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See our August 7-13 Moscow Lighthouse Project trip photos here.

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Out of the Frying Pan

Three Saturdays ago, initially generalized abdominal pain later localizing low to the right prompted my call to my doctor’s office. A nurse directed me to the emergency room, and warned she’d call back in thirty minutes to ensure I’d obeyed. Her threat to check up on me was instructive, and I made a beeline for the ER and was diagnosed with appendicitis. When an appendectomy was ordered, my first fear was for the August trip to Russia, but my surgeon gave his blessing for travel thirteen days hence, somewhat allaying my reservations.

Home on Monday, I was busier than usual and conducting Lighthouse business from bed. Speaking with a North Carolina family whose calling is to keep sibling groups intact, I thought of Zulya and Lora, for whom hope had expired (Her Lora, 4/9/10). The family was interested, and went through heroics to obtain passport and visa in an astounding nine days.

The week of the trip, Lighthouse Project director Hope told me Moscow was in the throes of its worst heat wave in the last century. Checking the weather, I was dismayed to see 104°  forecast for our arrival. Later, adding that wildfires in old peat bogs outside the capital were shrouding the city in clouds laced with carbon monoxide and other pollutants, Hope suggested I bring face masks. Initially resistant in my vanity, I eventually acquiesced, but secretly planned to return them unused after the trip.

***

On Friday, my journey commences at 4:30 a.m. Having traveled to Russia four previous times the past ten months, I’ve accumulated many frequent flyer miles. On both legs of my flight, this status lands me a coveted complimentary upgrade from economy to business class, especially desirable for the trans-Atlantic portion. For once, I can stretch out and sleep mid-flight, though my pleasure is a guilty one as I remember my two host families holed up in economy class, unable to catch even a few winks.

On our descent into Moscow, I’m appalled at our low altitude when I finally see the ground. I am still marveling at how close we are when acrid fumes of smoke waft through the plane. Nauseated instantly, I barely suppress the urge to vomit. I panic, then pray for calmness and dispersion of the pungent fog. Usually, I worry about my luggage arriving, but with the American Lung Association's slogan, “When you can’t breathe, nothing else matters,” tearing at breakneck speed through my mind, I fear only for my precious masks. At landing, everyone seems stunned and nobody claps, foregoing this celebratory tradition at touchdown in Mother Russia. The flight attendant’s “Welcome to Moscow,” seems a heartless joke rather than a flight formality, and I want to scream at her that I don’t feel welcomed and I want to leave now. Inside the airport, it’s stifling and infiltrated with a suffocating smoke. I try to quell the desire to breathe deeply, but finally inhale and am punished with paroxysms of hacking. The lines at immigration are the shortest I’ve ever seen, making my subsequent wait for my luggage seem longer and more harrowing.

Dima picks us up. With my bags safely in hand, I offer everyone a round of masks; Dima shrugs it off as a crazy notion, and tells me I’ll be “ugly” if I wear one. This sentiment, so disturbing before the trip, now earns a snort at its powerlessness to dissuade me from donning respiratory protection, no matter how unsightly.

On the drive, Dima offers to show us a stable he operates for the benefit of handicapped children. Hoping the weather might be better in the country, we agree, though the price is a longer ride in his oven on wheels. Down a wending road where we gently rear-end one vehicle and nearly bowl over a pedestrian ambling across the road, the smog decreases appreciably. We arrive at the barn, an eclectic structure cobbled together out of materials Dima has collected from here and there. He proudly shows us several horses, Russian breeds, all of whom seem anxious to see him. One snarling dog, several panting rabbits, a miniature donkey, and a goat whose milk Dima offers us complete the menagerie.

After the tour, we shuffle down the road to a wooden movie set depicting eighteenth-century England, where they're filming a soap opera.  Dima enters like he owns the place, and we follow in his wake. An actress wilting in a heavy costume hides behind the structure, dragging on a cigarette made laughably redundant by the omnipresent smoke.  She seems flattered when we ask for a picture, but then she unleashes a Russian tirade when one photo is snapped as she puffs on the cigarette.

Back on the road, we stop at a flea market featuring tired odds and ends that look like ancient Goodwill rejects. It’s disheartening to see human beings sitting in smoke all day, trying to eke out an existence peddling such meager wares. Our presence encourages them in vain, as we buy nothing, though a retro-looking Russian alphabet chart tempts me until I discover it is battery operated and new.

After the flea market, our last stop is Ashan, to grocery stores what airplane hangars are to garages. I pick out the breakfast food and derive a perverse satisfaction when one of the families, loyal blog readers, agrees my description of the store as a dehumanizing melee is accurate (Breakfast, 6/30/10). Smoke hangs just below the ceiling, and the lack of air conditioning inside a store so cavernous and enclosed is oppressive, and not conducive to loitering.

We know in advance the hotel will not be cool, but depression sets in when we find there aren’t even fans to circulate the foul air. Long, cold showers proceed our dinner at a restaurant selected merely for its possession of air conditioning. At night, I check the weather, and find the temperature reached 97° today, obliterating the previous record of 84° on this date. Weather conditions on each half-hour report only “smoke,” with no relief projected until at least Wednesday. Right now, that seems an eternity away.

An online slide show depicts the fires under whose ravages we now suffer. In one village, completely leveled by fire, two women rummage in the charred shell of their home, rescuing sooted jars of pickles stored in their cellar. I finally cry at the devastation in Russia. Their home is gone, and so little remains that all they can salvage is pickles.

I always want children to be adopted, but as I melt under my mask in a morgue-like room, I pray harder than usual that our efforts are not wasted.

I’m in the fire. But if we can help the kids, it will be worth it.

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Sharing

The kids sleep late the morning after their arrival. With eight bunks in their room, we are one bed short. The first day, I held up a sleeping bag, and asked sheepishly who would use it. When all hands shot up, some waving to increase their chances, I realized apologizing for the lack of sleeping bags would have been more appropriate.

Host dad Simon is very hip with his hair spiked; Igor is smitten with the look. Walking up to him, Igor utters an inflected “Um,” points to Simon’s head, and runs his fingers through his own hair. Simon helps Igor and two other boys coif their hair like his. Igor, especially, is proud, and I don’t see him again without spikes. At the end of the week, he asks Simon to give him the gel.

After breakfast, Irina sequesters the kids in their room while we ready our gifts. When they return, we question them about their lives. Igor enjoys singing, so I ask for a song. For once, he acts bashful. “We shall support,” Ekaterina encourages him. It’s sufficient inducement, and he obliges with a haunting melody about a chained eagle. Zulya tells us Lora, her aunt, nicknamed her “Pelmini,” after Russian ravioli. Alexandra likes to sing, but cannot be cajoled to do it now. My first glimpse of her personality comes when she glows, speaking about her friends. Alexander, safe in the certainty of already having been chosen by an adoptive family, divulges a few tidbits about himself, then adds in a small voice, “What else do you want to know?”

Several of the kids are in foster care, just for the summer, to give them an experience with a family. I wonder, but don’t ask, why these families don’t care the rest of the year. All the kids have farm jobs with the families, which none appear to object. Igor smiles, noting that when he finishes helping with the hay, there’s always cake on the table awaiting him. Ekaterina and Zulya dream of going to America. Asked what he wants to be in the future, Igor deadpans, “A star.” With his personality, it’s hardly far-fetched.

When the kids query us, one horrifies me with, “If you had to take one of us to an island, which one would you take?” There are more kids than adults, and I warn the families not to answer. We’re asked about our houses, if we live in apartments, and if we have our “own children.” Zulya wonders if we’re waiting for great-grandchildren. When they ask about money, Trevor offers to show them a US dollar bill. It is the most excited the kids get the entire trip, and the hosts decide to give each child one to keep.

After more than an hour of questions, the kids get their gifts. Much energy is spent sorting through their bags, comparing contents, and displaying the loot. We derive as much pleasure watching their joy as they get in receiving. One Virginia family I’ve spoken with for over two years sends a wrapped gift for each unhosted child, along with a card. The kids know they should open the card before the accompanying gift. Each asks Irina to read theirs to them, and they listen with rapt attention.

By the time we leave for lunch at MuMu, the 10% chance of rain Moscow meteorologists predicted has become a 100% chance. There aren’t enough ponchos to go around, so Igor and Vladimir share. After eating, we find the Ferris wheel commemorating Moscow’s 850th anniversary operating, even in the inclement weather. It costs about $8 for one revolution, but we enjoy a view of Moscow its birds would envy. Unassuming Alexandra is so giddy to board that she pushes Joyce, her host, through the turnstile. She wears a nonstop grin the entire ride that Joyce claims was worth the cost of all our tickets. With the child so hesitant to assert herself, I am thrilled we did something she enjoyed.

After the ride, we visit an old park next door built to exhibit the agriculture and industry of the Soviet Union. Now its eighty-odd pavilions mainly house small shops, but it’s still a weekend destination for Muscovites. At the Friendship of the Peoples fountain, sixteen gilded maidens, each dressed in a costume of a different former Soviet republic, circle sheaves of wheat. The fountain, on a list of the ten most beautiful in the world, aimed to honor the bond of friendship between the republics, united under the glories of communism. While the fountain isn’t running today due to rain, and the union it celebrates has collapsed, we still find it worthy of its top-ten billing.

Some of the kids have a few rubles for the trip. I don’t know where they got them, but assume they’re from the summer foster families. Zulya is itching to spend hers, and after the Ferris wheel we pass carnival games. A man is chanting into a megaphone, though we’re the only ones here. Zulya pulls me aside and insists on playing his game. I think it’s a waste, but when she wins a Russian-speaking stuffed cow, her joy is boundless, and she shows it to everyone. The last day she is still clinging to it, and even I must admit the happiness she’s derived exceeds in value whatever she spent to win it.

Back in the metro, Simon is clutching Sergei’s hand. Inside, an elderly woman, box at her feet, holds a corrugated cardboard sign. As the rest of our band moves toward the escalator, Sergei pulls Simon back. Simon counters, wanting to stay with the group. Sergei resolutely refuses to budge until he has reached into his pocket, pulled out his rubles, and dropped some in the lady’s box. Simon is very moved by Sergei’s generosity. Though little in this world is his, he fights to share what he has. His teacher extolled his “nice soul”, and it’s shining through here.

We eat dinner at the hotel, then some of the kids ask to play in the rain at a playground. Every fiber of my being screams “Nyet!,” but when they ask me to take them, I hear myself agreeing. Igor marks the way with sidewalk chalk, so we won’t have trouble finding our way back. Both my compassion and my skimpy Russian restrain me from telling him it’s unnecessary, as I have a very good sense of direction. Two cats watch us out a screened window along the way; I love cats and instinctively call, “Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!” several times, mesmerizing the kids. The next morning they tell Irina and insist I demonstrate my cat-calling prowess to her.

When we’re done at the park, I retreat exhausted to my room. Exhaustion is reassuring, like a report card, that I poured everything into my mission today. It’s been a profitable gleaning of insights into the kids’ personalities, details I hope will help me help them. Sinking into sleep, I revel in how Sergei’s kind gesture in the metro enriched us all.

I hope he is repaid a thousand-fold.

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Desperate to be Wanted

Monday morning the train arrives with the kids, and my nerves don’t allow me breakfast. The host families and I take the metro to meet them, ending at a station commemorating the contributions of the Communist Youth League. We are early.

The arrival of our kids is at once the most exhilarating and stressful event of the trip. While it is unspeakably awkward, meeting the kids is the culmination of several months’ labor, and it’s a thrill to finally see those for whom I’ve passionately advocated. Pacing aimlessly, I worry about the hosts. They’ve committed themselves, both financially and in effort, to travel halfway round the world based on my promotion. While they banter, experiencing emotions mysterious to me, I’m praying they’ll be happy with the kids, and not disappointed they came.

Seeing the light of the approaching train, we hurry down the platform. Russian trains seem interminable, and the kids are near the back. As the train grinds to a halt, passengers begin to disembark, crowding the platform. Still too far off to recognize by face, I know it’s our group when I spot several kids walking with just two adults, since a Russian family with more than one child is a rarity. Even in this bustling depot, it’s a telltale sign. Closer, I see two kids from the March trip, and then recognize Irina, the lady who translated in court when we adopted our kids. Faith, our long-time Lighthouse Project translator, is not here this trip, an unnerving first.

The children are small, and they mass when they see us. While I am still wondering if anticipation or fear prevails in their internal tug-of-war, Ekaterina remembers me from her interview months ago and tackles me with a constricting embrace (Aching for the Right Soul, 12/10/09). Alexander is back from last time to spend more time with Trevor, his dad-to-be. Alexandra stands tentative, and I’m transported back to meeting her, so demure in her orphanage room. She’ll always hold an oddly sentimental place in my heart as the first child I met on my first orphanage visit (Mission: Never Accomplished, 2/10/10). Zulya and Lora are here, too, and I feel an immediate connection. I’d never promoted kids as fervently as I did them, or cared as deeply if a child found a family. As Zulya sweetly counters my smile with a grin that makes her look Asian, I know I failed them, even if she doesn’t. No one here came to meet them, and she’ll never know the prayers and care that went into the effort (Her Lora, 4/9/10).

Our Russian coordinator, beloved by all our adoptive families, is with us. She leads us to the metro, which feels abandoned compared to usual, and rides with us for our return to the hotel. The kids adore her, taking turns hugging her. Sergei, winsome in freckles and dimples, sinks into a corner, and ignoring the din around him, falls asleep. He is difficult to rouse when we approach our station.

Back at the hotel, we scare up lunch from leftovers, then leave for a Moscow River boat trip. After temperatures above 90° my first two days in town, it’s now a struggle to reach 60°. The chill is exacerbated on the water, and we have the boat almost to ourselves. The kids ride in the back and pose for incessant pictures as pounding music thwarts conversation. It’s my first trip outside winter so I’ve never cruised here, and I am surprised at the proximity of all my favorite Moscow architecture to the river. The Kremlin, St. Basil’s, the Cathedral of Christ the Savior, and a few of Stalin’s seven skyscrapers form the changing backdrop for the on-board photo shoot. Simon, one of the host dads, attracts kids like the Pied Piper his wife claims he is, and he ends up in most of my pictures. When the cold finally forces me inside, the boat’s bobbing promptly lulls me to sleep. The cruise is a stellar first outing, as it keeps the kids corralled before they’ve really paired off with the families.

When we disembark, I suggest McDonald’s. The kids don’t understand until I pronounce the ubiquitous chain’s name “Mac-dough-nald’s”, garnering a chorus of animated da’s. At the restaurant, wildly popular in Moscow, I’m delighted we can finagle sufficient tables on the second floor without going through heroics. This is crucial because our present translator lacks any of Faith’s legendary brass. While the kids hold our places, I order twenty cheeseburgers, ten fries, and a combination of drinks and milkshakes. The cashier thinks he misunderstood my Russian, but eventually realizes I want as much food as I ordered.  It tastes like any other McDonald’s, but the kids are overjoyed with the fare. Though they’re all older, several eat only one sandwich, spiriting the other away as a treasure to be savored later.

After dinner we attend the Nikulin Circus. Passing through the distracting gauntlet of plastic trinkets vying for the kids’ attention makes us late. Groping in the dark toward our seats, we merit the disapproval of several spectators whose views we obstruct. The show is the same as in March; a few times, I catch myself just before playing the spoiler. Overall, the circus is a hit, with the tigers especially favored, though their act feels demeaning, which depresses me. When it’s over, the children helpfully point out the toys again, hoping in vain we’ll buy some.

Zulya and Lora, for whom I had worked so hard, are precious. Lora has an independent streak, but hovers around Simon, showing him things as she chews an omnipresent wad of gum. She is cute, smart, and funny. Meanwhile, Zulya circulates, walking arm in arm with several of us in turn. After traipsing around the city in new sandals my first two days alone here, my feet are blistered and burning, hardly appreciative of the added weight as Zulya literally hangs from me. On the metro, she fingers my bracelet and watch and rubs my hands. Her desperation is palpable, and equals the fervor with which I promoted them at home. I fear, though, that as this truly needy girl smothers everyone with her abject desire to be wanted, she is pushing us away. It will take someone with deep emotional reserves to parent her, and there is so little time left to find them. Her anguished hopelessness makes my heart ache.

If only I knew what more I could do.

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Breakfast

I arrive in Moscow Friday morning, thankfully ending a journey void of blog material. Dima, our usual driver, dislocated his shoulder last night so his friend Ivan meets me instead.

Striving to improve future trips after my earliest jaunts for our Moscow Lighthouse Project, I surveyed the travelers upon return. While all respondents were unfailingly constructive, they took a dim view of the included breakfasts. So starting with our third Moscow foray, I asked the hosts before I left home what foods they hoped to see on the table. Most suggestions were predictable, though there was one request for chocolate and Coca Cola.

On the way to the hotel, Ivan stops at Ashan (uh-SHAHN), a Russian mega-market that makes Super Wal-Mart look like an upscale convenience store. From a parking garage under the store, a gigantic conveyor belt carries us and our cart up one floor to the store. The cart’s rubber wheels turn 360°, but are immobilized on the belt. I try moving the basket, but fall backward into Ivan when it won’t budge. His catch saves me humiliation in front of everyone but him. The dark garage and the glacially-moving conveyor are poor preparation for the cacophonous scene unfolding inside. I commence my jet-lagged scavenger hunt armed with a sizable shopping list and pounding headache. Wall-to-wall carts are jockeyed by shoppers on missions, none predisposed toward patience. Attempts to decode Cyrillic packaging, while trying to match reasonable American requests with their Russian manifestations, might be an adventure were I less sleep-starved, but as possessed carts ram my derriere for the umpteenth time, I decide it’s nothing but a pain.

One of my easiest purchases is juice, though the selection is staggering; Ashan is not your Soviet’s grocer. I choose a brand auspiciously dubbed “Da!”, Russian for “Yes!” The “100% something” emblazoned on the package engenders my confidence in the product’s ingredients, and I don’t bother to seek Ivan’s guidance. Later in the week, when someone asks if it’s pure juice, I nod affirmatively, pointing toward the 100% claim. A bilingual observer corrects me, announcing the word after 100% says “quality”, not “juice.”

Soy milk is the most perplexing item; Ivan has never heard of it. The first worker he asks doesn’t know where it is, and tells him so with a condescending shrug that comes off as rebuke. Chastened, I tell Ivan we’ll go without, but he seems to view finding the product as a matter of honor. He asks four more workers: two who point us in the wrong direction, one who says they don’t carry it, and one who points vaguely somewhere, leaving us to wander the aisle again. No one offers to take us to the shelf, and we never learn the truth. With Ivan’s determination to find the milk, and the workers’ opposing determination toward evasion, I fear the charade will be interminable. I finally insist we stop, but even then have trouble convincing Ivan that I will e-mail the family, still at home, and suggest they bring their own.

Coffee is on my list, so Ivan leads me to an end cap display with pride in his knowledge of its location. After the soy milk fiasco, I am reticent to tell him Americans don’t drink instant coffee, and that I wouldn’t pay this price even for premium java. When he shares that one of my friends brought this coffee back to the States with them, I have no choice but to swallow hard and plunk it in the cart.

Buffeted continually as I shop, I eventually find most of the items I seek. But rather than reveling in my task’s completion, I feel dehumanized by the rush, rudeness of the clerks, and jostle of carts in our supersized pinball game. I wonder if Ivan notices the annoyance with which the clerks regard him, or that browsing is impossible in the melee, but he appears oblivious. I worry I’ll dehumanize him further by acknowledging it, but curiosity overcomes me. When I ask if it bothers him to live like this, the question surprises him. He tells me no, politely, but I can tell he’s puzzled at my suggestion it might.

We have our choice of about eighty checkouts, all open, when we’re done. Our cashier rings up our entire order wordlessly, breaking her silence only to bark the total. Despite the lack of welcome, she gives me my biggest thrill all day when I pay without her realizing I’m not Russian. Bagging our own groceries, the flimsy plastic sacks, which tear at the least hint of abuse, almost defy us to make them open. Our sluggishness adds to the spectacle, to the irritation of both the cashier and the shopper behind us.

When we finally reach the hotel, I put the food away and collapse into bed. I’ve had this room often enough that I feel strangely home. I sleep without effort, and then wake late in the evening, rejuvenated. I’m excited again, waiting for the hosts and kids, anxious to see the families who will be created on this fourth trip.

Tomorrow’s a new day, and breakfast is ready.

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June Trip Photos and Videos

June Moscow trip photos and videos are now up on Facebook.
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Sasha's Turn

Alexander, ten, nicknamed Sasha, arrived in Moscow in January for his second trip with the Lighthouse Project. Nobody chose to host him in November, a fate relived in January though I’d promoted him aggressively as my favorite November child. We held hands the first day; as he looked up at me, eyes expectant, I was charmed again by his quiet personality, but rueful of his selection of me, given my family’s lack of adoption ambitions. Day two, Sasha played his hand differently, spending time with a family visiting another child. Day three, in the common room, hosts were occupied with those they’d come to meet. Though I hardly begrudged them this, I grieved Sasha’s desperation as he stood in the middle of the room alone, his glance pinball-like, visually seizing each family in turn with an expression imploring anyone to choose him. While other kids, more flamboyant, had hosts applauding their every move, Sasha was thoughtful, genuine, and unheralded. The last day, when the kids essayed about their trip, presenting their work to their families in a poignant meeting, Sasha’s eyes darted around the room one final frantic time before bringing his paper to me (Precious Jewels, 1/21/10).

Concerned he was unhosted, a kindly soul from America sent a bag of gifts for him, but lost luggage meant he received it only just before his departure. His orphanage photo was tied to the bag’s drawstrings like a pictorial luggage tag. Toting the bag into the hotel stairwell as he trudged to the van for the ride to the train station, he saw my dear friend there. Looking at Elaine, then the photo tag, then Elaine, he tore the photo off, pressed it into her hand, and earned a hug for his gesture.

His yearning to be wanted was evident, but for all his earnestness, Sasha won no hearts besides mine. I fall for many kids, but Sasha was the first child since my own Russian adoption who I envisioned in my home, as my own son. Back in Grand Rapids, I sung his praises to my husband, who’d just spent several days alone caring for our four kids. He felt for Sasha, but felt stronger that his family was elsewhere.

Elsewhere, in Florida, days before Christmas, Tracy wept throughout the Dave Thomas adoption program on television. Finding the Lighthouse Project link on their website, she visited, and liked what she saw. Requesting information on Christmas Day, she was surprised I called the next day, and nervous since her husband Doug had no idea she’d been querying about adoption. Our rapport was swift, though, and I appreciated her insightful questions. When Doug got home from work, she confessed her interest in the Lighthouse Project. “I think it’s a great idea,” he agreed. “Show me the website.” Our January trip only a few days off, they opted to travel in March. When I returned from the January trip, Sasha heavy on my heart, I encouraged them to consider him.

Their son Chris had been asking them to adopt for years; even as a little boy, he’d wanted nothing more than a sibling. When they finally began entertaining thoughts of adoption, brochures and e-mails from adoption agencies appeared, solicited by a teenaged Chris. Into adulthood, he urged his parents to adopt. At work outside the country, he was due back in the United States the same day our group was leaving Moscow. Tracy believed her son’s homecoming trumped our trip, but Chris disagreed, insisting she and Doug go meet Sasha. Still torn when they heard a sermon at church on leaving the comfort zone to follow God’s leading, Tracy exited the service that day in tears. It sealed the deal; walking out, Doug exulted, “We’re going, aren’t we!” For several years, the couple felt something was missing, but a week before departure, Tracy confided even though the same two people and the same dog still lived in the same house, everything felt richer, and full of life.

When they arrived in Moscow, Sasha was waiting at the hotel. I introduced them to him, but my Russian was insufficient to explain why they’d come. On our walk to the zoo that afternoon, Sasha flitted from family to family, understandably playing the field to better his odds. At the zoo, I wasn’t sure he knew yet Doug and Tracy were “his”. In front of the frozen duck pond, I asked him for a photo, and then suggested Doug and Tracy join him. As their arms engulfed him, he recognized them.  I saw it. Inseparable the rest of the week, watching them together brought me more satisfaction than I’d ever experienced in all the other joys with the program. So deserving for so long, every smile I saw him smile, every time I saw he realized he had parents to show some childish treasure, was worth every sleepless night I’ve poured into the Lighthouse Project.

I loved Sasha enough he might have been mine, but God had another family in store. So He blessed me enough to help me find them, then let me watch them fall in love.

It was the next best thing.

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