Tears of Joy

Back in Russia: Day 4

Sunday morning we visit a church I attended twice during my own adoption journey in 2006; back then, they met in an old theater school. Members said the church had changed locations seven times in the previous two years; thus, I was surprised during our November trip to find that, over three years later, the church was still meeting in the same place. Alas, the morning our group attended, an announcement was made the congregation was moving come the new year. This January morning, we take the trolleybus to the new building, staging a photo shoot much of the way. Later, the best pictures I took all trip are evidence that the grime-laden windows filter the morning light exquisitely, turning our trolleybus into a dream photo studio.

This church facility is more comfortable than the old. Picture windows on the side grant a remarkable, if sinfully distracting, view of the Kremlin bell tower and St. Basil’s Cathedral in the distance. Asked to introduce ourselves when the service begins, I look at Faith, who points back to me. With her extroversion, I consider her more qualified, but when Elaine needles me, too, I give my name, say I’m from Grand Rapids, and add that our group is sightseeing with Russian orphans this weekend.

The building houses a café, thankfully closed, since we’ve promised the kids McDonald’s. Faith holds McDonald’s in low esteem, even more so in Russia, because it’s unhealthy and so safely American. Promising the kids was probably sufficient, but the café’s closure cements our case. On our walk out, Angelina runs with Jamie, grinning, in the first unbridled emotion I see from her. Needing a good photo for her next trip, I have them reenact the run twice, though it only works once before she discerns my treachery.

At McDonald’s, I order for the unhosted kids, while the families order for the others. In one of the most flagrant injustices of the trip, the hosted kids get large fries, fancy sandwiches, and ice cream, while the hostless eat cheeseburgers and small fries. They’re polite if they notice, and while I ache to rectify the inequity, the lines are interminable, and the kids depart soon for their orphanages. Each child adores McDonald’s, and leaves skipping.

Back at the hotel, Faith assigns her charges an essay on their time in Moscow. When all are done, we gather in the common room, where Faith reads us the offerings. Alexander does best, conscientiously detailing each day’s activities. All the essays before his were given by their authors to their new families; after Faith reads Alexander’s, she realizes he has no one. She asks him who should have it, then suggests me. “Be-cky,” he whispers compliantly, as my heart breaks. By now, the kids must know I work for the trip, and am not a family seeking a child. Evgeniy, a good student with a better attitude, surprises me with his lackluster effort, eliminating an ending where others profess appreciation and love of their host families. Sensing he’s still alone, he protects himself to avoid embarrassment. Knowing the work he usually does, and would like to do here, my heart breaks anew (I LOVE This Kid, 12/8/09).

On the return from McDonald’s, sixteen-year-old Maxim accompanies Faith. Many orphans his age already smoke and drink, he says. He asks them why, since they’ll only repeat the mistakes of their parents, which sentenced their children to orphanage existence originally. They’re foolish, he opines. As Faith recounts this exchange to the group, she beams in support of his choices and maturity.

After the essays, families ask kids about orphanage life, school, and who helps with homework. I ask if classmates tease them about being orphans; all say yes, save Nadia, whose demure self-assurance garners friends who affirm her. When the kids ply us with questions, they center on whether or not we like them and want to see them again. Faith suggests we hug every child; we’re not done before the kids with families are crying, which most adults mirror. At these goodbyes, I feel guilty standing dry-eyed. The end of a Lighthouse trip ends a gargantuan workload, and I waver between an unseemly relief and empathy for parents and children who must part. Making my hugging rounds, I spot Faith sobbing in the doorway. Having never seen her cry, it shakes me. I overhear her telling a family how moved she is that Maxim, Daria, and Elizavetta, the forgotten, but hopeful, sibling group, have a family after nine years, and how after all this time in that environment, Maxim seems unaffected by the negative influences surrounding him. This emotion, from one who has witnessed everything, touches me more deeply than anything else this trip, and ends my deliberation on whether or not to cry (Forgotten, But Hopeful, 11/24/09).

When Dima arrives in his minivan to take Faith, the kids, and their chaperone to the train station, fourteen people, most with puffy faces and traveling heavier than when they arrived, cram in. It takes some jockeying, but eventually everything fits and the van creeps away. Families braving the 4° F temperature blow kisses and wave until the vehicle rounds the corner, leaving sight. Walking back into the hotel, I rejoice knowing that the next time seven, or eight, of these children see families from our little band, they’ll be going home, forever.

But Angelina, Evgeniy, and Alexander are incomplete without parents to love and guide them. They need more work, and another chance, which with hopeful heart and the Lord’s help, I’ll give them. Somewhere, families unknowingly await these three. How anxious I am to finish this work.

How relieved I will be when I am truly done.

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Precious Jewels

Back in Russia: Day 3

Nikolai meets his new parents Saturday morning. Jim and Denise, of Iowa, have gone to heroics to get here for this trip. Monday night, they were on vacation when I called and told them they should come this weekend; less than six days later, they’re rubbing their exhausted eyes as I greet them. I never before had any family go through as much as they did to make this work, so I am even more delighted than usual to meet a new family. Just days ago, Nikolai was asking our Russian coordinator Love why he couldn’t go on the Moscow trip, and why no one wanted to meet him. Jim and Denise already think of Nikolai as their son, and the joyous smile on his face when he realizes someone is there for him is priceless.

Angelina is painfully shy, but plays a mean game of Blokus when goaded to participate. She has no host, despite a write-up about her that I thought was good (Scared, 12/21/09). Young girls are the most sought after on our trips, so it should have been easy, but as soon as I note her bashfulness, no one asks even to see her photo. Hope lets her travel anyway, thinking she might meet a family here, or I might find some winsome way to promote her later. She just had a birthday, so we celebrate with cake, candles, streamers, and presents. Another child and a host mom have birthdays soon, so we include them in the festivities, which include singing “Happy Birthday” thrice in Russian and English. My son, from Russia, had festive paper plates given to him by my mother-in-law. While I packed, he gave them to me saying, “Here, Mommy. You can use these plates. I want the Russian kids to have them.” Serving the cake on them, I appreciate them more than the kids do, knowing the love they represent. Angelina’s gifts are a Russian Bible story coloring book and a stuffed dog purse. She  lacks practice; it takes an eternity for her to unwrap them.

Mike and Amy, from Oregon, also signed on at the last minute. Now, they are entirely smitten with Maxim, 16, Daria, 14, and Liza, 12, a patient sibling group awaiting their turn at a family over nine years (Forgotten, Yet Hopeful, 11/24/09). They’re naturals together, and Mike and Amy are aquiver with anticipation to tell them so. Given their ages and the need for the kids to agree to the adoption, Faith and I let them discuss the subject with the children, usually a Lighthouse taboo. Pulling them aside privately, Mike and Amy tell the siblings they want them to join the family. The three agree quickly; too quickly, Mike thinks. He urges them to mull it over. Faith, translating, gives a lengthy lecture on the magnitude of the decision, calling it more serious than marriage. When she’s done, Liza pipes, “I’m done. I’ve already made my decision. Yes.” The other kids agree, too, and with Mike and Amy’s motivation, they’ll soon be a forever family.

We visit the cosmonaut museum, and eat at the café there, on the way to the circus. Faith orders several pizzas, and while they’re marginally passable, they’re anemic, skimpy, and very expensive. I leave dissatisfied, thinking if this were my first pizza, I would not clamor for round two.

I had not planned to include the circus on our itinerary this time, but Faith arrived in Russia early and thoughtfully bought the tickets. After the last circus, I am chagrined to be bringing our Lighthouse demographic there, but I go without a gigantic stink to be agreeable (It's a Circus, 11/10/09). Before the show, the kids have their pictures taken with two rabbits, a Siberian fox, and a Capuchin monkey. As six kids sit on the bench, the handler puts the monkey on Evgeniy’s lap. He stiffens, hiding his hands behind his back, when the handler directs him to keep away from the monkey’s mouth, since he bites off fingers. The circus seems slightly less risqué than last time, if only because we’re in nosebleed seats with nowhere closer to the ring to move, and the show is an hour shorter; nonetheless, I decide that circus attendance is better left to the discretion of individual families upon return to Russia to finish their adoptions.

After the circus we’re famished. Faith injured her knee badly before the trip, but has been gamely showing us Moscow; tonight, though, she asks to leave us at the metro station to walk to the hotel without her. I tell her it’s fine, and we’re going to McDonald’s. Faith protests that there’s Russian food at the hotel, but we know what she references: white hotdogs, linked together at each end, sheathed in clear, colorless plastic that has to be peeled off. The sight of them dangling, one from another, turns the stomach, and engenders no American confidence in any cook who would serve them. An uprising against Russian hotdogs is in the offing, and the group insists they want McDonald’s. Now. Faith, sensing the tide, is forced to agree we don’t have to eat hotdogs at the hotel, and she hobbles away, wondering at our fussiness. Once the kids have eaten at the hotel and are safely in bed, several of us steal away to McDonald’s, which never seems this delicious at home.

Today, Alexander seeks his fortunes elsewhere; someone warned him I was not adoptive mom material. Too quiet to be obnoxious, he moves in pinball fashion, from family to family, with body language that pleads to be noticed. It pains me to see my favorite child on the trip, the one who seems the most genuine, without a host twice, passed over for a family again. I’ll give him another chance, and hope he’s willing to risk a third heartbreak.

There’s a gem here. How I wish someone would see it.

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