Much Ado about Toothpaste

Remember the saying "Truth is stranger than fiction"? We have living proof.

Last Thursday a transportation/timing issue required that I (Diana) take the boys to school, while Lyle escorted us to the Metro and continued onto the little town of Pushkin to teach. Being 8 am, we decided to let Lydia stay home. We've been gradually increasing her independence by allowing her to cross the street alone or stay "in charge" while I run to the neighborhood grocery. We thought this would be another
opportunity to stretch her wings, and she was nervous, but excited.

"I'll just call and check in," I said upon arriving at the Metro. I'd been gone only 20 minutes. Lydia answered the phone -- in tears!

Me: Calm down, Lydia. What's the matter?
Lydia: I called America!
Me: What?
Lydia: I called emergency in America!!
Me: What?

I spent the 3-minute ride down the Metro escalator deciphering the problem. We have 2 phones and 2 lines - a green phone usually connected to a Russian line and a white phone usually connected to a Vonage (VOIP) line through the Internet that uses our old home number from Virgina. We had swapped them, and Lydia had picked up the right (green) phone, but got the wrong line.

The conversation continued.
Me: Calm down. That's OK, honey. Just hang up the phone.
Lydia: I can't. The lady won't let me.
Me: What lady?
Lydia: The emergency 9-1-1 lady.
Me: Lydia, just hang up. (I figured I'd sort this out later.)
Lydia: OK.
She hangs up; the phone rings her back.
Lydia panics: It's still ringing!!
Me: Pull the cord out of the phone.
Lydia, calmer: OK. It stopped ringing.
Me: Do you need me to come home now?
Lydia: No.
Me: Are you sure?
Lydia: Yes. I'm fine now. 

And she was.

I called back several times en route to the boys' school and back. At this point, dear reader, you must be wondering: How did Lydia call the 9-1-1 operator in America? Guess what the first three digits of the cell number were?

Yep. 9-1-1

Once the well-trained 9-1-1 operator heard a young girl's voice, she must have been all ears. I later pieced together the following interchange that was in progress when I called Lydia from the Metro.

Operator: 9-1-1 Hanover. What is your emergency?
Lydia: Oh, I'm sorry. This is a mistake. I accidentally dialed our Vonage line. Please may I go?
O: You called the Vonage line?
L: Yes, please may I go?
O: Where is your mommy? Uh oh, can you see where this is going?
L: She's taking the boys to school.
O: Why would your mom be taking the boys to school so early in the morning? 

After all, it was 1 AM ET!!  The poor operator did not have a clue that it was school time somewhere else in the world!
Lydia, starting to panic: I'm really sorry. We live in Russia. I called the Vonage line.
Enter my phone call from the Metro to find Lydia in tears.
Lydia: Please may I go? I have to go answer the phone because my mom's calling now.
Operator: Do NOT hang up, but you can put the phone down.
 Lydia takes my call and subsequently pulls out the phone cord having overcome her fear of disobeying the 9-1-1 operator.

Once home, Lyle and I decided I should call back Hanover Emergency and try to explain what happened. My greatest concern was that the police were knocking at our old address and waking the neighbors. The explanation sounded far-fetched, even to me.

Yes, we really do live in Russia.
Yes, we have a Vonage line, and Lydia accidentally picked up the wrong phone.
Yes, our cell phone number really begins with 9-1-1.

The operator seemed to understand and assured me that no police were dispatched. What a relief...until later that afternoon when the family who purchased our house emailed very worried, asking if everything was all right. Apparently the police did indeed knock on their door at 1 AM, inquiring about some girl who called 9-1-1 and "speaking Russian".

Oh, and why was Lydia trying to call me in the first place? We were out of toothpaste.

Meeting Marina

Ever since my first cry over the plight of the poor here, they have been getting my attention more and more. As has become my practice, I wait for God to show the way. Marina is a young woman Lydia and I had seen a few times on the subway before I spoke to her. Our knowledge of her was limited to a few facts:

She's young, but I could not guess her age. She wears the same (not clean) clothes most of the time. She boards a car on the metro on her crutches and announces, "Dear ones, please help me. Don't feel bad about a few kopeks. Please!" She then makes her way down the aisle to the other door, exits at the next stop, and repeats the process in the next car. It's a depressing pattern that a lot of beggars use, and the response is always poor. On the one hand, I don't blame people for not giving; who knows where the money really goes. What dark figure stands behind and controls the process?

But I don't really care. When I later saw her one Sunday on the way home from church just sitting quietly, slumped in a seat, I knew it was time to break my silence. Leaning over as I gave some money, I asked, "Are you tired?" She nodded. I asked her name. When she told me, I offered, "We will be remembering you." That was enough for that time. I left with a heavy heart, begging God to let us cross paths again. In a city like this, that pretty much never happens, even with beggars whose whole working day is on the metro.

It happened last Tuesday. I couldn't even see her, but I knew the voice. I was so excited, I could hardly contain it. "It's Marina!" Diana was baffled; "Who is Marina?" As she walked by, she broke her own stoic glare with a smile in our direction and said, "I remember you." Lydia stuck out her hand and offered the only thing in it - a small piece of costume jewelry that she had just found. Marina smiled and received it before heading towards the door. At the door, she looked back again at me, and I motioned for her to come back. There happened to be a seat next to me, and I got to ask more about her.
"How are you doing? How does this work for you?"
"Not so bad, but I've got two little brothers to take care of. Our father is dead and mother is gone."
"How old are you?"
"Well, actually, I just turned 19 today."
I consulted with Diana, and we offered to take her to eat.
"I'd love to, but I have to go get my brothers from school."
"We want to help you more."
"How?"
"Whatever God tells us to do."
She thought a minute and then proposed, "Can you meet me on Sunday at 3?"
I agreed, and the train arrived at our stop. We parted with her warm, sweet smile of gratitude following us up the stairs. It was a hard day of tears after that for all of us.

Then we remembered that I was going to be gone on Sunday. Diana insisted that it would be criminal to let her down. I finally decided to try to track her down the next day, knowing from her what her "beat" was.

I sat on the platform, beginning to see the world from new eyes as I watched train after train pass by and the thousands of passengers come and go. There were other beggars too, and I watched them interact. They have a community, I realized. One was a young lady that I initially took for Marina, also with crutches. I watched her get off at this stop, go back the way she came from, and a half hour later return again. By now I knew that Marina was not to be found, so I decided to be bold and approach this young lady. She did know Marina ("she didn't come in today") and agreed to pass on the message that I could not make it, along with my phone number.

Do I have a thousand questions and concerns? Sure. We've just decided it's time to let God take care of those matters and lead us through this new labyrinth to the treasures He has ahead at the center of His will. I think He's prepared us for such a time as this.

This story continues here.

Christmas @ Orphanage

Not long after we moved into our apartment, I noticed that this building, which is on our street, less than 100 meters from us, is an orphanage. I knew from my research that you don't just walk into these places. You need a relationship or some good reason to be there. But I would pray often about it, with a certainty in my spirit that God had put us nearby to be a blessing there. I also knew that he would have to lead in terms of how and when to get in the door.

It was clearly too early to do anything other than pray all during the summer and fall. There was too much going on with our own transition to add to our plate another ministry, even if it was so appealing. Here was our hope for doing something as a family! But God gave me a peace that it would work out in the right time.

By November, something was stirring, and I began looking for people who might have a relationship with the director. Luba, the director of the Harbor, had none. Through asking people, I found a director of another orphan ministry who had had a relationship at one point. That turned out to be a dead end too. She no longer had any contact there, and considered the director to me a hard nut to crack. My last hope was with a lady I met who does volunteer work in orphanages all over the city. If she couldn't help me, I decided it was time to get brave and waltz in on a wing and a prayer. By now it was early January.

Enessa didn't have any relationship there either, but what she did have was even better. "Listen. Today is Russian Christmas, and things get rolling again tomorrow after winter break. We have a Christmas presentation ready to go with gifts waiting to be given to kids, but we don't know where we can go with it. Go over there and tell them you are with a group that would like to offer them a Christmas presentation with gifts, cartoons, and games for the kids. Make sure they know we won't be preaching. They hate that, but they are open right now for this kind of thing. Get over there tomorrow ASAP, and we (I didn't even know who "we" were) will be praying for you."

What more did I need? I went over and looked all over the imposing structure for the entrance and rang the bell. The vachta (receptionist/watch lady/chief housekeeper who hangs out in her own little apartment with a sliding window to the world) let me in. I asked to see the director and explained my purpose. She was less than enthusiastic about my glad tidings. "What kind of group are you with? What kind of sect do you represent? Just who are you?"

"We're just volunteers, not representing any group. Christians. No sect." She grumbled protest at the likelihood of my telling the truth, but called the director anyway. "Thank you, Jesus, for step one," I mumbled to myself. "Wait out on the couch. She'll be down directly." Step two - an audience.

The director, who looks as type cast for the role as anybody could - mid 60's, conservative in dress and demeanor, roundish, and serious as a heartbeat, came in soon with an interpreter. It turns out the orphanage, and the public school it adjoins, specializes in intensive English. More hope! The interpreter soon saw she was not needed, and I got down to business with the director. I repeated our desire to perform, hoping she would not ask too many questions about this group that I had never met. In less than a minute, it seemed, Enessa's talking points had been just what I needed. She started to smile and agreed to our offer.
"When?"
"Whenever you wish."
"How about tomorrow?"
"Uh, sure."
"Can I call you tonight with a time?"
"That will be fine," I said, sounding confident.

I called Enessa, who was elated. Then our phone went out, and I didn't get a hold of the director again until 11am the next morning. "Let's do 4:00."

I was astounded that this mysterious team could be available with so little notice, but Enessa and three others showed up with a van full of props, multi-media devices, and gifts. One of them I knew as a staff member at the Harbor. The other two were Enessa's sister and brother-in-law, an American, who had just moved to the city to plant a church. They came in, set up like they had been doing this for years, and the kids started to file in (pictured).




The presentation was really well done. They managed the kids well, kept their attention, had fun with them, and delivered a clear message of the real meaning of Christmas for the kids and all the staff.



























I sat by this kid, who was unusually friendly and stole my heart, making small chat with me and showing me his gifts. This won't be the last time I see him.



Afterwards, the director was even more friendly and smiling. She and some other important person share more about the English concentration they have. They made it clear that they were more than happy to have any more contact with us, particularly as it related to offering English help to the kids. She offered me her direct phone number, and I told her I want her to meet Diana, being an English teacher herself, which excited her greatly.

I'd call that an open door.