Evil into Good

Sasha found pleasure in little things.


The 14-year-old bully thought no one was looking, so he punched Sasha hard in the side of the head unprovoked.  The smaller boy, just 11, was surprised and dazed, but never retaliated. The rest of the evening, clearly rattled, Sasha shadowed any available adult; as the two oldest boys on the trip, he and the bully roomed alone.  I told chaperone Tatiana, whereupon she pulled Sasha into her room to stay with the younger children, much relieving the poor boy.  The next afternoon the bully would return to his own orphanage, but until then, we watched him like hawks.

Sasha was irresistible, the kid everyone liked. Kind, earnest, intelligent, curious, positive, and persistent, he was mesmerized by plastic birds which balanced perfectly on their hooked beaks, and he carried them everywhere.   At first, content just to balance them on his finger, he later solemnly demonstrated how they balanced as effectively on his nose or a Pixy Stix. 



Sasha balances his birds on Pixy Stix
I gave him after he spoke with me.

He got his birds the day we gave out gifts, after he’d answered our questions about his four younger siblings.  He proclaimed how he loved his brothers and sisters; then Tatiana mentioned he’d beseeched Father Frost for gifts for them last New Year’s. For Luba, 5, whose name is Russian for “love,” Sasha requested a dress worthy of a princess; for his brother Dima, 8, he asked candy.  Most noteworthy of all, he asked nothing for himself.  Father Frost rewarded the boy’s kind heart with two model cars, one of which Sasha slipped into Dima’s hands.  Inspired by this anecdote, host dad John piped up, extolling the sweetness he’d seen Sasha lavish on Petr, 5, the most trying member of our band.  Tatiana’s teenage daughter, who’d spent much time with her mother’s orphans, was with us, and heard the praise. Though she spoke at no other time, she bubbled now, judging Sasha a “remarkable person” who “differs from other children.”  

One afternoon while the kids swam, Tatiana sat down with me to talk.  She beamed when she spoke of Sasha, a very good and caring boy. His biological parents never enrolled him in school at seven as required, so when he arrived at the orphanage just over a year ago, he’d had no education beyond what he’d garnered living virtually alone with his siblings.  As the eldest, Sasha assumed responsibility for cooking, cleaning, laundering clothes, and caring for the younger children.  When a social worker discovered the little family in a wretched state, all were taken to an orphanage, where at last Sasha learned to read and write. 



Sasha back at the orphanage with three of his four siblings:
(L to R) Elena, 7; Luba, 5; Sasha, 11; and Dima, 8
Alexei, 2, is in a baby house in another town.



Tatiana called Dima active and physically on-target, a boy who likes loud games.  Industrious Elena, 7, much resembles Sasha, liking to care for younger children and play house.  Little Luba, 5, likes singing, dancing, and drawing.  Though delayed when she entered the orphanage, she has flourished there, which made me shudder to think what “home” must have been like.  Baby Alexei, 2, lives apart in the baby house, far from his siblings.

Sasha told me he sees his siblings often, though a year has passed since he’s visited Alexei.  Not answering when I asked if he knew why he lived in an orphanage, he just shook his head no. While he likes it there, he really wants a “good and kind” family. His dreams are incremental: to serve in the army, then to attend university, then to get married to someone he has not yet chosen.  When I wondered what he would change about the world, a question which stumped some older children, he reckoned he’d turn evil into good.  Knowing his sad past, and witnessing the thoughtfulness he so willingly displayed, I thought he was changing the world already.

Click to tweet below, and help Sasha and his siblings find their way home.



I promised Luba, Elena, and Dima a kiss to
 get them to smile for this adorable photo!



At the end of the week when we dropped the kids off at their orphanage, Sasha stayed only a few minutes before he was whisked back to his summer camp.  His younger siblings remained behind, so Sasha entrusted several trinkets from his bag of gifts to them.  I interviewed Dima, Elena, and Luba individually in a room depressingly crammed with 14 little beds.  My gentlest queries brought Luba close to tears, so I called Dima and Elena in to sit beside her.



Luba, 5, took this photo of Dima, Elena, and me.



Asking them to show me their beds finally broke the ice with Luba.  The three leapt to their feet, proudly showing something that felt like theirs, as Dima boasted his was most comfortable.  Teaming up to hide behind a headboard, they bounced up with a roar when I pretended not to see them.   Luba jumped on her bed, then skipped for me.  I taught them “bye-bye” before quizzing them on their English knowledge, which they found hilarious. I asked them to smile together for a photo, but they were laughing too hard.  Only when I promised each a kiss did I get my smiles; I was charmed by how grand a reward they thought the offer.  When I volunteered the use of my camera in exchange for their kiss on my cheek, the non-photographers rushed to pose next to me.  Reviewing the resultant photos later, I chuckled to find the five-year-old had taken the most respectable photo. 

When the clock demanded we catch our train to Moscow, it pained me to leave such a joyful group. As I waved goodbye, the kids merrily charged at me for one last hug and kiss. I never saw baby Alexei, and I departed wishing he could grow up with his siblings.

Being a fivesome will handicap the children in our quest to find them adoptive parents. So for now, this darling quintet is headed by a big-hearted eleven-year-old. And when he returns from camp, he’ll surely show Dima, Elena, and Luba how to balance the birds he got from American friends. Then he’ll wait in hope for a good and kind family to share with them all.

Click here to tweet about Sasha, Dima, Elena, Luba, and Alexei.

*****

Sasha relaxing in the van on our
way back to his orphanage.

If you would like to meet Sasha and his siblings, travel with us to Russia this November 9-16! And now, when you travel to Russia with the Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project, you can bring a friend along with you for free! You and your friend will explore the sights of Moscow, encourage adoptable orphans, and visit an orphanage to deliver donated humanitarian aid like bikes and toys. As always, you'll also enjoy a scenic trek by train through the Russian countryside, experience Russian-style hospitality at a retreat set up perfectly for our visits, and ponder the fascinating mysteries of post-Soviet culture. And if the jaunt’s not already sweet enough, now you’ll make a difference, times two! For more information call Becky at (616) 245-3216, or e-mail becky@lhproject.com.

Angels Will Watch Over You

Arrival in Moscow has heretofore meant navigating Sheremetyevo Airport’s dingy, tired, and cramped international terminal, but this trip our plane halts outside a building I’ve never been in. It is immaculate, modern, innovative, and expansive. If signs weren’t in Cyrillic, or if the flight attendant hadn’t welcomed us to Russia, I’d think I’d deplaned at a new airport in the United States.

The next day, I return to the airport to pick up my families. Ten are traveling, by far a record. They come on two flights, about an hour apart, so I chat with the first group as we await the second. Kate, a young girl whose parents adopted through our director Hope years ago, has read much of my blog. She reminds me of details I’ve revealed about myself in posts past, and wonders if I find it creepy she knows so much about me.

At the hotel, everyone unloads their bags. After their all-night flight, they good-naturedly vote to sightsee. Travel is my favorite hobby, and they delight me with their gameness to see a place that, despite its grittiness, has become my third-favorite city, after Grand Rapids and Venice.

The metro is the most sensible mode of transportation for us in Moscow. Before the trip I work hard to apprise the hosts of what to expect, but the metro deftly defies description. While I loathe pushiness, I warn families that boarding the metro is no time to be selfless. Still, I know that, early on, some chivalrous soul will step aside to let everyone else board ahead of them. It would be a nightmare to reconnect were we to be separated, even though we distribute Russian phones to all travelers, to be safe.

Sure enough, our first foray onto the metro, a few hold back to permit the rest of the group to meander in. When the alarm sounds to warn the door is closing, I physically stuff the person in front of me onto the train, and not a moment too soon, as the doors slam shut behind me. Beside me, an elderly lady also makes it. She smiles at us, very rare for Russians, as they believe to smile at strangers is to announce the smiler is crazy. She speaks to me in Russian, as I smile and nod. When she continues, I answer “Da!” though I haven’t any idea what she is saying. If the country is enjoying a nascent movement toward friendliness, I’d hate to squelch it. As she persists, I counter with da’s at each pause, until she finally realizes I’m not Russian. While speaking English is becoming more prevalent among the younger generation, the older the person or more menial their job, the less likely they are to know English. So the lady flabbergasts me when she abandons Russian and switches to first-rate English. “Angels will watch over you!” she declares. She asks a few questions, which I answer until the train grinds to another stop. The car is already standing-room only, and as more Muscovites shove their way aboard, the lady is swallowed by the crowd. “Angels will watch over you!” she calls as her parting benediction, slipping away.

We emerge from the metro’s tunnels just outside the Kremlin, which the group has chosen to see this trip. The world’s largest cannon, a 200-ton bell, and the official residence of the president of Russia lie within its red brick walls. While atheism was the state religion for over seventy years, this seat of Russian government also harbors five fifteenth-century cathedrals. A Russian Orthodox lady traveling with us to meet sisters finds the churches especially meaningful; watching her appreciate them blesses me, too.

After the Kremlin, we walk next door to Red Square. Two babushkas pose outside the Kremlin bell tower as a man takes their photo with a digital camera. When he shows them the result, they are so overcome with laughter they cry. I yearn to know if this is their first visit here, or their first digital photo, or if they’re just overwhelmed in this glorious place now that their land is free. It is the sweetest thing I’ve seen in Russia, and Kate snaps a few photos for the blog. How I wish I could see them laugh, to know their moment of joy is savored by others a world away!

Tomorrow morning our arms will open to the children now on their way to us. Today, though, it was our turn to be embraced, by this giant of a country. New friends from America are here, and I’ve been privileged to share with them just a few places I love in Moscow: this day embodies all that’s best about travel. Along the way, Russians we don’t know, and will likely not meet again, have shown their goodwill, and opened their hearts and the heart of their country to us.

Angels are watching over us.


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The Accidental Tourist

Our summer trip is scheduled for Moscow, but a few weeks before departure, we experience the Lighthouse Project’s version of an upgrade when we decide to visit the kids in their home region instead.  Nine hours after the families arrive in Russia, we board our train for the 13-hour overnight ride.  Our car, called a “vagon,” is auspiciously near empty, which I gratefully note works wonders for the sanitation of the restroom. Our group has three private sleeping compartments for the trip; during dinner, which I’ve brought for everyone, we speculate incessantly about what is to come.  The doors to our rooms are open, and as new friends circulate, the camaraderie engendered reminds me of an impossibly wholesome college dorm.  After dinner, our excited chatter grudgingly gives way to somnolence.   Closing my door, I stretch out on my bunk, waiting for sleep.  It’s my first summer train excursion, so I relish the extended daylight to study the Russia I’d not previously seen.    Darkness curbs my sightseeing as it gradually shrouds countryside nearly devoid of manmade lights, and I’m lulled into dreamland by the sideways rocking of the train. Waking during the night, I break out my Pimsleur Russian CD in an attempt to resuscitate my language skills before arrival.  It bores me sufficiently that I sleep again before the lesson ends.

 
In the morning, our group raves delightedly about the adventure.  Resting on their bunks, two sip tea at a tiny table as a Russia very unlike Moscow floats by their window.  An hour outside our destination, signs bearing the names of hamlets our orphanages occupy begin to appear.  I’m thrilled to share with families their first glimpse of their host kids’ towns.  In one orphanage village, the train creeps to halt long enough for us to watch an elderly man shuffle down a dirt road, balanced by a metal bucket in each hand.  Stopping at a communal spigot near the train, we’re entranced as he fills the buckets with water, then starts back toward home.  I wonder how many people in the area lack running water, that this spectacle should play out during our short wait.

Arriving at the train station in the capital of our region, I try hard to conjure up old feelings I experienced six years ago, the first time I’d come, brimming with a pins-and-needles anxiety to finally meet my future children.  I yearn to share my memories with the others, but they’re so busy living their own first-time moments it seems selfish to infringe upon theirs, with mine. 

A nondescript bus ride whisks us to a sanatorium, our lodging for the week.   This Russian-style country retreat is off a serpentine road surrounded by wooden dachas.  With typical Russian architecture, the building’s three-floor plan is hopelessly labyrinthine, probably cobbled together bit by bit, over time.   Much about it reminds me of the orphanages, except the kids here are better dressed and have parents fawning over them.

I’m desperate to get organized before our kids arrive, but as soon as I drop my bags, I’m summoned to the sanatorium director’s office for an orientation and to pay.  Everything in Russia is inefficient; hoping this process will be different assures disappointment.  The director is an affable sort who takes the ringing of his mobile phone very seriously. Sandwiched between several calls I learn we’ll be given breakfast, lunch, snack, dinner, and “dairy,” a mystery served up without explanation.  When the families hear about dairy later, they are simultaneously amused and perplexed.

Thirteen children from four orphanages are spending the week with us.  We’re still chuckling over dairy when they began arriving, orphanage by orphanage.  Love, our Russian coordinator, comes with kids from our main orphanage, and I meet her in the hallway.  As the kids file by, I size them up, trying to figure out who’s who, having only seen poorly-shot referral photos until now.  To my horror, Angelina, not scheduled to travel, comes running with a hug (Crushed Little Blossom, 7/3/11). I’d promised myself after our last trip never to bring her again without a definite host.  I can’t bear to have her on a fifth trip, without any chance of a family.  Love mirrors my dismay, exclaiming, “I don’t know why director send her!  What we must do?”  As we discuss our options, Angelina, oblivious to the consternation her presence is causing, settles in. We weigh the merits of sending her back to spare her further disappointment against the risk of offending her high-strung orphanage director.  That Angelina herself seems pleased to be here eventually ends the matter. 

After a fascinating lunch featuring abundant quantity and scant quality, we rent the indoor pool for an hour.  Several of the young boys are overjoyed by the swimsuits we’ve brought, though the chaperone insists they swim in their underwear instead.  Thankfully, enough families brought extra suits that we have one fitting Angelina.  The first time I’d met her, two years ago, she wanted to learn to swim.  Now in the pool, she laboriously dog-paddles its width with a persistence earning the approbation of all poolside.

The management is quite solicitous of our group. They have an activities director; at dinner, he extends a personal invitation to us for a clown performance tonight.  When we get there, it’s obvious something was lost in translation, as we’re actually at a kids’ comedy show, requiring mastery of Russian to appreciate.  As people around us guffaw at the jokes, we sit poker-faced.  After thirty minutes, a worker beckons us to dairy.  Our relief at being rescued from the performance is short-lived, as we find nothing but glasses of tepid kefir on a tray in the cafeteria. 

Each night is capped by a “disco” attracting a mainly tween crowd.  Our families, all of whom have rooms on the second floor, are spared the brunt of the pulsating music unless they choose to attend. My room, on the third floor, is an excessively-convenient two doors down, so my heart beats in sync with every ear-splitting note.  Disco lasts about 90 minutes and ends at 9:30 nightly.  I like watching the kids, and even get dragged to the dance floor by Ekaterina who, blinded by the strobe light, doesn’t notice the clumsiness of my gyrations.  Our last night, Tim, an Alaska host dad, doles out glow bands to our dancing kids.  A near-riot ensues as, for once, the kids with families want what the orphans have.  As Tim is slammed to the wall by a pre-teen mob clamoring for the bands, he throws them out onto the middle of the floor.  In a twisted sort of way, disco is a nightly highlight.
 

Artem in Red Square

One afternoon, we give the kids gifts we’ve brought.  While it has been an occasional matter of contention on trips, I always say the gifts are from all the families, then I personally hand each child the gifts brought for them.  While I willingly bring children without host families on our trips, I am adamant those without should not learn this in front of a crowd.  But after eight visits, I’ve realized unhosted kids are still having their hopes dashed publicly when their gifts are presented in the green Menards bags I use, rather than unique bags hosted kids get from their families.  This time I’ve brought Menards bags for every child, hosted or not, in hope of making it less obvious which kids get gifts from me.  My pre-planning goes awry, though, with Angelina there, and we have to scramble to come up with an alternate bag and gifts for her.  After the gift presentation, HIV-positive Artem, seven, who so gladly received his gifts his first trip, whispers in the translator’s ear.  As she nods at him, he marches onto a low stage in the room and chirps, “Thank you very much for doing this for me.  I love being with you, and I love the pool.”  His words bring me to tears; surely on his trips I have been entertaining an angel unaware (Angelic, 9/26/10).  That such a young child, and one without upbringing, would on his own think to thank our entire group is most touching.

I’m not the only one who thinks so.  Cheryl, from Maine, knocks on my door late that same evening, loudly, as she is competing with the disco.  Somehow, I hear and let her in.  Hearing Artem’s thank you speech, she realizes she wants him as her son; her husband agrees.  I start crying when I hear. After 18 months and four trips, the perfect child has the perfect family.

During daily Uno games, Angelina shows a surprising amount of spunk, peeking at her American opponents’ cards and directing them which to lay if they move too slowly.  She plays “Wild Draw Four” cards on Tim with impish glee.  I am mesmerized as I watch her blossom.

The day we leave the sanatorium, our drivers drop us off on the banks of the Volga, at 2,293 miles Europe’s longest river.  The river does more than just snake through the country; it flows through the consciousness of Russians themselves, who consider it their national river and refer to it as Volga-Matushka (Volga-Mother).  Today as we wander alongside it, Angelina hand-in-hand with Tim’s wife Julie, I tell Julie they look good together. She confides they are seriously considering Angelina, and my heart leaps with such rapture I worry others can see, and that I’ve spoiled their secret.

Before the kids leave, we share a treat at McDonald’s.  After several days of sanatorium dining, my enthusiasm for the Golden Arches borders giddiness, and I savor a cheeseburger I would normally disdain.  Before we’re done, vehicles hired by the orphanages begin arriving to pick the kids up.  Seeing them off in the din of a fast food parking lot is completely unceremonious; it seems disrespectful, as if we believe dodging cars during the transfer is acceptable because they’re only orphans.  One orphanage driver is annoyed at having had to wait a few minutes for the kids to finish eating.  He pollutes the van with his cloud of cigarette smoke, and wastes no effort at concealing his feelings that the children, and our trip, have inconvenienced him.  I feel sorry for the kids, and pray they aren’t always treated so callously.

On the train ride back to Moscow, we’ve more to ponder, and less to anticipate, than before. The clackety-clack fosters no new epiphanies, and I leave Russia not knowing if Angelina will require a sixth trip.  I have wanted to adopt her myself since the middle of her fourth visit, but my husband, more practical and not having met her, is adamant a fifth adoption is not on the horizon for our family.  I wonder if no one chooses her this time, if he might rethink his position.  When I get home, he is sympathetic over her surprising appearance, but his belief that we’re done at four kids ourselves remains maddeningly resolute.

A few weeks later, Tim and Julie call me in the evening. They tell me it’s official, that Angelina is meant to be their daughter.  While the tiniest twinge of selfish regret briefly beflutters my heart, my joy for her is so total that my congratulations can scarcely convey it.  This trumps everything before it, and is easily my most satisfying Lighthouse Project moment, ever.

Angelina and her dad-to-be at the sanatorium

The irony is, for all my effort and creativity invested daily in this program, this most glorious match is one for which I’ve orchestrated nothing.  Angelina was not supposed to be here without an interested family to meet her.  While she didn’t know it, I promised her that much silently last trip.  And when she came again anyway, I felt as if I’d unwittingly betrayed her.

But God knew Angelina’s family would be there, even when I didn’t.  This “accidental” tourist was part of His perfect plan, a plan stretching from Alaska to Maine, encompassing two children who have deeply touched my heart.  I didn’t orchestrate this, but I don’t mind one bit.

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Crushed Little Blossom

Angelina on one of our trips to Moscow

I honor two self-imposed rules on our Lighthouse Project trips to Moscow. The first mandates I never bring the same child unhosted twice, as I resist breaking a heart with scant chance to find a family. The second dictates I won’t cry at the train when the kids leave, because while I deeply feel for the hosts as they leave “their” children, the train’s departure signals the close of a Herculean effort for one trip, and the commencement of a new push for the next.

Angelina, now 11, grabbed my heart when I met her in October 2009, so trampled in her orphanage, talked over and disrespected by a loudmouth orphanage director (Scared, 12/21/09). Seven Moscow trips later, this gem of a girl, who would blossom with a family’s attention, has garnered more advocacy than any other child I’ve met. The passion and frequency of my presentation has not availed her: when I mention she’s a wallflower’s wallflower, callers never request her photo or documents.

On Angelina’s first trip with us, unhosted, one boy from her orphanage monopolized the conversation during our question and answer session. Finally cajoled to speak, Angelina uttered four words before the boy’s mocking silenced her. I broke rule one by bringing her on a second trip, still unhosted, because of a situation where I thought she stood a chance. During a game requiring each participant to share a personal factoid, Angelina collapsed into the couch at her turn; even gentle encouragement provoked tears. Finally hosted on her third trip, I was elated by her opening up when focused on; alas, it was not enough to earn a family. So I brought her again this June, as even unhosted, new circumstances offered her a possible family.

Arriving at the train station, Angelina rushed to give me a hug of remembrance. Day one, she mingled admirably, and seemed drawn to two hosts. Walking the second day, she attached to one mom, delighting me with the premonition that she’d found her family. My joy evaporated, though, when the mom politely asked me to lure Angelina away, as her hovering was off-putting to the child the mom really wanted. When another family echoed those sentiments, I buddied up with Angelina the rest of the trip. Grasping her stiff palm, I held her hand much more than she held mine; when I let go, she returned at once to the others, glancing accusing daggers my direction. Only with my repeated and exaggerated collecting of her hand did she resign herself to the truth that she was specifically rejected, and acquiesce to my more institutional attentions.

Angelina, alone in Red Square

Outside Red Square, kids tossing coins over their shoulders made wishes at the medallion marking Russia’s center. Angelina fingered a kopek, but participated only when I dragged her with me to toss our coins in unison. So shocked was I that she went, I neglected to make my wish. In the square, hosts clamored for photos with the children they hoped to adopt; while I would never begrudge anyone this happiness, my heart cried for Angelina, the lone child whose photo was unsolicited. She stood forlornly aside, watching the families to whom she’d latched pointedly ignoring her in their zeal to avoid sending wrong messages to her or the objects of their interest. So I requested her photo, though by trip four I’d been “outed” as a worker, not a family. As I was hardly looking to adopt again, it wasn’t like the real thing, but she derived some solace from not being so conspicuously solo.

As we walked hand in hand, I winced at her shirt bearing a Cosmopolitan-like magazine cover photo, spewing innuendo mercifully in English, and hoped no Angloglot thought I’d dressed her. Perhaps a number of these had been donated to the orphanage, as another child wore this remarkable shirt, in a different color, on a previous trip. While she was surely oblivious to its message, the shirt felt a flashing neon announcement of her alone-ness, and I grieved her privation of anyone to guard her innocence and dignity.

During our discussion session, the chaperone Svetlana, from Angelina’s orphanage, encouraged her. Asked what she liked to do, she had no answer, so Svetlana extolled her as a “good girl” who “liked everything.” Later, in a whisper, Angelina identified her favorite colors, ice skating as a preferred sport, and English and math as best subjects, though she kept mum about her life’s dream.

The last day, I asked Svetlana privately to describe Angelina. From a dog-eared booklet she pointed to the words modest, kind, serious, just, and hardworking. Through the translator, she confided Angelina had never attended school while at home and was not a stellar student, but always tried her best. Svetlana reiterated that she was a good girl, yet without many friends after four years in the orphanage. I ached to ask if she had any at all.

Angelina clings to me at the train station

At the train that evening as we said our farewells, Angelina clung to me until I thought my heart would burst. Several new disappointments and rejections to her account, her fourth trip was history, she no closer to a family than when I’d first met her. She bade goodbye to everyone, but kept returning to me, thanking me with a lisped, “Spaceba.” I wished she could know how hard I was trying, though knowledge of my intensive, but failed, efforts would risk making her feel even more inconsequential.

So my search continues, my sinking heart wondering what else to do to find her family, or how to convey to callers how kind and deserving I think she is. As the train stole away that Sunday night, carrying several children rejoicing in their newfound families, and one crushed little blossom, I broke rule two, and cried.

I cried for Angelina, and cried for myself. I should never have brought her when she didn’t stand a chance.

*****

If you are interested in hosting Angelina or another needy waiting child on our August 20-26 trip to the Moscow countryside, please contact Becky via phone at (616) 245-3216, or e-mail at becky@lhproject.com.

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With my alarm clock across the room, Friday morning I wake punctually. I’m venturing to the train station again, this time for Melinda, who’s returning from our region having met Evgenia, four. Barrie thoughtfully accompanies me. Eliminating both the tardy departure and the storm breeds a more relaxed jaunt than yesterday’s.

Evgenia, now five, and able to travel with us

When the train lumbers in, several familiar faces alight with Melinda, including six children whose families have finished court. Arriving in Moscow, they’re in the homestretch of their adoptions. Nadia, 15, greets me with an embrace and an English “Thank you!” worth the world to me. Her new brother Nikolai, 11, shadows her. Melinda’s visit was to his orphanage, and she tells me he was so excited to be going home that he donned his coat two hours before leaving for the station. Daria, 15, is joined by her two siblings. Before they boarded this train, 30 kids and teachers from their orphanage, all crying, came to the station to wish them farewell. I hate mornings, but seeing these erstwhile orphans, now sons and daughters, and knowing I had a hand in it, is a shot in the arm even at this hour.

Barrie, Melinda, and I leave the station alone. I am itching to hear about Evgenia, who due to her young age was not allowed to travel with us. Evgenia’s a big girl, Melinda says, ready to learn and affectionate. Adding she had a rough start in life, Melinda found she does not speak. The orphanage provides speech therapy, but can afford only 30 minutes weekly, which they worry is insufficient. I wonder if any family will take a risk with her.



Peter, a very pensive little boy

Back at the hotel, I find little Peter playing on the floor without his slippers. The soles of both his socks sport the hand-sewn characters A3-7. It’s a pragmatic solution for the laundress who mates hundreds of socks in an institution, but the markings distress me anyhow. A mom could match them, but no one at the orphanage can pair Peter’s without the aid of a monogram.

Artem

Maria

Later in the morning, we talk with the kids. Blonde sprite Maria, six, oozes confidence. Asked to describe herself in one word, she chooses “beautiful” and “smart.” The kids reveal what kind of animal each would most like to be; Artem chimes, “An angel!” It’s entirely apt, from this cherubic lad who remains one of my three favorite Lighthouse Project kids. When the meeting adjourns, the kids tear into their gifts. Maria gets new jeans, which she is soon modeling with evident pride. She fancies the tag, refusing its removal. It’s so comical I grab my camera. She eagerly poses, after turning the tag to reveal its more flattering side.

After the gifts, I repair to my room, only to be interrupted by a frantic knock. I open to Amy, waiting with Sheri grasping Igor’s outstretched hand. “Igor has a staple in his finger,” Amy gushes, “and when I saw it, I said, ‘Becky! Becky’s a veterinarian!’” Theatrical Igor, who even moans with flair, bites his lip hard at the staple buried in the flesh of his thumb, deep enough to pucker the skin. I’ve never treated a human because of my profession, but in Moscow, though woefully underequipped, I smear hydrocortisone over the wound, pinch the finger, and jockey a tweezers under the staple’s bar. As a tear glides down Igor’s cheek, Amy launches insistently into song, “A, B, C, D, E, F, G…” My patient joins her, in English, and dares a little laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Sheri and I start, too, and by “P,” I’ve steeled myself sufficiently to yank out the offending fastener. I trade the staple for a thank you, and seal the deal with a Band-Aid. Hours after, I ask him how he feels. With assurances he’s well, I divulge I’m a veterinarian. He thinks it hilarious to have been saved by a dog doctor.

Crowds in the Moscow metro

At the train this morning, our Russian adoption coordinator Love gave me small flags as gifts for the hosts. Our group numbers 25, making metro travel harrowing at rush hour. I’m forever counting, though I never get that high before the train roars away. Once, early this trip, we disembark so slowly that we cause the separation of a mother and her young daughter. As the door slams shut, stranding the girl, the mother frantically motions the child to get off at the next stop. While I am relieved it isn’t one of our kids, as a mother I feel a vicarious frenzy, mingled with shame, since our disorganization birthed this trouble. Here I vow to co-opt one of Love’s flags myself, and to hold it aloft in the metro as I lead.



Smiling, before strangers started staring

I always seek to blend in, and heretofore enjoyed a measure of anonymity in Moscow in my black coat, even without the dyed hair or spike-heeled boots Muscovite women favor. Now, hoisting the red and gold standard, I explode from my camouflage. Descending the steep escalators into the metro, the wind tunnel effect whips the flag violently. I feign self-possession, but the flapping draws scads of eyes traveling on the ascending escalator. “People are staring at you, Becky!” someone laughs, in case I haven’t noticed. In their heavy Russian coats, I can’t imagine anyone is naked, so I solace myself knowing they have no idea where the flag is from. Amidst the monochromatic masses swarming the subway, the flag does make shepherding the group simpler. After several hosts hail the flag as a lifesaver, I grimly realize it has a future every trip.

Friday, entering Red Square by Resurrection Gate, SpongeBob, a diapered monkey, and a Stalin lookalike loiter. A Lenin impersonator stands with them, leaning on the pole of an old USSR flag. When he spots me, he raises his flag, waving with gusto, and blows a few kisses. I don’t relish the attention, but answer his volley anyway with a half-hearted wave and one kiss blown back. Numerous wedding parties stroll through the square, after the brides have laid red carnations at the nearby Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Katya, our translator, is getting married next weekend, though she won’t be home until Monday. We’re astonished she’s traveled with us, so close to the nuptials, but she shrugs it off, saying she’s ready except for choosing the traditional white fox cape winter brides wear with their dresses.




Barrie and Alexandra say goodbye

Barrie’s wife Joyce can’t join us this trip, though she traveled in both June and August. Barrie wants more time with Alexandra, 14, and is missing his 40th anniversary for it, with Joyce’s blessing. She’s sent me an anniversary card, with which Alexandra surprises him on the appointed day. Someone gives her a confetti popper, and she releases it to augment the celebration. Barrie is giddy at the prospect of Alexandra joining his family, and shares his anticipation with everyone. While he never shopped much for their other children, Joyce tells me he is driving the expeditions now. When she laughed once he should have been half this excited years ago when she was pregnant, he retorted, “I was half as excited!”

The kids’ last day, Igor wants to sing for us. Valiantly trying to assemble the entire group in the common area for his performance, he counts repeatedly, never reaching 25 as kids keep coming and going. Finally he gives up and settles for having all the adults. He chooses the Russian National Anthem, and with a powerful voice, occasionally cracking, regales us with a passionate rendition. It’s clear he loves singing, and his country.

After the kids are safely returned to the train, headed to their orphanages, the hosts and I share a Moscow farewell dinner in the basement of a new MuMu. We want to enjoy ourselves, but the kids’ departure is too raw. On the way back, we stop at Eliseevsky’s, my all-time favorite store, for chocolate mousse, my all-time favorite food; I unwind with this reward at the end of every trip. It’s nearing midnight when we get to the hotel, but we’re aching for the kids, so David debuts a 2400-photo slideshow he’s compiled of our time together. My host families, friends with whom I’ve shared deep camaraderie these past few days, gather in my room to watch. Only a few photos in, we’re laughing, crying, and reliving our week. It’s so good, and so cathartic to end this way, I almost forget my mousse. As the last photo fades, all concur this was the perfect finale for our time together. I am energized, and yearn to watch it again, now.

Good Lord willing, I’ll be back. There will be new families, winsome kids, more mousse, and my red and gold flag flapping in the metro breeze.

I can’t wait.


Our November kids



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The Real Thing

I am a junkie, though my addiction is socially acceptable. I can drink like a fish, but never compromise lucidity or morality, and I never need a designated driver.

My greatest weakness is 12 fluid ounces, canned in crimson, heavenly just north of icy, and, with “Dynamic Ribbon Device,” has the best logo appellation of any product I know.

I love Coca-Cola. Rather, I LOVE Coca-Cola.

Very little soda was imbibed during my childhood, but the few one-liter glass bottles we did drink are recalled with genuine fondness. Away at college, external restraint was nonexistent; indeed, I owe my degree largely to Coke’s caffeine, which rendered me quasi-alert through scores of veterinary school all-nighters. After graduation my habit lived on; any thoughts of consequences of such liberal consumption were fleeting.

In 1999, I met my dear friend Donna. I encouraged her, successfully, to adopt Russian twins; she encouraged me, unsuccessfully, to adopt healthier beverage choices. Occasionally, she would e-mail me links to articles extolling the benefits of a Coke-free life. I appreciated her concern, but continued heeding signs proclaiming, “Enjoy Coca-Cola.” Once, she sent a study claiming researchers had found that women who drank even one soda a day were 83% more likely to develop type-2 diabetes than those who drank soda less than once per month. With my aunt a diabetic and a resultant kidney transplant recipient, Donna stoked my fears, though the effect had a fruit fly’s longevity.

My mom harped, too, and offered me a reward to go a month without Coke, betting I’d break my addiction. I selected February, and after collecting my prize, chilled a Coke in celebration.

Coke was my first thought in any crisis. In Moscow last August, suffering the extreme heat wave and acrid smoke, I woke up several mornings feeling smothered by the mask I’d slept in. In a desperate message to Hope, the Lighthouse Project director, I fretted about the smell, my smoke-induced panic attacks, and how Coke proved more helpful than the masks. Hope had before joined the cacophony of voices cautioning temperance, but now she instructed me to buy a case and to down a can whenever I was ready to “freak out.” I followed her orders religiously, and muddled through the week with Coke in hand, an omnipresent pick-me-up.

In GUM Mall in November, the kids, soon to go home to the orphanages, licked ice cream cones. As David videotaped, an especially divine sip of Coke reminded me of my favorite Coke commercial, which incited my singing it (video below). During my rendition, a Gucci clerk listened at the entrance to his store. Afterward, he approached me, and with outstretched hand introduced himself, over-flattering me with thanks for the “music.” Professing his love for America, he was surprised I enjoyed Moscow sufficiently to visit eight times. He wondered what drew me here, though since Russians are divided on the propriety of international adoption, I remained noncommittal. Returning to his door, he invited me to sing at GUM again soon.

Back in the States, assorted stressors kept me quaffing Coke. When December mornings started with Coke as breakfast, and my immediate instinct upon receipt of troubling news was to head for the refrigerator, I realized I could change volitionally, or have health foist it on me. Past experience proved if I stopped drinking Coke during the middle of the year, I would, on a whim, give up with a hollow promise to restart tomorrow; hence, my success was twinned with beginning January 1. My sister, anxious to provide incentive, pledged money for each consecutive Coke-less day in 2011, with the money to finance an adoption fund to assist the Lighthouse child of my choice. This was dirty pool, as it demanded my success, no matter how difficult.

I've seen these children, whom I could help, staring at us by the orphanage door as we left with our children, off to our own lives. Zulya and Lora still linger, as their family sells cats and oranges in an effort to get them home. Discovered too late, 15-year-old Svetlana signed documents allowing her brothers to be adopted while she remained behind, on the promise the family would return for her, once they could find the money. Others, like cheery Vasily or HIV-positive Artem, don’t even have families wanting them yet. Failure for the sake of an addiction would be unconscionable; children not yet picked from our trips need my strident efforts. Even my own little brood joined in, each making a pledge for every day of “sobriety,” hoping to encourage me and the orphans.

December 31 was a five-Coke day. As I opened the can I knew would be my last, I consciously savored the crack of the tab, the refreshing mist-in-the-face it generated, and the first sip’s assault of carbonation. Coke connoisseurs understand not all vintages taste equally good; this wasn’t a top-flight serving, but finishing at 11:58 p.m., my nostalgia was disproportionate to the quality. Tuning in to the Times Square ball drop with less enthusiasm than most years, I felt immediate panic when “2011” lit up.

The first days were filled with headaches, as several stressful moments shoved me perilously close to snagging one of the two Cokes I spirited away in my refrigerator for comfort, but I never succumbed. Finally last night, I was strong enough to tap my foot along with a Coca-Cola commercial parroting my GUM tune. For the first time, I was not craving Coke as I watched.

I could still enjoy Coca-Cola, I’ll admit, but I feel a burgeoning sense of power. I could take one from my refrigerator. Now, I don’t have to. This time, it’s the real thing.

*****

I have 28 days Coke-free days down, with 337 to go in 2011, and after that, hopefully, a lifetime of extreme moderation. If you would like to help me kick my habit, and help a deserving Lighthouse child in the process, please contact me at becky@lhproject.com to make your per diem pledge. Flat donations can also be made; checks should be written to “Beyond the Cross Adoption Fund” and mailed to First Assembly of God, 1608 N. Oak Street, Rolla, MO 65401. Please write “Coca-Cola” in the memo line.  All donations are tax deductible, and will be used to support the adoption of Russian children.

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Alarming

I burn the midnight oil Wednesday. Testing my new alarm clock before slipping off to sleep, I find it in working order. When I awaken to the ping of rain on the metal roof outside my window, it’s still dark. I love rain and lay reveling in the stormy symphony, surprised my alarm hasn’t sounded yet. Tired, I plan to rest a few more minutes before checking the time.

I am not done thinking these thoughts when a sharp knock jolts me from recumbency. Cracking the door, I am horrified to see Roberta. “It’s 5:40!” she says. Throwing on clothes and brushing my teeth doesn’t take long, but as I run into the common area, everyone is waiting. Departing ten minutes late, the downpour accentuates our urgency. When we’re almost to the main street, I realize I don’t have my phone. So flustered that I fling fear of the dark aside, I sprint back to the hotel alone. Glancing round my room, I remember I’d readied everything last night, and had the phone in my bag with me. I can’t bother with my umbrella as I tear back to the group; I’ve sloshed through ankle-deep puddles and already look dreadful. As the only one who knows where we’re going, I have to reach the group before they reach the metro. Gasping, legs shaky from oxygen debt, I catch up, beneficiary of their fortuitous delay at a crosswalk whose leisurely cycles I curse at every other encounter.

We rush into our metro stop in time to watch the train pull away. Metro trains typically arrive every 90 seconds, but this early, it’s a stress-compounding five minutes. When another finally screams to a halt, it’s empty and I collapse, frazzled, in a seat, thankful we have no line changes. The kids’ train is due at 6:37 a.m. When we emerge from the metro into the railway station, it’s 6:34 a.m. I can scarcely believe we made it. All other trips, I pass the wait with tortured pacing, praying the families deem the kids worthy of their efforts to traverse the globe. Now though, relief is a lonely emotion; I’m quite void of the energy worry and pacing extract.

While David is telling my video camera that he’s anxious and nervous, the train lumbers in. Before we get to the back, where the kids traveled, they’re standing outside the car watching for us, with Katya, age twenty, our translator. Katya’s mom, Irina, translated our last two trips, but as our first-call court translator, her services are required for a family adopting two children today. Before the trip, Irina shared with me Katya’s apprehension. As we meet, I encourage her, expecting she’ll do a great job. “Thank you,” she beams, “that’s very pleasant!”

Rudimentary introductions over, kids, chaperone, and two hosts board a minibus to the hotel. The rest of us take a less hectic return trip via the metro. When we get back, the hosts are serving the kids Count Chocula and Frankenberry cereal I brought from home.

After breakfast, we commandeer the common area as games spill out and hosts begin to interact with the kids. The hotel owner stops by, congenial, but shocked we have so many children this time. When the rain relents, we visit a playground behind the hotel. Sheri distributes Pixy Stix; when one child shows us his blue tongue, the others crowd around to display theirs, too. Nine-year-old Andrea is here hosting with her parents. Metal equipment like that long ago banished from U.S. playgrounds outfits this park, planted in hard-packed earth. While the playground is likely far more austere than anywhere the Arkansas girl has played previously, she is having the time of her life with the kids. “This is the best playground ever!” she shouts at me, before darting off to rejoin the others.

Lunchtime takes us to the Golden Arches. Our trips feature repeated meals at the kid-pleasing chain, which the hosts good-naturedly tolerate both for its familiarity and popularity with the children. I ask the kids what they’d like to eat. Given the choice of one or two cheeseburgers, all the older kids clamor for two, seemingly amazed their preferences have clout. As they pick their drinks, prior experience warns me I’ll have to get lucky for them to remember what they ordered when I return. It never fails; the last child served feels slighted when the remaining beverage is not what they requested. Maria, six, refuses food; I order anyway. She ultimately drinks her Sprite, and eats one or two fries when goaded by an adult.

After lunch, one family, the chaperone, and the youngest kids return to the hotel, while the rest of us see the Cosmonaut Museum, joined by Dima, our driver. Once there, the kids flit between exhibits, more interested in taking photos than taking in Moscow’s best-produced museum. Witnessing this, Dima decries their indifference to the displays themselves. He tries, with modest success, to corner some kids for discussion of a few artifacts, but eventually gives up. I’d like them to glean something educational, too, but they’re enjoying themselves; with children’s tickets less than $1 apiece, fun alone is adequate recompense.

Afterward, we take a spin on Moscow-850, the 23-story Ferris wheel constructed in 1997 to honor Moscow’s 850th anniversary. The saleswoman distrusts my Russian as I ask for 15 tickets. She thrusts her finger at me and insists, “One,” with an air of finality. We go back and forth, until I trump her by saying, “Groupa!” This finally extracts the required tickets, albeit delivered with a hint of reluctance. The wheel makes a complete revolution in seven minutes, never stopping. Passengers board the moving wheel; to move slowly invites being jerked by the arm and stuffed into the car as it breezes by. The ride itself is silent and tranquil, the antithesis of the boarding procedure. Dima rides with me; he claims on a clear day like today, he can see Red Square and St. Basil’s Cathedral. I’m not knowledgeable enough to argue, but I never spot either.

After the Ferris wheel ride and disembarkation as harried as boarding, we return to the hotel. It’s a very long metro ride, and I lack the gumption to venture out to another restaurant. We end up cooking pelmini at the hotel. The kids love it, all except Maria, who eats only a slice of tomato. After dinner, several kids play Twister, Andrea among them. Though she has a family and doesn’t speak Russian, the orphans accept her as one of their own. This interaction is one of my favorite developments during the week.

While I prepare the food, Igor asks Katya to inquire of me when the rest of the families are coming. He’s counted hosts, and notes with dismay that the kids far outnumber families. I am shocked by the query, and realize too late I should have instructed Katya not to translate such questions. After my artless dodging at dinner, Igor asks later in the evening if anyone is coming to meet him. There are two other kids with him who aren’t likely to get families this time, and Sheri has travelled over 7000 miles to tell him herself that she wants him. Giving a lame, noncommittal answer, I slink off to my room before he can ask anything else.

I have work in spades anyway. During my end-of-day accounting, I discover with sinking heart that, after the ticket seller’s runaround earlier, I left the Ferris wheel bereft of 1250 rubles change. At bedtime, I check my alarm again, and find it was properly set today. I obviously turned it off unaware this morning, in an overtired stupor. I banish it from the nightstand and set it far from the bed; henceforth I’ll have to rise to quiet it.

If all goes well, I’ll pick Melinda up at the train station at 6:37 a.m. tomorrow after her trip to our region to meet Evgenia. I’ll be ready at 5:45 a.m.

On the button.

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