The Kitchen Table

“The end of a matter is better than its beginning and patience is better than pride.”

Ecclesiastes 7:8

That verse has long spoken to me when I’m faced with a difficult new challenge.  It helps me to remember that when things change it means a disruption to the routine, a shift of the normal, a restructuring of paradigms.  Eventually, if you wait it out, things will get better.  Give it time.

However, it also means there is an end to things.  Good things end, too. They shift away in the passing moments.  Nothing gold can stay.

I face these two truths as I sit in my Moscow kitchen.  I can hear the laughter over coffee or dinner.  I feel again the frustrations and sorrow sorted out over this table.  I pray again for the answers to questions raised by expectant friends looking for understanding.  If these walls could talk, the stories they would tell! 

This kitchen has been mine for less than a year and yet it became home to many.  “Something smells good in here!”  “Thanks for cooking, again!”  “Is that banana bread?  MMmmmmmm!”

We shared a slice of life here, my Moscow family and I.  Sheri and I prayed and talked and sought ideas over breakfast here.  Jeanie explained to me her project across this table and recited her speech before class, just one more time.  Skype even brought Kellie to this table.  We laughed and commiserated thanks to modern technology.  Shalom and I sorted out students and parents, looking for the best ways to help them move forward.  Mari and I talked about food and families and Ave Leigh and relationships and life.  And Stas.  With Stas there were lessons in language and culture and literature and politics and dreams growing from ideas.  Ava took some of her first steps here, her first bites of real food, her first teeth were bragged about here.  Kolya and I made pizza and banana bread sorting out daily life while Zhenya arrived in time for tea and conversation. 

Birthdays and Christmas and Easter and every day life were celebrated here.  Sunday School planning and student summaries written.  In this room.  In this space we shared.  We lived.  Beneath its African curtain, beside its orange rag rug, next to the coffee cart, hands resting on the glass table top.  We lived together here.

There is the other room, too, where we taught Bible studies, watched movies, talked about life and love.  But, like any good Polish home, life centered around the kitchen table.  Words and thoughts swirl around the air, hovering above the table. 

I can’t help but compare it to the first kitchen, the first year, when everything was new and much more difficult.   The table was too big, the chairs were only stools with no back.  The food was strange and difficult to prepare on a stove that I hadn’t yet figured out.  There were some memories there, too, but it wasn’t home.  The second year brought new things in the same cramped space.  An improvement, for sure, but still it was shared space that felt borrowed.  Somehow it was intrusive to the other roommate when guests were invited in.  It was nicer, but it wasn’t home.

This kitchen considering reflects on the whole experience of Moscow for me.  I see the same comparisons in time.  Getting used to the harshness of this country was like walking through winter’s slush.  It must be done to get out of the cold, but the act of it was so tiresome.  Everything was new and so different.  How things are done here is in stark contrast to American expectations. 

And now?  Three years later?  I feel at last like I am home here.  I understand most of the things happening around me.  The language is not a strange sound, but a song to me.  The expat family has grown in my heart until I can hardly bear to leave them. 

Why change then?  Why leave?  Why not just stay and do the things I have learned to do well?

Life has taught me that it is constantly changing for me.  I am not one of those people who will be at a job for 30 years and living in the same home for 40 years and buying my groceries at the same store for 20 years.  It just simply isn’t me.  I’m not sure why.  Where did I find this wanderlust?  It’s not that I think the grass is always greener somewhere else.  It’s not that I crossly desire to leave something behind.

I feel like life is meant to be lived.  I need to live while I’m alive.  I don’t know how many days I get to spend here on this planet, but I want to spend them well.  I want to exercise my super power of loving deeply and seeing the best in people.  I want to see who else there is to know and love and what else there is to do and learn in the next place.  I want to follow the leading of God to do whatever He gives me to do.

That’s the real crux of it.  I know that I owe my life to God.  I ought to be dead.  I ought to be bogged down beneath the consequences of bad choices.  I ought to be struggling with the generational problems of my family. 

But, comma – conjunction, God.  Change of perspective.  Change of life.  Change of view.

But, God, saw some good in me that He could use to bring something good to one place or another.  Because of that I will continue to go where He leads.  I will do my best to share His grace with whoever He sets at my kitchen table, wherever that table is.

I am really not leaving anyone behind.  I take them each with me, buried deeply in my heart.  Their smiles and hopes and genuine love I take with me.  I leave behind my admiration of them, my prayers for them, my trust in God to guide them. 

Today I will fly to London.  Tomorrow to Chicago.  The next chapter will begin. 

Dreamy St. Petersburg

I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it....     Emily Bronte

The Dream of St. Petersburgh

I dreamt I took a train to an adventure. My mind was filled with all the possibilities and `'what-ifs" I had always imagined.  I expected to see beautiful things, hear musical voices, see colors and textures and life I had not known before.

The train in my dream rushed through the darkness with only the occasional disturbance.  

I awoke to find myself there, at that place, the place I had dreamed of!  Surrounded by history and meaning, I walked behind my knowledgeable guide.  She told me the story of her city.  "This is where Alexander I lived and this was Catherine's palace.  We have Nicholas's statute over here and the lighthouse over there."  We wound our way through unfamiliar comfortable streets filled with the voices of life.  

The Fortress of Peter and Paul stands chief among the buildings in this dream.  Walking through the walled city I found myself taking pictures and wondering about their story.  Who lived here?  Who walked here?  Who rested in the safety of the mamoth walls?  And Why?  What did they hide from?  I could almost feel their sense of safety, hear their hushed whispers.  

Sometimes it rained - hard, chilly raindrops forcing up the umbrellas and drawing strangers closer together.  Unexpectedly, around another corner, the sun would shine and the skies would clear.  Equally by turns it was cool and warm.  A day which couldn't make up its mind what kind of day it wanted to be.

Still we walked.  Sometimes strolling, sometimes with purpose, sometimes with crowds, sometimes without.  Always surrounded by the story.

We happened on a parade at one point.  WWII veterans and their families holding pictures of those lost in the Great War.  This city felt the cost of the war in devastating fashion.  The survivors are grateful for those who paid the price to hold the land.  They celebrate with intense pride.  The uniforms, the flowers, the pictures, the stories flowed through the street with the rain playing softly overhead.  

We stopped for coffee at another point.  Like Goldilocks we tried first this spot then that before we found a place that was just right.  Hot coffee, sweet treats, gentle conversation refreshed us both.

As we exited the last Metro I caught sight of a painting tossed on the street.  In the broken fragment I could see perfect blue sky dotted with fluffy white clouds.  A building grew in the painting it's rounded turret strutting its strength against nature.  "I'm still here!"  It shouted behind the billboard tacked to its face.  "Don't let the modern facade fool you.  I have watched the gate for centuries.  I saw Napoleon and Hitler trying to take me away.  Neither Soviet rule nor winter's blizzard could change my stand.  You may paint me with advertisements or bathe my stone in whitewash.  The fact remains.  I am still here."

As I lay my head down at the end of the day, I realized it was not a dream at all.  I really did come to St. Petersburg.  I really did see, hear, taste, feel these things.  And another day awaits.

I thought I was awake, but found myself still in the dream.

Another swirl of color, sound and smells swished about me.  The sun was out now and shining brightly.  Golden domes atop fortress buildings glimmered in the horizon as I walked a new route. 

“There is Bro. Turner’s favorite bookstore.”  “There is my favorite palace.”  “There is St. Isaac’s Cathedral.”  Over and over the phrases of my friend crowded into my hearing as she tried to show me all of the best and share with me her abundant knowledge. 

Passing The Church of the Spilled Blood, a remarkable piece of architecture, I was caught by the sound of a quiet flute dancing among the trees.  Wearing black and strolling carelessly, the flutist interacted with his audience.  I drank in the peaceful sounds a moment before continuing.

“We were here yesterday.  Remember when we crossed the bridge after the parade?  That’s where we were.”  My friend stood pointing and, to my surprise, I did remember.  The bridge with the four horses prancing above beckoned us to go on.

Another dash of music surprised me upon a wall outside of a hotel.  I didn’t know the song, but gave it a passing glance to honor its existence.

Through this passage and that, winding behind and between the ancient buildings, we finally erupted into a bright square.  “Now we’re here.  There is The Hermitage.” 

Ah!  The Hermitage!  Frosted in mint and cream, the elegance was almost more than one could fathom.  To our right a spare, modernist, clean-lined building humbly held court.  Court isn’t all that it held, however.  It also held a Kandinsky Exhibit. Up a glass staircase, through a winding passageway and then there it was!  The very thing I wished to see. 

Many years ago I had received a print of the Kandinsky painting “Winter Landscape” which has hung in some manner of honor or another ever since.  The colors carried a promise for me that someday I would see the real painting, I would stand before it.  And now, here in my dream, I stood. 

“Thanks, God,” I whispered. 

But Kandinsky wasn’t the only artist present in this dream!  We gazed at Da Vinci, danced with Matisse, rested with Monet, laughed with Van Gogh and a host of many others inside The Hermitage.  Wandering through the labyrinth of rooms my heart was overwhelmed with the beauty and contrasts of expression.

Many tired hours later we were home again.  The welcoming apartment with its fresh baked chicken covered with tomatoes and mozzarella opened its doors.  Wearily we rested.  Sharing again our lives and finding so many commonalities, so many subtle differences.  Born on opposite sides of the Cold War we found kindred spirits.

Sunday dawned early, but not early enough and we quickly made our way to the train which would return me to Moscow.  Brisk steps, brisk breeze and brisk good-byes jumbled together on the platform of the waiting train.  Out of breath, I sat in my seat, closed my eyes and slept.

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Waiting Waiting Waiting

I’m not very good at waiting, honestly.  I get impatient inside when there is nothing left to be done.  I’m much better at doing something – anything!  Give me a project and a deadline and I will complete it regardless of how long it might take or how specific the details.  I will enjoy the whole work of it.

But waiting means I have to give the work of something to someone else and then not think about the thing until it’s given back.

In the meantime, who knows what someone else is doing with my project while I don’t have control of it anymore!  What if they make a mistake?  What if my expectations of them are misplaced?  What if ….

I suppose that’s where faith comes in.

When it’s God and the Russian government you are waiting on it takes a lot of faith!

So here I am waiting for my Letter of Invitation.  The official piece of paper that I need before I can apply for my visa to start my adventures in Moscow.

I’m not really doing nothing while I’m waiting.  I’m doing all kinds of things, actually.  Getting all the details ready for the responsibilities I leave behind like my house and car and the random assorted collection of stuff I have amassed.  

And collecting memories, too.  Lunches and dinners and small trips overflow with blessings, “I love you!” and hugs – lots of hugs.  Funny how the idea of going overseas makes us reconsider the importance of the friendships we fill our lives with.  As fragile as life is, I think we should fill more moments with those things.

I haven’t done much writing lately, honestly, because I am too busy living and find myself at a loss for words.  I absolutely, 100% can NOT believe how supportive people have been of this trip!  

My church family in Thorp, to start with, made pledges so fast the pledge-writer couldn’t keep up.  My son said it took 7 minutes to get a full year’s support!  That’s crazy.  Most of these people don’t even know me.  They have shared this quiet season with me from a distance watching, perhaps, but not participating in my every day.  

Then there was my church family in Bloomington.  Same story, different city.  Their prayers, their encouragement, their support leaves me without words.  Many of them know me well having helped to put me back together through one of the most difficult times of my life.  I knew I could count on their encouragement and their prayers, but financially, too, they gave and gave.  And all I could do was smile and cry and hope I can be worth their investment.

And then my co-workers worked behind my back to put together a surprise that totally surprised me!  “Let’s have dinner with Lyn” turned into “let’s have a party for Kris!” and laughter laced laughter and lives connected in another level of friendship. Their generosity makes a huge impression on my heart.

The camera they pitched in for is well beyond what I had prayed for – well beyond.  I asked God if I couldn’t have a new camera that wouldn’t take shaky pictures, that would let me get a good close up, that would make the things I see shareable.  “Could I have $150 or something at the end of the list of needs for the trip?  I’d like a camera, God, a better one than I have so I can share what I see.”  

God is probably laughing at my idea of better compared to His idea of better!

People ask me some questions the same over and over, “aren’t you afraid of what will happen with what you leave behind?”

I’m taking the best things with me.  I have discovered in all of my traipsing between hither and yon that friendships don’t really end no matter where you go.  The impressions of your friends remain on your heart, in your thoughts, entwined about you.  “Iron sharpens iron” is how the Bible describes it.  Friends remain a part of you.  Always.

I take with me the kindness, the support, the laughter, the complicity, the joy, the bonds, the sorrows, the hardships, the tears of my friends.

I hope I leave the right things behind.  Lingering smiles, gentle answers, laughter to overcome strained days, easy compassion, a quick “Thanks, God!” when interesting people challenge perspectives.

I will miss my angelbabies, that’s a fact.  But I take them with me in a thousand ways.  Mavrik’s shy smile when he realizes he’s being watched.  Anna’s laughter and sheer joy in life.  Arthur’s blunt honesty.  Eli’s giggle and teasing.   And the rest of the collection, too.  Their "got a mint?" smiles and running, leaping hugs fill my cup.  I will miss my kids, too.  John’s gentle wisdom. Thi’s crazy humor.  Melissa’s foundational friendship.  

I hope I leave a lot of things behind for them, too.  My love for Jesus, my sense of adventure, my desire to bring change to the world’s problems even if it’s only a drop in the bucket.  I want them to follow the good I do, but also to learn from my failures so they aren’t repeated.

I would like to be already there.  This waiting is trying my patience!  But while I’m waiting I’m working hard to collect what I will need when I get there, too.  I guess waiting really is ok after all.

Just Another....

Another birthday passed.  Another milestone reached.  Another day down.

But writers, you know, don’t ever see things quite that black and white. 

I am one of those people who are both celebratory and reflective on my birthday.  I like to eat and sing and laugh and birthdays are great opportunities for that.  I am always somehow just a little jazzed on my birthday even before I’m hopped up on sugar.  

People say so many nice things to you when it’s your birthday.  The advent of Facebook and Twitter have magnified those opportunities.  People who you forgot you knew throw all kinds of lovely words at you on your birthday.  

I know some people think those internet re-connections are shallow.  I think it’s nice.  And I’m pretty sure that people mean what they say when they are sending a birthday wish.  After all, they make the effort.  That’s nice.  Thoughtful.  Sometimes their words are very generous and they do all sorts of good to my ego.

I even have a couple of friends who send actual greeting cards with handwritten messages in them.  Love that.  To think that they took time before a particular date on the calendar to think of me.  That’s very nice.

There is usually lunch or dinner out on my birthday, too.  Which is fun.  I like any excuse to get together with people I like to be with to laugh and eat.  Presents are totally optional.  But laughter is required.

This year’s “birthday supper” was especially funny to me because I was out to eat with some absolutely fantastic, energetic, faith-filled young people. The fresh generation of leaders who are dedicated to changing the world for good.  They didn’t know it was my birthday until some point during the meal.  I told them they were my party – SURPRISE!  They turned the joke on me by buying my meal and then ordering the chocolate brownie and ice cream with a candle in it and singing to me!  So sweet.  So fun.

I was just trying to not be alone and found myself wrapped up in the kindness of others.  What a great gift.

Reflective is the other side of the coin for my birthday.  More than New Year’s Day, I think of what the year has held and measure where I am compared to where I want to be.  This year held all kinds of public writing since I met the editor of 5ive for Women magazine.  I bought a house, too.  That’s kind of a big deal.  

Some things have stayed the same.  Same job, same car, same quiet lifestyle.  Time seems to go by in flashes of sun and moon and suddenly I’m another year older.

I wonder what my Grandma and Grandpa would think if they saw me now.  Would they be proud?  Would they be comfortable with where I live and who I spend my time with?  What would they think of the focus points of my days?  How would they weigh my actions in light of what they hoped for me?  

More than any other time, birthdays make me think of that kind of thing.

I also think of all the birthday events that have come before.  I don’t compare one to the other.  I lay them out and review them like pictures in a photo album.  Balloons and hugs and flowers and angels and food served in so many places.  And laughter.  Oh my goodness!  Deep, hilarious, soft, chuckling, long and short of it laughter stringing each year’s memory to the next. 

By the way, call me crazy, but God always has it snow a little on my birthday.  I can’t think of a year He has let me down.  It’s like He’s reminding me that whatever the year behind held and whatever time before will bring, He is with me.  That’s nice, too.  

I don’t know how other people see personal holidays, but as for this writer: a birthday is a gift.  As someone told me on Facebook, being older is a gift not granted to many people.  It’s the kind of gift that gets unwrapped, shared, and then tucked away to take out on rainy days.  

I liked my birthday this year.  It held so many quaint moments of generosity.  I hope I am as good to others as they are to me.  

Below zero chill outside.  Frozen stars shimmering in the black winter sky.  Blanket of snow glowing.  

Another birthday passed.  Another milestone reached.  Another day down.

That’s how this writer sees birthdays.

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