Orphanage Visits: Let Me Sow Hope

Children outside an orphanage we work at

There are two questions every single Lighthouse Project adoptive family asks me before traveling to Russia: When will we get our child, and will we be allowed to see the orphanage? Almost as primal as the ache to hold their new son or daughter in their arms is the desire to understand where that child has come from.



Next to meeting my own two kids, the highlight of my first-ever trip to Russia was visiting the orphanage where they lived. Words, even photos, are powerless to convey the frigid hopelessness that pervaded that warehouse of children's souls. Seeing the kids swarm around our car when we arrived, the rows of toddler beds filled with tiny figures sleeping as a caretaker stood watch, my daughter's tear-stained face as she sat at her desk in the orphanage school, and the kids who watched out a cafeteria window as we departed were haunting. The need there defied description, so seeing it personally was life-changing, and intensely motivational.

My son-to-be dejectedly shows us his bed
in the orphanage right before we left him at
the end of our first trip to Russia.

Since our group trips to Russia began nearly three years ago, I've prayed we could use orphanage visits to show our American travelers where our kids are from, and the bleakness of their existence. I dreamed of the joy every participant would experience as they brightened those sad lives with humanitarian aid like bikes, books, and toys. I knew our visiting families could make a difference, and that they'd want to, if only they could see what I'd seen.

Kids standing at attention in an orphanage

Finally, we have that precious opportunity. This July 9-16, in addition to spending time visiting with and comforting adoptable children as in all trips past, we'll take some time to tour the orphanages they've come from, and to leave behind a little cheer. My heart leaps as I imagine what we can do together, and how even a little of our abundance and blessing could transform the lives of orphans.

        Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
        Where there is hatred, let me sow love.
        Where there is injury, pardon.
        Where there is doubt, faith.
        Where there is despair, hope.
        Where there is darkness, light.
        Where there is sadness, joy.

        O Divine Master,
        grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;
        to be understood, as to understand;
        to be loved, as to love.
        For it is in giving that we receive,
        It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
        and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

        Amen.

        (Attributed to St. Francis of Assisi)

You shouldn't miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience; there's still time to sign up! For more information, call me at (616) 245-3216. I'd be tickled to hear from you, and thrilled to have you join the rest of the group and me!

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Joy

Sunday morning we lose an hour to Daylight Saving Time. Attending church in a building with a magnificent Kremlin view, I’m humiliated by a farewell presentation that stretches 30 minutes and a moralistic lecture delivered by a man who screams much of his message. One in our band manages to nod off during this ear-splitting homily that leaves me with tinnitus long after the speaker has fallen silent.

Walking back, one girl vomits, another feels feverish, and a boy complains of headache, so some retreat to the hotel to recuperate, while others of us wander Arbat, Moscow’s pedestrian-only street. We lunch at MuMu, an inexpensive cafeteria-style eatery, serving Russian food on dishes patterned after Holstein cow spots. The food is delicious, the stone and timber décor atmospheric, the music sprightly, and the dining area jammed with Muscovites. It’s a hit with our Lighthouse families; every subsequent suggestion of the restaurant is met with a chorus of ayes. MuMu is the place I wish would branch out to Grand Rapids.

In the evening, we visit the eponymously-named Nikulin Circus. A bronze statue of the renowned actor and clown Yuri Nikulin stands outside the pavilion; Faith claims that by rubbing his nose, we’ll become the funniest people in the world. Doug, a host dad, rubs it vigorously, then subjects us to jokes just as corny as before. Inside the arena, fluted columns support the ceiling, obstructing our view while lending the venue an air of sophistication. Though attendance hardly justifies it, every show we’ve been to on our trips has included live orchestra; Russians take their performing arts seriously. As a lover of Equidae, I’m charmed by a humble donkey, plodding heedless of the urging of his driver. As warranted, the performers stay clothed, though a clown in an ankle-length fur coat loses part of his outerwear as he parades around the ring. When the collar springs to life by a fox’s leap to the ground, shadowed by thirty ferrets jumping from the body in unison, the coat is creatively transformed into a PETA-approved style. I leave this circus satisfied we’ve done nothing to compromise the morals of our orphans. As we exit, Faith insists on a group photo by a portrait of the beloved Nikulin, whom she extols for his clean, kind humor and love of children.

We get back late, but I talk several families into venturing out to Eliseevsky’s, my favorite Moscow store. Tracy, a blog aficionado, is anxious to shop there, knowing how I love it. While the edifice is reliably grandiose, I’m disappointed to find them out of chocolate croissants, so I splurge on a consolation box of baklava instead. Successfully navigating the metro as a group without a bonafide Russian speaker, we arrive back home just after midnight. Delving into the baklava in the sanctity of my room, I am horrified to find the bottom blackened. Burned baklava stokes my generosity, stripping me of the gluttonous desire to wolf it down myself.

As I puzzle over how to unload my baklava without throwing it away, a host family taps on my door, ending the reverie. We end up visiting until just after 4:00 a.m., discussing kids they’re considering adding to their family. Having been blessed so richly by my own children of the world, being part of the conversation with other families considering adoption is unadulterated joy.

Joy, at any hour.

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Rushin' Round

Friday morning I face the metro on my own. Faith plans to meet me outside a McDonald’s across town and worries I’ll get lost, but I’m better with directions than she thinks, and I arrive first. We’re investigating a new hotel for our program. The proprietor shares a numeric code for the front door and a deceptively jaunty “Come on in!” in his correspondence with me. Faith and I find the door easily, but it doesn’t budge as we repeatedly enter “005” as instructed. Via intercom, Faith cajoles a man at another business to let us in, but he adamantly refuses. Seeking pity, I beg in broken Russian, but he disdains even to acknowledge my plea. We are contemplating leaving when someone exits the building, allowing our admittance. The hotel rooms are cramped, malodorous, and reverberating with street noise; the website promises a kitchen, but delivers a sinkless, closet-like space seating four who don’t mind getting cozy. The outfit is wholly inappropriate; touring it, I realize for all the shortcomings of our current digs, how fortuitous our accommodations are.

Walking back, Faith confesses she’s purchased circus tickets, even though I’ve vowed not to attend again. She pacifies me, having asked the ticket vendor if the show “has nakedness”. The puzzled vendor assured her, “No nakedness, just animals.” When Faith complained the competing circus was a “strip show”, and explained we had the morals of orphans to consider, the seller nodded, agreeing solemnly. Feeling mildly dubious, I agree to give the new circus a chance.

Back at the hotel, I pace the hall, awaiting entrance of my host families from the airport. I am giddy to make acquaintance with all who share my mission, and hours on the phone and e-mail later, attaching faces to voices and names is great joy. Our band includes an extremely well-travelled couple from Washington, a single man from Colorado planning a domestic foster care adoption, Iowans called by God to add an older child to their family, a single lady and her mom from New York seeking a little boy, a couple from Florida hosting the boy who is my favorite Lighthouse child ever, and a single Michiganian home in October with a girl she’d hosted on one of my past trips.

The group arrives, predictably bleary-eyed, but after lunch, they opt to sightsee. When I’d adopted my own kids, the five ancient churches of the Kremlin bored them silly; wizened, I’d not brought a child there since. But the kids aren’t with us yet, and as responsible adult travelers it seems a perfect day to check the seat of Russian government off our sightseeing to-do list. We meet Faith in Red Square; all are dazzled by St. Basil’s Cathedral, and it takes effort to goad them from the square and into the Kremlin. The sun joins our excursion, and we see four of the churches, the State Kremlin Palace, a massive cannon, and a bigger bell. While both the cannon and bell are the world’s largest, ironically neither fulfilled their intended purpose even once.

Next morning we rise early to meet the kids. In Moscow after a twelve-hour overnight train ride, they rode in a car with about fifty bunks for sleeping. Dima drops them off earlier than expected, and a few families aren’t ready. We’re preparing breakfast and offer it to the kids, all of whom decline. As the hosts congregate in one corner of the dimly-lit room and the kids mass shyly in another, we’re two teams loathe to mingle. Though I’ve warned the families that the meeting is typically awkward, as our groups stare each other down wordlessly, I hope they’re not lamenting they’ve travelled halfway around the world for this. I know we only need add Faith to the mix and all will be well, but for now, she’s not here. When she comes and flips on the lights with a chipper “Zdrahstveetsa!”, kids who refused nourishment before suddenly become hungry, and much-needed levity is injected into the proceedings.

I abandon the group, headed for the airport with Dima to pick up an adoptive family from the first Moscow trip traveling to pick up their son, another host, and my luggage. He shows me where to claim my bags, then leaves, thinking I’ll clear customs more expeditiously without a Russian speaker in tow. His logic passes muster; x-raying my bags, the monoglot customs agent points to shadows in my suitcase. From his gesticulations, I deduce he’s asking what they are. Providentially, I’m wearing a necklace, and I point to the image on his screen and the beads around my neck. “Beads,” I instruct, wondering how many English words he’s learned this way. Satisfied, he waves me through; Dima is incredulous to see me back so quickly.

After four days in one outfit, new clothes are a breath of fresh air. When I emerge clean and relieved, Faith is in the kitchen, finishing up a lunch she’s cobbled together from things we’d bought for breakfast. While quality and quantity might be impugned, the creativity Faith possesses in spades is on display in all her meal preparations. In my absence, the kids went outside to play. They’ve been flying airplanes and walking with the families, and already all ages are mixing brilliantly. After lunch, we take in the zoo, my first foray there in five trips to Moscow. After the negative reviews I’ve heard, I find the exhibits quite passable, with the exception of a cage housing only a rotund, but deceased, rodent. In the elephant house, a baby frolics in a shallow pool, supervised by two wary adults. As we watch entranced, I wonder if our orphans begrudge the calf the care and protection his parents instinctively lavish on him.

Dinner is at a packed McDonald’s. Even with two floors, there is insufficient seating for our throng of 27. Somehow Faith extracts permission from a churlish manager to use a festive room reserved for birthdays. To ensure equity in menu between the hosted and unhosted, I order for all the kids this time. Piles of cheeseburgers, fries, Cokes, and milkshakes later, we return to our hotel feeling like engorged ticks.

On the streets, unseasonable warmth is melting snow. Inside our hotel, the morning’s icy meeting is a distant memory. The kids have settled in, thrilled to be here. Youthful charges in bed, hosts mingle in the common room. I delight in the dynamic between families considering adoption, the family finishing adoption, and the mom so happy with her new daughter that she’s hosting on six days’ notice to see about adopting again.

I love this trip.

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Positive

I field scads of adoption-related calls; most want preschool children, younger than we typically have available to travel on our trips. But ten days ago, three little treasures were added, ages five and under, all available to travel last minute on our March Moscow trip. Two of them were born of HIV-positive mothers, and had tested positive themselves. Without much hope, I called a fussy family who’d been entreating me for a young girl for months. Even with my low expectations, their response floored me in its heartlessness.

“Why in the world would you put a child like that on the trip?” the speaker on the other end of the line interrupted, demanding caustically. It wasn’t a polite or genuine question; it was accusatory, implying some children were beneath our efforts. My chiding that I believe all children deserve families was countered by a snorted retort, “Well, I never heard of it before. They’re under a death sentence anyway.” I hung up, hackles raised not because of their disinterest, but because they’d deemed a little child unworthy not just of their family, but of any family at all.

Thankfully, the voice was as wrong as it was rude. Dr. Larry Gray, of the University of Chicago’s Comer Children’s Hospital International Adoption Clinic, says HIV in America has become just a chronic condition, something he deems more manageable than diabetes. He opines HIV patients nowadays should expect to get married, bear uninfected children, grow old, and see their grandchildren.

Yuliana and Artem, both five, are promisingly characterized by a teacher as “well developed”, a rare description for orphans so subject to institutional delays. Yuliana, especially, ought to have been snatched up; young girls are, by far, the most coveted children. Requests for them grossly outpace those for all other kids put together. Both children are adorable, but HIV-positive; even with a reduction in adoption fees, no family intends to visit them.

Project Hopeful (http://www.projecthopeful.org/), a volunteer organization run by parents who have adopted children infected with HIV, is on a mission to find families for others like them. Traci, adoptive mother of five and awaiting the homecoming of a young girl with the virus, this afternoon filled me in about the risk of adopting HIV-positive children, and their long-term prognosis.

HIV is transmitted from mother to child during childbirth, through breastfeeding, through sexual intercourse, and through blood contact. Since the virus cannot survive air exposure, parents tending to wounds need take only the same precautions they’d take in dealing with any child’s wounds. Dr. Gray sites studies showing that even 5 cc of infected blood injected directly into a recipient’s veins still confer just a 5% chance of contracting the virus. A typical child patient, once assessed and stabilized, could expect quarterly doctor’s visits for monitoring, and would likely take medication to contain viral count. But properly monitored and medicated, infected kids have virtually no probability of developing full-blown AIDS. Disclosure of the condition is not legally required in most cases, not even to dentists, schools, or daycare providers.

Not understanding the disease, I worried about holding the kids’ hands next week, but was reassured as I found Traci’s optimism far more contagious than the virus. She has a friend with several children; while two are HIV-positive, Traci claims they are impossible to differentiate from the others. Other friends of hers, newly home with their children, blog about the adjustments; HIV is relegated to moot afterthought. Kids first, now sons and daughters, the HIV infections they hardly notice are minor details in the bigger picture of becoming a family, of giving a child with a need the home every child longs for.

I’ve puzzled at the injustice of life, how a child’s special need consigns him to an orphanage, and then conspires to keep him there. Right now, Yuliana and Artem need more Tracis, Dr. Grays, and Project Hopefuls; friends who act on their beliefs that being born with a special need can’t make you unworthy.

 ***

Yuliana and Artem need host families for the Moscow Lighthouse Project trip March 25-31.   Interested families need a valid passport in hand, and would need to apply for a visa by Saturday, March 20.  If you have even slight interest in going to Moscow to meet these children and sightsee with them, please call Becky at (616) 245-3216 as soon as possible.

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"Tell her you want a family, too!"

In the eleven trips I’ve coordinated, I’ve repeatedly observed quiet, compliant children are in grave danger of being overlooked, while obnoxious kids glide into families.   In all my trips, Denis is unique: his shyness landed him his family.  His hosts Aaron and Robyn heard about the Tulsa Russian Orphan Lighthouse Project through another hosting friend, and signed on shortly before the trip. Like 80% of hosts, they expected to serve only as a bridge between an orphan and an adoptive family, until Denis’s painful reserve stabbed Robyn in the heart. One morning, eyes brimming with tears, she confided she had a quiet child already who, dropped into a similar situation, would never shine and find a family on such a trip. That epiphany, time, and prayer proved the prompts her family needed to pursue adoption of Denis.

Joining Denis on that trip was his best friend, Dmitry. During Dmitry’s visit, he craved hugs, loved laughing, amazed his hosts Lee and Stacey with his artistic prowess, and declared his wish for a car and garage some day. Though initially afraid of the family dachshund, her name was the first he learned, and soon cries of “Louuu-see!” were followed with laughter as she sprang into his lap. Lee and Stacey raved about his attitude, organization, kindness, and enthusiasm for their activities. At the community program the Lighthouse kids present on our American trips, Lee hoped to give a testimonial on his behalf, and seemed genuinely disappointed when I declined. Dmitry, in no demand at age thirteen, returned to Russia with the prayers of his hosts, but without an adoptive family.

In December, after Aaron and Robyn appeared in a Russian court to finalize Denis’s adoption, they left him in the region, as required, and returned to Moscow. Denis, briefly back at the orphanage after spending time with his new family, called our Russian coordinator Love while waiting. Too retiring to ever have pled his own case, but acting with the urgency of one fearing to leave his best friend hopeless, Denis offered Dmitry the phone. As Love spoke with Dmitry, she heard Denis imploring in the background, "Go ahead! Tell her! Tell her you want a family, too!"

In our autumn visit, we saw desperation at Denis and Dmitry’s orphanage we witnessed nowhere else. Kids there made efforts, heartbreaking in their failure, to dress up for us; one boy, already too old for international adoption, sported a shiny polyester suit as he pled with his teacher, “Will you show me to them?” Departing without meeting everybody, kids followed us out the door, some even chasing our car as we drove off.

Waiting in this forlorn place his few last days before his family’s second coming, Denis, erstwhile orphan but now a son, disdained to save only himself. Summoning strength he’d not shown in his own search, now he’d do what he could to pass his blessings on.

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Mission: Never Accomplished

Yakov, a shriveled goatherd wrapped in an ancient camouflage coat, tended his meager flock along the road to our first orphanage, and seemed more surprised than flattered at our stop. Our driver, having given too little thought to risking our lives behind the wheel, was sufficiently obliging for several photo stops; besides the goats, we posed with the sign at the outskirts of town, and shot the hamlet church and its ten napiform domes. Thousands of miles from home, but within minutes of our target, I was stalling with the dread of a mourner en route to a funeral visitation, pregnant with purpose, but reluctant to consummate. Conversation sputtered minutes from the orphanage, in a dichotomous aura of anticipation and foreboding. While I’d been to an orphanage before, it was to pick up my own kids, not to see the need.

Outside the institution, gas pipes a foot in diameter skimmed the ground, then rose up, forming an unsightly bridge over the dirt road just beyond. Sheep freely wandered as geese rested warily in the street beside their pond, framed at its far end by a motley village. The orphanage, white and red brick, was the most auspicious building in sight, seducing me with sufficient curb appeal to briefly sweat the ethics of past depictions of orphanages as bastions of hopelessness.

Faith sprinted in, with a swelling group of kids shadowing her, and I had to hustle to avoid being lost in labyrinthine stairwells and halls. Young and old welcomed us unprompted with formal hellos as they saw us. Several paired children, each lugging a handled cardboard box holding a meat carcass, greeted us with a pleasant self-confidence that said they had no inkling how squeamish their burdens made us. I wondered if this friendliness was standard for all visitors, or if it was reserved for those from America, who might get them out.

We’d come to see Alexandra, a retiring thirteen, who’d earlier said she wanted a mom and dad from the Lighthouse Project. I’d seen the results of a hundred orphanage interviews before, but mystique surrounded their creation. Since interviews are the deciding factor in a family’s child selection prior to a trip, I always imagined discussions of why we were here, what things we would ask, and what answers would be advantageous, before we rolled.

We invaded Alexandra’s room, a spartan space she shared with one mentally impaired girl, at naptime. Underdressed in pajamas, she self-consciously tugged at them in a futile attempt to cover her knees. Faith greeted her, wordlessly turned on her camera, and started questioning. This minute action evoked a barrage of dissonant emotions: relief at the uncoached purity of the interview mingled with horror at the lack of preparation in her appeal for a life, letdown at the loss of the interview’s mystery alongside hope in sharing nascent steps toward a future, empathy for her losing battle for modesty but delight at her desire, and prayer for her success with a yearn to flee because of her discomfort. Oddly, the interview dredged up a strong and haunting reminder of the first euthanasia I witnessed as a student, prior to being numbed as a veterinarian. I’d anticipated these seemingly disparate events with dread and awe, but found them disturbingly similar, each process lacking the drama to portend the weight of the result.

The interview lobbed a few softballs as I willed Alexandra to excel. We gleaned that she likes red, roses on bushes, cats and dogs, and pictures of foxes. She does not study English, since her school has no teacher. And that was all: these few, unpretentious words encapsulated a petition I worried couldn’t be enough to induce a family to take her. Faith earned a smile when she gave Alexandra a purse, then I awkwardly offered a handful of gum and a hug. Leaving, we popped in to see a boy awaiting his Wisconsin family.

Our whirlwind visit left Elaine and me plenty to ponder on the road to our next stop. In an orphanage with one hundred children, we’d entered two rooms, each housing two children, but focused all effort on one resident. How could the others know that we also cared about them, but that their circumstances would not permit adoption? Did they wonder what heroics garnered Alexandra and the Wisconsin boy American attention? Did Faith’s childish shadows pray she might notice them, and lament our determination to visit just two rooms, with hardly a glance their direction? Did Alexandra puzzle why strangers would bounce in, ask a few questions, and go?

How deflating to realize the humble chance we’d given Alexandra was the only glimmer of hope we’d left at her orphanage. Other souls, equally needy and with futures as bleak, were relegated to barely supporting role status, remembered only for the atmosphere of generalized desperation they helped create.  In one stop, one orphanage, ten minutes at most, my optimism abandoned me.  Our mission would never be fully accomplished.

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At Any Cost

Some days I could shorten my Lighthouse Project phone time by tackling the thorny subject of adoption cost first. International adoption is pricey, and Russia shows the way. While some callers confound me with claims they cannot afford adoption as they bankroll $250,000 annually, others inspire me with adoption plans despite not earning in a year what their process will cost. I’m not unsympathetic: as mom to four children adopted overseas, I still write a check monthly for my adoption loan, though my kids have been home four years.

One friend, mom of three plucked from my trips, believes adoption of older children is very affordable, for all the years before their arrival that she spent nothing on them. Another friend, mom of three Chinese daughters, sells cars, and grits her teeth when her customers lament their inability to afford adoption as they sign for their new wheels.

It’s a matter of priorities.

Struggling with adoption fees hardly makes a family unique; through my eleven Lighthouse trips, four fingers count those who had money in reserve. Eking out existence on a Michigan realtor’s income, I live the difficulties, but grieve at the masses who, hearing a still, small voice, extinguish it, clutching their money when children wait alone, when siblings are separated, and when girls age out and are forced to prostitute themselves. I weary of cost objections as excuses for those who should adopt, but won’t.

Our program works in two regions of Russia, one expensive, the other more. The majority of our work is within our less expensive region; the more expensive region generally requires a third trip and an extra week in-country. Though I have been promoting kids from this region on my last four trips, I have failed to find hosts for any of them. While compiling my list at the outset of each trip, I dutifully include these children, worrying it is hopeless, but believing they deserve a shot. After weeks of failure, when I cull the kids sans families at the end, experience never eases my regret.

I’ve erased eleven-year-old Alena’s name four times.

Seeing her photo once, I asked Randy, “Is this girl cute or funny looking?”

“She’s cute,” he answered, adding, “She looks like you.”

I was unconvinced this was a compliment until I saw her interview. Out of hundreds, Alena’s shines as the second most charming, ever. Calling herself optimistic, her demeanor rendered the comment superfluous, as the longer her translator spoke English, the more smiley Alena became. Playfully confessing laziness when she doesn’t do her homework, she hopes to improve in school, and aspires to college and teaching kindergarten. She loves playing with young children, and dreams of a family with horses; she adores them, though she’s never seen one.

Darling Dmitry, 7, likes green because of the grass. Gone fishing, he was afraid of pike that “bite hands off.” He labels himself brave, while owning his fear of snakes. He likes picking mushrooms and berries, playing with cars and trucks, and having fun. Outdoors, he skis, plays soccer, and skates. When the little soul said he cooks soup, macaroni, pelmini, and fried potatoes, I wondered why he needed to.

Vladimir, 8, Zoya, 7, and Anastasia, 6, are more challenging as a sibling trio. The girls had a difficult start in life; Zoya is more delayed than a typical orphan, though she’d like to be a doctor. Anastasia is curious, wants to read, and hopes to teach. Vladimir likes building snowmen and throwing snowballs. While his mother never visits, he remembered his father washing the floor.

Situations these precious children couldn’t control landed them in orphanages; stumbling blocks dropped in their paths by their country could keep them there. After countless rejections, my promotion of them has become one of apologetic resignation, fretting my efforts will be unrequited, amidst titanic obstacles.

I falter so easily, forgetting God Himself cares for the orphans and hears their cries. All my money is His, and I know firsthand He is in the business of adoption, since He adopted me. When confronted with a caller who fights the high cost of adoption, it’s a reminder of how thankful I should be Jesus didn’t grouse about the higher cost of my adoption, then turn His back and walk away.

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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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In the Russian Cold

Back in Russia, Day 2

I arrive in Moscow an hour late, worrying Dima, our driver. At the hotel the families and kids already sleep, exhausted from their respective journeys. Elaine and Faith calm my neuroses, telling me how well things have gone. After Faith leaves for her flat, Elaine and I talk late into the night.

I match host family faces to telephone voices the next morning. Faith reads to the kids from a book about Russia’s history. With the kids occupied, the families prepare the gifts they brought. After Faith’s history lesson, clothes, toys, school supplies, and treats are handed out one giddy child at a time. Several spirit their treasures away to the dorm room; when I check on them later, a proud show-and-tell is unfolding. Diminutive Anastasia, at five the youngest child on the trip, receives her gifts last. A suitcase overflows for her, and when she sees it, she bursts into overwhelmed tears. We try again, with just one tiny item. She cries more, pushing it away. Time alone with the chaperone helps her handle the emotions that accompany receipt of such a stash, and the next time I see her, she is wearing new clothes. Alexander and Yulya agreeably take a rain check, since luggage holding their gifts was lost in transit.

Setting out, we meet a camera crew conducting “man on the street” interviews at a government building. Predictably, they interview Faith, who has honed her skills in flamboyance, quick wit, and spontaneity to an art. At the metro, she cajoles a stone-faced turnstile attendant to let three of our kids through without paying, as she doesn‘t have enough rides on her ticket. “Little, little!” she insists, gesturing toward the children, some of whom are noticeably big. For once, Faith is told no, and she trudges off to buy more tickets.

I spent much of the last trip worrying a child would be lost in the metro amongst stampeding Muscovites. This trip, I make cards with contact information, and hang them from a length of yarn. As Faith instructs the kids to wear the cards as necklaces, I am shocked even the older ones do so without argument. Each adult is given a metro map with instructions in case separated from the group, and assigned a child “metro buddy” who is to be their sole responsibility while in the subterranean system. “If your metro buddy is lost, make sure you are lost, too,” I chide.

Emerging from the metro’s bowels outside Red Square, our exuberant Nikolai, (Ray of Light, 12/16/09) lectures us on the history of the area, giving us a verbosely enthusiastic interpretation of the lesson he’d had earlier in the day. I wish his host family was here to witness this, but they’re still in New York right now.

Guidebooks concur the Resurrection Gate is the most majestic entrance to Red Square, and grants the most glorious initial glimpse of St. Basil's Cathedral. The gate itself is spectacular, though not original; it was rebuilt in 1995 after its 1930s demolition by a Stalin bent on easing access to the area with Soviet tanks and armies on Communist holidays. Today, our sightlines are obstructed by a makeshift outdoor skating rink, and for once we should have entered elsewhere. Just St. Basil's domes are visible, though I derive a modicum of comfort as gasps ascend even from this truncated view.

More kids alternate explaining the square’s history. Faith translates a story a child relates about Ivan the Terrible, the ruler who commissioned Russia‘s most iconic church. Toward the end of his life, a paranoid Ivan famously murdered his only son, so consequently had “no hair,” she solemnly tells us. I strain to be polite, but turn away when my smirk morphs into laughter. Faith learned English as an adult when she moved to America, and I respect the hard work that allowed her to master our oft-tricky language, even as I chuckle at her unintentional humor.

With our feet and noses numb, we invade GUM Mall, adjacent to St. Basil’s, to thaw and window shop. The mall is still dressed in holiday finery; Russians celebrate Orthodox Christmas January 7. The kids crave borscht, so we eat at a third-floor cafe. Russia isn’t known for efficiency, and our appearance in the restaurant exacerbates this. We are twenty-one in number, and most adults are unfamiliar with the language, food, culture, and money. Faith flits about from the head of the line assisting payers, and the tail of the line assisting in ordering. By the time we’re finished, a lengthy queue stands in our wake. Inconveniences are intrinsic to Russian existence, and those behind us seem to take the delay we’ve caused in stride. We dine under streamers made from the flags of the nations, though we never spot Russia’s white, blue, and red.

We are attending a performance of the Russian fairy tale Czarina Frog at the Natalya Sats Musical Theater, birthplace of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. We arrive to the welcome of costumed characters on balconies at the entrance just as the show is about to begin. With 200 audience members, our $5 tickets could never pay for the live orchestra, elaborate set and costumes, and cavernous castle-themed building; the government and private donors subsidize the theater. Russians love the arts, and cultivate this appreciation even in childhood. Entering the theater hall, it is plain our children are underdressed. The children with parents wear dresses or fancy outfits; our orphans in their mismatched, oversized get-ups stand out. One man, well-dressed tot in tow, sees our children and wrinkles his nose. Throughout the dazzling performance, I fight the need for rest heroically. At the end, Faith and the kids congregate in the foyer, dancing around the Christmas tree, in Russian tradition. Later, Faith finds a piano and leads the children in renditions of several folk songs. When the Lighthouse Project visits the United States, the children sing for the public in an evening program; I cherish this moment tonight, and see in it our own, private program.

Leaving this morning, I clipped my German clothespin on my bag, thinking I'd make its appearance at various Moscow sites a blog theme. The idea, charged with promise, fizzles when the flower drops off the clothespin at the first metro stop and the clothespin falls off the bag somewhere between another metro stop and the theater. After the musical, I offer a prize to the child who finds the clothespin. Alexander, hostless, walks ahead, determined to find the pin, but we don’t retrace many steps before Faith leads us in another direction, foiling any hopes of a reunion and reward.

One of my favorite memories last trip was the trolleybus breaking down on the way home from the circus. We switched buses, leading to laughter, merriment, and singing in the back of the replacement trolley. As we charge aboard tonight, I hope this one will break down, too. My wish sees no fulfillment, though when Faith tries to pay, the driver says the ticket machine is out of order, so we all ride free. Several stoic babushkas ride along, emotionless as the kids sing with Faith.

Needing food, we cause a sensation at Yolky Polky, a Russian buffet. The host asks for a headcount; when Faith says “twenty-one,” he walks down the line disbelieving, but verifying the number, assembles the requisite tables. I disdain American buffets as quantity over quality, but experience epiphany when I find Russian buffets feature neither. As our group fills their plates, servers inefficiently refill the pans with small bits of food. The fried, chopped fish patties and white hotdogs ensure that, even at $12 a head, I don’t want my money’s worth. Evgeniy sits at the end of the table and devours seven hotdogs as part of the largest meal he’s ever consumed. No one spends any time with him, and he won’t stand out if he doesn’t get a chance to talk.

All day, the hosted kids hang from their families. Alexander doesn’t have a host, though I don’t think he knows yet. He sticks with me, and holds my hand much of the way; I wish he’d circulate through the group and let others see what a fantastic kid he is, my favorite in both November and now. He can’t know there is no way I can adopt him, so he puts his eggs in the wrong basket, snapping my photo, hunting my clothespin, holding my hand, and beaming at me when I look down at him. He tells me things, kindly, in simple Russian, and I understand a little. I rue his inopportune choice of me, but I don’t push him away toward more auspicious folks, since I fear hurting his feelings, and worry about orchestrating too much of what happens. Ultimately, people need to adopt the right child for their family, even if it leaves some of our orphans out in the Russian cold.

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Scared

Before my journey to Russia, Hope prepped me for visiting the orphanages. She cautioned me the emotionally grueling visits would exhaust, eye-to-eye with the orphans, their needs, and the realization of our impotence to aid more than a fraction of them. On what to expect from kids, she mentioned some would be desperate to meet us, and others desperate to avoid us. Warned by misguided caretakers that Americans adopt children for their body parts, these sorry souls would come shaking, convinced we were sizing them up with nefarious intent. Thankfully, our visits thrilled most kids; some went through heart-rending extents to be noticed.

Angelina, nine, goaded into the interview room, was more prominent for her reticence. Slightly rotund, her shaggy yellow sweater exacerbated the effect. Barely darkening the door, she had to be coaxed the rest of the way. Sidling by Elaine and me, her furtive glances left little doubt she perceived us as threats.

Faith’s brilliant manner with children encouraged her to open up a little, though her voice stayed thin and unsure. I raged inwardly when an insensitive worker in the room, with no personal stake in Angelina’s future, spoke incessantly and raucously into her phone. While there had been no interruptions of the more self-assured children, the loud discourse would have fazed anyone trying to put a best foot forward. Even knowing the child’s timid manner, a banal conversation still outweighed her need to excel in an interview that might save her life. I yearned to press the “mute” button on the worker, hug Angelina, and assure her we would help her, but none of these were feasible.

Between loud interjections and guffaws in the din behind her, we learned Angelina is a third grader, likes school, and loves math and Russian. Asked if she cooks, she nodded, since she brews tea. Reciting a poem about a rainy autumn, she almost proudly told us memorization comes easily. She builds houses for her dolls, adding she teaches them to keep order in their homes. Angelina shares with her best friend, and carefully guards their secrets. I doubted she’d heard the phrase “starving artist” when she admitted she’s not good at drawing, but still plans a career in art, since “it’s a very good job.” At the end, Faith asked her to smile; the strained result exposed the effort cooperating cost.

Afterward left unheralded until the waning hours of my January trip promotions, shy Angelina is easily overlooked, and lacking the confidence to ever self-promote. If the orphanage workers prioritize socializing over helping her succeed, and if I remember only the flashy, outgoing kids, it’s a cinch Angelina will linger, unloved, unnoticed, and wondering if she’s really as insignificant as everyone else acts.

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