update on Amy

Amy has been plagued by a racing, irregular heartbeat this year. She has been hospitalized twice, and has had four other shorter episodes. There are two kinds of problems involved. The first is called atrial flutter, which is when one of the upper four chambers of the heart misfires its electrical circuit, and causes the heart to have a irregular beat (which makes it beat faster). The second is called atrial flutter, which is more common, and harder to treat. It is like aflutter, but arises in the other top chamber of the heart. The cardiologist said Amy had experienced both, but was hoping that the afib was caused by the aflutter, so that the procedure today by solving the aflutter would also cure the afib (confused yet?).

The procedure was called an ablation, which means using heat to create scar tissues that redirect the faulty electrical circuit. The ablation was successful in stopping the problem that caused the aflutter. Unfortunately, he found that the other upper heart chamber had problems of its own, which cause the afib, and these he could not fix today.

The upshot is that she will no longer have any aflutter, but will probably continue to have occasional afib. She will probably be able to control this with medicine. While we were hoping she could get off the meds completely (they make her tired), we are grateful that the problem is halfway solved.

She can do the ablation again (for the other side), but the procedure on that side is more invasive and carries more risk. We will wait and see about that.

Below is a link to a youtube video that illustrates most of what I have tried to explain.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=BZ1vMLPrHnk

Epilogue and Retrospective

I have settled back into my home and routine for the better part of a week now. This last post will close out this blog by allowing me to look back and summarize the meaning of the trip, not just its activities.

First, I would like to thank God for the wonderful wife He has blessed me with. I could spend many, many pages extolling her good points, but will spare you all the details. Let me just say that when she first heard of the idea of losing her husband to Siberia for a couple weeks, she was most enthused. Not in the way you think. She was enthused for me; she had genuine joy that I would experience something wonderful and meaningful, even if she would not share it. In fact, it would mean extra work for her, or at least fewer hands to share the work. But she actively encouraged me to make the trip; she knows I would not have gone through even the application stage if she was at all hesitant. My debt to her grows every year, and I thank God again and again for gracing me with a wife whose outer beauty is eclipsed only by her inner loveliness.

In a similar way, I would extend thanks to the elders of my church for approving and funding the trip. And, though they joked about making the ticket one-way, both I and the people of Siberia are grateful they sprung for the round-trip fare.


As I reflect on the trip, I find the experience very humbling. It was humbling on a very basic level, since one is forced to live so consistently on the kindness of others when one goes to a foreign land with a strange language (see the post on “what I hate about mission trips”). But it was humbling on a more profound level as well. It takes no fluency in Russian to see faces light up when the soul they belong to grasps a new level of God’s holiness and goodness. God’s spirit worked in special ways. I don’t say this proudly; far from it. I say it with wonder that He would use someone like me to be a channel of His blessing, a tool of his healing.

This is the God we serve: able to speak through Balaam’s donkey or just some jackass like me. Or you. And He has reminded me afresh that we don’t have to travel to Siberia to be used by God. The world is right outside the door.

About Russians

I’ve been in Siberia two weeks now, so that makes me an expert on all things Russia. Today, gentle reader, I will focus my luminous profundity like a laser on just one aspect of Russia: the Russian soul.

Okay, I got nothing….

I think it was Churchill who described Russia as something like, “An enigma, wrapped in a riddle, clothed in a mystery”. That was a pretty good line. But of course it overstates the case. In many ways, Russians seem to want and value the same things that we in America do. And certainly their diet and habits are less strange to an American than would be true in New Deli or Zanzibar (and I am very happy to have worked Zanzibar into this post). But one thing I did tend to notice about Russian people, and it seems more fundamental than food or custom.

Russians are simply deeper, and sadder, than Americans.

Now, of course that is a generalization. But this is what I mean. I noticed very little frivolity or playfulness among the Russians (with a few exceptions who were Christians). No-one on the street smiles. No-one makes small talk. You can walk down a narrow path and the Russian going the other way will walk past you within two inches and never acknowledge your existence by word or smile. EVERY TIME. This is not to say Russians are rude. I never got mean looks or harsh gestures. And a Russian will be quite friendly after they get to know you. It’s just that they have no patience for useless chatter or frivolous gestures.

But I will also say this. In talking with Russians, there is also a depth and substance in the conversation that is so often lacking in the states. Russians think. They reflect on the meaning of events, not just the events themselves. I am not surprised this country has produced the world's greatest novelists, as well as the greatest chess players.

It would take a larger intellect than mine (and yes, there are some; about four, I think), to discern the reason for this difference. But I can’t help but think that it has to do with how much Russia has suffered. We in America simply have no national tragedy like Russia has had repeatedly. The oppression of the Czars gave way to the oppression of the communists. The curse of collectivism led to decades of food shortage and political violence. Even the years after communism have not been kind; the nineties had all the pains of any new birth. And if you really want to make a Russian mad, imply that America’s sacrifice in World War II somehow compares to Russia’s. Some 20 million Russians lost their lives in that war. The country was invaded and sacked. In many ways, the country is just now recovering from the ravages of the first half of the twentieth century.

So I don’t blame the Russian soul for being more serious and subdued than its American counter-part. And I pray that prosperity and stability increase in this land. And I also pray that they will not drown out the greatness of wonder of what is distinctively Russian.

About the Calvinist, part 2

The Calvinist and I travelling 30,000 feet somewhere over Greenland (which, by the way, should win the prize for the country which most egregiously violates truth-in-advertising ethics by its very name). My mind begins to wander, as it often does around the Calvinist. I begin thinking I should write a post or two in the plane, so that you, gentle reader, will not be denied one jewel from my treasure chest of wisdom. Yeah, I’m that bored…. First, I should write a line or two about my seat-mate. As you may have discerned, the Calvinist and I are in some ways quite different. I am on the tall side; he describes himself as “diminutive”. I like the window seat; he prefers the aisle. I am a Christian; he is a Presbyterian.

But I will give the man his due: in addition to being a “big God-er”, he is undoubtedly the most consistently cheerful man I have ever met. Perhaps the two things are related. But I have been with him every day now for two weeks, and I have yet to hear him utter a harsh word or display a critical spirit. He has displayed not once ounce of anger or even annoyance. He didn’t even complain about the airline food. He not only enjoys my ribbing him, he seems to relish it.

He also makes a very good traveler, because he puts up with everything and loves to try new things. Offer him some monkey brain casserole, and he will say, “Where’s my fork?” Tell him you’re going to bungee jump off a local bridge, and he will go fetch his sport coat (he never leaves home without it). Work up a plan to graffiti some onion domes, and he would be right there with you, spraying TULIP in florescent green. He would even find something nice to say about the jail cell.

All in all, almost an ideal person to travel to Siberia with. Now if we could just do something about those puns….

Many partings

The alarm blared early this morning, waking me from another dream about Valerie Bertinelli (just kidding, honey). I was not enthused about the day, for it meant saying goodbye to Jeff and Amy. Also, it meant enduring two rounds of Russian bureaucracy for the joy of 15 hours inside flying tin cans.

As we left the Cultural Center last night, we said goodbye to many new friends. I gave Igor my small English Bible, and left gifts for my translators. For Jeff and Amy, a leather-bound copy of Chekhov seemed appropriate.

At the airport in Tyumen, we discovered I lacked a registration paper proving I had spent two weeks there. Yes, foreigners must register with the government. Old habits die hard. Anyway, Jeff suggested this might be a problem in Moscow, and we had a “concerned moment”. We then remembered the internet kiosk in the Moscow airport, to which Jeff could email a scan of the form. Problem solved.

We gained two time zones from Tyumen to Moscow. The flight was fine, except that they served dinner food at 8:30 in the morning. From what I’ve learned, the idea of special foods for breakfast is quite foreign to Russians. In any case, my breakfast salmon was excellent.

As I write this, the Calvinist and I are waiting in the Moscow airport. I’ve just pulled him away from performing another embarrassing karaoke number at the bar. The man just loves Madonna. Who knew?

I am now psyching myself up for ten hours with my 6’4’’, 180 pound frame crammed inside an airline seat. Okay, I might have fudged the numbers a little. I’m only 6’3’’. I am reminding myself how many Saturdays I wished I had this much extra time.

So far it’s not working.

testing, testing...

As I write this, my students are taking their final exam. Though it will only affect a few of them career-wise, they seem to take it quite seriously; maybe too seriously.

They want to do well, and several of them quizzed me quite closely the last few days on the content of the exam. I am glad to see their desire to learn; I have more ambivalence about their desire to do well on the test. I want to tell them, “It’s the learning that is the important part. Your score on the exam will affect your life very little. Relax.” But I cannot. I don’t want to play the hypocrite.

You see, I too seem to be more concerned about the visible success of my life and ministry, rather than focusing on just learning the things God wants to teach me.

I saw a cartoon once where a man stepped to the microphone before a speech, and spoke into it, “testing, testing”. A fellow in the audience muttered, “that seems to be the metaphor for my life”.

But really, I don’t think so. The metaphor for life is learning. Learning to live a life of love in the fullest sense. Learning to become the person God created us to be. And the outward signs that you “got it” pale to the glory of truly “getting it”.

Will there be a test? Yes, but not in this world’s terms. And I have a feeling God would like to speak my own words back to me some times: “It’s the learning that is the important part…relax”.

And now, a word about our hosts...

I realized today that I have said very little about our hosts, Jeff and Amy.

First, I must give them full props for putting up with us for two weeks. The old saying is that fish and houseguests start to smell after three days, but my nose must be more sensitive, because it usually only takes only one day before I tire of guests. Jeff and Amy, however, either genuinely enjoy having houseguests, or they are very good at faking it. I’m okay with it either way. Because the Calvinist and I have received nothing but smiles, kind words, and good food. At no time have we gotten “negative vibes” as I used to say back when I was cool (and yes, gentle readers, there was indeed such a time; it lasted about twenty seconds). They even put up with the Calvinist’s snoring. I, of course, have never snored a day in my life, and if Keith Walls wants to say otherwise he can get his own blog.

Jeff left a six figure job to take his new bride to Russia, just because he thought God wanted him to. Crazy, I know. He made the irrational decision that the God who created him and redeemed him actually has a claim on his life. What do they teach kids these days?

They have both worked hard to learn Russian, and are both fluent, which is pretty impressive since after two weeks here I can count my Russian words on one hand. They put up with a schedule that would burn me out in a month. I respect and admire them, and thank them publicly for their patience and kindness.

Fish eggs. Its what's for dinner.

So tonight Amy, the Calvinist and myself were invited to dinner at Igor’s apartment (Jeff had to work). I was not enthused. In the first place, I felt I had done a poor job of teaching, and that, combined with fatigue, left me in a sour mood that I tried to hide. In the words of the great Greta Garbo, “I vant to be alone”.

In the second place, Igor had a reputation for serving, how shall we say this, “weird” food. Amy said the last time she was there, head cheese topped the menu. To me, this ranks even worse than mayonnaise, which I was sure would also be cooked in somewhere.

For the most part, I was pleasantly surprised. The main dish can best be described as a Russian meat ravioli, served with some sort of pepper chutney. It was actually quite good. The soup before the meal consisted of a bowl full of cold sausage, onions and parsley, into which he poured a good helping of something like non-alcoholic beer. This tasted (slightly) better than it sounds.

My only real scare was the caviar he kept insisting we eat. There it was, piled high on crackers, with a healthy dop of mayo serving as the crème in these oreos. This, of course, was not the black beluga caviar, but rather the roe of salmon.

Now, I know salmon eggs are considered a delicacy in many places, not just Russia. But I’ve also been around enough to know that when someone has to tell you that what you are about to eat is considered a delicacy, you are going to throw up in your mouth.

Plus, I had done my fair share of fishing in my 38 trips around the sun, and could not look at the salmon eggs without thinking of how many times I had strung them on a rusty hook, hoping to snag a lake trout. Perhaps it is just me, gentle readers, but I have a hard time being enthused about any “delicacy” that can be bought in the bait and tackle section of Walmart.

And no, I have never tried them, and yes, I am okay with that gap in my culinary repertoire. I sure wasn’t going to try them tonight (sour mood flaring up in digestive rebellion), no matter how much Igor wanted me to.

Fortunately, Igor left the table time and again to tend to something in the kitchen, and each time I passed the roe to the Calvinist. Being a cultured man and a high-brow, he almost feels it is his duty to like caviar. In any case he lit into them like a trout. I was proud. And relieved. He and Amy polished off enough for the three of us to be polite guests (in this case my politeness being exercised by proxy). I thanked Igor for all the good food. Everyone was happy.

I should mention one last note: The ravioli was Plan B. Igor was originally planning on a different main dish: crepes infused with...(wait for it)….caviar. God is good!

Thankful things

Things I’m thankful for today:

• I get to see my wife and kids soon
• The Calvinist does not have a blog, so I can write whatever I want about him
• Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows

A mixed crowd and some mixed feelings

The grace of God shows up in the strangest ways. When I came here, I knew no-one in the whole country (besides my hosts), and now I feel very close to my students and the people I work beside. I do not have to psyche myself up for teaching; I love these people in a way I would not have thought possible, and am thrilled to study the scriptures together. Let me introduce just a few of them.

Ileac possesses more passion for the truth than almost anyone I know. He seems about to explode. He was saved about six years ago out of a hard-drinking lifestyle, and now, still in his twenties, I would not be surprised to see him become an evangelist, pastor or Bible teacher. He certainly knows more than I did at that age.

Igor is not a Christian, but comes everyday to catch some native English. He is a physicist between jobs (I’m not sure how that works). Igor says he likes the Christians very much, but is not ready to become one himself.

Valentine is a university student who also comes just for the English. He’s getting a lot more.

Sveta is a doctor of around 45, and has very deep Bible knowledge.

Luda is a young woman of perhaps 30, who is a mother of six. She seems a very vibrant Christian.

Kitya looks 20, but she is the mother of a five year old. I’m not sure if she is a believer.

Valentina is one of my favorites. This woman is perhaps 70, yet takes a two hour bus trip each way for the bible classes. From what I understand, she has the entire book of Psalms memorized. Valentina’s face is as wrinkled as a crumpled-up paper bag, but it is beautiful to me. Her smile could light up a stadium.

This tableau shows what a mixed crowd we have. Some will quote Bible passages relevant to our study from the top of their heads, leaving me wishing I had thought of that one. Others could not find the book of Matthew if you held a pistol to their head. Budding theologians and confirmed atheists. But God has given me a great affection for them all.

I have only two more classes. This is the first mission trip where I felt such a wonderful melding of my gifts, the needs of the students, and my love for them. I miss my family and church greatly, but still it will be hard to part.

The Calvinist and Cabooses

So Amy, the Calvinist, and yours truly were sitting at lunch a few days ago, and the talk came round to women’s fashion in Russia, particularly the skin-tight jeans. The Calvinist wanted to communicate how much they revealed about a woman’s legs and butt. But, being a bit of a high-brow Presbyterian, he did not want to say the word, “butt”. So he instead he substituted the word, “caboose”. Amy and I, of course, cracked up at this, and teased him the rest of the day.

At the dacha that night, the three of us were in a room talking with Masha, a university student who is a good friend of Amy. Here is her picture with the Calvinist. I think she enjoys him in a great, great, great, grandfatherly sort of way.
Anyway, we were teasing the Calvinist about looking at women’s cabooses, and Masha, despite having excellent English, of course did not know the word. We explained it was the last car of the train, and the Calvinist, eager to facilitate intercultural relations, added that a woman’s caboose was, “the south end of a cow facing north”. Masha looked a little confused about what to do with this new piece of knowledge.

I, for one, was simply gratified that Princeton Seminary still imparts to its graduates a proper appreciation of bovine anatomy.

He giveth more grace!

So yesterday (Monday) was the first day I actually overslept my alarm. After a week of teaching (and then preaching yesterday), I was feeling pretty drained. So I scarfed down some yogurt, and we ran out the door. After hoofing it to the Cultural Center, I settled down in my little nook, waiting for Divine inspiration to enlighten my teaching plans.

Well, it did not come. Sleep came, but no inspiration. I fought off the sleepies all morning, and anticipated an afternoon of the students doing the same.

And as I sat, weary and undone, I dreaded going before those students, those who had given up their day to sit and listen to me. I felt like the leader of a bankrupt soup kitchen who looks out the window, and sees the hungry crowd lined up in front of the building. It is not a pleasant thought to realize you’ve traversed ten times zones, only to appear empty-handed before those you have come to minister to. But God retrieved a hymn (entitled, He Giveth More Grace) from my memory banks and put it in my heart:

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,
When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,
When we reach the end of our hoarded resources
Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,
His power no boundary known unto men;
For out of His infinite riches in Jesus
He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

So instead of berating myself for feeling dry and empty, I simply began praying. And when class began, instead of me praying for the group, I asked them to pray for me. I won’t say I saw heaven open and the Spirit descending like a dove. But I will say it was by far the deepest and best discussion time we have had yet.

This “grace” thing; it’s not bad.

Preaching at the Presbyterians

So I got to preach this morning. There were a few barriers. First, of course, is the language. But also, the church is Presbyterian, and I am closer to the Baptist tradition. Not that I have anything against Presbyterians. Some of my best friends are Presbyterians, and I pray for their salvation daily.

The church starts at noon. Yes, noon. Apparently some people like to sleep in. After several songs, the crowd of twenty thousand rise up and, stomping their feet, chant in joyful unison, “DANIEL!! DANIEL!! DANIEL!! I rise to the bank of microphones, and the stadium erupts in thunderous applause. I make sure all the tv cameras are ready, reach over and thank David Crowder for the music, then begin.

Okay, maybe that last paragraph was a bit of exaggeration. But we really did start at noon.

The Church in Siberia

I thought I should write about the religious scene in Tyumen for a post or two; this means, of course, that I am reliant on second-hand knowledge (except for the pics). Here goes.

Of course, the Russian Orthodox Church dominates the religious landscape, both literally and figuratively. Golden onion domes rise up between the apartment complexes and office buildings in every part of the city, and something like 70-80% of Russians are somewhat associated with the Church, though only a small percentage actually step inside a church building in a decade, (unless for a marriage or some special occasion). Here are some pictures:

I won’t pretend to have enough knowledge of Russian Orthodox theology to give any sort of intelligent critique (check out the Wikipedia article on "orthodox church" to get details). But I will say that it is quite different than ANY protestant church. Instead of being based around worship services, with the preaching of the Word, it is based around icons, which mediate God’s grace to those who venerate them. So the faithful come into the building at any time of the day, buy candles, and genuflect or bow before the icons. Services are held at different times, and focus on ritual.

How different Protestant services must feel to these people! Plain buildings, complete lack of icons, music that is sung rather than chanted, and some preacher talking in front for a half hour: this must seem so alien. No wonder that protestant denominations that have existed in the west for hundreds of years are looked at as cults here.

No wonder, either, why the protestant church is so small. In a city of a million people, perhaps a few thousand are protestant. There are a couple Baptist churches, some charismatics, a few Methodist congregations, and one lone Presbyterian Church, located at the Cultural Center. I’m sure there are others I don’t know of, but I’m told the Protestant ministerial association has around a dozen members, and represent small and struggling congregations.

Most people in the city are simply atheists or agnostics, and express very little spiritual interest. Apparently there was something like a stirring of interest in spiritual things about ten or twenty years ago, after the oppression of Communism was broken. But now, as incomes increase, and better houses and apartments are built, and western goods flow in, materialism has become the new god. Construction cranes compete with onion domes for the skyline, and the din of the crowded department store drowns out the still, small voice. Spring has not yet arrived in Siberia.

About puns

So I let the Calvinist read my post about him yesterday. Such is his good nature that he only laughed at my cracks about his age and Sponge Bob pajamas. About that last point: no, he does not actually wear Sponge Bob pajamas, but he perhaps the only man I know under 60 who does wear a full set of formal striped pajamas to bed. But I was not surprised by this. After all, this is a man who uses a shaving brush and mug, owns a creme brulee torch, and drives a BMW 7 series. The man is one of the last hold-outs of the type of elegence once described as "continental" (Keith, look it up).

But anyway, the only real howl of protest I got from the man was when I described his puns as, "horrible". His face looked ashen, and tears welled up in his beady Calvinistic eyes. But I cannot disown my remark.

To be fair, I am not a fan of puns. In fact, I despise them. To me, there are two kinds of people in the world: those that make and enjoy puns, and.......sane people. Now, I relialize that a pun does take a type of mental quickness and verbal acuity. But just because one CAN do something does not mean one SHOULD do something (insert your favorite Tim Robertson anecdote here).

In fact, in my 38 trips around the sun, I have found only one person who's puns I actually enjoy. But, gentle readers, I am loth to publish his name (but am quite happy I have worked both "acuity" and "loth" into the same post). Complimenting someone on his puns is like telling a poacher what a good shot he is. Still, I did quite slander the blighter in an earlier post (and just called him a blighter to boot) so I suppose I should make amends. So here goes. The only person I have met who can consistenly pun in such a way as to bring laughter and not groans is....(long dramatic pause)....Chris Huff. There. I said it. My apologies to the Calvinist and to the world.

How to dress like a Russian

If you are a woman:

If you are a Russian woman, the first rule is quite simple: You must always be made up. I have yet to see a Russian woman without make-up, very nice hair, and pretty clothing. I get the impression that a Russian woman would probably get dressed up to take the trash out.

If you are a Russian woman under 40, two additional things will be true of you. You will be very thin, and everyone will know this since your clothes are skin-tight. I have seen women who looked like they were poured into their jeans (and forgot to say, “when”). Actually I take that back. I have not noticed this at all, since I do not look at other women like that. Ever. The Calvinist told me about it.

Also, you will probably wear 15 inch high heels, even though you must walk to work, with the point of the stiletto coming to a point about the size of, say, a needle.

All this to say that most Russian women are head-turners. Again, this is second hand knowledge from the Calvinist.

If you are a man:
Wear whatever you want.

About the Calvinist

I should at some point mention a few words about the Calvinist, aka, Peter Jessen. Peter is the Head Holy Honcho (yes, that is his official title; he has three large “H”s embroidered on his Sponge Bob pajamas) over at First Presbyterian Church in Franklin. This church of apparently very accepting people has been around forever, and so has Peter. Just kidding, of course, though the Calvinist is old enough to be my father.

The Calvinist is actually quite smart (Princeton Seminary aint for slouches), and has a wonderful vocabulary. He is well-travelled and well-read, and, despite a proclivity for horrible puns, is a good conversationalist.

Most importantly, the Calvinist is one of the most theologically informed Pastors I know (present company excluded, of course). This is a great encouragement to me, since I tend to think that most of our problems relate to having a false or at least small view of God. Peter is a big-God-er. That is, his view of God is very large, which makes his view of man, ummm, ... not so large. This is not to denigrate mankind’s worth, but to mistrust mankind’s powers. And I try to walk the same road.

Unfortunately, much of American church leadership is dominated by a rather small view of God, and a large view of man’s methods and power. These small-God-ers would rather plan than pray, and many of their plans seem to succeed on some level. I do not begrudge them their strengths, but I do hope that the Kingdom will not only always have a few men like Peter, but that their tribe may increase (Sponge Bob pj’s and all).

Captain's log: Mission date: 04/28/2010

Today, gentle reader, I thought it good to give a detailed description of my day’s activities, here in the fair city of Tyumen.

I wake up at 5:45. I am in a strange bed; cigarettes litter the floor, and the vodka of the night before makes my head feel like that volcano in Iceland must have felt, just before it exploded. Okay, just kidding. But I really didn’t want to wake up that early.

Actually, I don’t have to wake up that early. My head knows this, but it is apparently not talking to my body. Not sure if it is the jet lag or what, but, even though I am WAY behind on sleep, and even though I am still snug as the proverbial bug in the proverbial rug, I know I will not sleep anymore.

So I rise, and pop into the shower. Breakfast consists of a fiber bar and some amazing Russian yogurt. I spend the next hour thinking about my lessons, checking witty comments on facebook, answering some emails, and admiring the face in the mirror.

At eight, the Calvinist and I leave the apartment and head to the Cultural Center. It is about an hour walk, but we catch all the lights and make it in under 50 minutes. The Calvinist does most all the talking, since I am not a talkative man in the morning.

At nine the Calvinist begins his teaching. His class is on the “Doctrine of Man”, and I’m not sure why he needs two weeks to say, “YOU’RE ALL COMPLETELY DEPRAVED”, but apparently he does.

I slide into a side room to work on my lessons. For the next four hours I study and pray over three Psalms. It is difficult to teach for four hours and still maintain interest, and I noticed spirits flagging by the end of the day yesterday. I am asking God to help me in this. (The students generally attend both classes, so for them I am the last part of a nine-hour day). Sometimes I feel ready after three hours of prep or so, but today I could have used ten.

At one o’ clock we all break for lunch. It has actually been pretty good (with the exception that Russians have the nasty habit of slipping mayonnaise into almost everything, and I feel about mayonnaise the way Sean Hannity feels about Obama; they even bake mayonnaise into pizza sometimes. No wonder we had that whole cold-war thing).

At two o’ clock I enter the room to teach, and the shine of joy on the student’s faces needs no interpretation (“AT LAST! SAVE US FROM THE CALVINIST!”). Hmmm, I guess I did interpret that. Oh well.

I write the first Psalm on the left half of the board, and Zhanna writes the Russian on the right side. I go line-by-line, trying to explain what I think is the meaning. Russians often have longer words than we do, and often I find this phenomenon: I give a ten second snippet, and Zhanna then translates that for, oh, I don’t know, about a half-hour. Okay, I am exaggerating. But I do wonder if she is trying (and probably succeeding) to improve my exegesis. Oh, the trust we place in our translators!

After this we have a break, and we prepare the board for the next lesson. The students endure four hours of this (after putting up with four hours from the Calvinist) yet still seemed surprisingly engaged. And while today is better than yesterday in this regard, I have been surprised all week at the length of the student’s patience, and the depth of their insight.

I end the class by playing, as I occasionally do, a Psalm that an American has put to music (the translator speaks the words in Russian while it is playing). Not sure if this goes over too well or not.

After class, one of the students has a number of questions, in this case not about the Psalms but about life in America. We talk for a while, then I wait as my hosts take care of a number of details around the cultural center. It is seven o’ clock by the time we leave and take a car over to Irina’s apartment for a Russian dinner. Irina is the director of the Cultural Center, and, I am told, an excellent cook. I am praying for not too much mayo.

In fact the meal was both elegant and delicious. We had borsh, (a Russian soup), and seasoned ground beef rolled up in something like a tortilla (Irina, if you are reading this, I am sorry for this terrible and un-Russian description; but it was wonderful). My favorite part was compote (think fruit juice) that she had made from cherries. She had saved a bit of cherries in her freezer from last summer, and she broke them out for us!

Irina was formerly a teacher of Russian literature, so after dinner we had a fine discussion of Dostoyevsky. If you know me, then you realize that my getting to discuss Dostoyevsky with a Russian literature teacher is like an aspiring high school quarterback being tutored by Peyton Manning. I was in heaven.

We walked back to our apartment well after 10, and I quickly made my way to my room. I fell asleep in my prayer time, and, all things considered, did not feel a bit guilty.

Pics below:

One of the better lunches (no mayo!)


Amy looking cute in her Russian hat


Amy and some Calvinist


Irina

"The Brothers Karamazov" in its original Russian glory

Pics from around town

Okay, I'm pretty sleep deprived right now (and I just woke up!), so I am not up to much writing. But just for you, gentle readers, I will upload some pictures from around town;

This is Jeff and Amy's apartment complex where we are staying


This is me striking my Lenin pose

This is the largest apartment complex in town, called either, "the great wall", or ,"the ant hill"



This is the theatre building (think "Nutcracker Suite", not "Star Wars")

Behind me is a pedestrian bridge, called, "the lover's bridge". After getting married, tradition dictates that the couple go to the bridge, throw something over (I forget what), and then tie a padlock on the railing (symbolizing something about the steadfastness of their love). Over my left shoulder is a Russian Orthodox Church. Over my right, way in the background, is a Russian Orthodox Monastary.

This is a typical courtyard behind a typical apartment complex

This is some random building with a cool mural

This is the back of the new Cultural Center

And this is the front

Here is a closeup of the monastary. No, I dont know if that is actual gold flake, but it sure shines like it is

Their are a LOT of Russian Orhtodox churches


This is a World War II era statue, honoring the male students who went off to war, and the female students who stayed behind and worked for the war

Lost in Translation

Today was my second day of teaching. Now, my Russian is a little rusty, so all the teaching involves using a translator. In my case, it takes two translators to capture all my brilliance and wit. Here they are.
The woman on the right is Zhanna, and the other woman is her sister, Anya. They are both exceptional translators and work as linguists. Translation is very difficult work, and so Zhanna would translate the first two hours and Anya would take over for the last two.

I am very grateful for their flexibility. I get the impression that normally those whom they translate for have written speeches, which the translators preview. That’s not how I roll. I stuff my head with so much information that it is about to explode like a week old zit (wait, bad simile; How about, “like a fragrant flower exploding into bloom?). Then I pray over it till it feels right. Often I don’t use any notes at all. But these women roll with the punches.

By the way, this is the Calvinist with his translator, Elena. She is smiling because she does not have to translate for me. He is smiling because he was predestined to. And yes, the Calvinist has only one translator. I don’t want to imply he is less profound than yours truly, but…
Any communication with a translator is difficult. But this difficulty is doubled when you are teaching out of a translated English Bible, and she and the students are reading out of a translated Russian Bible. And the Psalms present more problems than most parts of scripture (because it is poetry).

The first day was mostly an introduction to the different types of parallelism in Hebrew poetry, but when I tried to illustrate this on the board, it soon became apparent that I and the students were quite literally "not on the same page." We worked it out by going back and forth explaining and correlating the English and the Russian, but it took some work, and was a little distracting.

When Tuesday morning came, I remembered that, just as the Spirit inspired the scriptures, so He would be the greatest help in helping us interpret them together. After all, if He translates our inneffable (look it up, Keith) sighs into intelligible prayer requests (Romans 8), He can certainly handle our little Hebrew-English-Russian problem. So I prayed. Intently. And the prayers were powerfully answered. Tuesday's lesson seemed to have a much greater connection with the students, and they responded with wonderful questions and comments. It was a different world.

Now, I realize that as a Pastor, one of those people who get paid to be holy, I should have been praying about this long before. But, there you are. I wasn't, yet God showed kindness by his help, not a reproach of, "about time, stupid". Hmmm...makes me wonder about what else I should be praying about lately, but haven't. How 'bout you?

Thinking of Stalin

Today was the first day of our actual teaching at the Cultural Center. We took TAL (The Amazing Lada), since we had to carry several gallons of water. The reason we had to haul water illustrates both the glory and the folly of the old communist system.

The water is out at the Cultural Center because of a leak. But the leak is not on their property, but that of a neighbor. All the pipes in the neighborhood are connected, and the city supplies water at no cost. In fact, the city even provides hot water freely, through a huge pipe that connects to a really, really big boiler someplace. No one has a water heater, but everyone has hot water.

This seems like a much more effecient and equitable system than in America. No water meters, no water heaters, and no water bills. Less headaches for each and equality for all.

Unfortunately, when your neighbor's water shuts down for repairs, so does yours. This is what happened at the center. The owners of the pipes in question decided they did not want to pay for the repairs, since rumor had it that the Cultural Center was bankrolled by some rich American (if only). Surely he would pay to have the pipes fixed!

So at this point, we are in a standoff. The Community Center feels no compulsion to pay for someone else's repair, but the neighbors refuse to get it fixed themselves. So in the meantime, we haul water to the kitchen every morning, and use a make-shift outhouse (a shed with a hole in the floor) when we need to make water.

I'll think of Stalin when I squat.

Siberia: First Impressions

The Calvanist and I arrived in Tyumen at 3 am Saturday morning. Our hosts, Jeff and Amy were good enough to pick us up in the middle of the night. They borrowed a Lada, pictured here:



You may be surprised to hear that this sportscar did not want to start. But it didnt. Jeff fiddled with the choke (yes, it really has one), and it still wouldn't start. He then offered up a prayer, and the engine roared to life (okay, maybe "roared" is a bit much for this car; but it at least meowed to life, and that was enough).




The Calvanist and I dragged our sorry carcasses to bed, but whatever system in my body that keeps track of what time it is was completely confused, and I woke up in five hours. I spent the rest of the day in the fog they call Jet Lag. I think it feels like a hangover, but I've never been drunk, so I will have to ask Chris Huff what that feels like.



This is a pic of Jeff and Amy. She is the one on the right:




Jeff and Amy invited an engaged couple to join us. Dan is from Scotland, and Sascha is Russian. Long story.




After lunch Jeff took us for a walk around the city. Tyumen contains around a million people, and almost all of them live in apartments. A nearby mall has a unique color scheme:



The inside was quite similiar to American malls. The computors were about twice the price that we pay in America, but otherwise prices seemed comparable (though the average citizen makes 500 bucks a month).



For dinner Amy made killer Lasagna, and a group of students came over. They are not believers yet, but come over for supper and discussion every Saturday. Very cool group, but no pics here, cuz I didn't want to freak them out ("Mind if I post your mug on some foreign web site?")

Bed felt good last night.

What I hate (and love) about mission trips

Okay, here is what the Dan stops talking in the third person....you are welcome.

This is my fourth mission trip, which is not that many considering my age (actually, you can stop thinking about my age now). I have been to Mexico twice and the Dominican Republic once.

Here is what I hate about mission trips: you are totally out of control. You take life on its terms. All you can do is respond rightly.

Now, to some degree this is true whenever you travel internationally. But if you go as a tourist, you are free to complain to the motel about the room tempature, you can choose your activities that day, you can decide what you will eat for lunch. On a mission trip, you can do none of those things. Your agenda is set by others. You normally have no choice in your food. And, since you don't speak the language, you are totally dependent on others to communicate for you. In many ways, it is like being a toddler again.

And that is also what I am learning to love about mission trips.

You see, as a pastor and father, I get looked at as an "authority figure". Like it or not (and I do feel a great deal of ambivilance here) I am often the one who is seen of as "in control". A person in this situation is severely tempted to make a classic blunder: to think that they really are "in control."

But I'm not. I get reminded of that when my best ideas fall flatter than Wile E. Coyote right after that 500 pound anvil falls on him. I get reminded of that when words I have spoken have exactly the opposite of their intended effect. I get reminded of that alot.

But on a mission trip, the reminders are constant. I know I am not in control. And I have found that the only way to be reasonably happy and helpful on a mission trip is to embrace my powerlessness. My prayers become less asking God to help me in my plans, and more asking Him to help me respond rightly to His plans for my day.

And that is why I love mission trips. The master said, "unless you become like little children, you cannot enter the Kingdom of God". I think that means that child-like faith and trust are essential to living as His children. And it is here, listening to voices I do not understand, waiting for others to help me, and to show me what to do, it is here more than in the pastorate that I feel like the little child I am supposed to become.

The Dan has arrived

Hey kids, just a quick note that the Dan made it safely to Tyumen at 3am Saturday morning (thats 5pm Friday night for you Indiana people). He has only slept a few hours (on the plane) since Thursday morning, so he is headed to bed.

Pics

Guy who takes the phrase, "lay-over" too seriously

Odd magazine title

Obama Bobbleheads

Worst handbag

Trippy Wall



Random golf balls

Oddest couple

best looking man