And Also Much Cattle #shesharestruth

And the Lord said, “You pity the plant, for which you did not labor, nor did you make it grow, which came into being in a night and perished in a night. And should not I pity Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than 120,000 persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?” (emphasis mine)

Did you hear that line, too, when you finished the fourth book of Jonah?

What exactly is our Father in Heaven trying to help Jonah understand about Nineveh? There is much that could be said about Jonah’s story. Much could be said about anger, rights, justice, and mercy. Much could be pointed out about our lack of control and not liking God’s ways (even when they benefit us). Much could be said about whiners and God’s patience. Those topics are certainly worth our time. But what about that last line?

Our Lord asks us questions. He asked Jonah, “And should not I pity Nineveh…?” He asks Jonah to consider his creation, the “great city” where artisans crafted the walls and architects laid foundations. He asks Jonah to consider the people, “more than 120,000 persons,” and they should be considered because they don’t even “know their right hand from their left”! Can we feel the weight of each individual and how helpless they are? Is Jonah, are we, not yet moved to pity? But this isn’t the big finale that God ends on.

God asks Jonah to consider, too, the cattle, “much cattle”.

Though much more could be said, the book ends on “much cattle.” What does that say?

At the very least, God expresses his care for creation as a whole. Jonah cared for the tree. Our Lord considers his people. He clothes the sparrows. He enjoys the foundations of a well-crafted city. He asks us to consider it all, their repentance and all those cows! Aren’t they amazing! Aren’t we glad that Nineveh came around, at least for the sake of the innocent cattle? Since we are told that all of creation praises His name, I think we can bet that the cattle of Nineveh had gratitude for their lives that day.

Though much more profound things could be said about Jonah’s story, I simply was struck by the thought of all those cows. They were probably happy and care-free until Nineveh went into mourning and fasting. I’m willing to bet that they sensed the relief when their city didn’t burn to the ground. We have a Father in Heaven who cares for the details. How much more will our Father care for you?



Psalm 130 Reflections #shesharestruth

Waiting for morning on the outskirts of Moscow

“Be patient with me,” my husband likes to say, to which I like to reply, “I am being patient–now, hurry up!” I don’t know anyone who likes waiting, but I have met those who are patient. As a teacher, I may be patient with my students; I do even muster up some patience for my husband occasionally. However, I have almost no patience for my Lord. Psalm 130 reveals to me that I am not alone in this battle with impatience.

“Out of the depths I cry to you, O LORD! O Lord, hear my voice!” Do you notice that the psalmist is in “the depths”? This gives a picture of him having had a long journey downward. I doubt this is the first time on his journey that he is calling out for help, but now he wants the Lord to know “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!” In other words, “Hello, up there? I’m pretty low, down here? Can you hear my voice?!” He’s already been waiting a long time for mercy–desperation is setting in.

I know that feeling. I like to think that I have been patient and that I have waited on my Lord enough already! But, just like the psalmist admits his iniquity in verse 3, I, too, am faced with my impatience. Thankfully, though, “with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared.” (v. 4) Through Jesus, our Father and Lord has a means to forgive us, a means to give us His lavish mercy. And what is the psalmists response to that gift of forgiveness but an appropriate fear of Him. Who is this Father of ours that has the means and gall to forgive us? What else could we do but, with the psalmist, decide that (impatient or not) all that is left to do is to “wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope.”

What are you waiting for in the Lord? To finally overcome that thorn in your flesh? For Him to answer your cry for help? Maybe for him just to show up–Come quickly and renew this mess, O Lord! The posture of the one who hopes in the Lord is one of waiting “more than watchmen for the morning.” (v.6) Let’s wait because “with the Lord there is steadfast love”; let’s wait because “with him is plentiful redemption.” (v. 7) And, you know what? He “will redeem Israel” (which now includes us sinners and gentiles! Romans 3: 28-30) “from all [our] iniquities.”

I praise the Lord for we are waiting on someone we can trust, and let’s face it, whether we can muster up patience or not, we will still be waiting. Let’s remember who we are waiting on. He forgives us for our impatience (and all other shortcomings) and promises that He’ll be working in us to make us more like Himself. Surely He is patient and can make room in our hearts for patience as well. That is my prayer for me and for you! “O Israel, hope in the LORD!”

When You Can’t Beat ‘Em

Just over a year ago, you may have seen me roll my eyes or exclaim, “Why would anyone do that?” when told of yet another friend venturing into the cold Moscow streets for, of all things, a jog.

Outdoor exercise in below freezing temperatures! What!? My first concern for my friends was (I didn’t just think they were crazy and weird; I worried their life was at stake, and friends are hard to come by as a foreigner!. . .)  the invisible black ice. Here, it really is invisible. It’s lurking under that 1/2 inch of freshly fallen snow or that salt-covered patch that turned out to be dirt covered instead.  You learn how to mutter “I’m okay. . . ” as your husband tries to lift you from your hard landing, but then he falls, too. We’re an unidentifiable mess of scarves, down coats, boots, and mud. My friends wanted to run on this ice. I imagined a bundle of spandex, sneakers, and head bands. They must be crazy. . .

And yet, I joined their insanity. What made me forgo all my no-exercise-please convictions? It was the Moscow winter. You know the kind. Moscow winters are like a homeless dog. Sure, its got fleas, but it’s kinda cute. It follows you around. While one eye looks at you and pouts, the other shoots around like a googly. I mean, what am I saying? The Moscow winter, it’s like a dead dog. No, it’s more like a zombie dog. The dead kind that never die. Like I was saying, if follows you around, eating all your chocolate and doing its business in your soul’s corner.  Spend two seasons with this pup and you just might be desperate to take it to the pound, too. You won’t even care if they put it down, not that they could, because it’s a zombie. So, I started jogging. People say it can shake the dog.

A homeless dog, you know, the zombie kind

A homeless dog, you know, the zombie kind

Don’t judge this old jogging hater. I know it can feel good to never worry about athlete’s foot and stinky everything and special get-them-sweaty-outfits, and other weird things like energy gummies (or worse, energy gel packs–Please give me my ridiculous amount of calories in chocolate!)

I have officially experienced all of these things now. And I’m here to say, it’s not that bad. Except for the energy gel packs–Okay, I haven’t had one, but they look really gross. After the first three months, jogging is, well, fun. When people say, “It felt so good to go for a run today” I realized they may not have been kidding themselves. Even I have felt that way! More than once I have even wanted to go for a jog.The key here is after the first three months. Three times a week for the first three months was HORRIBLE. I wanted to die. The phlegm build-up in my throat was enough to make the dog think I was one of his kind. For the first few runs, I coughed and gasped and choked on the phlegm. I tripped. A lot. I cried. A lot. #whyrunningisactuallykillingyourselfslowly

Then, one day, it was a beautiful day in April, I realized I wasn’t choking on my own body’s excretions. In fact, it wasn’t hard to keep moving or breathe. It was kind of nice to be outside and go wherever I wanted to go. The sun beat on my face, cut grass sweetened the air. I ran for something like an hour that day and it was INCREDIBLE. I think I now know what endorphins are. WOW.

Summer running came and went. Fall was delicious. And then the icy winter was back. I tell you what, it feels good to dodge all that bad black ice–It’s really not so hard. It’s kind of like growing up learning how to drive in the snow: you figure it out and then have a good laugh at Florida when they cancel school for a dusting. I’ve joined the insanity. Next up for jogging: dodging the dog poop under all that melting snow. What? That doesn’t sound like fun to you?


Where We Are

Christ the Savior Cathedral in Moscow

Christ the Savior Cathedral in Moscow

Do I dare bring up the time that guy was in the women’s bathroom stall at McDonald’s? Or when that man, so quickly, died in the Metro and she saw him lying there? Or when our chests hurt all day because we were truly convinced that Spring would never come (who imagined we could ever believe that?) Or how about those awful medical check-ups when I didn’t understand what they were asking, so they pulled my pants down for me?

Do I dare mention the things that are hard about living here? You see, I don’t want any misunderstanding. We don’t plan on leaving any time soon, and I don’t want to, either. There is beauty here that enables us to stay. But the beauty is not fully in the gorgeous spring tulips that say, “I told you Spring would come!” The beauty isn’t completely in the white, frozen grace that falls in winter days and makes the mud and dark bearable for 6 months. And beauty, completely satisfying beauty, is not fully in each strike of sun that stays for a  merciful 19-hour day in summer. It’s not even fulfilled in the faces of our amazing students, the ones we can’t imagine saying goodbye to, the ones that we are here to love.

What is wonderful enough to keep us here? What is so true that we have the grace to be grateful, most days? Let’s not kid ourselves. Moscow has harsh edges, but I don’t think any other earthly place is more forgiving. Why do we dare to keep living in any place? People are inconsiderate everywhere. A hard thing in one place is a different hard thing in another. In Moscow, they commit suicide by jumping in front of Metro cars; in New York, I hear it’s jumping off the bridge. In Moscow, there’re drunks; In Philly, there’re shootings. In one place, it’s something we’re used to; in another place, it’s something we don’t understand. Bad is bad.  And all the good, the almost beautiful enough things, don’t quite make-up for the hard, the cold, the dark , the black, the empty. So what is keeping us here? Wherever you are, why? Why not try to escape and move, move, move away, again and again and again to some place peaceful that must exist, to a place worthy of the title home?

A depiction of a Russian winter hanging in Tretyakov Gallery

A depiction of a Russian winter hanging in Tretyakov Gallery

I’m here, and I’ll stay here in Moscow, in 2014, because I was chosen. It wasn’t my choice to be born. I didn’t choose my family. My friends? Well, the best of them was a stumbling-into. Where I grew up, even where I went to college: I didn’t choose to receive that pretty colored brochure and know, instantly, that that was the one place I would go, if I could even get in. Maybe you choose each part of your life? Maybe. But each chapter of mine has washed over me with or without my “Yes!” or “No!”: family, dating, learning, marriage, Moscow, teaching. There was never a plan, not by me. I was chosen to be here, with these students, in this weather,  with these companions. Most days, that gives me peace. There is a plan, one that I’m discovering and He is laying out, one that He says will work out for good. Though I don’t know each part of this journey, I do know the end of the story: what’s missing will return, what’s broken will be mended, what’s heartache will be healed, home will be here.

In the meantime, we return and mend and heal what little we can, knowing we’re chosen to join in the resistance of evil. I’m not saying that I am good at being wherever I am. Actually, I’m really bad at it. But, my job is to read and commune and remember the truth and to say “yes” whenever I can utter a word. If I can’t make a sound, I just lay there in silence and let the Spirit say if for me–She’s good at that.

Father, help us as we remember:

In hope he believed against hope, that he should become the father of many nations, as he had been told, “So shall your offspring be.” He did not weaken in faith when he considered his own body, which was as good as dead (since he was about a hundred years old), or when he considered the barrenness of Sarah’s womb. No unbelief made him waver concerning the promise of God, but he grew strong in his faith as he gave glory to God, fully convinced that God was able to do what he had promised. That is why his faith was “counted to him as righteousness.” But the words “it was counted to him” were not written for his sake alone, but for ours also. It will be counted to us who believe in him who raised from the dead Jesus our Lord, who was delivered up for our trespasses and raised for our justification.

-Romans 4:18-25
Christ depicted in an icon, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

Christ depicted in an icon, Tretyakov Gallery, Moscow

Movie and a Dinner

Our favorite night out: dinner and a movie. Add to it a friendly couple, and you’ve got a classic double date. The night was lovely, dark, and -15 degrees Celsius. Thankfully, the bulk of the trip was underground. We met our friends in the Metro, running to get into their car before the doors slammed shut. As always, in my panic, I chose the door too early and got stuck in a car by myself until we got to the next stop.

Cold evening streets in Moscow

Cold evening streets in Moscow

It’s not too long before we’re above ground again and we, four figures, tromped like decked-out marshmallows; hats, hoods, and scarves to our noses, down the busy sidewalk until we reached our destination: 35 Millimeter, our go-to theater that sports foreign films in their original language with Russian subtitles. You know what that means! American movies are in English! This night’s showing, Inside Llewin Davis. Only the 3rd time seeing a movie in theater this year, we were all happy it was one by our favorite directors, the Coen brothers.

We entered and purchased our tickets (want a center seat? towards the back? near the front? in comfy seats? As if you’re going to a ballet, buying tickets for a movie asks you to consider your seating. Cheaper, undesirable seats or double your money for mid-center, cushioned heaven. We bought our usual: 4th row, to the right of center, just 250 rubles each, that’s less than our American standard movie ticket by, at least, $2 –living large in Moscow.)

What’s the natural next step in theater going? Not concessions. We bring our own or purchase a latte and cheese cake at the “while you wait for your movie to start” cafe. You see, you can’t enter the auditorium until 5 minutes prior to the beginning of the film. At that time, we all get into line and shuffle into the single entrance. Our seats are easy to find. They’re a little too close to the huge curved screen, as always, but we prop our heads up with our scarves and get comfortable.

The movie begins right on time, the first 15 minutes packed with dubbed-over trailers; the voice they chose for Julia Roberts is about 2 octaves too low. There is also a trailer for a french film which, of course, has to show somebody’s behind. Finally, they show us the trailer for the movie we are about to watch Inside Llewin Davis.
“What movie will we watch?” asks the Russian teen beside my husband.
“That,” replies Chris and points to the screen. It’s nice to know we’re not the only ones who find it confusing to be watching the trailer for the movie we’re about to view!

Watching a film from your own culture in a room full of people who are from a different culture is like having an inside joke with the director played out for 2 hours. You laugh when no one else laughs and you forget that no one else is in on “it.” Eventually you feel that it’s kind of rude to be laughing so much, you should probably stop, but you don’t.

As the credits roll, we shuffle back into our lines, now exiting the auditorium slowly. We tighten our boots, snap-up our down, wrap our scarves around our faces like mummies, and off we go to part 2: dinner. There’s a pretty fancy mall about 1/2 a mile from the theater, so we waddle there and find the food court. Over Burger King and KFC, we do our favorite part of the night, at least it’s mine, discussing the film. Favorite scenes, growth of the characters, that Odyssey reference, and the look in her eyes. . . it goes on and on. Until, there she is. We’re snapped back into the reality of where we are.


Hats, scarves and coats hanging out of the way as we eat.

Her big brown eyes and dirty hat–a beautiful pre-teen gypsy girl cups her hand for some money. Experience tells us she isn’t going anywhere until we give her something, anything. There is always that moment of hesitation, what’s really best? This time, we choose to smile, hoping she feels less like a beggar and more like a girl, and give her the coins we have in our pockets. Satisfied, she hurries off to another table and then, eventually, to her parents. We’re ready to go home, too, so we put our coats on for the 3rd time tonight and tighten up our boots, and wrap our scarves around our faces-a 5 minute affair. The Metro swallows us whole then spits us out a few blocks from home, where we go to bed, grateful for an evening out Moscow-American style.

Beverly Hills, Moscow

It was a beautiful, gray Moscow morning with unexpected bits of blue sky peeking out behind the smoggy clouds. It was the day we had all trained for. The half-marathon awaited our first step. Sure, it was a rough start, our over-hydrated bodies needed a place to leave their waste and the public potties were locked, but we came through it. In true urban style, we squatted in the muddy corner as early metro riders walked quickly by, not batting an eye or wondering what was happening behind that tightly standing curtain of women in jogging outfits. We did what we had to do, and then we ran.

We ran for over two hours, chewed our energy gummies, and passed Christ the Savior, countless buildings of the 7 Sisters, and St. Basil’s herself. In a grand finale we stumbled over the cobblestones of Red Square to our glorious finish line: Beverly Hills Diner. A true American diner experience was ours to be had after our sweaty run. Pancakes, diner coffee, endless Christmas pop songs sung in our own native English. But, surprise, surprise, it wasn’t meant to be.

“They’re not letting us in,” my husband said. He was sitting in the 60’s style diner chair across the table from my visiting brother and sister-in-law.

There were numerous empty tables on the first and second floor. It just didn’t add up. The sweat on my dry lips tasted salty. All I wanted was clean sweats, icy water, and that endless pancake platter that was promised on that sparkly menu. We weren’t going to give up this easy.

Batman is our witness. We did it!

Batman is our witness. We did it!

“What’s the problem?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“There are too many of us. They say they don’t have the staff for this big of a group.” Our so called group was trickling in slowly: several other runners and their families, almost all of which had small children. They entered, tired from their metro transportation, heavy strollers, and lethargic children. The manager took a quick step forward and said something urgently. He would open the third floor for us, the kid’s floor, we had to go up there if we were going to bring children into this mess. We could only be on the third floor, he made it abundantly clear.

Children always win them over, I thought, now that we’re in, it’s only a matter of time.  “They always say, ‘It’s impossible! Impossible!'” I explained to my brother, “But if you push back, they’ll let you in.”

We moved up to the third floor slowly, our sore muscles aching for a rest. The young couples carried their diaper bags and lifted their strollers and infants.  We found our seats in booths next to the iron Batman and plastic ball pit–so far our only rewards for our long run.

Waiting for pancakes

Waiting for pancakes

Several more discussions were had with the manager. No, there was not anyone higher than him that we could talk to. No, even if we were willing to wait, he didn’t have the servers enough to take our orders. No, your group is too large to serve, just keep your kids on the third floor. “Wait it out,” he seemed to say. “Just wait long enough, and you’ll get your stinking pancakes!”

I walked up and down the stairs, once to change, once to greet more finishing runners, once to inspect the servers who were far too busy to take our orders. I couldn’t help but notice the slow business. There were only three other customer tables. One on the first floor and two on the second floor. They all were eating their already served food or making-out. I was getting seriously hungry now, and desperate. Where were these busy servers who could not take our orders? I climbed back up to our third floor exile.

“Okay,” started our fluent Russian speaking buddy, “I’ll take your orders and pass them onto the manager. I think he’s coming around.”

“I don’t understand why they wouldn’t want to serve us!” exclaimed my sister-in-law, “Don’t they want our money?”

The poor visitor tried to understand. Little did she know, while flipping through the menu, we had already seen it too many times before.

And then, there came the pessimist’s expected blow. “They’re out of pancakes, you guys!”

With that, we walked away from our restaurant Siberia, leaving the too-large group a bit smaller and with more hope that they might get served.  We don’t exactly know what happened to our poor third-story friends. Some may have escaped to a second diner. Some say they ordered eggs that never came. All I know is, their children were left swimming in sweaty ball-pits, and no one got a pancake. Not one stinking pancake.


Newness. Not just new goals and hopes and dreams but new sorrows and burdens and heartbreaks, too. A new year beginning is full of endings. A year ending is like filling-in the last page of a precious, gifted journal or the last bit of wax melting away from the favorite scented candle. We know there are new journals to begin; they will be just as sweet and comforting to hold and pen into. We’ll light new candles, and their gentle flames will fill the room with ease just as well as the last.

Each year that passes, though, takes with it the older things. These things or people or memories or places that we wanted, so badly, to continue to hold. We value the old maybe more than the new: traditions, familiar faces. Each new thing is sweet inasmuch as it is what we already were longing for.

The recent advent now passed was about hope. New years and their resolutions are about hope. No matter the time of year, we are hoping. “Born Again to a Living Hope” is the title of a section of scripture found in 1 Peter 1:3-9. Born: something completely new, a starting moment. Again: implying a repeated act. Our souls are not satisfied without paradoxes, it seems.

Here, in 1 Peter, Paul shares,

“3 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, 4 to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, 5 who by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. 6 In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, 7 so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. 8 Though you have not seen him, you love him. Though you do not now see him, you believe in him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory, 9 obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.”

Every moment that brought 2014 closer was making my heart heavy. It is still heavy– I’m longing for so many new things, and I’m pondering the old and don’t want to let all of it go. New York pastor, Timothy Keller, teaches us what Peter says in this small portion 1 Peter that I quoted above. In his sermon he speaks of the hope that Paul tells us we have. It’s a hope that doesn’t ignore the horrors of our pasts, the sufferings of our present, or the trails yet to come. This hope remains no matter the circumstance and will, surely, be fulfilled.

The sermon is titled “Born into Hope” and can be listened to for free here.

Poetry is. . .

According to Robert Frost, poetry is “when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.” To Carl Sandburg, poetry is “an echo, asking a shadow how to dance.” Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about poetry “To see the Summer Sky/ Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -/ True Poems flee.”

When the 6th graders are introduced to poetry, I read them several poet’s thoughts on poetry, and then I ask them how they define poetry. Here’s what they said and some poems that they wrote soon after. Each author was asked to write about their favorite place; they each have their own color.

Author 1

“Poetry is the loving art of rhyming random words and becoming famous. Poetry is the color cherry.”


Ukrainian pizza place

I arrive at a place where an unknown pizza lays on the table,

I arrive where a new ceiling is above me.

I arrive at this pizza place,

An eating place for me.

Oh waiter of the food! The customer humbly offers his money to buy food for himself.

Author 2

“Poetry is someone’s thoughts or feelings. It’s something about someone, something, or the person’s culture, society, government, and their rights and economy.” 


This place is hot, 

Its beautiful sites

It was the place that I flew a kite, 

It’s where I was, 

it’s my homeland, 

its the south, 

it also is the state

that has most of my relatives, 

it’s Arizona.

Author 3 “Poetry is the words that make a person warm, sad, happy, and confused.”


There are three people who I love

My sister, mother and father

Home is my best place, because they are there

There are also many things I can do

I can eat food, play games, sleep, and talk

Home is my best place, because I can do those things there

Even though there are some bugs and it is not clean,

home is my best place!

Because there is my family

Author 4 “[Poetry is] Words that describe something you like or don’t like. Poetry can be beautiful or sad. It expresses feeling, like how you are feeling right now.”


My place is where I was raised, I spent all of my life

in the Caucuses where almost everything is fresh. The

language was easy but difficult sometimes. 

How I would love to see my home again. 

How i would love to see my old friends again. 

How i would love to play in the streets again. 

How I would love to see my place again. 

My place Azerbaijan! 

Author 5 “[Poetry] is boring.” 


Hello Seoul. 

My home, my friend. 

Hello Seoul.

Many food, many friend

Hello Seoul

People, buildings, cars.

Hello Seoul

every time has sound. 

Bye Seoul. 

Let’s meet 2 years later. 

I miss you. 

Author 6 “Poetry is horrible! I think poetry is boring and everything besides good. Poetry is a story usually with rhythm or rhyming. Sometimes it doesn’t rhyme, but then it sounds bad. I would say poetry is blackest black.”


A place of comfort for me is home

Where I was born in the morn

Where the sky is bright to my eye

And where I eat with delight

I can feel the floor covered in a rug after getting a hug instantly when coming home.

Author 7


I live over here in Moscow, 

But my place is far away. 

Way over in the USA, 

I would like to stay, 

There I was born, 

And lived for years. 

When i remember it, 

It makes me drop some tears. 

There I keep all my fears and smiles, 

My first laugh, secrets, and first cry. 

I think: how far is it until, 

These memories die?

it’d be so painful to forget, 

Such moments in my life. 

A Hint of What We’re Missing By RKC

It’s the small things which make our time Stateside so enjoyable: driving a car down to the store, loading up the trunk and driving home again; trips to Target to browse anything and everything; looking out the window to breath-taking views of Colorado peaks and the San Juan Islands at sunset… Most treasured, though, would be the sound of Anna squealing with joy at the sight of a grandparent coming to scoop her up for a hug – I wish we could bottle up these special moments and relive their day-to-day resplendence at any time.

We’re filled with very mixed emotions as we prepare to return to Moscow just days from now. What a delight to be here in the States with family and friends during this season of our lives. We’re so thankful for the opportunity to be here: we recognize that the opportunity to be in the US for Peter’s birth was truly a luxury that many families in our line of work are unable to pursue. Each day here has been a gift. As we prepare to say goodbye, we recollect the treasured memories we’ve made here over the past months – not wanting this time to end. Returning overseas with small children who adore their grandparents (and vice versa) is quickly becoming an emotional experience for which we feel desperately unprepared. The looming heartache feels staggering.

Sometimes emotional heartache, although overwhelming, feels spiritually healthy. It reminds us that there is something more, something missing, something coming for which it’s better to wait. I think the coming of the fullness of God’s kingdom feels a lot like this imminent separation. We’ve had a taste of life in daily fellowship with family and friends, celebrating the gifts of life, of love, of creation, of beauty, of light. But for a little while, we suffer the lack of this fullness. We live at a distance from the people we treasure with simply the hint of what we’re missing.

So we return to Russia because so few Russians know that a new Kingdom has come. They don’t know of the fullness of life in fellowship or a love worth waiting to experience. They do not even recognize the hints of the Kingdom, let alone the existence of the King who will reign for all time. “We talk of the second coming, half of the world has heard of the first” (Oswald J. Smith.) We return to Moscow for the sake of this coming Kingdom and for the faces and faces of people living outside the Kingdom but desperately wanting to come in.

Any Hope for Moscow’s Winter? Or Anything?

When it is Autumn, all my love for family and friends, close or far, kindles with the color of the leaves. It deepens, and then bursts into red, orange, and purple flame. The people who are in front of me, I hug more. Those far away, I write more or call. Then I get so homesick, even for those nearby. In contrast, the next moment, I feel amazed at the existence of such beautiful people that could possibly care one wit about me; and then I get to love them back and get to know them–it’s incredible and mushy. There are so many emotions in Autumn. Life just pours out of everything until everything suddenly has no more life to give.

After a month or two passes, my proverbial beautiful leaves curl up, dry, and catch embers to burn. It’s like the song “Time is All Around” by Regina Spektor. “Leaves become more beautiful when they’re about to die,” she warns. She was loving beautifully, in the most beautiful way, and then the love died. She grows tired of putting forth effort “I’m so tired/ Why am I suppose to love if I don’t want to?” she says, “I don’t want to/I don’t want to/ I don’t want/I don’t want.” Winter here is just like that.

It sets in quickly, and it promises to be numb–cold, a chronic gray, and numb. Not sad, not happy, not melancholy, just nothing. A bad case of the “I don’t want” anything mood becomes chronic. Every year I’ve added a new weapon to my artillery against Moscow’s winter. Last year I whipped out exercise and now enjoy an activity that I always loathed before, running. This year I added extra vitamin D and a small, bright blue lamp called “happy”: this lamb blinds me for 15 minutes a day and supposedly will stuff some emotion back into my heart. We’ll see . . .

But what will really get me, and other Moscovites, through the looming winter? What will combat the apathy, the whining, the blues? I don’t mean to be cliche, but I have to be honest, it is just a little bit of hope. And yes, it’s vitamin D, and happy lamps, and exercise, and extra hugs and smiles and buying that bouquet of flowers or coloring with as many colors as possible: it’s all those little things AND it’s the one big thing:

And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience–among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature, children of wrath, like the rest of mankind. But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ–by grace you have been saved–and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And it is not by your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast, for we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them. Ephesians 2: 1-10
The leaves will fill with bright color again: it’s simply the truth. They’ll be green and alive and then, they’ll be willing to, in a beautiful fit, die to themselves because they trust that they will be resurrected to an even brighter and broader green then was known before.
Okay, winter, here’s the deal: In faith I’m working on saying “yes” to the dying thing, by His grace, I believe the dying will be beautiful, and finally, by His great love, not by my own doing, I will choose to hope that I will be raised again from winter and everything else. I hope you can claim that, too!