Separation anxiety

By the time I’d been in Russia for a week, I was ready to come home. I wanted Coke, my bed, and my shower curtain, for goodness sake! I was ready to be somewhere that I could easily order my own meal or talk with people. I was tired to the very edges of myself of being one of the “crazy Americans.” My time in Russia was wonderful, but it wasn’t home.

Why, then, am I so sad to be gone? I’ll be going about my daily business and suddenly think of something that happened in Russia–a random memory, the way the dessert tasted at the place next to the hotel in Sochi, Phil’s neck massages, the phrase “What’s wrong with your face?’–and I’m suddenly laughing or teary eyed. Sunday morning when we sang the lyric “every tongue, every tribe, every people, every land” it took all I had not to burst into sobs. Because I had seen those people, and I had been there with them. Just a week ago, I was standing in a room full of people who couldn’t speak my language, but they knew my God and they praised Him.

Every once in awhile, when I’m in a busy place, I think that I’ve seen somebody from the Russia trip out of the corner of my eye–Rick from Summit grinning in the periphery, David Buchanan bouncing along ahead of me. Once I saw a guy wearing rolled up pants and thought Denis, our translator, had magically arrived. I can’t do Russia justice in mere words, and I know it. And I hope that I never forget how helpless it felt to be there–completely out of my comfort zone, unable to hold even the simplest conversation with a local because I couldn’t speak the language. More than that, I hope I never forget the way it felt to stand in that simple church, ampitheatre and concert hall and praise God’s greatness with the same people. It didn’t seem like I was doing a lot of “work” for God while I was there, but I know He was there, and He was in it all.

I may never have another chance to go back to Russia, but I cherish this trip and all its memories. A little part of my heart will always be in Russia.