Our Father Who Art in Heaven

Lying in bed this morning, I prayed that, and thought of the little girl crying in the back of the bus yesterday, and the other standing solemnly begging at our table at McDonald's. Ira told both girls to go to the Internot (orphanage) where at least there is food, that if she gave them money, they might just use it for drugs or glue.

Bob and Rob and I have been very blessed by our Father in Heaven. Not only do we have friends in America who pray without ceasing for us, but we have smoked salmon and keefer and wonderful daily bread from the Klyeb kiosk down the street. We have bottled water and strength to carry it home. He have a warm 'dom' to stay in.

We have this computer, even though it is four versions behind the one in America and desperately needs a flat, new mouse pad for Christmas. We have this tiny, bright kitchen with its a manual gas stove with two settings, Off and Blowtorch. Three doors down the hall from it is a refrigerator, and next to that is a water closet, and next to it is our pink bathroom. We are in luxury here.

Our Father in Heaven even heard our prayers at the corner of a downtown street, yesterday, when Bob and the little boys did not show up in the other taxi for church. When we were leaving the orphanage and their cab had skidded up at the curb in a puff of dust, I had had my suspicions. But into it they piled, and Ira gave the driver directions. Rob and I and she got into the cab behind them. Their taxi took off at high speed ahead of us and disappeared.

Now there we were waiting and wondering if he had dropped them off at some other church on some other corner. Bob has managed somehow to avoid learning Russian, insisting that the boys were to learn English instead. Since that had not occured as yet, I was worried. But Jesus said, 'I am with you always', so we prayed and waited.

Meanwhile, some of our favorite teenagers, Artour, Alyona, Nina, and Masha from the internot arrived by bus, chattering in Russian, their faces full of questions. Where is Ira? Where is Mr Bob? Where are the boys? Well, Ira had gone searching, and we were waiting. I told them, 'Go on to church. You will be late', but they would not hear of it. "Nyet, nyet! We are your friends. We stay with you!"

Within a few minutes, three smiling guys emerged from the crowded market square on the other side of the street! They had indeed been let off at a church, but when Bob saw the papal symbol on the spire, he knew he was not in Kansas, and that that was not a Presbyterian Church. Thanks to our Father in Heaven for Zhenya, who stood looking around in his thougfhtful way, eventually got his bearing, and led them to where he thought we might be! Some good can come of selling newspapers on the street at the age of eight years... I guess.

We weren't very late for church and the kids all squeezed happily together with their thick jackets onto their bench and we on ours, fiddled to adjust our earphoenes for English. No sooner had we settled, when Tolik appeared, and climbed over Sasha to worm his way next to Bob. Whew!

The singing was lovely and the sermon inspiring, I think, and just as we Americans thought surely the service must be over, the kids all got up, and grabbing their coats took off and out the door to Sunday School class. We adults chatted and soon the kids returned bouyant and animated. Beebla schola had been especially beauuu-tee-ful today.

While they were gone, Our Father in Heaven led Bob and I to a gentleman the kids call Dr Paul, who had in tow a couple of cute third graders from the orphanage. Handsome and shy, dark-eyed Pasha is one of four siblings, and Maxim with the killer dimples is little Andrei's brother, seven months apart (figure that one out!).

Dr Paul was astounded that we were here to adopt Sasha and Zhenya. They were two of his favorite kids, had prayed long for Sasha, who he had seen through 4 surgeries to his ear and 2 to his eyes! He had watched the transformation in Sasha's character as a hurting boy, full of anger at being made fun of had been transformed by love in action, his anger melting away, to reveal the giggling, fun-loving, bouncy Sasha, whose picture we had found in the Natioanl Adoption Center. Oh, the goodness of our God!

Collecting all our crowd, we headed down the busy market day street to Mc Donald's, and the boys found us a group of tables together, where we laughed and ate and took pictures of each other. Said good-bye to Artour, who wanted to visit his sister who works in a bar nearby, we caught the bus back to the internot. On the way I explained to Tolik that he was not to run as usual, when we got off. That Mr Bob had money to pay. Not paying the driver is like breaking one of our heavenly Father's rules about stealing.

Back at the internot we trooped up to the boys' classroom, where down on the floor, we spread out Atyom, the little artist's, picture collection and smiling, wide-eyed Alyosha's schola notebooks. Julia left off knitting her two colored sweater vest, came and lovingly turned the pages of her photo albumn of some people in America who are very dear to her. She presented me with an appliqued potholder she had carefully stitched by hand and by machine 'choo, choo, choo', and showed me her English workbook with the words filled in.

Little Anya made hand signs that her Mama had died, and how she and her 2 brothers, Alyosha and Maxim had come to the orphanage to live. I told her that their dear friend, Babushka Lela, had told me and that I had cried.

It was four o'clock and Bob and Robbie were finished looking at Artyom's medical drawing of the inside of the human head, and signalled to me that it was growing dark and we needed to go. So we hugged as many kids as we could, especially Zhenya and Sasha who led us to the door and watched as we made our way down the dim hallway.

On our way out, we were about to pass two animated teachers, who had a little boy with them. I said hello to the child, having heard that he wrote beautiful letters to his mama in prison. I remembered him ans the boy was so friendly and gave away all his Christmas candy last year, boldly running into the Director's office for more.

One lady, speaking 'little bit English", asked where in America we were from, whether the farmers brought their produce to town in Mississippi, or did we go to the villages to get things. Do the people in the villages wear traditional costumes? How old was I, how many children did I have, who were we adopting, and could we come to meet her husband son and have borsht and dumplings for dinner on Wednesday evening at 6:00?

Yes, of couse we will come. How could we refuse.