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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Before Midnight

Back to Russia: Day 1

Last trip to Russia, I fell into bed at 3:00 a.m. the morning of my departure. I vow to do better this time, and technically do when I collapse at 2:45 a.m. Hope tried, unsuccessfully, to extract a promise of sleep every night in Russia by midnight. It's hopeless since Elaine will be there, and I've not seen her since she left Russia in October, though we've talked almost daily. Since our meeting last January, she has sprinted to top minute-user status on her cell phone plan. I tell her the timing is mere coincidence, but she is dubious. She won't be racking up minutes for a few days, though, since we're sharing a room in the hotel. While I expect a festive time together, I can't write until she falls asleep mid-conversation, rendering a midnight bedtime wishful.

Elaine will host fourteen-year-old Nadia, whom we stumbled across in an orphanage visit last October. A demurely smiling wallflower wearing a wooden icthus pendant around her neck, the girl was not on our list of children to visit. Eyeing the necklace on the wistful girl, Elaine asked repeatedly, with a mounting urgency, to meet her. Finally pulling her aside, Faith learned that one day earlier, Nadia had penned a plea to her biological mother, a prisoner,entreating her for a release permitting adoption so she could "have a life." A hardworking student, Nadia harbored aspirations of becoming a veterinarian. My degree in that field took six years to earn, so I wielded a grim certainty she would not achieve this goal without a supportive family. Talking several minutes, her thoughtful musings, gentle smile, and passionate ache for a chance left me über-impressed, and I gratefully conceded Elaine was right to insist. Back in the States, Hope told me obtaining such a release from the biological mother would be a longshot, but after several weeks a persuasive orphanage worker wrested the signed document from her, allowing Nadia to travel with us in January.

Morning comes. Randy mercilessly drags me from bed shortly after I lay down. Grousing about mornings and the frigid tile floor, I rise and ready. We stop at the library en route for two Russian travel books I've borrowed enough to deshelve as I whisk by. I depart Detroit, not Grand Rapids, so the ride affords me cramming time on the Pimsleur Russian CDs Hope lent me. My travel books claim Russians will be delighted by attempts at their language; at the end of the three-hour drive, I am prepared to order two beers and decline an unwanted date from a very persistent suitor. As a happily-married teetotaler, I question their utility, but should I need them, my Russian listeners will swoon.

My flight is practically empty, and I silently rejoice when the cabin door is secured and the seat next to me is still vacant. While I avoid unwanted conversation, the extra space and quiet garners me no slumber on the intercontinental flight. My sleepless night belies my exhaustion, and I half-heartedly fret I'll let Hope down. Faith told her I fell asleep at the circus during the tigers' act last trip, and during the midnight bedtime speech, I hear Hope wants me awake this go-round.

I have a seven-hour layover in Frankfurt, where I find piles of snow. I shiver, seeing a harbinger of weather to come in Moscow. I have resisted bringing a heavier coat for this short trip, opting to be cold rather than bulky, but I can't shake the nagging sense I will pay for my vanity. Silence is golden, especially for this writer, but awaiting my flight, I blog amidst conversation that doesn't distract, as I understand almost no German. A balding man approaches my table and wordlessly lays down a clothespin decorated with a plastic flower and ladybug. An accompanying card says he's deaf, and will accept any donation for the trinket. He repeats the procedure at each table, and when he returns, I can't say nein, knowing everyone else will. Cursing the exchange rate, I hand him a two-Euro piece, the only respectable coin in my pocket. As an outspoken proponent of light travel, claiming success only if everything packed gets used at least once, using the kitschy clothespin will challenge my creativity.

When I arrive in Moscow this evening, all but one of my host families will be in the hostel already. It's a bit of a letdown to miss seeing them meet the kids I hope they will love. I solace myself a little, knowing Elaine was there yesterday. I plan to debrief her tonight as I wait for her to fall asleep, mid-conversation.

Before midnight, of course.

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