to be to get as gross as possible and be admired for it.
Lady stopped on the path, sniffing at something with ears pricked up, and then flopped herself on the ground, clearly communicating even to my untrained cerebrum, "Hey look, I found some poo! Let's roll in it!" Which she did. I let her. I watched. (Sorry Cheryl, but this canine of yours hasn't had a good poo-roll in far too long- it was for her mental health, I assure you. What do you think she does when she is off her leash?) Seriously, though, there was hardly anything there. But of course if there was even an iota of grossness, Lady was going to find it.
Ah, dogs. Ah, spring. Ah, life.
For two weeks Masha and I camped out at our house, and got the heating system working a week or so into it (Thanks, Tom!). I slept in Masha's room because it was much warmer than my room. When my room had stopped producing icycles and become comfortable, I slept there one night (or part of one night) and then we were off to Zhovti Vodi for the weekend. I then visited my room once more before heading to Cheryl's to housesit while she is away. Today I'm moving in with the Crowe kids for a few days while Bruce and Deb go to Poland. We'll be spending some time with the Gollans, as well.
I like it. Several months ago I was in some sort of phsycological terror of moving. It just upended me every time I even went somewhere even for a night or two. All part of culture shock, I suppose. Now, maybe somewhat due to Spring-in-the-Air, I feel carefree and happy to be a gypsy, chucking my stuff in a backpack and strolling up the road to the next house. It's not like I'm actually camping. Cheryl's place is like a little haven to me. The Crowes' house smacks of home. And Zhovti Vodi was a pleasant, mild type of adventure.
I told Masha as threw my clothes, etc. into a borrowed backpack the day I went to Cheryl's, that I felt like a runaway. But then, my Mom doesn't mind. I already ran away from home, and mostly she's fine with that.
I feel like that commercial slogan (for what, I can't remember) "You are now free to move about the country." Free to just go and love Jesus wherever, and I hope I'll learn to truly serve.
I'm learning how to walk a dog. A large, energetic dog that could knock me over and lick me to death if the whim took it. Since I'm staying at Cheryl's house it's also my privelege to walk Lady, her huge furry beast that looks sort of husky-german shepherd-I'm not sure what else-ish.
She needed a walk desperately yesterday, so I decided to brave it. Cheryl said that maybe I'd need to get Masha (who is used to dogs) to walk Lady because I might not be able to, ah, control her. But I felt I must at least attempt to overcome my cowardice and distaste.
So Lady and I went for a walk. I'm not sure who walked who exactly, or if it was really a walk or a run or a sort of trotting treasure hunt for tasty garbage. We started off on a run with me gripping the short, rather fragile looking leash with both hands. I was laughing and my hair was flying around and the neighbors were looking up from their garden plots, a little startled.
When my heart rate was sufficiently stimulated, my charge slowed to a gentle trot. But she didn't want to stay on the road. Every dog, cat, shrub, and scrap of rubbish in the neighborhood captured her interest. However, since this gave me an opportunity to stop and breath, I didn't mind so much.
The day was gorgeous. I think spring took April seriously, because since April 1 the sun has been shining, a fresh wind blowing, and the new green trying very hard to come out. It has to work harder here than in East Texas. We walked, ran, trotted, tugged, sniffed, pulled, and cavorted all over the neighborhood, enjoying the grand view of the windswept Dneiper from the hill.
Everyone in the countryside seems to be burning their fields to be rid of the dead winter stalks, and green grass bristles up everywhere throught the blackened earth like so much fresh beard on a very large face. The sun was so warm and good and the view so intriguing that I let Lady roam at will.
The twenty minute walk turned into an hour and more as we wandered. I tugged Lady down a dirt and stone track that led past a tiny cemetery. Following it down a steep hill, we came to the river. Moss covered rocks and patches of shy purple snowdrops lay under the trees. And at a lonely place near the water a giant hunk of what used to be a barge sat sagging and rusting in the weeds. It gave me an eery feeling, especially when I got up close and peeked in the portholes at the stagnant water and ruined insides. Then I caught a glimpse of the shining wide water ahead and ran towards it, with Lady bounding along at my side. The water rolled up on the sand with a rythmic sound that may as well have been the ocean for me. I felt like I was in another world, maybe Narnia, maybe better.
The sound of water brought up some deep emotion in me, like the attachment sailors have to the sea. I just wanted to fall down on the shore and worship God. Since it's a little hard to do that when holding onto a dog leash for dear life, I just darted delightedly after Lady, who sniffed and sputtered at the water, jumping and running up and down the sand strip with great vigor and trying to drag me under dead tree branches I couldn't fit through.
Finally we started home. I'll never understand dogs. Their goal in life appears to be to get as gross as possible and be admired for it.
Lady stopped on the path, sniffing at something with ears pricked up, and then flopped herself on the ground, clearly communicating even to my untrained cerebrum, "Hey look, I found some poo! Let's roll in it!" Which she did. I let her. I watched. (Sorry Cheryl, but this canine of yours hasn't had a good poo-roll in far too long- it was for her mental health, I assure you. What do you think she does when she is off her leash?) Seriously, though, there was hardly anything there. But of course if there was even an iota of grossness, Lady was going to find it.
Ah, dogs. Ah, spring. Ah, life.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
There and Back Again: A Trip to Zhovti Vodi
Well, I have been "there and back again," and am much better for it. This past weekend we, (six from Rzhishchiv including Gaven, Jono, Sergei, Tanya, Masha, and myself) bumped and rattled our way over the approximately six hours worth of crater ridden asphalt between here and the town of Zhovti Vodi for a conference. It was well worth the potholes, however (maybe not for the van!) and I went away so blessed by God.
Aside from all the cool things God did and shared with me, the trip itself was quite an experience. I woke up at 2:30 a.m. out of sheer excitement, just like I've been doing before nearly every roadtrip I've been on since I was old enough to know what roadtrips were. But I went back to sleep until 3:20, when it was really time to get up and get moving. There's something about being up when the stars are still out, and setting out on a journey :)
We headed down the road and watched the Ukrainian countryside awake with a soft pink glow on the horizon cut by the bare trees that lined the fields for miles. The gray-blue haze eventually lifted to reveal fields and fields of rich black earth and dry, broken stubble; andvillages caught in that mud-laden time between winter snow and spring growth. Then we started hitting the potholes, trying to avoid the potholes, and generally still getting our brains jiggled to bits by the potholes. There's not much that can be done when the road is more potholes than road in places.
At least the potholes provided great entertainment. I've never been on a roller coaster before, but I don't feel like I've missed out at all. Any need I have for motion thrills can be more-than-adequately satisfied by car rides in foreign countries. Take, for example, the one where your van is in the proper lane, headed in the proper direction. Before you lies a series of potholes that could be mistaken for the great lakes, dried up and filled with asphalt. Coming around the bend straight ahead of you, in your direction, are two cars in each lane. You're going about 70 kilometers an hour, which is hard to describe if you're like me and still think in miles, but in any case feels like a rocket about to break up when you're on a a two lane road in that situation. I actually kind of enjoyed it.
Then there was the bit where the front seat drivers, the back seat drivers, and actual driver had conflicts and we ended up in Pyatixati (Five Houses) which just barely surpassed its name. There we saw a lot of mud, numerous species of barnyard fowl, and a nice lady with four adorable piglets who pointed us in the right direction. (Oops, I mean the lady pointed us in the right direction, not the piglets.)
Eventually we arrived in Zhovti Vodi (Yellow Waters) and got to the church where they had the conference. The first day and night were ones of dazed bewilderment because I was feeling a little faint from lack of sleep and food (breakfast at 4 a.m., lunch at 3 p.m., and supper around 10 p.m.) and it took a little time to get used to the new surroundings and a style of worship I wasn't quite accustomed to. We clapped a lot and people on the stage danced around and made funny faces while they sang. But by the end I figured out we could all worship Jesus just fine together, funny faces or not.
That night a gal from the church named Tanya, took Masha, Tanya, and I to her apartment, where we stayed the night. I was so impressed that this church of approximately 300 people (though I could be mistaken on the number) hosted 200 guests in their houses and apartments! I'm still stunned and inspired by the hospitality around here. I love it.
I made immediate friends with Tanya's cat, "Zhasmeen," who curled up in my lap when I sat down for tea. *Purr* :)
After a good nights' rest and a fresh dose of perspective, I felt much better.
I was one of only five "foreigners" at the conference, and we had our own translator, Sonia, whom I became friends with. I'm so thankful for her! So we just clustered around her at every session and she translated very thoroughly. I hung out with her a good bit the rest of the time, too, because I wanted to get to know her, and because there weren't a lot of other people to talk to in English.
It's a very vulnerable feeling to be in a a place where you don't know people and you don't speak the language. You start to feel like a dumb animal that can only communicate by grunts and squeaks. (Mostly squeaks in my case, accompanied by frequent blushes.) And an inaudible, but definite mental "Oh d-d-d-dear!"
You crave respect and the sort of power you had back when people could understand you and you were actually considered smart sometimes. But it's easier to take when you are prepared for it, and this time I guess I saw it coming when I signed up for the conference.
Why does so much of what I write come out sounding negative when I'm acually very happy and excited about the whole thing? Just ignore what I'm writing, please, and know that I had a blast. Even when I almost got squished in the snack line :)
The main things that God spoke to me about throughout the conference were: Purity, Worship, and Creativity. He seemed to unfold those things to me in that order and blend them together like an exquisite painting being done before my very eyes. It was so cool.
He's purifying my heart from all the things that steal my life from Him and giving me a deep desire to worship Him. Linked to that is the yearning to see other worshipers raised up, because the Father seeks worshipers in spirit and in truth (John 4, I think). And entwined with that is the idea of creativity in worship-- or, using every area of our lives to glorify Him.
I crave art in almost every form it comes-- language, writing, painting, drawing, poetry, song, dance...the list goes on. I've had a desire to actually do a lot of these things, but I've always had different fears and inhibitions. People tell you all through your teen years to find out your talents and abilities and serve God with those things, but what if you don't feel talented at anything? I've waited and waited, driven by fear of failure and desire for assurance and man's approval, and now God seems to be saying,
"What are you waiting for? Don't hold back because you lack ability. Forget about talent. Use your desires to follow Me."
One speaker at the conference used the example of how a baby has to learn to walk and use the potty, etc. It isn't born knowing how, and it takes a lot of practice and mistakes to learn. But the kid is put in a family with a father and mother and siblings who love it and care for it and help it along, and it learns. I feel like that in the area of art and a lot of other things. I feel so ignorant. But there's something me that is screaming to get out, and now I know that it's not just me wanting to "express myself," but my self, wanting to express God. There's something that needs to be poured out. It belongs to God and it shouldn't be altered by human opinion or my pride.
I don't know what that something looks like yet, but...I'm encouraged to create whatever beauty I can.
At the conference several music groups played, some groups did dances, and they even had a mini video contest of clips different churches had put together. There's a lot of talent here. It was very inspiring.
Well, when all these "revelations" came, I was pretty excited. But the the crowning joy was yet to come.
That night, a lady stood up and said that if any of us wanted to share a testimony from the conference, we should come talk to her about it and then we could share on Sunday. I felt that little prompting, but I wanted to ignore it.
It would be a lot easier to just stay in my seat instead of plunging myself into what I knew would be a tortuous process of pressing through a throng of human bodies to find the woman, standing there feeling red and foolish while being translated, enduring a restless night of anticipation, and the trying to keep my adrenaline-laced heart from pounding out of my chest the next morning as I faced a crowd of strangers, once again with a translator. BUT-- then I thought about how Jesus and these people deserved to here a testimony about Him. Sure, other people could give testimonies, but nobody could give my testimony except ME.
I wanted to tell them how, when I came to the conference, I had thought I might not understand anything, and how God had just told me "Go and praise Me." And then how I had come, and God had spoken so much to me, as if He'd given the speakers just the right words to speak to me about things that had been in my heart for months and even years.
So I gave in and before I knew what I was really doing, had jumped in over my head and talked to the lady. I walked to the apartment in the dark with the girls and my head was spinning. I started to think of what I would say, and then Russian words came to mind. And suddenly I thought, "I could say this in Russian!"
My cranium picked up speed as the impulse grew stronger-- I wanted to give my testimony in Russian! A day earlier I wouldn't have done it, but now I knew that I shouldn't be afraid to use what God had given me to bless Him with-- at least to give it a try.
As I sat on the bed pulling my socks off, I mentioned it to Mash.
"I really think I could do it in Russian," I told her. She looked at me with a look that said "Don't kid yourself." She pointed out that I don't like to be in front of people in the first place, and that when I try to speak Russian it takes a long time for me to come up with the words, and that this wouldn't be a good time for that. Which was true, of course. True enough to make douse me with doubt. But then, I still had this crazy feeling...
I managed to sleep just fine, and in the morning, after some consideration, I still wanted to try. The rest of the testimony came to my mind and I started asking questions about Russian words I didn't know. It wasn't very long, and I would need help for the last few sentences because they were a little too complex, but Masha said she would go up there with me.
So when testimony time came, I went up there and started talking in Russian! It was simple and very imperfect (I said the word "city" instead of the word "year" at one point, and who knows what other mistakes), but everything I had planned to say just poured out in whole sentences. I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face, and I think I was laughing in disbelief while I spoke, because I was so excited not just about the testimony I got to share, but about the one I was living out right at that moment.
I've been discouraged and guilty that I haven't learned or used Russian more, and like I said, a lot of times I feel degraded because I can't communicate. But in that moment, there was an intense, rich beauty of crossing a barrier into the world of this church in Zhovit Vodi. I spoke to them in their language! Looking back on it, I see that it was a miracle. I'm not fluent by any means, and I feel like God just scraped up the meager scraps of my Russian and put them together to make something special.
After saying my bit, I handed the microphone to Masha and finished in English, and then went grinning to my seat, adrenaline rush in full swing. I loved how afterward I felt liek such a part of the body there. I think it means something to people when you try to speak to them in their own language.
After church we left hurriedly and went bumping home, snacking on the sausages and bread the church had supplied us with. We reached Rzhishchiv while it was still light, rounding the bend to be greeted with the sight of the beautiful little town on the shining blue river, and I thought that this is still the prettiest place I've seen yet in Ukraine. I'm sure it doesn't compare to Crimea and Carpathia and those sort of places in other parts of the country, but this is a dear little shire, and in a way, I love it. It's like Hobbiton. They even hunt mushrooms :)
It's good to be back.
Aside from all the cool things God did and shared with me, the trip itself was quite an experience. I woke up at 2:30 a.m. out of sheer excitement, just like I've been doing before nearly every roadtrip I've been on since I was old enough to know what roadtrips were. But I went back to sleep until 3:20, when it was really time to get up and get moving. There's something about being up when the stars are still out, and setting out on a journey :)
We headed down the road and watched the Ukrainian countryside awake with a soft pink glow on the horizon cut by the bare trees that lined the fields for miles. The gray-blue haze eventually lifted to reveal fields and fields of rich black earth and dry, broken stubble; andvillages caught in that mud-laden time between winter snow and spring growth. Then we started hitting the potholes, trying to avoid the potholes, and generally still getting our brains jiggled to bits by the potholes. There's not much that can be done when the road is more potholes than road in places.
At least the potholes provided great entertainment. I've never been on a roller coaster before, but I don't feel like I've missed out at all. Any need I have for motion thrills can be more-than-adequately satisfied by car rides in foreign countries. Take, for example, the one where your van is in the proper lane, headed in the proper direction. Before you lies a series of potholes that could be mistaken for the great lakes, dried up and filled with asphalt. Coming around the bend straight ahead of you, in your direction, are two cars in each lane. You're going about 70 kilometers an hour, which is hard to describe if you're like me and still think in miles, but in any case feels like a rocket about to break up when you're on a a two lane road in that situation. I actually kind of enjoyed it.
Then there was the bit where the front seat drivers, the back seat drivers, and actual driver had conflicts and we ended up in Pyatixati (Five Houses) which just barely surpassed its name. There we saw a lot of mud, numerous species of barnyard fowl, and a nice lady with four adorable piglets who pointed us in the right direction. (Oops, I mean the lady pointed us in the right direction, not the piglets.)
Eventually we arrived in Zhovti Vodi (Yellow Waters) and got to the church where they had the conference. The first day and night were ones of dazed bewilderment because I was feeling a little faint from lack of sleep and food (breakfast at 4 a.m., lunch at 3 p.m., and supper around 10 p.m.) and it took a little time to get used to the new surroundings and a style of worship I wasn't quite accustomed to. We clapped a lot and people on the stage danced around and made funny faces while they sang. But by the end I figured out we could all worship Jesus just fine together, funny faces or not.
That night a gal from the church named Tanya, took Masha, Tanya, and I to her apartment, where we stayed the night. I was so impressed that this church of approximately 300 people (though I could be mistaken on the number) hosted 200 guests in their houses and apartments! I'm still stunned and inspired by the hospitality around here. I love it.
I made immediate friends with Tanya's cat, "Zhasmeen," who curled up in my lap when I sat down for tea. *Purr* :)
After a good nights' rest and a fresh dose of perspective, I felt much better.
I was one of only five "foreigners" at the conference, and we had our own translator, Sonia, whom I became friends with. I'm so thankful for her! So we just clustered around her at every session and she translated very thoroughly. I hung out with her a good bit the rest of the time, too, because I wanted to get to know her, and because there weren't a lot of other people to talk to in English.
It's a very vulnerable feeling to be in a a place where you don't know people and you don't speak the language. You start to feel like a dumb animal that can only communicate by grunts and squeaks. (Mostly squeaks in my case, accompanied by frequent blushes.) And an inaudible, but definite mental "Oh d-d-d-dear!"
You crave respect and the sort of power you had back when people could understand you and you were actually considered smart sometimes. But it's easier to take when you are prepared for it, and this time I guess I saw it coming when I signed up for the conference.
Why does so much of what I write come out sounding negative when I'm acually very happy and excited about the whole thing? Just ignore what I'm writing, please, and know that I had a blast. Even when I almost got squished in the snack line :)
The main things that God spoke to me about throughout the conference were: Purity, Worship, and Creativity. He seemed to unfold those things to me in that order and blend them together like an exquisite painting being done before my very eyes. It was so cool.
He's purifying my heart from all the things that steal my life from Him and giving me a deep desire to worship Him. Linked to that is the yearning to see other worshipers raised up, because the Father seeks worshipers in spirit and in truth (John 4, I think). And entwined with that is the idea of creativity in worship-- or, using every area of our lives to glorify Him.
I crave art in almost every form it comes-- language, writing, painting, drawing, poetry, song, dance...the list goes on. I've had a desire to actually do a lot of these things, but I've always had different fears and inhibitions. People tell you all through your teen years to find out your talents and abilities and serve God with those things, but what if you don't feel talented at anything? I've waited and waited, driven by fear of failure and desire for assurance and man's approval, and now God seems to be saying,
"What are you waiting for? Don't hold back because you lack ability. Forget about talent. Use your desires to follow Me."
One speaker at the conference used the example of how a baby has to learn to walk and use the potty, etc. It isn't born knowing how, and it takes a lot of practice and mistakes to learn. But the kid is put in a family with a father and mother and siblings who love it and care for it and help it along, and it learns. I feel like that in the area of art and a lot of other things. I feel so ignorant. But there's something me that is screaming to get out, and now I know that it's not just me wanting to "express myself," but my self, wanting to express God. There's something that needs to be poured out. It belongs to God and it shouldn't be altered by human opinion or my pride.
I don't know what that something looks like yet, but...I'm encouraged to create whatever beauty I can.
At the conference several music groups played, some groups did dances, and they even had a mini video contest of clips different churches had put together. There's a lot of talent here. It was very inspiring.
Well, when all these "revelations" came, I was pretty excited. But the the crowning joy was yet to come.
That night, a lady stood up and said that if any of us wanted to share a testimony from the conference, we should come talk to her about it and then we could share on Sunday. I felt that little prompting, but I wanted to ignore it.
It would be a lot easier to just stay in my seat instead of plunging myself into what I knew would be a tortuous process of pressing through a throng of human bodies to find the woman, standing there feeling red and foolish while being translated, enduring a restless night of anticipation, and the trying to keep my adrenaline-laced heart from pounding out of my chest the next morning as I faced a crowd of strangers, once again with a translator. BUT-- then I thought about how Jesus and these people deserved to here a testimony about Him. Sure, other people could give testimonies, but nobody could give my testimony except ME.
I wanted to tell them how, when I came to the conference, I had thought I might not understand anything, and how God had just told me "Go and praise Me." And then how I had come, and God had spoken so much to me, as if He'd given the speakers just the right words to speak to me about things that had been in my heart for months and even years.
So I gave in and before I knew what I was really doing, had jumped in over my head and talked to the lady. I walked to the apartment in the dark with the girls and my head was spinning. I started to think of what I would say, and then Russian words came to mind. And suddenly I thought, "I could say this in Russian!"
My cranium picked up speed as the impulse grew stronger-- I wanted to give my testimony in Russian! A day earlier I wouldn't have done it, but now I knew that I shouldn't be afraid to use what God had given me to bless Him with-- at least to give it a try.
As I sat on the bed pulling my socks off, I mentioned it to Mash.
"I really think I could do it in Russian," I told her. She looked at me with a look that said "Don't kid yourself." She pointed out that I don't like to be in front of people in the first place, and that when I try to speak Russian it takes a long time for me to come up with the words, and that this wouldn't be a good time for that. Which was true, of course. True enough to make douse me with doubt. But then, I still had this crazy feeling...
I managed to sleep just fine, and in the morning, after some consideration, I still wanted to try. The rest of the testimony came to my mind and I started asking questions about Russian words I didn't know. It wasn't very long, and I would need help for the last few sentences because they were a little too complex, but Masha said she would go up there with me.
So when testimony time came, I went up there and started talking in Russian! It was simple and very imperfect (I said the word "city" instead of the word "year" at one point, and who knows what other mistakes), but everything I had planned to say just poured out in whole sentences. I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face, and I think I was laughing in disbelief while I spoke, because I was so excited not just about the testimony I got to share, but about the one I was living out right at that moment.
I've been discouraged and guilty that I haven't learned or used Russian more, and like I said, a lot of times I feel degraded because I can't communicate. But in that moment, there was an intense, rich beauty of crossing a barrier into the world of this church in Zhovit Vodi. I spoke to them in their language! Looking back on it, I see that it was a miracle. I'm not fluent by any means, and I feel like God just scraped up the meager scraps of my Russian and put them together to make something special.
After saying my bit, I handed the microphone to Masha and finished in English, and then went grinning to my seat, adrenaline rush in full swing. I loved how afterward I felt liek such a part of the body there. I think it means something to people when you try to speak to them in their own language.
After church we left hurriedly and went bumping home, snacking on the sausages and bread the church had supplied us with. We reached Rzhishchiv while it was still light, rounding the bend to be greeted with the sight of the beautiful little town on the shining blue river, and I thought that this is still the prettiest place I've seen yet in Ukraine. I'm sure it doesn't compare to Crimea and Carpathia and those sort of places in other parts of the country, but this is a dear little shire, and in a way, I love it. It's like Hobbiton. They even hunt mushrooms :)
It's good to be back.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Pizza in the Sky
When you hang around kids for an extended period of time, you end up getting asked a lot of questions.
"What are you making?"
"What are you putting in there?"
"Why?"
"Are you peeling it?"
"Are they done"
"Why?"
"Why do they have to cook?"
"Can I flip them?"
"Why?"
"Can I have some?"
"Can I have syrup too?"
"What is 12 + 3? 'Cause Tuck says it's 15."
"Why?"
Tonight, after having hawaiian pizza for supper, Brent was wandering around the kitchen in his usual distracted manner, his brow furrowed deeply as if pondering great mysteries. I was by the sink, loading the dishwasher.
"Cass, where does pizza come from?" He finally asked.
"Heaven." That's what immediately came to mind. But he was still thinking.
"Well, actually," I said casually, capitalizing on further opportunity for indoctrination, "it grows on trees."
"Trees?" He looked me a look that said "I know you're pulling my leg, but I'm enjoying it." "So the pizzas grow and you can just reach up and pick them off the tree?"
"Well, yeah. But the trees are re-ee-ally high. They grow up in the sky close to the sun, so that the cheese will melt."
A pretense of realization dawned on the sly face of Brent.
"As everyone knows, the moon is made of cheese," I continued, beginning to have fun reeling out my imagination, "and when it's full, they start grating it up until it gets smaller and smaller, and during the day, the sun melts the cheese, and the moon grows back, and it starts again. And every noon they harvest the pizzas."
"But how do they get them off if they're so high up?" Brent inquired.
"Helicopters, of course. And then they deliver them all over the world to all the pizzarias."
This seemed to satisfy, if not his curiousity, at least his imagination.
A few days ago I realized that I brush my teeth like Monk, with a mug of boiling water. I pour it over my toothbrush and down the sink. We usually don't have the water running in the sink, so I was using a mug of water anyway. I'm not sure how I started with boiled. But it keeps my toothbrush clean, and the sink semi-clean, so it must be worth it. Monk would not like our house, but I think I'm ok with it :)
On Friday I'm going to a conference with several others from Rzhishchiv. It's in Zhovti Vode (or however you spell that) several hours away. So I feel like it's my first "journey" in Ukraine-- exciting! It was going to be through the night by train, and that would have been a good deal excitinger of course...but I can't say I'm too sorry that plans have changed, seeing as Masha and Sveta got lice on the train last time they went. We have enough pets at home without lice.
So, I don't know if I'll understand a word of the conference, but it will be an experience, anyway. We'll leave Friday and be back Sunday.
"What are you making?"
"What are you putting in there?"
"Why?"
"Are you peeling it?"
"Are they done"
"Why?"
"Why do they have to cook?"
"Can I flip them?"
"Why?"
"Can I have some?"
"Can I have syrup too?"
"What is 12 + 3? 'Cause Tuck says it's 15."
"Why?"
Tonight, after having hawaiian pizza for supper, Brent was wandering around the kitchen in his usual distracted manner, his brow furrowed deeply as if pondering great mysteries. I was by the sink, loading the dishwasher.
"Cass, where does pizza come from?" He finally asked.
"Heaven." That's what immediately came to mind. But he was still thinking.
"Well, actually," I said casually, capitalizing on further opportunity for indoctrination, "it grows on trees."
"Trees?" He looked me a look that said "I know you're pulling my leg, but I'm enjoying it." "So the pizzas grow and you can just reach up and pick them off the tree?"
"Well, yeah. But the trees are re-ee-ally high. They grow up in the sky close to the sun, so that the cheese will melt."
A pretense of realization dawned on the sly face of Brent.
"As everyone knows, the moon is made of cheese," I continued, beginning to have fun reeling out my imagination, "and when it's full, they start grating it up until it gets smaller and smaller, and during the day, the sun melts the cheese, and the moon grows back, and it starts again. And every noon they harvest the pizzas."
"But how do they get them off if they're so high up?" Brent inquired.
"Helicopters, of course. And then they deliver them all over the world to all the pizzarias."
This seemed to satisfy, if not his curiousity, at least his imagination.
A few days ago I realized that I brush my teeth like Monk, with a mug of boiling water. I pour it over my toothbrush and down the sink. We usually don't have the water running in the sink, so I was using a mug of water anyway. I'm not sure how I started with boiled. But it keeps my toothbrush clean, and the sink semi-clean, so it must be worth it. Monk would not like our house, but I think I'm ok with it :)
On Friday I'm going to a conference with several others from Rzhishchiv. It's in Zhovti Vode (or however you spell that) several hours away. So I feel like it's my first "journey" in Ukraine-- exciting! It was going to be through the night by train, and that would have been a good deal excitinger of course...but I can't say I'm too sorry that plans have changed, seeing as Masha and Sveta got lice on the train last time they went. We have enough pets at home without lice.
So, I don't know if I'll understand a word of the conference, but it will be an experience, anyway. We'll leave Friday and be back Sunday.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tell Me About the Zoo
I just had a phone conversation with Ethan. We went through the usual questions. He always asks me, "Are you having fun?" To which I generally reply "Yes." I live with Masha. Of course I'm having fun :)
I know that in some cultures they greet each other by saying "Have you had food?" And when I got ambitious and started trying to learn Hebrew (a shortlived fling) I learned from Hebrew for Dummies that in Israel they say "How's your peace?" Hey man, how's your peace? I actually kind of like that.
As usual, Ethan and I stumble around trying to think of things to say.
"I have a new lego jet," he informs me. "It's right here in my hand. I can't wait till you can see it. How many days are you going to be there?"
"Umm...a lot of days, buddy. Like four months."
"Oh. Well, there are thirty days in a month."
"You're right!" I exclaim. "Who told you that?"
"Daddy. And there are 7 days in a week." I ask him if he knows the days of the week. He doesn't, so I list them off.
Long lull. I resist tempation to fill in the blanks. Maybe he is incubating some profound epiphany. Suddenly, he stirs, as if fueled by new life.
"There is something I want to talk to you about," he says, his tone becoming serious.
"Oh, what's that?"
"I want to talk to you about the zoo."
"Oh, ok, tell me about the zoo!" Mom and Dad took him to the zoo last week and I guess he's still pumped. I can hear his quickened breathing in my ear through the Skype phone and hear him shifting the phone.
"Well," he begins, "I dinnent see an ephelant, but I did see a lion."
"You did?"
"And I saw an alligator and birds and slithering snakes."
"Oh I love that word "slither," I say, grinning as I pace the floor of the Crowes' schoolroom.
"Yeah. And I saw g'raffes."
"What were they like?" I glance out the window at the sparse snowflakes falling.
"They had tall necks, and they were eating."
"What were they eating?"
"I dunno. But I saw a lion."
"What did it look like?" I press, wondering what description I'll get this time.
"It had a hairy neck."
I also discover that he saw meercats and penguins at the zoo, fed ducks, and got sunglasses and toy animals and a ball that he accidentally left.
"And what was your favorite part about the hotel?" I press for more. He doesn't even have to stop to think.
"Garfield!" He watched the movie there, apparently.
I've never had a phone conversation this long and detailed with my little brother before. He's growing up, that one. I don't know if I'll even recognize him when I get home...
I know that in some cultures they greet each other by saying "Have you had food?" And when I got ambitious and started trying to learn Hebrew (a shortlived fling) I learned from Hebrew for Dummies that in Israel they say "How's your peace?" Hey man, how's your peace? I actually kind of like that.
As usual, Ethan and I stumble around trying to think of things to say.
"I have a new lego jet," he informs me. "It's right here in my hand. I can't wait till you can see it. How many days are you going to be there?"
"Umm...a lot of days, buddy. Like four months."
"Oh. Well, there are thirty days in a month."
"You're right!" I exclaim. "Who told you that?"
"Daddy. And there are 7 days in a week." I ask him if he knows the days of the week. He doesn't, so I list them off.
Long lull. I resist tempation to fill in the blanks. Maybe he is incubating some profound epiphany. Suddenly, he stirs, as if fueled by new life.
"There is something I want to talk to you about," he says, his tone becoming serious.
"Oh, what's that?"
"I want to talk to you about the zoo."
"Oh, ok, tell me about the zoo!" Mom and Dad took him to the zoo last week and I guess he's still pumped. I can hear his quickened breathing in my ear through the Skype phone and hear him shifting the phone.
"Well," he begins, "I dinnent see an ephelant, but I did see a lion."
"You did?"
"And I saw an alligator and birds and slithering snakes."
"Oh I love that word "slither," I say, grinning as I pace the floor of the Crowes' schoolroom.
"Yeah. And I saw g'raffes."
"What were they like?" I glance out the window at the sparse snowflakes falling.
"They had tall necks, and they were eating."
"What were they eating?"
"I dunno. But I saw a lion."
"What did it look like?" I press, wondering what description I'll get this time.
"It had a hairy neck."
I also discover that he saw meercats and penguins at the zoo, fed ducks, and got sunglasses and toy animals and a ball that he accidentally left.
"And what was your favorite part about the hotel?" I press for more. He doesn't even have to stop to think.
"Garfield!" He watched the movie there, apparently.
I've never had a phone conversation this long and detailed with my little brother before. He's growing up, that one. I don't know if I'll even recognize him when I get home...
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