Эмма
How many times have walked down these steps? Hundreds, probably. I’m alone, and my mind is reciting Russian phrases over and over, most of which I don’t understand. Cлава Бога...спасибо большое.
A strong sense of nostalgia is coming over me. The feel of the uneven steps beneath my shoes, the cool, damp air, the faint sound of little Russian voices in other parts of the building, the view of the looming forest-covered mountains all around the camp. I smile.
As I walk out of the dim concrete building I notice some familiar faces on the broken sidewalk. The overwhelming urge to talk to them fills me. “Good morning,” I hear myself say, realizing they can’t understand me. Why am I here? How did I connect with these people last summer, and the summers before that, when we didn’t understand each others’ words? I have to connect with them.
As I approach the building where breakfast, worship, and our morning teaching session awaits me, more people crowd around, some mothers cooing to their young children on the bench, some older kids playing soccer on the front lawn. At the observation of my presence five year old Lianna runs over to me, and as I lift her into my arms, I smell the faint, earthy smell of a little kid who’s been playing outside. Her little arms wrap around my neck and I marvel at how comfortable she has become with me. When I first met her, she would run from me like I was a plague or a monster to be feared. Now, on my fourth short mission trip to her town, she is clinging to me constantly. I wish I could ask her why, but it doesn’t really matter. Her warmth on this cold morning is making me feel comfortable, needed, embraced, special. When she’s like this I feel like I have a specific purpose and I’m grateful for that. It’s her gift to me.
It’s amazing how they grow up right in front of me, in yearlong leaps. I remember Lianna as a two year old, then a three year old, then four, and now five. That right there is one of the driving reasons for my return, and seeing her become so comfortable with me over the years, getting to the point where I hold authority and respect for her, is unbelievable.
I carry Lianna up the stairs to breakfast, her light blue cotton jacket soft in my arms. She’s laying her head on my shoulder like she always does when I carry her, and my body temperature is rising despite the clammy coldness of the air. Suddenly I picture Emma, who contrasted with Lianna seems cold, but whose memory seems more vivid for the contrast.
“Emma, do you wanna make one?” I heard my voice say. I can’t stop talking to her just because she can’t understand me, I reminded myself. I held out some string and grabbed a handful of beads. Every girl likes making necklaces.
She stared right through me, shook her head, and continued looking down at the table. But she wasn’t being defiant, I could tell. She just simply didn’t want to participate. Usually this would make me frustrated, but for some reason I couldn’t be frustrated with the girl in front of me.
“Okay.” I smiled at her. She wasn’t looking, but I wanted to smile anyway. What other adult in her life would?
The smell of clammy fish assaults my senses, and the sight of bread with whole raw fish and cheese before me is making me lose my appetite. Sitting down to breakfast is always either a blessing or a curse, and this morning is turning out to be the latter.
“Welcome to Russia,” I say to no one in particular. Taylor, another American on our mission trip team, smiles at me as I set Lianna down in the chair next to mine.
“Are you hungry?” asks Taylor in his playful yet husky voice, wearing his usual navy tee shirt and jeans. His tan face smirks at me, blue eyes sparkling with humor.
“Not now, I’m not,” I reply, returning his smile. The room is filled with noise and people; families and friends are clustered together at long rectangular tables. Taylor and I usually sit with a group of kids at meals, since we are with them the majority of the day and they speak more English than the adults. Aidar, Stas, and Sergei are having a conversation in Russian, and it seems to be a typical eleven year old boy conversation, complete with sound effects and plenty of energy. Every once in a while they pause and try to include Taylor and me, adding broken English phrases, and teaching us Russian ones. Laughing our way through it, we are trying to connect on each others’ level, trying to breach the culture gap by breaching the language one. Again I picture Emma sitting next to us with her sad, silent face.
I remember meeting Emma, who had shoulder-length brown wavy hair, sad eyes, and a seriousness about her that set her apart from the other children. It was my first trip to Russia, and I was fifteen. Meeting her was like meeting a concrete wall, and I was surprised at how aloof she was. Emma didn’t run around like the others, playing games and laughing with one another. It seemed like something had taken her childhood away, like something took every ounce of joy she had. I paid special attention to Emma that week in July of 2006. I watched as her eyes took in her surroundings with an old, experienced look. She never let me hug her, sit with her, or talk to her. It was almost as if she had lost trust of human beings altogether.
I hear a keyboard and electric guitar start playing as worship begins in the other room. I’m always late to breakfast but I don’t mind at all - the smell is only tolerable for so long. Standing up, I set Lianna on the floor and hold her hand as she leads me into the crowded worship room where I’m greeted by another group of children. A girl named Karina rushes up to me and grabs my hand, pulling me into a circle that spreads around the room in an energetic oval. The worship music is loud, and the circle of people is growing, everyone dancing and jumping and holding hands. It’s infectious, exhausting, and joyful. My spirits are lifting as I join hands with Russians and Americans, worshiping our common God. Worship is one of my favorite things about the week-long Christian camp we’re leading in Karachaevsk. It’s also one of the few things our mission team delegates to the Russians during the week, and they take a lot of pride in leading us in something.
My heart is beating quickly now from the exercise. As the music fades, I breathe in deeply and glance around the room, searching for one face in particular. My eyes zero in on it: middle aged man, brown short hair, slightly crooked smile. Sergei. His father, Sasha, owns the local orphanage of about thirty-five kids. This is the first year I get to teach all the orphans in addition to the church kids. Emma was the only orphan who ever came to camp before this year, and Sergei is the only connection I have with her.
When Emma came to camp with Sergei’s family three summers before, she was nine years old. Last I heard, she had been adopted out of Sergei’s father’s orphanage by a Muslim family in another city. Still, I’m holding out hope she has returned, or at least that Sergei has more information about how she is.
I remember specifically the day she first smiled at me. It was toward the end of the week, and we were out on the soccer field playing with the children. I remember how the clay-like dust hung in the air above the field on that hot day, and how everyone was rolling up their jean bottoms to keep the dirt off. It was horribly sunny, and I sat under a tree to watch the soccer game. Emma sat out as well, perching herself, to my surprise, right beside me.
I had my camera next to me, and I took it out of its black case to take pictures of the game. Emma saw, and motioned to me to let her hold the camera. I let her, and she snapped a few of me, the ground, anything she saw. She was a creative soul, quietly observing everything and capturing it with the lens. I watched as her finger pressed the button on the top of the camera over and over, not stopping to focus the picture, just assuming she was capturing things exactly as she saw them. Finally she handed the camera back to me, and I immediately turned it around to take a picture of her. And then it happened: Emma smiled at me.
It was the biggest smile I had ever seen, especially coming from her, and I was astonished. I quickly snapped the photo and smiled back at her an encouraging smile. I still have that picture at home, her big, uneven nine year old teeth and glittering eyes smiling back at me from a backdrop of a dusty red soccer field. That was the moment I realized that going to Russia and playing with some kids, teaching them about Jesus, and loving them could actually make a difference in their lives. It made a difference to Emma. She had something to smile about.
I grab Valerie, one of our translators, and get Sergei’s attention.
“Where is Emma this year?” I ask in a friendly voice.
Valerie repeats my words in Russian. Sergei speaks back.
“She is with her adoptive family. They are Muslim and do not allow her to come to this Christian camp,” Valerie translates in her perfect British accented English.
“Do you ever talk to her?”
“Yes, sometimes, she is allowed to call the orphanage to say hello. She wants to be at camp; she remembers you. She told me that her Muslim family is trying to make her convert to Islam, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to believe in the God you told her about,” Valerie relates, her small frame leaning on one leg.
At this I am speechless. Is it possible that one week spent at camp can change someone like Emma? Is it possible that the teaching I presented could produce that kind of courage in her?
A strong sense of nostalgia is coming over me. The feel of the uneven steps beneath my shoes, the cool, damp air, the faint sound of little Russian voices in other parts of the building, the view of the looming forest-covered mountains all around the camp. I smile.
As I walk out of the dim concrete building I notice some familiar faces on the broken sidewalk. The overwhelming urge to talk to them fills me. “Good morning,” I hear myself say, realizing they can’t understand me. Why am I here? How did I connect with these people last summer, and the summers before that, when we didn’t understand each others’ words? I have to connect with them.
As I approach the building where breakfast, worship, and our morning teaching session awaits me, more people crowd around, some mothers cooing to their young children on the bench, some older kids playing soccer on the front lawn. At the observation of my presence five year old Lianna runs over to me, and as I lift her into my arms, I smell the faint, earthy smell of a little kid who’s been playing outside. Her little arms wrap around my neck and I marvel at how comfortable she has become with me. When I first met her, she would run from me like I was a plague or a monster to be feared. Now, on my fourth short mission trip to her town, she is clinging to me constantly. I wish I could ask her why, but it doesn’t really matter. Her warmth on this cold morning is making me feel comfortable, needed, embraced, special. When she’s like this I feel like I have a specific purpose and I’m grateful for that. It’s her gift to me.
It’s amazing how they grow up right in front of me, in yearlong leaps. I remember Lianna as a two year old, then a three year old, then four, and now five. That right there is one of the driving reasons for my return, and seeing her become so comfortable with me over the years, getting to the point where I hold authority and respect for her, is unbelievable.
I carry Lianna up the stairs to breakfast, her light blue cotton jacket soft in my arms. She’s laying her head on my shoulder like she always does when I carry her, and my body temperature is rising despite the clammy coldness of the air. Suddenly I picture Emma, who contrasted with Lianna seems cold, but whose memory seems more vivid for the contrast.
“Emma, do you wanna make one?” I heard my voice say. I can’t stop talking to her just because she can’t understand me, I reminded myself. I held out some string and grabbed a handful of beads. Every girl likes making necklaces.
She stared right through me, shook her head, and continued looking down at the table. But she wasn’t being defiant, I could tell. She just simply didn’t want to participate. Usually this would make me frustrated, but for some reason I couldn’t be frustrated with the girl in front of me.
“Okay.” I smiled at her. She wasn’t looking, but I wanted to smile anyway. What other adult in her life would?
The smell of clammy fish assaults my senses, and the sight of bread with whole raw fish and cheese before me is making me lose my appetite. Sitting down to breakfast is always either a blessing or a curse, and this morning is turning out to be the latter.
“Welcome to Russia,” I say to no one in particular. Taylor, another American on our mission trip team, smiles at me as I set Lianna down in the chair next to mine.
“Are you hungry?” asks Taylor in his playful yet husky voice, wearing his usual navy tee shirt and jeans. His tan face smirks at me, blue eyes sparkling with humor.
“Not now, I’m not,” I reply, returning his smile. The room is filled with noise and people; families and friends are clustered together at long rectangular tables. Taylor and I usually sit with a group of kids at meals, since we are with them the majority of the day and they speak more English than the adults. Aidar, Stas, and Sergei are having a conversation in Russian, and it seems to be a typical eleven year old boy conversation, complete with sound effects and plenty of energy. Every once in a while they pause and try to include Taylor and me, adding broken English phrases, and teaching us Russian ones. Laughing our way through it, we are trying to connect on each others’ level, trying to breach the culture gap by breaching the language one. Again I picture Emma sitting next to us with her sad, silent face.
I remember meeting Emma, who had shoulder-length brown wavy hair, sad eyes, and a seriousness about her that set her apart from the other children. It was my first trip to Russia, and I was fifteen. Meeting her was like meeting a concrete wall, and I was surprised at how aloof she was. Emma didn’t run around like the others, playing games and laughing with one another. It seemed like something had taken her childhood away, like something took every ounce of joy she had. I paid special attention to Emma that week in July of 2006. I watched as her eyes took in her surroundings with an old, experienced look. She never let me hug her, sit with her, or talk to her. It was almost as if she had lost trust of human beings altogether.
I hear a keyboard and electric guitar start playing as worship begins in the other room. I’m always late to breakfast but I don’t mind at all - the smell is only tolerable for so long. Standing up, I set Lianna on the floor and hold her hand as she leads me into the crowded worship room where I’m greeted by another group of children. A girl named Karina rushes up to me and grabs my hand, pulling me into a circle that spreads around the room in an energetic oval. The worship music is loud, and the circle of people is growing, everyone dancing and jumping and holding hands. It’s infectious, exhausting, and joyful. My spirits are lifting as I join hands with Russians and Americans, worshiping our common God. Worship is one of my favorite things about the week-long Christian camp we’re leading in Karachaevsk. It’s also one of the few things our mission team delegates to the Russians during the week, and they take a lot of pride in leading us in something.
My heart is beating quickly now from the exercise. As the music fades, I breathe in deeply and glance around the room, searching for one face in particular. My eyes zero in on it: middle aged man, brown short hair, slightly crooked smile. Sergei. His father, Sasha, owns the local orphanage of about thirty-five kids. This is the first year I get to teach all the orphans in addition to the church kids. Emma was the only orphan who ever came to camp before this year, and Sergei is the only connection I have with her.
When Emma came to camp with Sergei’s family three summers before, she was nine years old. Last I heard, she had been adopted out of Sergei’s father’s orphanage by a Muslim family in another city. Still, I’m holding out hope she has returned, or at least that Sergei has more information about how she is.
I remember specifically the day she first smiled at me. It was toward the end of the week, and we were out on the soccer field playing with the children. I remember how the clay-like dust hung in the air above the field on that hot day, and how everyone was rolling up their jean bottoms to keep the dirt off. It was horribly sunny, and I sat under a tree to watch the soccer game. Emma sat out as well, perching herself, to my surprise, right beside me.
I had my camera next to me, and I took it out of its black case to take pictures of the game. Emma saw, and motioned to me to let her hold the camera. I let her, and she snapped a few of me, the ground, anything she saw. She was a creative soul, quietly observing everything and capturing it with the lens. I watched as her finger pressed the button on the top of the camera over and over, not stopping to focus the picture, just assuming she was capturing things exactly as she saw them. Finally she handed the camera back to me, and I immediately turned it around to take a picture of her. And then it happened: Emma smiled at me.
It was the biggest smile I had ever seen, especially coming from her, and I was astonished. I quickly snapped the photo and smiled back at her an encouraging smile. I still have that picture at home, her big, uneven nine year old teeth and glittering eyes smiling back at me from a backdrop of a dusty red soccer field. That was the moment I realized that going to Russia and playing with some kids, teaching them about Jesus, and loving them could actually make a difference in their lives. It made a difference to Emma. She had something to smile about.
I grab Valerie, one of our translators, and get Sergei’s attention.
“Where is Emma this year?” I ask in a friendly voice.
Valerie repeats my words in Russian. Sergei speaks back.
“She is with her adoptive family. They are Muslim and do not allow her to come to this Christian camp,” Valerie translates in her perfect British accented English.
“Do you ever talk to her?”
“Yes, sometimes, she is allowed to call the orphanage to say hello. She wants to be at camp; she remembers you. She told me that her Muslim family is trying to make her convert to Islam, but she doesn’t want to. She wants to believe in the God you told her about,” Valerie relates, her small frame leaning on one leg.
At this I am speechless. Is it possible that one week spent at camp can change someone like Emma? Is it possible that the teaching I presented could produce that kind of courage in her?
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