tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11855498516824528072024-03-23T03:16:38.236-07:00Flood PlainTravel postings, thought pieces, personal perspectives.James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.comBlogger179125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-41718920523713509002024-03-04T08:43:00.000-08:002024-03-04T08:43:30.158-08:00Mending Fences, Pt 2: Frost Heaves<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p>[Part II: Frost Heaves, a Coda, if you will, to the February 23, 2024 post on the human costs of building walls.]<br /> <br /></p><p></p><p> <span> </span>It would be unfair to leave my parsing of "Mending Wall" (in my February 23rd post) without giving a bit more voice to a few elements that shed additional light on Robert Frost's thinking, his philosophical leanings, and his superb craftsmanship. The appearance of narrative and descriptive simplicity in "Mending Wall" is a Frost trademark; that is a primary reason we all find his poems so attractive. But that very simplicity embodies a more complex, nuanced set of attitudes and ideas. Frost as "frost heave" -- personal belief as 'force of nature' -- is just one example of Frost's layered technique.</p><p><span> </span>It's easy enough to note that "good fences make good neighbors." Often quoted, this sentiment is both a traditional <i>cliche</i> that smacks of medieval thinking and an unexamined home-grown <i>proverb</i>. We might think it is the notion <i>we are expected to embrace</i> because it is up-front, straightforward, and plain-spoken at the end of the poem. It is, to use a modern figure of speech, the "take away."</p><p><span> </span>Well, yes and no. Noting Frost's low opinion of walls takes the idea one step further, the notion enhanced by his descriptive language regarding his stone-age neighbor who resolutely embraces the fence/good neighbor ideal. That was the gist of my last post.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yhLHKWgVXzRElqaFlqPzpgGR1zHdP5vQKvh5ltaEsNSMXdI5yke7OeuKSZCD4nqz3bvHZuAPQmyZwSMZbH0L3qvgkrb4Cg_HdvoZemmujsY1x3X-6mkB7fmjVyveW8kT31PIhZSk_fpVzbAWB0W79KeDZUwYK_3qX0jRP_VnfM-qap9QKh2kcrv3Avso/s480/IMG_6997.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9yhLHKWgVXzRElqaFlqPzpgGR1zHdP5vQKvh5ltaEsNSMXdI5yke7OeuKSZCD4nqz3bvHZuAPQmyZwSMZbH0L3qvgkrb4Cg_HdvoZemmujsY1x3X-6mkB7fmjVyveW8kT31PIhZSk_fpVzbAWB0W79KeDZUwYK_3qX0jRP_VnfM-qap9QKh2kcrv3Avso/w400-h400/IMG_6997.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><p><span> </span>If we understand Frost's opposition to fences making good neighbors, we ought to be surprised by his, or the narrator's, participation in the annual ritual of <i>rebuilding</i> the wall. Since neither neighbor <i>needs</i> the wall for land or crop protection and since neither <i>needs</i> the wall as a repository for stones pulled from fields being prepared for crops, the exercise of setting tumbled rocks back onto the rock wall has no immediate agricultural, privacy, or security function. </p><p><span> </span>Frost is right, the wall is not necessary between civilized people living next to each other. Civilized neighbors don't need walls.</p><p><span> </span>What the annual rebuilding of the stone walls does require, oddly enough, is cooperation, a willingness to compromise, and an understanding of working together. Good fences that bring us together to work in peace toward a common goal, shared labor, and maintaining a land feature that enhances both domains. In other words, it is an activity that benefits both while costing little more than a few hours, a bit of labor, some wear and tear on the hands, and a desire to keep the peace. </p><p> <span> </span>I won't push this notion far enough to suggest that Frost had Christian leanings, but I will argue that the narrator in "Mending Wall" was acting under the broadly understood Christian principle of "love your neighbor as yourself." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRhh9Uqv7MI5IJ4ry81PYMM8kV1nQiAhQhP-0E5fNQkePQeZ5LjO2bmAn2PjiLq4ENm0amL-zEEm3XYDDPOxRHl7ZAgE6M8pytNmvFSdiGTFMRGI0iAFHGQerQlJefzcfMH8L5ztstR9ScWxmxHCVEQ2Dzw-VaUrsYNPqabkKb_-qQSaSEIZznufAqkah/s4000/IMG_6608.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKRhh9Uqv7MI5IJ4ry81PYMM8kV1nQiAhQhP-0E5fNQkePQeZ5LjO2bmAn2PjiLq4ENm0amL-zEEm3XYDDPOxRHl7ZAgE6M8pytNmvFSdiGTFMRGI0iAFHGQerQlJefzcfMH8L5ztstR9ScWxmxHCVEQ2Dzw-VaUrsYNPqabkKb_-qQSaSEIZznufAqkah/w640-h480/IMG_6608.JPG" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span> </span>Frost's wall -- in this instance not a wall built out of fear nor out of a misplaced sense of political expedience -- constitutes a shared wall, restored for the common good through common labor and a spirit of good will. A wall meant to bridge, if you will, to unify rather than to divide. A wall that allows both neighbors to maintain their identities, even as they remain congenial with one another. Now <i>that</i>, I would argue, is an extraordinary example of how we might find common cause in an age characterized by rigidity, misplaced virtue, orchestrated fear, and, frankly, arrogance.<br /></p><p></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-5159594964227153932024-02-23T07:07:00.000-08:002024-02-23T07:07:23.400-08:00Building Walls, Mending Fences, Engaging Force Fields<p><i><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></i> <br /></p><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i><span> </span><span> </span>Something there is that does<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span><span><span><span><span style="text-decoration: none;">n’t</span></span></span></span></span></span> love a wall,<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>And spills the upper boulders in the sun;<br /></i></div><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.</i><p> <span> </span>I am embarrassed to admit that I have not always understood the first lines of Robert Frost's familiar poem "Mending Wall" to embody a joke of sorts. After all, despite the initial general reference to "something," the poem does provide a number of plausible answers for the question "why walls tend to fall down?" "Something" is not terribly useful in helping us understand what might be behind the "frozen-ground-swell[s]" that are responsible. But perhaps we'll find satisfactory explanation before the poem ends.<br /></p><p><span> </span>"Mending Wall," of course, concerns free-standing stone fences erected years and years ago by New England farmers to clear their fields of rocks. Few things make plowing and planting as difficult as rocky soil. As a teenager during my summer job as farm labor, I spent many hours "picking rocks" out of fields that we had "harvested" rocks from just the summer before. We threw our potato sized rocks into the bucket of a front-end loader before dumping the bucket in piles just off the field.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJuWAiLel4TMkSm5nYlLfhQ203ddIBUf_ivaZH9bhHJ_fPXc5OE8CusB1Y-7VZUD3hM46zoK9JVjajz0OkAwKAp9OvfYBhBafD39QU0aMF4qAdkrFJjeKH7JB2_0DRGx4Fltt9672-87G8OA_-cuEHKdCgbCDyWgsIR9N_yEl-0031TEhyphenhyphenBszSl2SaOrnd/s2832/Geumgang%20Mountain%20in%20May%20044.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJuWAiLel4TMkSm5nYlLfhQ203ddIBUf_ivaZH9bhHJ_fPXc5OE8CusB1Y-7VZUD3hM46zoK9JVjajz0OkAwKAp9OvfYBhBafD39QU0aMF4qAdkrFJjeKH7JB2_0DRGx4Fltt9672-87G8OA_-cuEHKdCgbCDyWgsIR9N_yEl-0031TEhyphenhyphenBszSl2SaOrnd/w400-h300/Geumgang%20Mountain%20in%20May%20044.JPG" width="400" /></a><p></p><p><span> </span>Today, we think of those walls built before our time as decorative rather than functional, so this poem, which dates from 1914, is instructional as to how farmers might have regarded their stone walls and the work needed to keep them in place. We can all grasp the practical solution of replacing stones that have fallen during the winter.</p><p><span> </span>Other cultures have used walls to achieve particular ends, often as fortification walls. We visited walls along the mountain tops above the Korean port of Busan, built in older times as a bulwark against invaders from the sea. Korea faced frequent attempts to invade their peninsula both from China via the mainland, and from Japan, among others, from the sea. The wall could be manned by soldiers or watchmen, ships could be identified as trading vessels or as foreign invaders before they reached the harbor, and signal fires could be lit to send an alarm quickly from watchtower to watchtower.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfFqI77FvOJ_vO6SGMCEKEdWJ5TeuYTZhVEVE-URILuzEVSpmx-cHEFGuGMYZ_cfrQRafnWKsIiSPxXZxj277bMrq7yHVqBLWjTT9aC42ncI2de1MwkPdaPApUj5gDS4dmAATK7FnCpd9QDYyZDpX3mh1rL6KRNioKYQs5Dh9MLKDnp5mQLGINsVNpw2c/s2832/Geumgang%20Mountain%20in%20May%20045.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSfFqI77FvOJ_vO6SGMCEKEdWJ5TeuYTZhVEVE-URILuzEVSpmx-cHEFGuGMYZ_cfrQRafnWKsIiSPxXZxj277bMrq7yHVqBLWjTT9aC42ncI2de1MwkPdaPApUj5gDS4dmAATK7FnCpd9QDYyZDpX3mh1rL6KRNioKYQs5Dh9MLKDnp5mQLGINsVNpw2c/w400-h300/Geumgang%20Mountain%20in%20May%20045.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>Our word "fortification" is often code language for keeping the barbarians at bay. "Barbarian" itself is code for many other undesirable things beginning with "foreign," "alien," "other," "not us." While we don't always take this coded language further, what the words clearly imply are things like murder, rape, pillage, destruction, loss of what is ours. Those "protected" by the wall also see it as a means of securing identity and, perhaps, of controlling the population or regulating trade.</p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYEoNOevy2iid209V9EuuMQFeiGjdoI-UKyP8cFcUcDb7O0dbvRD2A97Pv8hi11VNiyeizhfZFI6u8NHY81n2oQyvq0nsrXK5lw0y7Z0zQIfdOX5bOfQwWKNz5p_AwQ9djxaRMmN0FE29xL0_Xpa8lYUTkztTd9e4YJCNRLNV3Ee48umHRL8lbiBhVN2X/s2832/Beomeosa%20Temple%20039.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="2128" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOYEoNOevy2iid209V9EuuMQFeiGjdoI-UKyP8cFcUcDb7O0dbvRD2A97Pv8hi11VNiyeizhfZFI6u8NHY81n2oQyvq0nsrXK5lw0y7Z0zQIfdOX5bOfQwWKNz5p_AwQ9djxaRMmN0FE29xL0_Xpa8lYUTkztTd9e4YJCNRLNV3Ee48umHRL8lbiBhVN2X/w480-h640/Beomeosa%20Temple%20039.JPG" width="480" /></a><p><span> </span>It is easy to think here of some famous walls from antiquity built to serve these functions. Hadrian's Wall, which runs east and west across northern England, is one. Remnants of that wall are a special attraction these days, especially for those interested in Roman ruins. The Romans built great walls. And roadways. And baths. We might have ventured further north to see a part of Hadrian's Wall this last September while visiting in Chester -- had I not gotten sick. </p><p><span> </span>The Great Wall of China, which dwarfs Hadrian's Wall in every way, is another famous "security" wall of ancient construction. We have not seen the Great Wall on our visits to China, but we were able to walk along side of a small scale-model of that wall at an outdoor theme park in Shenzhen called "Splendid China." This miniature was built with meticulous care and precision.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvQCRY-09Nf1NUmXzuF0HwxUOu5C2W9OcY2yMuVMc_Z6goyS8YDy3XfGVOTR-eSzkAOvvL1kQ8eq5_GSoHsxuKX2UZVSm5JYG_JZBMkkQrkQah09ds_jzwxuHDPeCc2PPBFSQ8Mn-hqY8BvINh0M8e53P0NFaMs2sbRgaGEJsOK2NKLPwA0EMxjv1rheo/s2832/China%20-%20Splendid%20China%20-%20A%20041.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1888" data-original-width="2832" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHvQCRY-09Nf1NUmXzuF0HwxUOu5C2W9OcY2yMuVMc_Z6goyS8YDy3XfGVOTR-eSzkAOvvL1kQ8eq5_GSoHsxuKX2UZVSm5JYG_JZBMkkQrkQah09ds_jzwxuHDPeCc2PPBFSQ8Mn-hqY8BvINh0M8e53P0NFaMs2sbRgaGEJsOK2NKLPwA0EMxjv1rheo/w400-h266/China%20-%20Splendid%20China%20-%20A%20041.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>It's not the same experience, of course; but with a little imagination one can get a feel for what the Great Wall entails. The actual Great Wall is visible from space, after all. In addition to the usual reasons regarding barbarians, the Great Wall was also built as a way of hemming in various tribal and ethnic regions to create one "unified" China. The "one China" effort we see today has ancient roots in Chinese history. What struck me in visiting this scale model -- and what has struck me in other places we have visited with architectural and artistic "ruins" -- was the cost of these projects in terms of human lives.</p><p><span> </span>These costs are not part of the PR associated with the tourist experience but one can easily find educated estimates of lives lost during construction. In a quick check regarding number of deaths attributed to building the Great Wall, I kept finding 400,000 popping up in numerous sources, although, of course, it is impossible to get a finely calibrated death toll. <br /></p><p><span> </span>Although they are not walls, many of the famous ancient monuments we saw in Egypt or the fairly recently discovered clay soldier excavations at Xi'an, China, are testament not just to human ingenuity and engineering brilliance, but also to servitude, suffering, and loss of life. It would seem to be a human tendency to look away from human costs in favor of the bright and impressive objects. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEjdvoJU6ldLn2TjgogQT8AefsCGez58PJbOBQa18I2v8vOgcY75d9A2k5AH64QtRvzWlYNRb8pQfqU8Mys-SfBEMBDBUca1QF54m02BBcyoJ7mm2QDXPo2Pe1Qeqh-8acr11EU8A604_P5flZxbW3T5PkkuJMbzoRief7FK0ussT0jserYsNz9X5LAOv/s480/IMG_4996.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUEjdvoJU6ldLn2TjgogQT8AefsCGez58PJbOBQa18I2v8vOgcY75d9A2k5AH64QtRvzWlYNRb8pQfqU8Mys-SfBEMBDBUca1QF54m02BBcyoJ7mm2QDXPo2Pe1Qeqh-8acr11EU8A604_P5flZxbW3T5PkkuJMbzoRief7FK0ussT0jserYsNz9X5LAOv/w400-h400/IMG_4996.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span> </span>The human cost of building, maintaining, and staffing walls with soldiers, watchmen, messengers, trades people and suppliers of all sorts has always proven enormous -- even when the construction itself performs as intended, which, I would argue, is rarely the case. At least they do not appear to perform well for long. "Something there is that doesn't love a wall."<br /></p><p><span> </span>Another trait many of these walls and ruins share with each other is that they were constructed under authoritarian rule. There may be rare exceptions to this generalization, but I don't know of too many. Even the "necessary" wall above Busan was likely built with conscripted labor. The lives of those pressed into labor were not often much different from the day-to-day lives of those who lived within the wall's protection except for the shortened life-expectancy of laborers. This fact in itself would suggest a causal rather than a coincidental link between authoritarianism and the compulsion to build walls.</p><p><span> </span>In recent years, perhaps because we know more about them, barrier walls have a rather more complicated track record. The "wall of separation" put up by Israel in the West Bank to hinder Palestinian suicide attacks seems to have worked for that specific problem; the wall of separation has, in fact, seriously reduced the number of suicide bombers. And we know that Israel operates as a democracy not an autocracy, although the wall has been controversial.<br /></p><p><span> </span>Still, one would be remiss to regard even this wall as a permanent solution because one consequence of the wall is that Jewish Israelis and Palestinian Israelis are no longer able to <i>know</i> each other. The wall sunders daily interactions; it negates community. Citizens on both sides of the wall no longer know each other well. This actualized appeal to separation leads to ignorance, ignorance to suspicion, suspicion to falsehood and fear, fear to grievance, violence, and calls for vengeance. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWM-9Ibrj6iRIq2-5fH4XBY6Z6pEQAIu_mryDGR3t-72NI14C0qRvQdsj2NkwWl4wpodKrbFzPg8VL98bQf1cgFfM_8a2QflR2FNozCQFp1G0SgndBRvNdlMoU48Q2nV-LK4YNyTksBoL-FiSVbDlA_wujZas97_mE7dJD9t9hz4IFC_pFMFb10gqLTeMM/s4032/IMG_1191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWM-9Ibrj6iRIq2-5fH4XBY6Z6pEQAIu_mryDGR3t-72NI14C0qRvQdsj2NkwWl4wpodKrbFzPg8VL98bQf1cgFfM_8a2QflR2FNozCQFp1G0SgndBRvNdlMoU48Q2nV-LK4YNyTksBoL-FiSVbDlA_wujZas97_mE7dJD9t9hz4IFC_pFMFb10gqLTeMM/w300-h400/IMG_1191.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span>Think October 7th at the southern border as, perhaps, an unintended consequence.<p></p><p><span> </span>Other "security" walls built within my lifetime would include the Berlin wall. A particularly notorious part of the "iron curtain," the Berlin Wall was an attempt to keep some Germans out of East Berlin and other Germans in. The Berlin wall was famously opposed by American Presidents of both parties, namely, John Kennedy and Ronald Reagan. This wall, built of cinder block, topped with razor wire, and bordered by kill zones, was simply a hard manifestation of the hard borders we associate with the Soviet Union. Same intentions, same functions, same infliction of lethal punishment on those within <i>and</i> without who dared cross it.</p><p><span> </span>If you are thinking that the iron curtain also has more than a passing resemblance to the much-called-for tall steel border wall along the Rio Grande, you are right. Envisioned by some as "security" for those of us privileged enough to live north of our southern border, it can have a visceral appeal. Thinking that such a wall will protect us, however, is simply wrong. Protection is not that singular nor that simple. The problems that need fixing are much larger and more complex than "great wall" can accommodate. </p><p><span> </span>"Something there is that doesn't love a wall," the poet wrote. I understand the poem, mostly, but I missed the joke. More recently, I got it. The joke. The statement. The alignment. The "frost" pun as personal statement. The joke in those lines is that the "Something" is "frost," as in Frost himself, a force of enlightened thinking <i>and</i> a force of Nature. It's not really funny, but it is telling.<br /></p><p><span> </span>If you are in doubt as to the force of the narrative, you might find it illuminating to read the end of "Mending Wall," noting especially how Frost characterizes the neighbor who keeps insisting that the wall be rebuilt<i> </i><span>every spring.</span><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><span> </span></i><i><br /></i></p><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span>I see him there </i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i> Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>He moves in darkness as it seems to me,<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>Not of woods only and the shade of trees.<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>He will not go behind his father<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span><span><span><span><span style="text-decoration: none;">’</span></span></span></span></span></span>s saying,<br /></i></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>And he likes having thought of it so well<br /></i></div><i>
<span> </span><span> </span>He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’<br /></i><br />James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-1980481479814709082024-02-03T07:06:00.000-08:002024-02-03T07:06:41.040-08:00After all, it's a small world<p><span> </span>We did not visit the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ) along the 38th Parallel during our five months in Korea in 2011, despite (or maybe because of) the fact that tours were taking tourists far enough north to "see" into North Korea. We had opportunities, I suppose; several times we traveled to Seoul from our community in Busan on the KTX. We might have ventured further, but neither of us felt lured by the opportunity to view forbidden land to the north. And the idea that a buffer zone between warring countries could be viewed as a form of entertainment was unsettling.</p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6yoSqzw0znA5FQP_jaf1VU69Do3SqzS6jMLXuMRw8Pfi7OEk9FVzUjI_gL-YcctTOtw2QHGg3gmKVYTxOC5CgNykFW_e0BNYW1hqJILiAxHP0M_g6Pjfzknx2XvyYpdZr6laUyJWu7dj3Q75ifwbdGQ-Bnxwbu20s_VgZIP9vxjYPEn4eriQo_zyloo6/s2832/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20337.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp6yoSqzw0znA5FQP_jaf1VU69Do3SqzS6jMLXuMRw8Pfi7OEk9FVzUjI_gL-YcctTOtw2QHGg3gmKVYTxOC5CgNykFW_e0BNYW1hqJILiAxHP0M_g6Pjfzknx2XvyYpdZr6laUyJWu7dj3Q75ifwbdGQ-Bnxwbu20s_VgZIP9vxjYPEn4eriQo_zyloo6/w400-h300/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20337.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span> </span>Busan, where we were living in a graduate student dorm, lies within the Pusan Perimeter, which was the small corner of the Korean Peninsula around the port of Pusan not overrun by the North during the 1950-53 hot war. Among other things, Busan (then Pusan) was the seat of the ROK Provisional Government, backed by the UN. The government returned to Seoul once it was following General Douglas McArthur's famously risky and famously successful sea landing at Incheon. That was September 15, 1950.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOCMbwdWqVb97mcWybCAxLNrkeqvAPUhSOpL3hPSEOFWM7DDjVipc2RrvqTNzKMSkXZLoeCuDcXdd1e9nwhgx6fY5NCSRjU-JFyG1PL27TlcA2G_crMTVF6-1-sfyjWLQWsOC6XQBt-bW5b-t4aGRjMK8D7dWfdFxxF8mJE7hH1Pq0M5HJSzwXqwXqfbR/s2832/5-3%20provisional%20capitol%20025.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="2128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisOCMbwdWqVb97mcWybCAxLNrkeqvAPUhSOpL3hPSEOFWM7DDjVipc2RrvqTNzKMSkXZLoeCuDcXdd1e9nwhgx6fY5NCSRjU-JFyG1PL27TlcA2G_crMTVF6-1-sfyjWLQWsOC6XQBt-bW5b-t4aGRjMK8D7dWfdFxxF8mJE7hH1Pq0M5HJSzwXqwXqfbR/w300-h400/5-3%20provisional%20capitol%20025.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> <span> </span>During our all-too-brief residence in Korea, our interest both in my teaching assignment and with our living situation was to <i>live and work among </i>Koreans. This meant, of course, that we were able to see, hear, and rub shoulders with more Koreans -- to <i>be</i> Korean as much as possible. We had specifically requested we not be put in an American compound.<br /></p><p><span> </span>We were only in country about five months, but our observations during that time confirmed over and over that during the 1950-53 war in Korea <i>everyone suffered. </i>Even those who never left Pusan or who had fled to the relatively protected area around Pusan itself suffered <i>unimaginably</i>.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWcbx-8wNkDGn9R7kzO6Q7VVj7Z37XDFGFAJ7cBoU24BqoerGgpFioI6KsAddIXt0ydGVkCjwtLFlRsYls2oPysBM87Or2BS3_lsieIPtj2RWKat5KjjPW24eQ_5ITxTIG5sm-XLNPIlFqepVJg4CCBANqtEtBkT46KKvoQWVYWXfrPztk9njv66uLkgr/s2832/5-3%20provisional%20capitol%20016.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMWcbx-8wNkDGn9R7kzO6Q7VVj7Z37XDFGFAJ7cBoU24BqoerGgpFioI6KsAddIXt0ydGVkCjwtLFlRsYls2oPysBM87Or2BS3_lsieIPtj2RWKat5KjjPW24eQ_5ITxTIG5sm-XLNPIlFqepVJg4CCBANqtEtBkT46KKvoQWVYWXfrPztk9njv66uLkgr/w400-h300/5-3%20provisional%20capitol%20016.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>It is interesting to me that all the stories I have read about that period, especially those written <i>by</i> Koreans, speak to the overwhelming fear, deprivation, uncertainty, unnecessary loss of life, and stress all Koreans experienced. My first Korean "war novel" was Wan-Suh Park's <i>Who Ate Up all the Shinga? </i>While"shinga" a "survival food" (think, perhaps, dandelion greens) that ordinary people might forage, Park's novel describes the unrelenting horrors and losses experienced by one family, caught as they were between armies from the North and armies from the South. It is a heartbreaking read.</p><p><span> </span>The Korean University students I taught were unwilling on the whole to write about this period of war. Many had been shielded from its horrors to the point of ignorance; most just wanted to leave the past alone. I understand that reluctance. Nevertheless, some were forthcoming when asked to describe their grandparents' lives, especially in terms of how grandparents' lives differed from their own. I can't begin to catalog the varieties of hardship, violence, oppression, deprivation, and suffering that surfaced in these stories. In some cases the grandparents had long ago gone silent, taking their horrors with them. </p><p><span> </span>I have no personal experience that even remotely compares, yet my heart was <i>and is</i> battered over and over again. How could it not be so?<br /></p><p><span> Other countries </span>I have lived in or visited -- China, Russia, Egypt, France, the UK, even my own country, the US -- bear the scars of war in visible ways. I have visited battlefields and memorials. I have read accounts. I have seen photographs. I have friends whose lives have been damaged by combat in wars during my own lifetime. I have pieced together comments and observations from many sources. Sometimes there is chest-thumping and the self-congratulation. Official histories can read that way; the old adage that victors write the histories is true enough. Sometimes, the accounts call for vengeance; they-did-it-first finger-pointing, calls for retaliation and retribution frequently underlay these arguments instead of clear-eyed reasoning. Truth-telling, capital "T" Truth, is usually a first casualty.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9-7KFBzKpXNUA46L-6OPP9sFBJWkQOiOEeCDbso_Y_r351PLrfPx2gC383VwqvhV4PvKTwIpKpSJUFc6ulfDeGx2aDYiN6-XfZTHJfmBM2_auM4nrWBKrILNy-oa_NXmiepWp7WYKkAGmvo-CGMkb3nGJfZaDEZfqVL0cTBUCjRktu_de21pkBc8wv1y/s2749/UNMCK%20031.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1541" data-original-width="2749" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9-7KFBzKpXNUA46L-6OPP9sFBJWkQOiOEeCDbso_Y_r351PLrfPx2gC383VwqvhV4PvKTwIpKpSJUFc6ulfDeGx2aDYiN6-XfZTHJfmBM2_auM4nrWBKrILNy-oa_NXmiepWp7WYKkAGmvo-CGMkb3nGJfZaDEZfqVL0cTBUCjRktu_de21pkBc8wv1y/w640-h358/UNMCK%20031.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><i> </i>While it may be true that some few wars are actually necessary, the UN defense of South Korea being one perhaps, no war is a <i>good</i> war, a <i>clean</i> war. We visited the UN Cemetery in Busan while we were there. Twice, in fact. It had the same sobering, heart-wrenching effect on me as our visit to the American Cemetery in Normandy in October 2018. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjA87mp57cxZvO9NC5h6h1mKaixEAgrSHvL1rOeJPUIOC90GCHMAy_IgWqRuDdqt1qPBTJsHbw6lQhBFc0un9uv31r-NMlvSoX6mnm5a0yHfsQko6bbns-LTMx_f0g90BDYFr8CvhslRjuhl4J4UtvRTaN6BRZcGDYrJHEMAa-h3L5P5WChWU4XKAj9zjS/s2832/UNMCK%20015.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="2128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjA87mp57cxZvO9NC5h6h1mKaixEAgrSHvL1rOeJPUIOC90GCHMAy_IgWqRuDdqt1qPBTJsHbw6lQhBFc0un9uv31r-NMlvSoX6mnm5a0yHfsQko6bbns-LTMx_f0g90BDYFr8CvhslRjuhl4J4UtvRTaN6BRZcGDYrJHEMAa-h3L5P5WChWU4XKAj9zjS/w300-h400/UNMCK%20015.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> <br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p><span> </span>Objectively, <i>all wars</i> produce a common set of facts: soldiers die, civilians die, babies and old people die, cities are destroyed, lives are ruined, traditions and ways of life are obliterated, farmland is rendered toxic with landmines and other residue from the war effort. And <i>everyone</i>, civilians especially, pays an extraordinary price in suffering.</p><p><span> </span>All of my observations lead me to this question: If war is so universally reprehensible and its punishments so widely catastrophic, why is the alternative, <i>peace</i>, such a hard idea to grasp? </p><p><span> </span>This is not a moment for finger pointing nor for posturing -- neither will bring an end to killing and suffering. To state it differently, does it really surprise anyone that the current war in the middle east is intractable if the starting point for both sides is annihilation of the other? The same question can be asked of other violent conflicts, as even partisans should know. Surely, there is enough blame to go around to account for the present state of our troubled world. None of us can claim absolutely to have clean hands. </p><p><span> </span>Isn't our troubled world the same world mentioned in the first phrase of John 3:16 -- this world that God loved <i>so, so much</i> that he intervened in human history? Why is it so hard to understand that strength, power -- whatever its forms -- comes with enormous responsibilities? Or that peace require we step into the breach, as it were -- that we become <i>agents</i> of peace?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FnpIAsfD6T-E1rKIg9-NXuiTV4nPFjN9DDfQzr1Va-3L692g6rvH6L_ua9EsOqOyrEKJ35PiVYMNtdk6ia21ctno5uQNrt_m2yyZuyEZFRckkWM8yf1zdseSe9pqBOWrgUGcoo6_v2m_vqN7TZPYAicJPu3edZahpF_6lVrAnEZppudGq8nS5WeLDsoj/s2832/UNMCK%20033.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="2128" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3FnpIAsfD6T-E1rKIg9-NXuiTV4nPFjN9DDfQzr1Va-3L692g6rvH6L_ua9EsOqOyrEKJ35PiVYMNtdk6ia21ctno5uQNrt_m2yyZuyEZFRckkWM8yf1zdseSe9pqBOWrgUGcoo6_v2m_vqN7TZPYAicJPu3edZahpF_6lVrAnEZppudGq8nS5WeLDsoj/w480-h640/UNMCK%20033.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Why do we find it easier to build bunkers and shroud them with barbed wire to protect our "security" than to put on kindness, generosity, compassion, understanding -- to allow ourselves to be vulnerable for the sake of the common good? Why do we frame our positions in terms of abstractions and absolutes, ensuring war remains inevitable and intractable?</p><p><span> </span>For those of us who identify as Christian: why do we insist on practicing our faith selectively? Why do we pick and choose from Scripture what seems to support <i>our </i>position, especially in the political arena, and ignore the weightier matters of mercy and justice and faithfulness? Why are we so quick to draw an absolute line between I and we? between us and them? <br /></p><p><span> </span>Unless we value ceremonies in the military cemeteries over lives of preventable suffering in our own time, we need to take responsibility. We who so eagerly and quickly embrace grace for ourselves are called out when we cruelly deny it to others. If we excuse that behavior, shame on us. Shame on me. Shame on you. Shame on <i>all of us</i>.</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a4eFWZBR6P9hp9X29o0jchQvG2_K02VvUxFIbNbO5yIumUULPhgfxFSEBHBKOr43RcWHbIzeygWZU3iK-X28en51qoOk867ZMn3U8BVw64aLc6ct3Uwqu9pUzo8qAUt1F7v2pcn4sfWa_9Bb3wGEgtDpmOrgPTtxcMoVcfqgNLwrJGFZzSL_dlHFoSNw/s4000/IMG_5843.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5a4eFWZBR6P9hp9X29o0jchQvG2_K02VvUxFIbNbO5yIumUULPhgfxFSEBHBKOr43RcWHbIzeygWZU3iK-X28en51qoOk867ZMn3U8BVw64aLc6ct3Uwqu9pUzo8qAUt1F7v2pcn4sfWa_9Bb3wGEgtDpmOrgPTtxcMoVcfqgNLwrJGFZzSL_dlHFoSNw/w640-h480/IMG_5843.JPG" width="640" /></a></p><p><span><span> </span></span></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-21898723161712953872024-01-11T13:51:00.000-08:002024-01-11T13:51:59.898-08:00A New Year's Tale<div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So it was</div><div style="text-align: left;">on that long journey into childhood,</div><div style="text-align: left;">when few moments had accumulated</div><div style="text-align: left;">in Memory and fewer still as Family History,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">before special days became Traditions,</div><div style="text-align: left;">the first Christmas I remember </div><div style="text-align: left;">began in a snowdrift east of Cheyenne.</div><div style="text-align: left;">My father's truck stuck fast near the cattle gate</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">at the turn-in</div><div style="text-align: left;">to one straight mile of dirt road</div><div style="text-align: left;">leading to my grandfather's church</div><div style="text-align: left;">and the four room parsonage</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">miles from any ranch house.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Already bundled for cold, my brothers and I</div><div style="text-align: left;">pushed back the canvas door of Dad's homemade canopy, <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">climbed out of the truck bed to breathe air</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">untainted by exhaust. </div><div style="text-align: left;">We leaned against the wind-driven snow,</div><div style="text-align: left;">scarves tightened over our noses, and</div><div style="text-align: left;">headed down the road toward parsonage lights</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">my parents assured us</div><div style="text-align: left;">they could see -- a family of pilgrims,</div><div style="text-align: left;">refugees, seekers of safe harbor in the storm -- </div><div style="text-align: left;">Dad, Mom, the youngest brother carried,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">we three older boys</div><div style="text-align: left;">-- all huddling as much as trudging allowed in a blizzard</div><div style="text-align: left;">-- all hoping the lantern in the truck bed would burn </div><div style="text-align: left;">long enough to save the television</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">with its huge cabinet, to keep<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">its tubes, its tiny screen from freezing in the arctic night.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then we were welcomed in,</div><div style="text-align: left;">warming under blankets on the living room floor.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And the small blue pilot light of the gas furnace</div><div style="text-align: left;">that was the star of our arrival</div><div style="text-align: left;">became morning sun,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and my father and grandfather</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">were settling the television console into a corner,</div><div style="text-align: left;">our truck miraculously in the yard,</div><div style="text-align: left;">the night journey already lost</div><div style="text-align: left;">to the harrowing snows of yesterday.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And I sat up in my travel clothes to air </div><div style="text-align: left;">full of women's voices and festive cooking in the kitchen.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then it was, as it would be always from that day,</div><div style="text-align: left;">a real Christmas and the promised New Year.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgOruGBdYK3B_5v83DZ6enGxl-4bAF73p10i0hIruOyxmbXgbDa-ydWl1Zf2-XCNSXPE6dgoOi-cARuHRxLuwlEl41ouJGrKmBd1ppm3jNaTKBYibMQkrrJXIWFBfRe38de948pxMgd1NkfqrOQQl7e9waSYpui0r8-eFU-yPpdz6hwqY8P4pPhctW7R8/s4032/IMG_0135%20-%20Copy.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUgOruGBdYK3B_5v83DZ6enGxl-4bAF73p10i0hIruOyxmbXgbDa-ydWl1Zf2-XCNSXPE6dgoOi-cARuHRxLuwlEl41ouJGrKmBd1ppm3jNaTKBYibMQkrrJXIWFBfRe38de948pxMgd1NkfqrOQQl7e9waSYpui0r8-eFU-yPpdz6hwqY8P4pPhctW7R8/w480-h640/IMG_0135%20-%20Copy.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /> </div>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-62205242174203998722023-12-28T07:26:00.000-08:002023-12-28T07:26:04.666-08:00A Christmas List<p> <span> </span>Once upon a time, lists were a different thing. My mom always kept a grocery list, of course, but I am referring to a different kind of list. During my long ago childhood, which is to say, during the 1950s, I might have been asked what I wanted for Christmas. It was an adult question of the "what do you want to be when you grow up" sort. I just don't remember being asked. And a child who drew up a list 'for Santa' was a bit of a dreamer, at least in our house.</p><p><span> </span>Still, one year I received an ill-fitting football uniform that I must have begged desperately for. I may have worn the uniform once or twice for the front yard tackle football games we played, my brothers and I and neighborhood boys. Another year I got cowboy boots -- we lived in Wyoming, after all, within earshot of the stadium where Josh Allen played quarterback for Wyoming Cowboys many decades later. I liked the cowboy boots and wore them, although clearly I would have wanted higher heels rather than the flat boots my parents chose.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcGnZY9f8TuPJu5Uqo5Eeboj_yEbOZVtSDzyqKcqqdu5lg_w2LcBr4rH6JfDmb4pKTkcw60qpv6mkq8sFjZMsM1-lhq6SdtWAqXKFQTpYtOXpgW9Z4WSie0q7lRmbYd_UaTOTpaTpcKNbqyXCwwbfKZtZ0HHCV93r94XcUPN7OF-0yzhHCSO-ur1LaA5Z/s3149/Photo%2014.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3149" data-original-width="2169" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDcGnZY9f8TuPJu5Uqo5Eeboj_yEbOZVtSDzyqKcqqdu5lg_w2LcBr4rH6JfDmb4pKTkcw60qpv6mkq8sFjZMsM1-lhq6SdtWAqXKFQTpYtOXpgW9Z4WSie0q7lRmbYd_UaTOTpaTpcKNbqyXCwwbfKZtZ0HHCV93r94XcUPN7OF-0yzhHCSO-ur1LaA5Z/w275-h400/Photo%2014.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><p><span> </span>"Wish Lists," "bucket lists," and on-line "registries" were far in the future. When I was growing up, grown-ups mostly thought in terms of "what does he <i>need</i>?" At least if one judges by the presents themselves -- socks, pajamas, 3-in-a-pack tidy whities, a white shirt for Sunday -- <i>need </i> is what pulled the Christmas gift wagon. </p><p><span> </span>So, back in the day, as we say now, when I was a young man with a young family and a new career as a teacher and maybe also great literary ambitions -- at a time when I could, in fact, and sometimes <i>did</i> burn the candle at both ends -- I wrote a poem called "Christmas List." Like the poem in my Christmas post, this poem has one foot on the stony path of every day life; but most of the weight here is on the other foot, the one treading the larger realm of universals.</p><p><span> </span>I won't assume, dear reader, that you need to have the poem explained. Nevertheless, on the other side of the poem I will point out things that might shed light on my 'list'.</p><p> </p><p>Christmas List</p><p> </p><p>A knife for salvation</p><p>A book for its doors</p><p><br /></p><p>A voice or a fence for freedom</p><p><span> </span>either will do</p><p>Mice for comfort</p><p><br /></p><p>A clock for anxiety</p><p>A pen, a pen to live by</p><p><br /></p><p>Hands to shape the air</p><p>Window casings to sing in the freshening wind</p><p><br /></p><p>A moment, a chair</p><p>& light</p><p><br /></p><p>Yes, a little circle of light</p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span>Odd as it may appear on first reading, this poem is special to me. It does a lot of work, one might say. As the last poem in <i>Simple Clutter </i>it brings a note of redemption to a book that grows dark near its end, not all that different from the dark days of December at year's end. "Light" is the last word of this last poem; "a little circle of light" is the last, and "telling," phrase. The real life bones of the book -- its skeleton, if you will -- "a book," "a voice," "a pen," "a moment," "a chair/ & light" -- are my tools; they are what a writer needs to work. </p><p> This noting of 'bones' references my own daily occupation with writing, but it is hardly a stretch to identify them as <i>devotion </i>as well. "A clock," which for the writer is also both time for the task at hand <i>and </i>a deadline, may also be one of those bones. Setting aside the "knife" and "mice' references for a broader discussion, the other, less direct elements might be understood as constraints, obstacles, limitations, and maybe inspiration, or even as process.</p><p><span> </span>We are working in the margins here, I know. But let the ideas sink in for a moment; poems are inherently an argument to slow down and to pay attention. The last line, already mentioned as providing a note of redemption is more than just the light that drops from a small work lamp onto a page one is laboring over. It is more than habitual acts of devotion. One might also think of it as illumination, insight, which appears to push aside the darkness that so quickly and easily characterizes our lives.</p><p><span> </span>If we follow out these ideas, as I am hoping we will, the poem as a "list" of what is hoped for constitutes a prayer for the handful of things necessary to enable the many layered life one, me in particular, may desire. These are not the cowboy boots with the low heels or the ill-fitting uniform that somehow appeared on my childhood "wish list," had I known such a thing.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI87K6RmyARAxiE3JGrxBRY9rPcRzLaU6PX-06J4GTK972alrTHkNtWSKdVMF_s4Z1uDwX0CAcAHEcwS2zhDg4ekC3PxS41cBBQukYhydP4H04qkJm06q-ljPx-Ie0CVdNV7XbEbxPD7-nbpywHxA18N8KCVP86OqdXtUnUykPbIdH072mWT5GtOha-eq8/s1392/IMG_20231228_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1392" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI87K6RmyARAxiE3JGrxBRY9rPcRzLaU6PX-06J4GTK972alrTHkNtWSKdVMF_s4Z1uDwX0CAcAHEcwS2zhDg4ekC3PxS41cBBQukYhydP4H04qkJm06q-ljPx-Ie0CVdNV7XbEbxPD7-nbpywHxA18N8KCVP86OqdXtUnUykPbIdH072mWT5GtOha-eq8/w294-h400/IMG_20231228_0001.jpg" width="294" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span> Though of far less magnitude,</span> the possibilities of the last phrase are akin to the request Solomon of God to grant him wisdom -- not inspiration, not command, not integrity, not recognition, not imagination, however much these things might follow. But <i>insight</i>."Wisdom," being translated, is first recognition, followed by deep understanding, then knowing what to say or to do, then as required by<i> acting</i> wisely.<br /></p><p><span> </span>"Yes, a little circle of light." Just imagine. That would be no small thing for God to grant us at Christmas. Or for the New Year.<br /></p><p><span> </span>Or at any time.<br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-252146236939180052023-12-25T05:36:00.000-08:002023-12-25T05:36:03.836-08:00Early on a Morning Near Christmas <p> <span> </span>A decade or more before the turn of the millennium, we were living in an old farmhouse on a hillside above the village where I had recently begun teaching at a small college. The house faced hills to the east and the village lay below us along the river in the valley. My wife was in the ninth month of pregnancy, our child due somewhere around Christmas.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlyMB2VMNpyF_T9us1TAxkTR4tAvJ6hOSlf-rY1gdZiliuQZ2O4qPnfg7EbckwMXkay0EP1ZkU8t5Fy1ib5_0D6x67l72bihewn6d84CCy4eB8zFzn5y50IrzLCTQD9X9AdxlrldIXz9kMiL0Gdo5QtAf3MkwQuxmT0NJn9Z_vOSPsnUCVrD6ZRHKXq-f/s2832/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlyMB2VMNpyF_T9us1TAxkTR4tAvJ6hOSlf-rY1gdZiliuQZ2O4qPnfg7EbckwMXkay0EP1ZkU8t5Fy1ib5_0D6x67l72bihewn6d84CCy4eB8zFzn5y50IrzLCTQD9X9AdxlrldIXz9kMiL0Gdo5QtAf3MkwQuxmT0NJn9Z_vOSPsnUCVrD6ZRHKXq-f/w400-h300/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20962.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span> </span>Our close neighbor, living in another old farmhouse no more that one hundred feet away, was also expecting near the end of December. It was a great joy for both women to share that season of pregnancy as good and comfortable friends. </p><p><span> </span>I have lost some of the precise details of this story in the years since. But what I know with certainty is that our neighbors' son arrived just ahead of Christmas day, while our son delayed well into January. When we heard our neighbors' news from the father, Paul, I began to reflect -- or "ponder," as we are told Mary did -- on all things related to the birth of a child into our world in this season of short days and continuing cold. </p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi_FIbmC-lZYWIv6CJIyq5H7E2X6I_Cq96UyvGsaqPwMHLYtW8jeXpOr1m4YCYy5786Q9JwSp4qFuCZNS4gYVuiFPmKKYT1hyEhWOxOALZR2ZNsSCxGNy4WPL7jrRyfQ43_mUm6-su6V-dciVYRG5b62XFLkbxU5j4EifMGudcRwa10AI2ZCvT-UwjhnH/s2832/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMi_FIbmC-lZYWIv6CJIyq5H7E2X6I_Cq96UyvGsaqPwMHLYtW8jeXpOr1m4YCYy5786Q9JwSp4qFuCZNS4gYVuiFPmKKYT1hyEhWOxOALZR2ZNsSCxGNy4WPL7jrRyfQ43_mUm6-su6V-dciVYRG5b62XFLkbxU5j4EifMGudcRwa10AI2ZCvT-UwjhnH/w400-h300/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20331.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>What did it mean, such a unique, yet completely common, human experience? I imagined Paul coming home from the hospital in the wee dark hours of that December morning when all the people he might rush to tell were still asleep. As is my habit, I wrote out of that moment -- which survives here in this poem, "News of Your Son."</p><p><span>News of Your Son</span></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><span>A tiny star </span></p><p>in the black wilderness </p><p>of a winter morning, </p><p>the air like iron.</p><p><br /></p><p>Wind has ceased,</p><p>boots crunch in the snow.</p><p><br /></p><p>The horses, still shadows;</p><p>houses on streets below </p><p>the pasture </p><p>closed down, like sleeping faces.</p><p>Slow smoke of banked fires.</p><p><br /></p><p>Now you on this errand </p><p>at this hour</p><p>in this deadly air </p><p>in the pit of winter, </p><p>looking for someone </p><p>to share your joy at this news . . .</p><p><br /></p><p><span><span> </span>The question is, "how might one announce such a singularly joyous event to a world that considers such things commonplace?" Or, we could ask "why detail a personal event as if it were a moment of universal consequence?" Christmas was on my mind -- but w</span>hy run the two stories together?</p><p><span><span> </span>The best answer I can give is that each child is born defenseless, through a woman's travail. Yet from that moment of water and blood, a child is born with eternity in his or her heart. </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4voV1JcHWqNIZmn5U6vNt5bN7HC9N9GIYmRehxtYpPu8R4MgVsrh-O9xMFYjUn2u2UWPIPJXXs_QNGu6jSuOGL7wU0ebK5Hq0HvaU6ScKCvo0RTigkLKNAIK780PmnCEnb7LwqydiAT_xkRTltwlsnAkFEyCtIoRrzFMUb1f4oQ24mskBiu486uraJNK/s2832/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4voV1JcHWqNIZmn5U6vNt5bN7HC9N9GIYmRehxtYpPu8R4MgVsrh-O9xMFYjUn2u2UWPIPJXXs_QNGu6jSuOGL7wU0ebK5Hq0HvaU6ScKCvo0RTigkLKNAIK780PmnCEnb7LwqydiAT_xkRTltwlsnAkFEyCtIoRrzFMUb1f4oQ24mskBiu486uraJNK/w400-h300/HIL...PNU...Etc.%20255.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br /> </span><p></p><p><span><span> </span>That observation might be made of every good poem as well. So, a poem about our neighbor resonates with the Bible account of the Incarnation. It is true, brothers and sisters, that we walk with one foot on the stony path and the one foot on an eternal one. Today we are newly reminded of our condition. This is the day of God's favor. May we always count it so. </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div>["News of Your Son" published in <i>Simple Clutter</i>, 1998 by Mellen Press & 2018 by Wipf & Stock]<br />James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-71708947005539075962023-09-27T13:34:00.002-07:002023-09-27T13:34:44.991-07:00For the Love of Little People<p><span> </span>The morning after we arrived in London we were sitting at a sidewalk table at the Cafe Paradiso near the upper end of High Street, Chiswick, when I heard a familiar voice. "Dah-ddy," the little voice said in clear, round tones, "May I press the but-ton?"</p><p><span> </span>I have seen enough episodes of "Peppa Pig" with my young grandsons to know that voice anywhere! I turned around, not really expecting to see Peppa, but delighted to know that somewhere little girls really do talk like that. There was a tiny girl with a backpack and a bicycle helmet standing on a small, three-wheel scooter. When the traffic stopped and the green "walk" figure popped onto the screen, Daddy pulled her across the street with a tether attached to the front of her scooter.<br /></p><p> <span> Among the subjects that capture my interest anywhere I travel are the little people who are busy being little people. It has happened <i>everywhere</i> I have traveled. When I have my camera in hand -- with permission when parents are nearby -- I take photographs of little people being themselves.</span></p><p><span><span> What I find most compelling about little people engaged in play are two characteristics: one is their lack of self-consciousness as they go about the serious business of imagining, often playing alone with toys and sometimes interacting in groups. The second characteristic I find compelling is how similar young children act across the variety of cultures. Young minds are young minds are young minds. And before they have been pulled into attitudes and behaviors that dominate the adult world, they simple do what they want to do and regard the person with the camera -- if they notice at all -- with openness and curiosity.</span><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcQLTD_hMV1oQKhv_41egBvm-EKj3C-ai_u912y4ygwS9VeZuXH-9OhEu5g7ZFV1wEDCdpJxPXC9nXRI6TzVqkT_aCCag3mj8YUj-b38UF7WV90vZ0_Yzl2NXmR4ld_gERQ6bo5fctlNRWQlH4uu7j08cx9ZUf8r6qO7Ovq273F5ueEYhdNaEgyBEjbzp/s2832/China%20-%20Group%207%20Hakka%20Village%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1888" data-original-width="2832" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdcQLTD_hMV1oQKhv_41egBvm-EKj3C-ai_u912y4ygwS9VeZuXH-9OhEu5g7ZFV1wEDCdpJxPXC9nXRI6TzVqkT_aCCag3mj8YUj-b38UF7WV90vZ0_Yzl2NXmR4ld_gERQ6bo5fctlNRWQlH4uu7j08cx9ZUf8r6qO7Ovq273F5ueEYhdNaEgyBEjbzp/w400-h266/China%20-%20Group%207%20Hakka%20Village%20001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span><span><span> I began to include children among the "interests" I stop to photograph during our stay in Korea and China in 2011. The little boy in black (above) was playing in the ruins of an abandoned Hakka village. Prior to visiting the village with our Chinese hosts, I was unaware of this Han-Chinese subgroup. The ruins were interesting in themselves, but the little boy was fascinating. His improvised toys were sticks and some green plants. He was totally absorbed in his play and absolutely unfazed by the arrival of a carload of folks who wanted to walk through the old buildings. When we finished our short tour and came back to our car, he was gone. He had been playing by himself, the only local person we encountered there.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span> </span></span></span><span> Some months prior to that visit to China we spotted this little boy in Korea.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvIJbz6wHLQQS6NEOV8tH42Vb3v-2lO8L1wMcHOeN8-UpqYHcWkP2gY-yvkk2SqruIJvwL8RTFOixEPKxKLTwitmFux8S03st66IDLD6pPrWRrVzYv3YQh4ZR7CUouz089kqJ6kJbnqc2SLJDxlyVvKXnMisvzhTDobqtLblKAPXpRyg1nEceCZQiQKe/s2832/May%207%20in%20Seoul%20014.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="2128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvIJbz6wHLQQS6NEOV8tH42Vb3v-2lO8L1wMcHOeN8-UpqYHcWkP2gY-yvkk2SqruIJvwL8RTFOixEPKxKLTwitmFux8S03st66IDLD6pPrWRrVzYv3YQh4ZR7CUouz089kqJ6kJbnqc2SLJDxlyVvKXnMisvzhTDobqtLblKAPXpRyg1nEceCZQiQKe/w300-h400/May%207%20in%20Seoul%20014.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><span><span> What caught my eye about the Korean boy was his elaborate hanbok (traditional Korean attire). We encountered him as we were touring an area of Seoul with Chloe, one of our Korean home-stay daughters. I wanted a photograph, so I held up my camera to his parents, also dressed in hanbok, and pointed to the boy. They seemed more than pleased that I would take an interest. The boy and his family were celebrating his first birthday, which is traditionally an important occasion in a country with an historically high infant mortality rate.</span></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxGS-9yr-c7Hdo15J_APq16IlVZbzOLHKRW5bYlfKMYTEqcGwFHA0foU26iAfQFBSeWGIVwAvUX6KccUlHE93S1ze0k-h98gwY7LZm4LxMDL_SYySFi5hNDaNRwdPK7B063J1wAUy3zyXNl8F_wiRRLYPpCHjxUOc7FBwrh6pcQqw-007Tv3Fqzc-2zZX/s2832/Haeundae%20Beach%20&%20Walkabout%20004.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxGS-9yr-c7Hdo15J_APq16IlVZbzOLHKRW5bYlfKMYTEqcGwFHA0foU26iAfQFBSeWGIVwAvUX6KccUlHE93S1ze0k-h98gwY7LZm4LxMDL_SYySFi5hNDaNRwdPK7B063J1wAUy3zyXNl8F_wiRRLYPpCHjxUOc7FBwrh6pcQqw-007Tv3Fqzc-2zZX/w400-h300/Haeundae%20Beach%20&%20Walkabout%20004.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /> </span> As we might imagine, dispassionate observation can teach us a great deal about a culture; watching young children may be one of the most revealing. It was also in Korea that we frequently witnessed very young school children traveling in pairs and columns led by teachers and helpers. The sense of community responsibility and self-discipline begins early in Korea.</span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIBCvqBTE7iVs1K3PdKlgeuCeFN5bxJVT28UvsnmzKRn5u9HWu4OonFM8JH92V-saoFIUvsIz6wc86121LuLt3NyhElaBPH0axeXE8R5efKl_6UW6qO5baTsqTZ3An5TfFHiPvXW8o2-DPVW73n8ZL2e65n81r2fMl9HZ25kVDGh1pFnNJLJD4WEXITRr/s2832/Haeundae%20Beach%20&%20Walkabout%20003.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTIBCvqBTE7iVs1K3PdKlgeuCeFN5bxJVT28UvsnmzKRn5u9HWu4OonFM8JH92V-saoFIUvsIz6wc86121LuLt3NyhElaBPH0axeXE8R5efKl_6UW6qO5baTsqTZ3An5TfFHiPvXW8o2-DPVW73n8ZL2e65n81r2fMl9HZ25kVDGh1pFnNJLJD4WEXITRr/w400-h300/Haeundae%20Beach%20&%20Walkabout%20003.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>Of course, little people share many characteristics that transcend cultural boundaries, such as we see with this little boy driving his toy vehicle through a puddle. The fact that the puddle is on a public thoroughfare makes no difference to him; he was as oblivious to foot traffic nearby as the little boy playing with sticks in my first photograph was oblivious to our carload of chatting visitors.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoD1knBkJCOhE1bdojaa7GRfCXaA0zBSL-9zFVwU1KETBtJR1aD7XSkEcml4an_Wt5vWSzEyGonHDqdsPlxRn3rD0IRryMLEbqX0-gEhlgXY2tqLXkBdzva2OWOVWgjIf2MZNeV46p1FWXQaa1Xtu5EydFp9ckanaAYCty7-vkxSjWvfFdcOYHFVH1JlHz/s4000/IMG_4630.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoD1knBkJCOhE1bdojaa7GRfCXaA0zBSL-9zFVwU1KETBtJR1aD7XSkEcml4an_Wt5vWSzEyGonHDqdsPlxRn3rD0IRryMLEbqX0-gEhlgXY2tqLXkBdzva2OWOVWgjIf2MZNeV46p1FWXQaa1Xtu5EydFp9ckanaAYCty7-vkxSjWvfFdcOYHFVH1JlHz/s320/IMG_4630.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /></span></span><span><span><span><span> </span>Where there are no sticks or cars or puddles, a little person can find delight in whatever-is-there. This little girl, just one of our Asian "grandchildren," is turning her world upside down for the sheer joy of it.<br /></span></span></span><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iqOnCNhI30e4u8wNx7yli53WSmoH9r5kLOX8l9NVhmEk9azQI7X6czbNvNM0yOxP_i7nCRW-u5hzg4po82xapOJoGlIORdqQs_0T6dPcnDQu9dtZeOOdGE83SiPRN7bfs62ENsPYUMnbBgIFIAH_hSzJyV25qZo7HealqPw9QTYuhSrfoSEAqHsy7kDe/s438/IMG_4700.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="269" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7iqOnCNhI30e4u8wNx7yli53WSmoH9r5kLOX8l9NVhmEk9azQI7X6czbNvNM0yOxP_i7nCRW-u5hzg4po82xapOJoGlIORdqQs_0T6dPcnDQu9dtZeOOdGE83SiPRN7bfs62ENsPYUMnbBgIFIAH_hSzJyV25qZo7HealqPw9QTYuhSrfoSEAqHsy7kDe/s320/IMG_4700.JPG" width="197" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>Or this little girl who, enchanted by this <i>erhu</i> player in Shenzhen, has moved as close to the music as she can. Spotting her the moment we passed by was a real gift to me. The photograph makes me smile every time I see it. I love her total lack of self-consciousness. There is a kind of deeply human magic here.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUM9_sRFmj2W75FrcbRiMI4b0w5YXPrik7yyOCyQhjCPXEx7SkE2-p__8c-eq78OtzOgohqvQ3cFU_lyPdDxfKXfZPBV6ONxAk2huIvbH3d135Liaqa4Bm6hg1Y-XjRLLewuMNSQLcoPda0J9iF9SNcE7cETsPSULKgxtDKoisaYh8BGOEQW7v2LVufla/s2832/HIL...PNU...Etc.%202179.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2128" data-original-width="2832" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUM9_sRFmj2W75FrcbRiMI4b0w5YXPrik7yyOCyQhjCPXEx7SkE2-p__8c-eq78OtzOgohqvQ3cFU_lyPdDxfKXfZPBV6ONxAk2huIvbH3d135Liaqa4Bm6hg1Y-XjRLLewuMNSQLcoPda0J9iF9SNcE7cETsPSULKgxtDKoisaYh8BGOEQW7v2LVufla/s320/HIL...PNU...Etc.%202179.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /></span></span><span><span><span><span> </span>All of these experiences, of course, remind me of my own children and my own grandchildren, the ways they have of exploring and the delight evident in their straightforward adventures. Much of this natural curiosity and openness eventually becomes complicated and outgrown, and too often this natural playfulness gets blunted, overtaken by other pressures. But for a while it is affirming to see that at some early point we are all, as humans, compelled by the same joy in life.<br /></span></span></span><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaUFjfI_eY-IvuupGxjGOQ8AZ6ucIHQchOR9snCuyj6ZAC6n1YdJMS_-VLPBCjDCJ1HM-AHebdbbFK9SyA_bv0T0dTXeqpScgcFt3ev80h83XA6XjsBzhFbFHUpV533GdMyZ6WBpvxqFLE9DJRG1PSUNg8A_yrRhoJDWeQErAEvEsy2nF4YxuTJTILcvm/s2272/IMG_1070.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2272" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMaUFjfI_eY-IvuupGxjGOQ8AZ6ucIHQchOR9snCuyj6ZAC6n1YdJMS_-VLPBCjDCJ1HM-AHebdbbFK9SyA_bv0T0dTXeqpScgcFt3ev80h83XA6XjsBzhFbFHUpV533GdMyZ6WBpvxqFLE9DJRG1PSUNg8A_yrRhoJDWeQErAEvEsy2nF4YxuTJTILcvm/w400-h300/IMG_1070.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /><span><span> </span>Perhaps it is just the grandfather in me, but I love the way nearly every episode of "Peppa Pig" ends with the whole family falling to the ground laughing! I wonder whether Jesus had some of this open sharing in mind when he admonished his disciples to bring the little children to him. We often think of that New Testament story in narrow terms of "simple faith," which surely it is. But it might well be that his intention went well beyond that singularity to that openness to life and to others he offers us. For of such is the kingdom of heaven.<br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span> </span><br /></span></span></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-63814153055516496732023-07-29T13:20:00.003-07:002023-07-29T13:22:19.325-07:00Russia (#23) p.s.: The long way home<p> <span> </span>Cameras, luggage, and memories stowed away, we said goodbye to Moscow early the next morning.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wHG_-XA7KXW7v0TTQMMRqomPp6AFjW9ra7m0l88t5qPNttW_4kL138EmlqwEc6_7ebLi563CfIpSDJm14uNJaDnS9u0WrYaQOQ94d2ozzDqkbOOO2zqXD_X0m4-loZONl_hYO0DtH_QDcQ4mAX8rJGrsI1KwFYhXXJtMXSyk_JTfBg1DJu3U3q3L6TWQ/s1600/P4120031.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wHG_-XA7KXW7v0TTQMMRqomPp6AFjW9ra7m0l88t5qPNttW_4kL138EmlqwEc6_7ebLi563CfIpSDJm14uNJaDnS9u0WrYaQOQ94d2ozzDqkbOOO2zqXD_X0m4-loZONl_hYO0DtH_QDcQ4mAX8rJGrsI1KwFYhXXJtMXSyk_JTfBg1DJu3U3q3L6TWQ/w300-h400/P4120031.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Our last moments in Moscow involved a lot of posing. In the days before <i>selfies</i>, of course, it was usually a matter of the person with the camera (John Woodard in this case) saying, "Stand with so and so, and try to look pleasant." Here my son Stefan and Dan Sorensen embrace the moment.</p><i> </i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqSZHbTtv4vgNZZYYyvr56XO53rf3R1Sl-rHlc8jYF7UiTiPgm0jit4GVhh_u0kR9rkp-ahKkTzivrFEgyzBQNEzuLICO8u7MggBWv0uhDGx2JaOlUahV5uC4P7iao5Rs3xD5mKT44oGNLjwo4eROi2DtCJ24dYQLiFqk0VyNgxmX6xMHpxckg6d1sYXM/s1536/009_8A.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoqSZHbTtv4vgNZZYYyvr56XO53rf3R1Sl-rHlc8jYF7UiTiPgm0jit4GVhh_u0kR9rkp-ahKkTzivrFEgyzBQNEzuLICO8u7MggBWv0uhDGx2JaOlUahV5uC4P7iao5Rs3xD5mKT44oGNLjwo4eROi2DtCJ24dYQLiFqk0VyNgxmX6xMHpxckg6d1sYXM/w426-h640/009_8A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p><span> <br /></span></p><p><span> </span>In conversation at some point, our translator Andrew
discovered I was a poet. As we were leaving Vladimir he gave me two
books of Russian poetry <i>in Russian</i>, which I still have and still can't read. Sadly. He was earnest in giving me the books, so I remember thinking <i>how can I refuse??</i></p><i><span> </span></i>When
we got to Moscow, Andrew found several memorial statues of the poet
Alexandr Pushkin that he thought I needed to stand beside<i> </i>for a photograph<i>. </i>This is the best of the lot, taken somewhere near the Bolshoi Theater.<p><span> </span></p><p><span> <br /></span></p><p><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8T1ws0rJZk8kiEUt7lRX2ORplYa7rsQec8HOPbZtI0ptYX13mHVAQF2CfZSagHQLnQoIfIWAPeEohHKxHXD93sdI8lX-MUjwpCH-eD6cWxMNEvMd6ojcp-KjoVL9iKVTngBmNFTxlf960k7njODv3w4MupjQ4Ly1wo1UC3wzmx8M7HOoMRb9fR6pxso5/s1536/011_10A.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV8T1ws0rJZk8kiEUt7lRX2ORplYa7rsQec8HOPbZtI0ptYX13mHVAQF2CfZSagHQLnQoIfIWAPeEohHKxHXD93sdI8lX-MUjwpCH-eD6cWxMNEvMd6ojcp-KjoVL9iKVTngBmNFTxlf960k7njODv3w4MupjQ4Ly1wo1UC3wzmx8M7HOoMRb9fR6pxso5/w400-h266/011_10A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>At the huge war memorial we visited before eating at
the Mongolian restaurant, many of the boys posed with one of the WWII
era canons.<br /></p><p><br /><br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> The trip home was uneventful, as one always hopes air flight will be, but for the slowly evolving panorama beneath us. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Tq0rpMk4qCJZiilD1TryxDuV-IXi9k5OnvWbNxSw103Pu5Q5U1c3uMxuwSEnTWYTv3OJV5ANOyAMwF_Xn-P6A3H5WdD3y1dsWmO0_hliou5ROWKQJifmnprAhhonLqnP6bmXCYkm_SduLET0Yas-G5NAjpR0bZEVGBgpPZ3EHkaKdi-2Im1cxwJYdUwF/s1600/P4130143.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-Tq0rpMk4qCJZiilD1TryxDuV-IXi9k5OnvWbNxSw103Pu5Q5U1c3uMxuwSEnTWYTv3OJV5ANOyAMwF_Xn-P6A3H5WdD3y1dsWmO0_hliou5ROWKQJifmnprAhhonLqnP6bmXCYkm_SduLET0Yas-G5NAjpR0bZEVGBgpPZ3EHkaKdi-2Im1cxwJYdUwF/s320/P4130143.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>Most of our team spent the hours of flight sleeping or watching the inflight movies, which were screened for everyone in those day. The movie on offer was <i>Bruce Almighty</i>. For my part, I spent my time looking out the window and trying to fill in my journal, thinking someday I might want to write an account of our journey and thinking, correctly as it happens, that I would need all the contemporaneous detail I could find. </p><p><span> </span>When the clouds gave way beneath us as we approached Greenland, I watched as the seascape turned to landscape. I remember thinking what a marvelous thing this is to see such severe beauty. How will I ever remember?<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72vJI-M8yaRm-I3qJacerH164yAR2j92leCRRUc5Qp6x-cvx3OmTw0YNS3DV0vqD5RzbE4ATF4h8zDWcSL8Epapau9WvEJAiSOrMdRjVw8ek7yjmPfP5jYl4clQvu9Nfn1k9CO2-oi1p_fR_pQok0OQBoxBmr33X816dFkSvqt2b_GhGCj7_jtJwASNOj/s1600/P4130142.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi72vJI-M8yaRm-I3qJacerH164yAR2j92leCRRUc5Qp6x-cvx3OmTw0YNS3DV0vqD5RzbE4ATF4h8zDWcSL8Epapau9WvEJAiSOrMdRjVw8ek7yjmPfP5jYl4clQvu9Nfn1k9CO2-oi1p_fR_pQok0OQBoxBmr33X816dFkSvqt2b_GhGCj7_jtJwASNOj/w480-h640/P4130142.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><span> </span>My notes say, "the deep blue of the sky and the deep blue of the ocean are separated only by a band of clouds on the horizon. Greenland gradually takes shape as we recognize rugged mountains with fjords cutting between them. The entire scene is blue and white, so absolutely gorgeous as to be <i>other</i> <i>worldly</i>: the mountains white with veins of blue and the ocean blue with white lines, breakers, paralleling the shore. I am in awe. God be praised."<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZqXmYi-LGBjTTFIqpPjnkrBCYF5YqhUllj6cz4kLLz8G2foCA0d2E1MpPU_rC_ws79w6VsPA6T7pINh36Kvh8Bj6MPBSCsJM273sc2SXGrUoNPrIgCK0a3tVLgXs8_BL8cVJrqTk3KgYBTbsXaBXAPZ9EKaSf5miVqaoz5VQAATEVlAeUno6sns4wr3A/s1600/P4130148.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYZqXmYi-LGBjTTFIqpPjnkrBCYF5YqhUllj6cz4kLLz8G2foCA0d2E1MpPU_rC_ws79w6VsPA6T7pINh36Kvh8Bj6MPBSCsJM273sc2SXGrUoNPrIgCK0a3tVLgXs8_BL8cVJrqTk3KgYBTbsXaBXAPZ9EKaSf5miVqaoz5VQAATEVlAeUno6sns4wr3A/w400-h300/P4130148.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span> </span>Then we were on the ground in Toronto scrambling for bags for the long anticipated ride back to Houghton. I loved that we had gone, I loved the Russians we had met, I loved the places we had visited so briefly, and I loved how my heart had been challenged and my world expanded. Now, more than anything, I wanted to return to my wife and the rest of my kids, the people I love most in the world.<br /><p><br /></p><p></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-61647818090375375142023-07-26T13:24:00.003-07:002023-07-26T13:24:32.071-07:00Russia (#22) An Afternoon in Moscow, Pt.2 <p><span> </span>It is hard for me to imagine a visit to Russia from the vantage point of 2023. Our missions trip in 2004 came during a period of what appeared to be warming relations between the Russian Federation and western Europe and the US. Putin had already assumed command of the Russian state. Despite the fact that his government was waging war in Chechnya, there were no clear signs to us, as ordinary Americans, that things would deteriorate. Those of us who were old enough to remember the old Soviet days were more concerned about vestiges of Soviet era concerns than we were about new threats, fears, and restrictions yet to develop.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tOR9rGNQugEmV9krbvJwo8rzVfth5bazXNcxolz2KvusZZzCRicVG_BCSYteGWzPr5RW2GYR0COUquHrEg6oDeIbzabbkBr7enIl0DEXCVi59MlpbtJwFAHF_cBWUWt_p9f72RfTbX7dsmo4oQaIoE-3VLUoAGC1PTNy42P2zVawiFTVGhuEfo8T9Mw8/s1600/P4120079.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tOR9rGNQugEmV9krbvJwo8rzVfth5bazXNcxolz2KvusZZzCRicVG_BCSYteGWzPr5RW2GYR0COUquHrEg6oDeIbzabbkBr7enIl0DEXCVi59MlpbtJwFAHF_cBWUWt_p9f72RfTbX7dsmo4oQaIoE-3VLUoAGC1PTNy42P2zVawiFTVGhuEfo8T9Mw8/w400-h300/P4120079.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span> </span>We were happy as a group that we had completed the tasks of friendship-making that had been our primary mission. Our attention on that last day of our tour in Russia in 2004 was on what and how much we could see of Moscow in a few hours on an April afternoon. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRiQcUm3hlQq-zPbr3wIk8FaE7f4mqI59j138UePv-UCzCJv2QRmFmIsOnwJBVLw1KasTvijD1r-W_D3lqwDu76QmmcxqK1r9Pg0rl9kbcmbXv3x-co96fn2P1WyvAVsqp1y2xLo_hbNCyb8McWUi-ahuAZAYTxDd0ZUp3pG6wvLP5xaa6ZHWte6mwH4P/s1600/P4120019.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRiQcUm3hlQq-zPbr3wIk8FaE7f4mqI59j138UePv-UCzCJv2QRmFmIsOnwJBVLw1KasTvijD1r-W_D3lqwDu76QmmcxqK1r9Pg0rl9kbcmbXv3x-co96fn2P1WyvAVsqp1y2xLo_hbNCyb8McWUi-ahuAZAYTxDd0ZUp3pG6wvLP5xaa6ZHWte6mwH4P/w400-h300/P4120019.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>So, a question: suppose <i>you</i> had a few hours of a single afternoon to tour Paris, what would you choose to see? Likely you would choose well known landmarks, those you know from photographs -- Notre Dame, for example, and the Eiffel Tower. In London, you might choose St. Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, and Buckingham Palace. In Moscow the tourist magnet is, naturally, Red Square and the architecturally stunning buildings around it, beginning with St. Basil's and the Kremlin itself. Fortunately for us at the end of our short visit, many of the places we knew about either bordered Red Square or were within walking distance.</p><p><span> </span>And what a way to crown our quick trip to Russia! The marvels around Red Square are wonderful in photographs. But in person they are seriously stunning, engrossing, provocative. St. Basil's Cathedral, much photographed and deservedly famous, is riveting from any angle. Every feature of that church, of course, displays multiple, complex layers of spiritual and historical significance. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxl-4tHT1CLr3QRPCa3JGId6lu_098V5v-l-nS5cTwu0mCVPG7eesIpEcnh2XDB0MbBOPbk4mK9XLJC5sCN_dhDscImNy61k1r_eCu92J1KPRzPUZheF1s5zXPIKFBWFOBdhPY_WmEySd386AGTx843D8y8IEO2mEEVNMISHG13zjIs9fOXSf3Pir8QbKF/s2160/100_0505.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxl-4tHT1CLr3QRPCa3JGId6lu_098V5v-l-nS5cTwu0mCVPG7eesIpEcnh2XDB0MbBOPbk4mK9XLJC5sCN_dhDscImNy61k1r_eCu92J1KPRzPUZheF1s5zXPIKFBWFOBdhPY_WmEySd386AGTx843D8y8IEO2mEEVNMISHG13zjIs9fOXSf3Pir8QbKF/w426-h640/100_0505.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><span> </span><br /><p></p><p><span> </span>Scale is impressive everywhere in Russia, and Red Square itself is no exception -- it is <i>huge</i>. The older members of our fathers and sons group remembered Red Square from black and white television programs in the 1950s and 1960s. often featuring Nikita Khrushchev and the Communist Party inner circle standing atop the Kremlin wall. May Day parades especially featured military hardware -- tanks, missiles, and ranks of soldiers marching. Those demonstrations of military might required both space and a solid surface of cobblestones.</p><p><br /></p><p><span> The Iberian Gate (also called the Resurrection gate, below) with its little green chapel was torn down in 1931 to allow room for the heavy military equipment on display. The twin gates and the little chapel were rebuild in 1994-95 after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.<br /></span></p><p><span> </span><span> Along one side of Red Square is the Kremlin wall and gate, which were originally wooden fortifications built in the 12th Century. It was built on high ground at the confluence of two rivers, a strategic location at the center of the city. Muscovites could find protection within the walls from invaders. Protection from invasion were frequently noted to explain various historical events; and the presence of walls, gates, and fortifications here as in Vladimir bore witness to the very real fear of foreign invasion. </span><br /></p><p><span><span> For the last hundred years at least, the term "Kremlin" has been synonymous with the seat of government, first for the Soviet Union and now for the Russian Federation. And while the very recent "advance" toward Moscow by the mercenary Wagner military forces would have been unlikely to reach the Kremlin without serious fighting, it is easy for me to imagine how age-old fears might have been stirred up. </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJn_NR3iZPHlvNL51Dccmh59IaczKKC-7dr8ccKwnKCbHsycdWmdKRhk19KhHnQbiXanWge4t0np92pwXU_LoqQms0uE2A9tGbPDMeNe2MWj_g8-wYS8GlYykuCMAkJZAq2bB8gsEbV3-nS3qTn3e3oM9g5Ss-9hE9R5QEsNtu-1mF0XyGhywmEyrkpHW/s2160/100_0506.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJn_NR3iZPHlvNL51Dccmh59IaczKKC-7dr8ccKwnKCbHsycdWmdKRhk19KhHnQbiXanWge4t0np92pwXU_LoqQms0uE2A9tGbPDMeNe2MWj_g8-wYS8GlYykuCMAkJZAq2bB8gsEbV3-nS3qTn3e3oM9g5Ss-9hE9R5QEsNtu-1mF0XyGhywmEyrkpHW/w640-h426/100_0506.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><span> Fortifications help explain my sense that we were never far from a military presence. Another deep impression I could not avoid was spiritual. As famous as St. Basil's may be for its unique architecture, it is only one of a number of churches around Red Square that testify to the close relationship between the Russian people and Christianity. The Church of the Assumption, also bordering Red Square, is known, at least to tourists, as "the pink church." Like nearly all churches in Russia, those around Red Square were closed during the Soviet era. Some were given over to other purposes and some became museums. Since the collapse of the USSR, religion has regained legal status and some closed churches, though clearly not all, have reopened.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1vxnMIkkk5YWVYykpa4Nb_sj-_4vDCBtPJ5C_yGlJSMwhS3b1K4pZQ1ZCXk7GSyy-Mcdrt-DNEfWa5S_3sF3pweQLBkYon9iS79rk2aiOREio9kU4Ijcrtlv4hOScZH7DeDWzIp4OoNjJhOo8Zrf6dY186TqLMjSxRBRAaqfu2u-MvxLyvLRItJ-fn_N/s1600/P4120024.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1vxnMIkkk5YWVYykpa4Nb_sj-_4vDCBtPJ5C_yGlJSMwhS3b1K4pZQ1ZCXk7GSyy-Mcdrt-DNEfWa5S_3sF3pweQLBkYon9iS79rk2aiOREio9kU4Ijcrtlv4hOScZH7DeDWzIp4OoNjJhOo8Zrf6dY186TqLMjSxRBRAaqfu2u-MvxLyvLRItJ-fn_N/w640-h480/P4120024.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><span> We were not able to enter any of the buildings, churches or otherwise, but all of them contain treasures of cultural, artistic, and religious artifacts of incalculable value.</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3u6qM9uL2DNZJqeKvzLb23Hu7IkOHNqtICqK9MOaC4r1KOmSCQhyJm29YJk4zIX8ANLmPP8CIabKTWGbK3rZHlImk7CfCYowllARk8Hm4thjhmj--WMlY0yjSPrICZaQrNA4Xs_DNLp1J5kWS-m1EsP7OeUR6iHWu8dBl1ZeG5phIpSxl341jjJHrp5hA/s1600/P4120023.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3u6qM9uL2DNZJqeKvzLb23Hu7IkOHNqtICqK9MOaC4r1KOmSCQhyJm29YJk4zIX8ANLmPP8CIabKTWGbK3rZHlImk7CfCYowllARk8Hm4thjhmj--WMlY0yjSPrICZaQrNA4Xs_DNLp1J5kWS-m1EsP7OeUR6iHWu8dBl1ZeG5phIpSxl341jjJHrp5hA/w400-h300/P4120023.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span> <span> While the military presence was not </span></span>as visible as we might have expected, it was never far away. Perhaps most of the military presence remained out of sight. But there were armed soldiers standing guard at the eternal flame near the tomb of the unknown soldier and at Lenin's mausoleum, both at the base of the Kremlin wall. The mausoleum (the squarish building above) was closed for periodic "restoration" of Lenin's body, which had been lying in state since his death in 1924. Had it been open on the day of our visit, some of us would likely have wanted to wait in line for a viewing. We were told that on days when visiting was possible, the wait to enter could be extremely long.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhok7XjADVXM6Ulrvo1JcmurLgKqr4bjVT70solP90epJM3zoqR_4D0r7Dm8PVi_LtCAX9iF0BBnkyw5fJSwSpGiFfgmiSCinbJesQ-VKRlMGQP8tj_oWvwi8SEg5Y3mdOQZOWfq9MvChUkYA8WuC1pF_7rchQdHUYPVs2AB0-CGVygI-G498kIuzoD3jy5/s409/Patriotic%20Flame%20Guards%205.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="409" data-original-width="397" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhok7XjADVXM6Ulrvo1JcmurLgKqr4bjVT70solP90epJM3zoqR_4D0r7Dm8PVi_LtCAX9iF0BBnkyw5fJSwSpGiFfgmiSCinbJesQ-VKRlMGQP8tj_oWvwi8SEg5Y3mdOQZOWfq9MvChUkYA8WuC1pF_7rchQdHUYPVs2AB0-CGVygI-G498kIuzoD3jy5/w389-h400/Patriotic%20Flame%20Guards%205.JPG" width="389" /></a></div><span> A group of off duty soldiers who happened to be touring the sights at Red Square were happy to pose for a photograph, not far from where our group had posed. Here too it would have been interesting to know whether these soldiers had been or were likely to be deployed to Chechnya. It is fair to say that none in our group had been aware of the fighting in Chechnya before our trip. And certainly no one -- that is, no Russian -- ever mentioned or commented on it.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPblbhA88fqDZ-iaF8vztX425zq8nBaG4Ms92ZXIijZAE87EV5Z5tdg7eFMjaHBlqDTAfXJ8iF8fwTVW9HpcObC46BfmIcBh8i_DsHAfuLWT2pLBy1-8ORqNb_9v-fIQFB0ET_fLfPbchIm1OgyvCx7daaiKBll7tZf5y4AxP8ie7VKnbAmZ-sFTssoeA/s1600/P4120017.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYPblbhA88fqDZ-iaF8vztX425zq8nBaG4Ms92ZXIijZAE87EV5Z5tdg7eFMjaHBlqDTAfXJ8iF8fwTVW9HpcObC46BfmIcBh8i_DsHAfuLWT2pLBy1-8ORqNb_9v-fIQFB0ET_fLfPbchIm1OgyvCx7daaiKBll7tZf5y4AxP8ie7VKnbAmZ-sFTssoeA/w400-h300/P4120017.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> Seeing them with a father's eyes and being aware of how young men were being drafted into service for the war effort, I was impressed with how young the soldiers all looked.</span></p><p><span><span> </span>Behind the soldiers, just to the left, is Lenin's mausoleum. And the huge red building just to the right (also below) is State Historical Museum, which would have been a serious contender for my attention had it been open. </span></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xwlY0e8gX4UrecHZ0g0dn4T6KG9PN4RRtXSZWGZanKH_xACf_9Hj-tMYvs43kFz1C086ijxgr9W8X8gj3MkPRpohCG0YiuwcBZBYPdrbtUGheOUuZ0ZVI2wNA5K_bc9OJzGXc2voRCNHIxUHrvO3UQMJfxkcHUw5F-2wSEz_BnB6kBnk_1Yjoz41G3Rl/s2160/100_0511.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xwlY0e8gX4UrecHZ0g0dn4T6KG9PN4RRtXSZWGZanKH_xACf_9Hj-tMYvs43kFz1C086ijxgr9W8X8gj3MkPRpohCG0YiuwcBZBYPdrbtUGheOUuZ0ZVI2wNA5K_bc9OJzGXc2voRCNHIxUHrvO3UQMJfxkcHUw5F-2wSEz_BnB6kBnk_1Yjoz41G3Rl/w640-h426/100_0511.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div></div><div><br /></div><div><span> Below is a section of the wall that appears to show older stone work and an entryway to the massive, yellow City of Moscow Government Building behind it. This and other sections of Red Square were being renovated. It is also possible that this fence was intended to inhibit terrorist activity such as the bombing of the subway earlier in the year. For my part it was disappointing; I am always fascinated by how building styles and materials are integrated when repairs or restoration are required.<br /></span></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4gf38aoJqAd9dkQMQJUAPB91z-iLO5fqc-o1fNJBF-qj5bZq-fx5Z0RNVAAi5HujqXPHSq-4j6kxpDea3MA7aq2g9CnLnhsR8IbTMF6jZSMFsiy1TQw85l6SH_Xsc9znB1ZjCgOLK90egb20ZjWHBoBeebmd0SBZ4qM-mxOFZoIGcu_K3gdZo39cVNAi/s2160/100_0549.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE4gf38aoJqAd9dkQMQJUAPB91z-iLO5fqc-o1fNJBF-qj5bZq-fx5Z0RNVAAi5HujqXPHSq-4j6kxpDea3MA7aq2g9CnLnhsR8IbTMF6jZSMFsiy1TQw85l6SH_Xsc9znB1ZjCgOLK90egb20ZjWHBoBeebmd0SBZ4qM-mxOFZoIGcu_K3gdZo39cVNAi/w426-h640/100_0549.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIm89Dw5MXYare5jp718sAzo0KXXvxzUOXWWJo-_i0TnVt3WfQC4PHIfu6Qv2d46uXWNRGJv80RyOTz4jytrs3AEjOCldYZEHnU0w3VD2k7JS363aHFkRZbWB3OVXsRah1pYu1NXuvtlCMUIijZVly8xPcVu95EX1HvJ8mnFG9rHB9uXUXJGb6u-niam-/s1600/P4120108.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdIm89Dw5MXYare5jp718sAzo0KXXvxzUOXWWJo-_i0TnVt3WfQC4PHIfu6Qv2d46uXWNRGJv80RyOTz4jytrs3AEjOCldYZEHnU0w3VD2k7JS363aHFkRZbWB3OVXsRah1pYu1NXuvtlCMUIijZVly8xPcVu95EX1HvJ8mnFG9rHB9uXUXJGb6u-niam-/w400-h300/P4120108.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><span> </span>Not on Red Square but nearby is the theater where the famous Bolshoi Ballet Company performs in Moscow. <br /></p><p><span> </span>With more time to visit these sites, we might have asked about tickets to see the Bolshoi Company perform and to marvel at the interior of this building.</p><p><span> </span>A lot of these photographs seem remote to me after nearly twenty years. It has been difficult at times to reconstruct various elements of our touring experience. That said, I am certain that we would make a mistake to suggest that the heart and soul of ordinary Russians is reflected in the actions of their government. I have found this disjunction to be true in all the countries I have visited, especially in those where government actions are not held accountable through the courts and through elections.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYD5DTMeBjdZ5pjUJ7DLATEtPL8RlqY0uWP6IVT0z4_eaC9aM3VkdewFIsrz39D0jyUpLbX1dd8HhIi1MhC_eLa1k0gu2jPY1qsu3KdlYYYZKCtDnU7-dzRMQ7Vj5OpGfBJD86wa515LCFq57707jL0tVNcEAo0glfQYmzK51ruizugs6nedXnwbPCLgar/s640/St%20Basil%201%20Day.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYD5DTMeBjdZ5pjUJ7DLATEtPL8RlqY0uWP6IVT0z4_eaC9aM3VkdewFIsrz39D0jyUpLbX1dd8HhIi1MhC_eLa1k0gu2jPY1qsu3KdlYYYZKCtDnU7-dzRMQ7Vj5OpGfBJD86wa515LCFq57707jL0tVNcEAo0glfQYmzK51ruizugs6nedXnwbPCLgar/w480-h640/St%20Basil%201%20Day.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>I am certain as well that war is always tragic and nearly always unnecessary. As I finish writing this post in July 2023, news has reached us that a Russian missile has hit and badly damaged the Transfiguration Cathedral in Odessa, Ukraine. How this targeting of an ancient Orthodox church is related to the Russian military's strategic interests remains unclear. But I can only hope that, whatever his reasoning, Mr. Putin's actions have not put targets on the historic gems in his own front yard. <br /></p><p> </p></div>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-63298817773056361692023-06-15T07:09:00.000-07:002023-06-15T07:09:27.604-07:00Russia (#21) An Afternoon in Moscow, Pt. 1<p> <span> We de-trained when we arrived in Moscow and immediately boarded a bus for a city wide excursion. "Excursion," here, means a</span> bus tour around the city: a drive past or a pause beside famous places. In that fashion, we passed by the Kremlin, Red Square, Saint Basil's Church, Peter the Great's Memorial, the 1980 Winter Olympic site, Moscow State University, the huge Great Patriotic War Memorial (where we were permitted to disembark and walk around), and Christ the Savior Cathedral.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Up4EVXqeX0hHIuTlIbH1A6iIwvOI-xz4tWUxUD00ND1aHXVQp7QQwAznDYf9oMZTocWi2SIR5dBAxGkota18ei-90FXSyBMNisottEo3XgcMddzq1q5zzUdf-0qgUoO7Ds6NDTWOcMcsSLkLZ0w2A_VNYDOC4jzsESntQi1zPXoTgyWmkxEslc0kmA/s640/Base%20of%20War%20Memorial.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Up4EVXqeX0hHIuTlIbH1A6iIwvOI-xz4tWUxUD00ND1aHXVQp7QQwAznDYf9oMZTocWi2SIR5dBAxGkota18ei-90FXSyBMNisottEo3XgcMddzq1q5zzUdf-0qgUoO7Ds6NDTWOcMcsSLkLZ0w2A_VNYDOC4jzsESntQi1zPXoTgyWmkxEslc0kmA/w300-h400/Base%20of%20War%20Memorial.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDt1HGNWEpeFsiWco-ldaM2GJwvbnAOnMiRgx8jjKu7MQp--6-q4GehvEVlsQkJLL4zr95NsmnHztkZmDXYFC_d3RTkMO8hqUxzuClglozjeDL2cNLQ8jxCLXO3ONBhjU-zVgw7LleHnauc-gTLgNYbUntIWbXnZwAU9HWkOsqgh2t7SYCPv2wjX_V3Q/s640/Christ%20Our%20Savior%20Cathedral-3.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDt1HGNWEpeFsiWco-ldaM2GJwvbnAOnMiRgx8jjKu7MQp--6-q4GehvEVlsQkJLL4zr95NsmnHztkZmDXYFC_d3RTkMO8hqUxzuClglozjeDL2cNLQ8jxCLXO3ONBhjU-zVgw7LleHnauc-gTLgNYbUntIWbXnZwAU9HWkOsqgh2t7SYCPv2wjX_V3Q/w300-h400/Christ%20Our%20Savior%20Cathedral-3.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Having seen these wonders mostly from afar and in motion, we exited the tour bus at one end of Arbat Street, a kilometer-long open-market pedestrian "mall" in central Moscow, where we would eat lunch at McDonald's and shop for small keepsakes to take home. McDonald's was exceptionally clean, otherwise it was exactly as we all expected.</p><p><span> </span>Two-thirds of the shops on Arbat Street, which we walked after lunch, had already closed since this was a morning market area.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIWBYGDdxgWFFrQbom1d0eoB4vhizpdeg1DQMyJ9IkHuMmw-F1RoCtv9pDeraR235IYcVCLriOD5e7AHdUT8ZtaeJ_V9YFcMuy7wTNSB28nbkav_LZYaQ6ssL4wenO9QKNExF2PrP-v8QTnDxkwRMNRcTasmyxWGeUnukC35sGMJkgbF1oc_zVe2O_A/s640/Arbott%20Street%20in%20Moscow-2.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIWBYGDdxgWFFrQbom1d0eoB4vhizpdeg1DQMyJ9IkHuMmw-F1RoCtv9pDeraR235IYcVCLriOD5e7AHdUT8ZtaeJ_V9YFcMuy7wTNSB28nbkav_LZYaQ6ssL4wenO9QKNExF2PrP-v8QTnDxkwRMNRcTasmyxWGeUnukC35sGMJkgbF1oc_zVe2O_A/w400-h300/Arbott%20Street%20in%20Moscow-2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>As with most shopping opportunities, it was helpful to have an interpreter to help with negotiations or barter or for information. Below, Andrew is explaining something to me as he made the rounds as our team investigated various souvenir venues. </p><p><span> </span>I was not a serious shopper on Arbat Street since I already had my treasure, Andrew's hand-carved and hand-painted nativity set, now safely packed in my suitcase. Stefan visited the many displays of original art for something engaging that would survive the trip back to the States.<br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg2Dhm7z3LVg1GQOynVJQReAzJKbrv9L-TOqv4T4PT5Xg6T6zX6lIVvbcyYp_3atU72afr4HZo3dXnRSkMBDVu-LiMZ3FpXdK5eMYI-h5UnV2rXZKsFuMeOId_PMyPrKVsk9goeNpo-Wy4F-YKibx6_JJe-s8nQqb1p0NeIt9v8wFKKmVgkVzbzgWzQ/s1600/P4120065.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGg2Dhm7z3LVg1GQOynVJQReAzJKbrv9L-TOqv4T4PT5Xg6T6zX6lIVvbcyYp_3atU72afr4HZo3dXnRSkMBDVu-LiMZ3FpXdK5eMYI-h5UnV2rXZKsFuMeOId_PMyPrKVsk9goeNpo-Wy4F-YKibx6_JJe-s8nQqb1p0NeIt9v8wFKKmVgkVzbzgWzQ/w300-h400/P4120065.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p> <span> </span>When we reached the other end of Arbat Street, purchases in hand, we entered the subway for our ride to our hotel. Although I am aware that we tend to learn in layers when we travel, questions remain. How does one begin to recognize what makes a place <i>significant</i>? What features <i>tell</i> us enough about <i>a particular place</i>? Clearly, I didn't know entirely what to pay attention to on these quick visits. The bus tour helped a bit. Being with translators like Andrew helped a great deal. But having "caught" some things the first time around, the traveler ideally needs to return to build on first knowledge.</p><p><span> </span>One of those tantalizing bits of information we were told was that a "terrorist" bombing on the subway two months before happened near where we were boarding. Forty-one people were killed and hundreds injured. The attack was linked somehow to the ongoing conflict with Chechnya that none of us had heard much about. It appeared on the "evening news," then quickly disappeared as our news stories commonly do. Few in the West speak of it, but parallels with the present conflict in Ukraine are striking.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0v-Cmibm12Ueu5eOwz9pniLhMFOGqVdmqL8dQEeD5v9V8dFLogtLoRbkdUw1fFnRRQSgruGAj_oAAV4-V3D0s3o7NPOlUpAS4HJPtBX6SvAEGMnkcxHfefqQoj_2XztLqr2QQSIgN22Dvod8rohsMzGn-n1RRS_68QeabFNJASGUd60O9EFDDAVCJQ/s1600/P4120080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT0v-Cmibm12Ueu5eOwz9pniLhMFOGqVdmqL8dQEeD5v9V8dFLogtLoRbkdUw1fFnRRQSgruGAj_oAAV4-V3D0s3o7NPOlUpAS4HJPtBX6SvAEGMnkcxHfefqQoj_2XztLqr2QQSIgN22Dvod8rohsMzGn-n1RRS_68QeabFNJASGUd60O9EFDDAVCJQ/w400-h300/P4120080.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span> </span>The subway, by the way, we found to be gorgeous, ornate, clean, full of compelling mosaics -- so apart from the possibility of being bombed again, which was real if remote, the subway was a treat.</p><p><span> </span>An hour later we rode the subway back into the city for dinner at a Mongolian restaurant and, afterward, to tour Red Square.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDBcG2ZZ4n9az2aGcp2OUL5ktiXM73Cbi-aJ5ZFxhBkexGByPj86aeBKjF6KiKNWEg7yCTmMhZpGgs0TY-P6ahAB0PZga1UL31Z8pIgHiQQcUUWpqxa8qNMoA_d0QJ6KsYFbzRSx7sAqFbW44ejRLqXgSPm5X1QFyAVDiyWvapZgl8yTw2y3bXO4IYQ/s2160/100_0542.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYDBcG2ZZ4n9az2aGcp2OUL5ktiXM73Cbi-aJ5ZFxhBkexGByPj86aeBKjF6KiKNWEg7yCTmMhZpGgs0TY-P6ahAB0PZga1UL31Z8pIgHiQQcUUWpqxa8qNMoA_d0QJ6KsYFbzRSx7sAqFbW44ejRLqXgSPm5X1QFyAVDiyWvapZgl8yTw2y3bXO4IYQ/w640-h426/100_0542.JPG" width="640" /></a></div> <span> </span>While not conspicuous from the outside, the eating area in the Mongolian Restaurant is shaped like a huge yurt, a word new to me at that time. There was a central, circular fire pit, around which the tables were arranged. The outside walls were constructed of logs and the inner walls were wood-paneled. Sadly, I did not record what we ate, but I know it was "meat." And why no one took photographs of the inside of the restaurant is puzzling.<br /><p></p><p><span> </span>Our walk through Red Square needs its own conversation [see Pt.2]. In my look back on <i>this</i> quick tour, I wonder about the whole "tourist" experience, what it means or ought to mean. I have been to Russia, seen the gems of Moscow, briefly, and mostly from the outside. That visit was the first of what I had hoped to be several opportunities, several layers of <i>seeing</i>, although a return now appears impossible. I must confess I have never wanted to <i>be</i> a tourist, as we commonly think of that role. That is why I particularly treasure the months Donna and I were able to live in north London and in Busan, Korea. That is why it was so meaningful for us to participate in worship services and to visit in homes in Egypt and for our basketball team to visit a home church and to venture into the muddy back streets earlier in our visit to Vladimir. <br /></p><p><span> </span>In short, I have a strong desire to go places, to see and hear, to get closer to the heart of <i>what it means to be</i> Egyptian or Korean or Chinese or, in this case, Russian, to meet people where they live. I have wanted to see beyond the pictures in the books, to see things in a <i>different</i> light.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_gMSQ8H_G0VlQQT8G5fWy1didJ93Pid5Ic7sfp1AyPy5UVfKmkfu14Iq_fINYWFx7SP-dwLkXNLjuFfyu9JEH8K9kPr8_9MEUqfn6RzCDdulrChZJZFXo9ePQOo9PD_N-Pn8mXIqldh9EBO3Ykv6KYflfXyJZa6c6g6zpl0GVxRo2ucZha52iOa5bw/s1600/P4120095.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_gMSQ8H_G0VlQQT8G5fWy1didJ93Pid5Ic7sfp1AyPy5UVfKmkfu14Iq_fINYWFx7SP-dwLkXNLjuFfyu9JEH8K9kPr8_9MEUqfn6RzCDdulrChZJZFXo9ePQOo9PD_N-Pn8mXIqldh9EBO3Ykv6KYflfXyJZa6c6g6zpl0GVxRo2ucZha52iOa5bw/w480-h640/P4120095.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>[Credit: This and many of the clearer photographs were taken by John Woodard. While many of us stood at the same spot, here and elsewhere, and snapped the same scene, John's photos are often the best of the lot.]<br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-14745045135472633422023-06-10T08:42:00.000-07:002023-06-10T08:42:31.053-07:00Russia (#20) Moscow, Travel Options<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb2dXcEuJ4aUweSxsqgQgm8HgKmqh8oKvgn8jyhqVSTv-tLLQNjqn3T7FbXBVDx2pOtTs8v0TmyxCHKzhN4QilQs0PZNjVst3XhKLtVgrQfzXX2WzNvJQI8M9Rm7soWMao0R4zxrOMpEhGlOoC3LtYnnTOPQCpNHGmjbjjpG8W5hle6xhWyLbLKLAcNw/s1600/P4110250.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb2dXcEuJ4aUweSxsqgQgm8HgKmqh8oKvgn8jyhqVSTv-tLLQNjqn3T7FbXBVDx2pOtTs8v0TmyxCHKzhN4QilQs0PZNjVst3XhKLtVgrQfzXX2WzNvJQI8M9Rm7soWMao0R4zxrOMpEhGlOoC3LtYnnTOPQCpNHGmjbjjpG8W5hle6xhWyLbLKLAcNw/w400-h300/P4110250.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /><span> </span>Nothing says "Soviet Era" quite like a boxy locomotive with a red star on the front. Our departure from Vladimir was early and expeditious; we were up early (5:10) and boarded the train by 7:30, having eaten, packed, loaded our gear, collected our passports, and bounced across town on the trolley-bus. Being reunited with our passports was a relief since it meant we <i>could</i> leave on schedule. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3kSyMSVHw1WIPJ0MgNcUTtIontnLhgC2XnR-r372zGiDhhbjhEWtn_brjQmTmWwCerhsgpF7Eat7ABfoCTfVjJ-c4u8p7ep49ap7AK1FDZmeTX4huTWx9OVuvwpfAgVkhmRmD3LYBgBbS0sc5NUbAottb1XpjP4rQkpMgtCJSw-LuQ3aRqmCVDDuAQ/s1600/P4110244.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn3kSyMSVHw1WIPJ0MgNcUTtIontnLhgC2XnR-r372zGiDhhbjhEWtn_brjQmTmWwCerhsgpF7Eat7ABfoCTfVjJ-c4u8p7ep49ap7AK1FDZmeTX4huTWx9OVuvwpfAgVkhmRmD3LYBgBbS0sc5NUbAottb1XpjP4rQkpMgtCJSw-LuQ3aRqmCVDDuAQ/w400-h300/P4110244.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span> </span>Everywhere we had gone in Russia the present merged with the past. At times it seemed there was no present. The train station was no exception. Police, indistinguishable from soldiers, were everywhere. We walked <i>around</i> the train station rather than through it. When we saw the army green train with its red star at the platform we began to think that the trip to Moscow would be grim. But then that vintage train pulled out without us.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTD3FYX4in4dqRsGM9U-gZ-87qKr4mHTIty5h7Q2eRK7Dc413bniUgX7Axk0HLiLFmggufCqdqtNlrwCy80binidQfyLljPiYHKNw0XYygdUVt2oKQLf6DDVcNmKlvBvVx8kmq4d1aVmp_I1z1R_9BrUGV1Yr5QyGOiNKZzmUh5Z0nfwSSB3CyDXytQ/s1600/P4110249.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlTD3FYX4in4dqRsGM9U-gZ-87qKr4mHTIty5h7Q2eRK7Dc413bniUgX7Axk0HLiLFmggufCqdqtNlrwCy80binidQfyLljPiYHKNw0XYygdUVt2oKQLf6DDVcNmKlvBvVx8kmq4d1aVmp_I1z1R_9BrUGV1Yr5QyGOiNKZzmUh5Z0nfwSSB3CyDXytQ/w300-h400/P4110249.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span> </span>When it had gone, a newer train pulled in, blue and white, not green, and we climbed on. Two female soldiers checked our tickets and passports before we entered our car, #10, the last car. Our tickets indicated assigned seats, bench seats like an American school bus, but facing each other. We hoisted our bags into the overhead bins and slid in. A middle-aged woman was already sitting next to the window. We filled in the other five places, three facing three. </p><p><span> </span>My ticket put me by the window across from the woman, almost knee to knee. She looked steadily out the window and withdrew her feet as far back as she could. I sat back as far as <i>I</i> could; by withdrawing my feet as well I managed about an inch between our knees. Next to me was Skip Lord, then Joel. We were seriously crammed shoulder to shoulder. Next to the woman was John Woodard, then Eric. The five of us Americans -- all fairly big guys -- chatted most of the way. </p><p><span> </span>The woman was hemmed in. Every so often she would look past John to make eye contact with an older woman, a <i>babushka</i>, across the aisle. Her mother, perhaps? Or just an older Russian woman with whom she could exchange a sympathetic glance?<br /></p><p><span> </span>Soon after the train began to move, a female conductor, also in a military uniform, came through to punch our tickets, making sure we are seated as assigned. So far, we had had our tickets torn, check-marked, and punched, our passports examined, by successive uniformed officials. This conductor smiled when she saw us and indicated she wanted to know who we were. We pointed to the logos on our jackets and said "Ba-skeet-ball" in that exaggerated way our phonetic phrase sheet indicated we should -- which made her laugh and nod. A rare display of friendliness we had not expected.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KZagEJbiBzdjQ_CSpqL7EY3ROKzgiT2gqAFTvE5OPLSAdt3sExFd_fpbmAl6ApvYzlQw0McvAEYR-_6mLB42LnqxQTT8SLLEtCc4-f2DnMbHTMbAQh9k8w79olgOQhTMDRFNTT5SznfCLnLfNUvAsXuMY3M1xeFxA-7fmLqL7fYKUZu09B9eg9BGdA/s2160/100_0472.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KZagEJbiBzdjQ_CSpqL7EY3ROKzgiT2gqAFTvE5OPLSAdt3sExFd_fpbmAl6ApvYzlQw0McvAEYR-_6mLB42LnqxQTT8SLLEtCc4-f2DnMbHTMbAQh9k8w79olgOQhTMDRFNTT5SznfCLnLfNUvAsXuMY3M1xeFxA-7fmLqL7fYKUZu09B9eg9BGdA/w400-h266/100_0472.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>Outside the window the now familiar Russian scenes: forests, broad fields waiting to be plowed, old villages of brightly painted wood-framed houses, piles of garbage here and there, evidence of last year's dead grasses and weeds burning -- not all that different from what one might see from a train in many countries including our own.<br /></p><p></p><p><span> </span>As I look back on this experience nearly twenty years in the past, I am disappointed our contact with the Russian countryside was always from the discrete distance of moving vehicles. Like the back streets of Vladimir that we were able to visit briefly one afternoon with its deteriorating houses and its hidden wood-shop, a closer view of land features, of farm and village life, and what these might have told us about the heart of Russia, remained <i>beyond</i> our knowing.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaYO81FmPXFz7OOJ4J5gec7qt-cNOtRFqVAma6ubphrJvdHwf-Mm_mRbtCWuFBXsPFbTSlIjGoDv_RrsrWDl29HDPmaVEyEVevYmxMo1rcsyY7XFCm490eiaaJsoCP5D4PjxpXRjo_9oh-m_DGkoGFdu0qOLu59o-PC9BLVOkLvLfIxzWiM4cwRPw9g/s2160/100_0477.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHaYO81FmPXFz7OOJ4J5gec7qt-cNOtRFqVAma6ubphrJvdHwf-Mm_mRbtCWuFBXsPFbTSlIjGoDv_RrsrWDl29HDPmaVEyEVevYmxMo1rcsyY7XFCm490eiaaJsoCP5D4PjxpXRjo_9oh-m_DGkoGFdu0qOLu59o-PC9BLVOkLvLfIxzWiM4cwRPw9g/w400-h266/100_0477.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p><span> </span>I think, too, about the poor woman sitting across from me, who must have felt trapped. How does one reach across the barriers imposed by language, culture, expectations, speeding vehicles -- who knows what else?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBbg3va6Z2x2QRy5BIbp4OJWb5Gd9dFE94WKjplUjs3n408GmynsYKYZ4VMBIGXClNocLFLRkUN7L0mtRhKik5jyvt4K2KDjMIS5pZDR8KO5A-Xec4Csbrw71ABnK-cEfjn0DyZSo97wxKAJ_8Ks4krMSSECx1Toeq9ug1qq8BoKI8idPlTxeCot6AA/s2160/100_0476.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVBbg3va6Z2x2QRy5BIbp4OJWb5Gd9dFE94WKjplUjs3n408GmynsYKYZ4VMBIGXClNocLFLRkUN7L0mtRhKik5jyvt4K2KDjMIS5pZDR8KO5A-Xec4Csbrw71ABnK-cEfjn0DyZSo97wxKAJ_8Ks4krMSSECx1Toeq9ug1qq8BoKI8idPlTxeCot6AA/w400-h266/100_0476.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>About 90 minutes into our two plus hour trip, unable to stand-up, move, or stretch, I developed a serious cramp in my right hamstring. For what seemed like an eternity I sat with the cramp -- unable to stand because of the overhead luggage rack, unable to stretch my leg out into this woman's space, and unwilling to make the whole group get up so that I could slide out. </p><p><span> </span>The cramp eventually went away on its own, sort of, but the memory of it has remained fresh. For those few uncomfortable moments I remember feeling I had no acceptable recourse but to endure. What I make of that moment all these years later is that it is like so much in life: knowing what the problem is and how one might resolve it is not the same as having the opportunity <i>or</i> the tools to solve it.<br /></p><p><span> </span> <br /></p><p> <br /></p><br /><br /><br />James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-2985168884686226542023-06-01T06:34:00.000-07:002023-06-01T06:34:58.695-07:00Russia (#19) Easter Sunday 2004<p>"Daniel! You Need to Get Out of Bed, Son!"</p><p><span> </span>The <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Sunrise Service</b></span> was held at 6:25 a.m. below the District Administration Building, locally referred to as "the white house." I have been to many sunrise services in my lifetime of attending church, but I cannot remember another one where we showed up in the dark before the sun had even brightened the horizon. These days, it is more convenient for churches to hold sunrise services at an hour when folks are already up and have pulled themselves "together." </p><p><span> </span>We walked down to the white house in the cold and dark, cutting across empty lots of frozen mud. The prospect of actually seeing the sun seemed remote as the sky was heavily overcast.<span> </span>Forty-five believers formed a circle on grass in front of the white house. There was clear joy on the faces of young believers when they saw each other on that cold, dark morning -- in clear contrast to the sober faces we usually encountered. </p><p><span> </span>We sang some songs using the common musical language of Easter hymns we knew in English and the Russians in Russian, and we heard testimonies. In the middle of our service the clouds on the eastern horizon parted for about 2 minutes and the sun appeared, brilliantly, shooting reds and pink and purple streaks through the dark clouds. As if on cue, when the sun appeared everyone began to shout, "Kristos voskrese! Voistinu voskrese!" (Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!).</p><p><span> </span>Then the clouds closed up, the service ended, and we walked back to the Mission Center. It was amazing how that brief, brilliant appearance of the sun had lifted all our spirits.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcUvRMbavlfMz7CUzuoKBBkkRD4foD_7Pa7gNEj3_47TgY4b1xY0KI63wYf6s_NbQEPazokZwz-7lkn_Yb2c-aq0wg3LDxBEO_Gda4jUKjnKi_k1VFPQZyMks4DPTwZn37eYTnLylRi2-qxvMrJcLLhAGVI4VruKkHdEYn9lj5TJcl9stdTRTYom22Q/s1600/P4110198.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLcUvRMbavlfMz7CUzuoKBBkkRD4foD_7Pa7gNEj3_47TgY4b1xY0KI63wYf6s_NbQEPazokZwz-7lkn_Yb2c-aq0wg3LDxBEO_Gda4jUKjnKi_k1VFPQZyMks4DPTwZn37eYTnLylRi2-qxvMrJcLLhAGVI4VruKkHdEYn9lj5TJcl9stdTRTYom22Q/w400-h300/P4110198.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Morning Service. </b></span></span>This second week at the Mission Center for church we felt more at home. I followed more of what was going on even without constant translation. Gary King gave a testimony. Ken Blake, the Global Partners missionary in Vladimir, preached on the resurrection. We sang many Easter hymns. I had planned to leave with some of the others when the service ended, but I wound up taking four younger boys back into church. They had attended our 3-on-3 tournament the day before and had come to the Mission Center to find Andy, who was inside chatting. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-7H6lNcZJzb-K74xbzHglJiSwAIrOA0T5ARfcBHlJq4oL2El742g0HYxihKHkXH2W-OXe-SoyTsVMYXE4Zl5ffj6gmJup-Mwe48b1jVXrzyrFtbkCWTDUd50pn2KKFc6oytWA9_SzcdsuyvtYVuAPPbplAT6oTuoHvkiaPQPbTu11ASu8SrkQaCUeQ/s1600/P4110189.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq-7H6lNcZJzb-K74xbzHglJiSwAIrOA0T5ARfcBHlJq4oL2El742g0HYxihKHkXH2W-OXe-SoyTsVMYXE4Zl5ffj6gmJup-Mwe48b1jVXrzyrFtbkCWTDUd50pn2KKFc6oytWA9_SzcdsuyvtYVuAPPbplAT6oTuoHvkiaPQPbTu11ASu8SrkQaCUeQ/w400-h300/P4110189.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Dinner at Ken and Marilyn's. </b></span></span>Tables had been set up in the Blakes' apartment to feed the hungry Americans and various other protestant missionaries serving in Vladimir. We had a wonderfully abundant Easter meal: chicken, beef, ham, rice, tomatoes, traditional deserts, especially Easter cakes. There were deeply red Easter eggs, dyed with beets in the traditional Russian way. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0W3mlSmi92t4hmmVF-E9rW7yvpGgJb8v77wpodcutepAjiGPeBrxcxFfWOfgtrkxYbmckR9TtLqEG_MJe_Ns1gxLfkaqm0KIy_gt3uVkyqVWqdCcVJxqZpsOLUgvsxizmsSMjdJJYrLSsUtYKRxDbF76iZFcXOW83MKmZx1ykeSWsMOsRV789iiCx7Q/s1600/P4110231.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0W3mlSmi92t4hmmVF-E9rW7yvpGgJb8v77wpodcutepAjiGPeBrxcxFfWOfgtrkxYbmckR9TtLqEG_MJe_Ns1gxLfkaqm0KIy_gt3uVkyqVWqdCcVJxqZpsOLUgvsxizmsSMjdJJYrLSsUtYKRxDbF76iZFcXOW83MKmZx1ykeSWsMOsRV789iiCx7Q/w300-h400/P4110231.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span> </span>We left late in the afternoon to hustle back to the hotel to get ready for a late service at the house church we had visited the Sunday before. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTeHtgmdjfm0samBRzG-DQYE61YtZOB6VOoIkIxX5O3iG334iz5GR20Zw48OPl6JIYlaHrK0m_L7zpCWXf0GPbqJZ4k9qFjrRcERCVx0FBDdWlsFA7MUHaR5-BtooP6bDby3fUVq4bYZi-U0Aaaf8g_SWYqECJSqLeiM6-MXv7gwWTzPQwuo5EDrv1A/s1600/P4110233.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjTeHtgmdjfm0samBRzG-DQYE61YtZOB6VOoIkIxX5O3iG334iz5GR20Zw48OPl6JIYlaHrK0m_L7zpCWXf0GPbqJZ4k9qFjrRcERCVx0FBDdWlsFA7MUHaR5-BtooP6bDby3fUVq4bYZi-U0Aaaf8g_SWYqECJSqLeiM6-MXv7gwWTzPQwuo5EDrv1A/w400-h300/P4110233.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> <b><span style="font-size: medium;">Evening Service</span></b>. </span>A younger missionary couple picked us up for our 25 minute trolley-bus ride and walk to the house church. The week before there were perhaps 8 church folks plus the hosts meeting with us. This week there were easily double that number squeezing into the house. </p><p><span> </span>We had a long discussion about courtship, as the local Russian pastor thought this would be helpful. Gary King shared some Biblical principles. I shared as a father although again I found the experience working with a translator complicated. After our sharing there were some tough and pointed questions that I noted only in that general way. I wish I could remember more particularly what those questions were.<span> </span>Then we ate: a huge Easter "tea" -- lots of cakes, cookies, sliced oranges and bananas -- and many individual conversations. I hope in some small way that we were helpful. </p><p><span> </span><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Debriefing.</span> </b>Back at the Blakes, we had our last team time, a debriefing before going home. The Blakes talked us through what adjustments we might experience shifting back to American culture, especially as we would be expected to jump back into activities as if we had never been away. And they gave advice as to what kinds of things we might share with our home churches. Because we had gone to different places to meet with different groups during our days in Vladimir, our individual stories varied considerably.</p><p><span> The Blakes asked us a series of questions I have come to see as standard "exit" questions: "What has been the <i>hardest</i> adjustment?", "The greatest blessing?", "The person I will never forget?" Andrew the woodcarver and our translator was the obvious answer to this one. "What do I wish I had known beforehand?" -- to which I answered, "bring less, wear dark pants not light to conceal the mud." </span> I found nearly everything "Russian" interesting and engaging. If anything, I wanted <i>more </i>of nearly everything. The emotional letdown we had been told to expect after two or three days in this new country had not happened me.<span> </span></p><p><span> </span>This short missions trip had been such an extraordinary experience for me personally, I was sad to see the time in Vladimir end. My short list of extraordinary moments, if I were forced to be particular, would include singing hymns on the bus on the dark ride back from Kosrov, conversing with Andrew during his tours of the old city, visiting the woodcarver's secluded workshop/sanctuary, our too short visit to the Orthodox cathedral on Palm Sunday, and tonight's session discussing serious questions with the gathering of young Russian believers.</p><p><span> </span>At the head of this list of extraordinary moments would have to be the sudden, brief, brilliant appearance of the sun during our sunrise service and hearing the response of our brothers and sisters, "Kristos voskrese! Voistinu voskrese!"</p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-78749812812062036572023-05-18T07:23:00.000-07:002023-05-18T07:23:46.656-07:00Russia (#18) -- 10 April 2004 -- The Day Before Easter<p>NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND<br /></p><p> <span> </span>The last of our basketball opportunities was a 3-on-3 tournament held in a small gymnasium at a sports center. This is the kind of competition that gets many players excited since it offers multiple opportunities to have a good game that does not require running the floor. Pick and roll, pass and cut, block out and rebound. Stand at the 3-point line and launch one up. It should have favored men in their fifties who hadn't played together much.<span> Alas! </span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxXXBHMOsj4mxC1agB0KrHPcjy-WvkpF0ceMHtCzzGnmIxDRbljCDwAMvUsbwHA3CTKeaBb22qrtcycZzVtwPRnp_twPHPkrsTCyku8tLRua9wr1hctBTUzdo738WasCnpzZI9GoIyiNdGLkWxvycNMLXPw-3zSmysMJkWBg8jE9QpXCRUea9PGNrJ-Q/s1600/P4100169.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxXXBHMOsj4mxC1agB0KrHPcjy-WvkpF0ceMHtCzzGnmIxDRbljCDwAMvUsbwHA3CTKeaBb22qrtcycZzVtwPRnp_twPHPkrsTCyku8tLRua9wr1hctBTUzdo738WasCnpzZI9GoIyiNdGLkWxvycNMLXPw-3zSmysMJkWBg8jE9QpXCRUea9PGNrJ-Q/s320/P4100169.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><span> </span>I was paired with Ken Brubaker, Mason Sorensen, and Skip Lord, which, unfortunately, made me the "big man" on our team. I used to play "big" reasonably well, but not any more. We lost all three of our games, finishing, as they say, out of the money. There were some pretty intense games, however, especially in the under 30 category. The team that won the whole thing had three real bruisers, that being a result in no small way to their ability to put the hurt on opponents. I took part in the 3-point shooting and the foul shooting contests, which I figured (incorrectly) would allow me to leave international competition with a shred of dignity. But, no: I went 1 for 5 in the 3-point and 3 for 5 in foul shooting. No sour grapes here, but I think it was the unforgiving rims.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbpgZ5cHktUIz4OSjqPgl165VEWNFUf5ZhkVdEA8lG_zzEN3wm0BohRRknWTFF0zxoxqnFSz1k7xowodZvk_oSL_9lqnILIUKsXixf2Iz98s9yGFxx-mg5SMa8abCasBl5VSBMnt0hlDyOlbZIYE42IyjRAd3ujnQdw0_2sgyQFAOiO0wGhZMRZeW0A/s1600/P4100111.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMbpgZ5cHktUIz4OSjqPgl165VEWNFUf5ZhkVdEA8lG_zzEN3wm0BohRRknWTFF0zxoxqnFSz1k7xowodZvk_oSL_9lqnILIUKsXixf2Iz98s9yGFxx-mg5SMa8abCasBl5VSBMnt0hlDyOlbZIYE42IyjRAd3ujnQdw0_2sgyQFAOiO0wGhZMRZeW0A/s320/P4100111.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><span><span> </span>My disappointments were overshadowed by the success of the tournament itself in drawing young people to the event where we were able to mingle, to share good will despite the language barrier. Local TV coverage also meant that the local church got some very positive exposure. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpHY084RxYC8UYK8LQjCb2vdnUlFz-ipss1l7TujOksWUhgAabgKUbqEu8G1AsraGJMLQCnBduFvTRe0DlUWY4p1DQ--m-SHkwSkC2Zqupcvg5hDpVo3Vrn_yCvrey0mmcuFdQIeLF17yji5ZNiW7vw4tY5YLTQA1dGL5AHZv8AJKhWzqhgsPFhbOuQ/s1600/P4100117.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOpHY084RxYC8UYK8LQjCb2vdnUlFz-ipss1l7TujOksWUhgAabgKUbqEu8G1AsraGJMLQCnBduFvTRe0DlUWY4p1DQ--m-SHkwSkC2Zqupcvg5hDpVo3Vrn_yCvrey0mmcuFdQIeLF17yji5ZNiW7vw4tY5YLTQA1dGL5AHZv8AJKhWzqhgsPFhbOuQ/s320/P4100117.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span> </span>After the tournament our friend and interpreter Andrew took some of us to meet a friend of his who is a master wood carver. The trip to his shop near the Golden Gate of the old city was a story in itself. We took the trolley-bus to a spot near the restaurant where we had had dinner the Sunday before. From there, we walked through an archway that was continuous with the buildings along the street. Almost as if we had passed through the back of C.S. Lewis' wardrobe, we seemed to enter a different world. The main street with the trolley-bus was clean and in good repair if somewhat old with its grey, soviet style, square construction.</p><p><span> </span>On the back side of the archway, the streets were rough, the buildings single-story and wooden. We passed St. George's Church (St. Georgi), the second oldest church in Vladimir dating from the 12th Century (although the present structure was built in 1784). The street we entered was muddy and puddled, the houses old, generally unpainted, and run-down. It had a neglected, 19th Century feel. One hundred yards or so along this street we turned into an alleyway that ran downhill. This was "old city" but not the part tourists usually saw.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6xIiGzqCHIXCsny3gTX0kmTbvJCDWECAfAUJOEwHHmqgDT6hqnBK00vFbj3e1WbDDPgMMUYR3SAh7R2Xa3SYAkOThGRlUZY-I-cG7MQN8Awg4OTBq2wcmq0SK5ZunVMfFW9jUNY8D-fX0Ax4KHhsVml_MhyTWyG2xU1eOTAXkcYUSPk97lgbmtdT_w/s1536/001_00A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6xIiGzqCHIXCsny3gTX0kmTbvJCDWECAfAUJOEwHHmqgDT6hqnBK00vFbj3e1WbDDPgMMUYR3SAh7R2Xa3SYAkOThGRlUZY-I-cG7MQN8Awg4OTBq2wcmq0SK5ZunVMfFW9jUNY8D-fX0Ax4KHhsVml_MhyTWyG2xU1eOTAXkcYUSPk97lgbmtdT_w/w426-h640/001_00A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Clearly, this was a poor section of town, hidden behind the three and four story connected buildings that presented a respectable, clean, if dated, front on the central thoroughfare. Near St. George we could look across to another slope and see the gold domes of the Assumption Cathedral. Below on the slopes of the ravine were old shacks. That was the area we were heading into, St George rising in the background.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPNf321CVIoXbeGTsrDZ7gGt4YcG5Iu5m81sBPBk5kNeG4QS3sL2uJWc1pkzNpR2k9jQJ4KMFryIuUVJpKv7rAULs7zZv-oIP6Dj-QqnUZnkVTBM_6yxAkbuZhXbOqDmFR_wF8MDpD0Lzk4fWWafX8QOiSLqq1f4QKf18RZBlnPmByN_stAPuxmWRaHQ/s1536/002_0A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPNf321CVIoXbeGTsrDZ7gGt4YcG5Iu5m81sBPBk5kNeG4QS3sL2uJWc1pkzNpR2k9jQJ4KMFryIuUVJpKv7rAULs7zZv-oIP6Dj-QqnUZnkVTBM_6yxAkbuZhXbOqDmFR_wF8MDpD0Lzk4fWWafX8QOiSLqq1f4QKf18RZBlnPmByN_stAPuxmWRaHQ/w426-h640/002_0A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><span> </span>A short way down this narrow mud street we turned in at a gate in an old wooden fence to the side of a very old, unmarked, nondescript house owned by the Artists Union. It was not hard to imagine that life for an artist under the Soviet regime required a willingness to work on the margins, in clandestine rooms. In 2004 it seemed to be a question of resources rather than government interference, but who was to know?<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwl6m_rTj9DjmY9HfsuxK1-8G0c3gWLTE0usAV4QDcFgJ-YeNDPBLGyHQvY3oXb4je-R_HO8xJaK-JVLBuQw_M2NAU7YOdD0nJjUuVHxQRyVY4Cwo-xVXGr6js5Q5h8-vXKB_FgS5K7nlLe-vBRsdX8EDVQPvBlRsqCOOZ-QzS1uyq58iLmFacuHu7Wg/s1536/003_1A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwl6m_rTj9DjmY9HfsuxK1-8G0c3gWLTE0usAV4QDcFgJ-YeNDPBLGyHQvY3oXb4je-R_HO8xJaK-JVLBuQw_M2NAU7YOdD0nJjUuVHxQRyVY4Cwo-xVXGr6js5Q5h8-vXKB_FgS5K7nlLe-vBRsdX8EDVQPvBlRsqCOOZ-QzS1uyq58iLmFacuHu7Wg/w426-h640/003_1A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><span> </span>We entered by a back door beyond a pile of rubble and a wooden outhouse. Dark entryway, dark stairs down to a basement, through a heavy metal door, down a corridor that spoke of age and ruin, through another heavy door, where we knocked on yet another door beyond.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMJUPwVtyaGzH_pAQI7y8MDP-rGgSqUmY-PncAHVHAlsygOWQisCj_yteC7UB4T3pppMWGteBvv_3aayLSGhpEH1JNm_MFx0L9vm5C7br0hPUk7ln1LcwNhYUDZ_ZdnzPpVuKTaLgxgwH04cTADJEfs_r90MPSe4vlIA-UjM96a3CB3Dww8OtClb15g/s1536/004_2A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMJUPwVtyaGzH_pAQI7y8MDP-rGgSqUmY-PncAHVHAlsygOWQisCj_yteC7UB4T3pppMWGteBvv_3aayLSGhpEH1JNm_MFx0L9vm5C7br0hPUk7ln1LcwNhYUDZ_ZdnzPpVuKTaLgxgwH04cTADJEfs_r90MPSe4vlIA-UjM96a3CB3Dww8OtClb15g/w400-h266/004_2A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>The master woodcarver -- Andrew's friend and teacher, both of them 43 years old -- opened the door. We went into his shop, an incredible little place, as clean, tidy, and compelling as the outside had been dark, dirty, and depressing. There were two rooms. One held a sink, a workbench, tools of a wood carver's trade, and a project in process. The other was a sitting room, with a small couch, shelves with books and spaces for finished carvings.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YCm61fao2mAMlLDXmcVDEr7xXb5ytqB7Nafv7d5Ts-MGXAF-I4dD_3lxKLDHV7p3Unj5IiT1hlCEWRWh-6zucaE8dkkwQBiJ1HHhAb_M8Umk15L-P8_pwJ8eRUdHRWpZjD2BiH7Q5usdRtm_HeTCyw6OGRcDi4e_akud0mCfdEZ9DtK9Cvt1uRPcKQ/s1536/007_5A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4YCm61fao2mAMlLDXmcVDEr7xXb5ytqB7Nafv7d5Ts-MGXAF-I4dD_3lxKLDHV7p3Unj5IiT1hlCEWRWh-6zucaE8dkkwQBiJ1HHhAb_M8Umk15L-P8_pwJ8eRUdHRWpZjD2BiH7Q5usdRtm_HeTCyw6OGRcDi4e_akud0mCfdEZ9DtK9Cvt1uRPcKQ/w400-h266/007_5A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Wood carving is often practiced as a craft-art, if I understand sufficiently. Andrew's friend, whose name is not in my notes, considered himself an artist, first and last, both in traditional Russian forms of wood artistry and in imaginative forms. According to Andrew, he had been working on icons when we arrived; these he had been commissioned to create for an Orthodox congregation in another city. I understood he made the icons principally as an act of spiritual devotion.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu785BmQ58NT_5Bl_2gbIIy4cVif7spWnuGUFDXQydx2ehnxJUSz8YBVMOQ-79FJBJLaZKI9iLLD3dLlwFS6KlfkKl3x5142KzEBGWU5ja2clkKxYVH4VeFN8FZPqDKlCx2uu1T_aC5r1Riro6aIVnKkAVQZCeLikPI2njmGmtheS-ikM2nt-221_y0Q/s1536/008_6A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu785BmQ58NT_5Bl_2gbIIy4cVif7spWnuGUFDXQydx2ehnxJUSz8YBVMOQ-79FJBJLaZKI9iLLD3dLlwFS6KlfkKl3x5142KzEBGWU5ja2clkKxYVH4VeFN8FZPqDKlCx2uu1T_aC5r1Riro6aIVnKkAVQZCeLikPI2njmGmtheS-ikM2nt-221_y0Q/w400-h266/008_6A.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span> </span>Many of the imaginative pieces on the walls and shelves were made from "unusable" or leftover pieces of wood. He would study each piece of wood until he knew what it might become -- what it <i>needed</i> to become. And when he wasn't working in wood, he would use his sitting room for reading, for meditating, or for studying texts from his shelves. I wanted to know more, to ask questions. Translation, of course, can be a slow process and Andrew had a great deal to attend to; because there were 7 or 8 of us in the room, and because the master woodcarver spoke slowly, with great care, I was not able to ask as much as I had hoped.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibZXFML8UzoB4Z_UJYQQ_QoYoxjnArVZ3DbRJJMmR5TKS-UUMQMEpe0HQdcYyFq9IdTeRRvgzzXfh9OGBkrZdZAIdqMgtiG5DxJij34-0UFoDxXVdOAEN6SeEBhNnPYPfG7nQ1v_OBN6HkrDCAO5-namIIsHP5u-DdkxJFLywEZC0T9aJpPmabN_a8NQ/s1536/005_3A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibZXFML8UzoB4Z_UJYQQ_QoYoxjnArVZ3DbRJJMmR5TKS-UUMQMEpe0HQdcYyFq9IdTeRRvgzzXfh9OGBkrZdZAIdqMgtiG5DxJij34-0UFoDxXVdOAEN6SeEBhNnPYPfG7nQ1v_OBN6HkrDCAO5-namIIsHP5u-DdkxJFLywEZC0T9aJpPmabN_a8NQ/w640-h426/005_3A.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Nothing in the workshop was for sale, so we could not purchase anything. All these pieces were to be shown at a country-wide exhibition in Moscow in the near future. Our host was both excited and apprehensive about this show. These were all recent works made after several years of depression during which he could not work. The depression, as I understand the story, was occasioned by the loss of two fingers on his right hand to a band-saw, an accident that had occurred as he was teaching seventh graders at the local trade school.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4PKonO9h8TAoFOdbLvNe9ajL8T87Q3laR6Ao7q1WjAKEzL2NUO6t_6R2iskvh73RwrLAH7egtppIdUppBG2Q295HOqloia3ZEqFH-uCD4-EdB-l8SpBH1AZH7Wt1THpQhJeXNU2oMUiikRyiJ1aeSfMPL1wWUg3BXbck7-JF01km2pKyAT1JU-0Jzw/s1536/006_4A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4PKonO9h8TAoFOdbLvNe9ajL8T87Q3laR6Ao7q1WjAKEzL2NUO6t_6R2iskvh73RwrLAH7egtppIdUppBG2Q295HOqloia3ZEqFH-uCD4-EdB-l8SpBH1AZH7Wt1THpQhJeXNU2oMUiikRyiJ1aeSfMPL1wWUg3BXbck7-JF01km2pKyAT1JU-0Jzw/w426-h640/006_4A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><p><span> </span>We could easily have spent the whole day in these rooms, asking questions, listening to the answers, and marveling at the creations on the walls. Or just marveling. For me in those underground rooms many things were beginning to come together in my understanding. I <i>felt</i> more than understood what that dark day before Easter held, what might be germinating, what the conviction of hope might look like.<br /></p><p><span> </span>Too soon we had to thank our host and venture back through the dark corridor and heavy metal doors to the mud streets outside. Nineteen years on, I am struck anew with wonder at what we saw on that afternoon in those clean, bright rooms.<br /></p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-50549595488888740582023-05-12T11:55:00.000-07:002023-05-12T11:55:19.954-07:00Russia (#17) April 9, 2004 -- Good Friday Connections and Opportunities<p> <span> </span>Three of the fathers -- John Horton, Troy Martin, and I -- had been asked to share thoughts about "fatherhood" with a young adults group. As I understood short-term missions at that time, this is where the <i>real work of missions </i>would happen. I had thought we would be returning to the house where the house church had met, but we were actually taken to the mission center. There were somewhere between 25 and 30 young adults attending. My notes record that we had a good time.</p><p><span> </span>We played some games, sang songs with a band, heard the testimony of a new believer, and then the American fathers shared. John Horton shared on the story of the prodigal son. Troy Martin shared on the "long vision" of fatherhood. Between these two messages, which I thought showed a good understanding of their audience, I shared on the issue of discipline.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8m7x_DfukCpstzOiCSChjhQSSDt6ueQZ1zBWZq-gIQWElVHHgi-J6-8RvW29JYUaYDA3E3tut8ZQTg2r5aTEuht-ST7kjGE_Rj1OtkJRsS3rbZMYYeZecWLF_ZZc9WhPvjVnxY6qf3wGe1tKxp7UKWNPDAfQefuxJGQ2pxI68p0M3qyhABYaMHYICTQ/s1600/P4040047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8m7x_DfukCpstzOiCSChjhQSSDt6ueQZ1zBWZq-gIQWElVHHgi-J6-8RvW29JYUaYDA3E3tut8ZQTg2r5aTEuht-ST7kjGE_Rj1OtkJRsS3rbZMYYeZecWLF_ZZc9WhPvjVnxY6qf3wGe1tKxp7UKWNPDAfQefuxJGQ2pxI68p0M3qyhABYaMHYICTQ/w300-h400/P4040047.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><span> </span>As a father and as the son of a father who disciplined, I know the subject fairly well from experience. Furthermore, it was not hard to find Biblical underpinnings for my comments. As a teacher, however, I found it hard to "read" my audience; they looked unresponsive. A few years later while teaching in Korea, I was more prepared for what body language and lack of facial expression suggested. I had thought about how to address the traditional lack of student interaction. Although I may have been experiencing a cultural norm, I sat down feeling that I had missed an opportunity to do some good for these young adults.</p><p><span> </span>After the fathers had spoken, our group stayed for quite a while. There was a lot of conversation among the young people. Stefan played drums for a while with the band, then everyone cleared out and our group had team time. My spirits improved. All told, yes, we had a good time.<br /></p><p><span> For team time, Troy asked us to say a few words about someone in our group who had been kind to us. A lot of us offered things, but the one that stands out was this: John Woodard said he had a complicated relationship with Dan, one of our high school players, because Dan "gets under my skin in the worst way"; but he was also impressed with how easily Dan connected with kids and how eager he was to win them over. We all agreed and laughed because we had all had our own Dan experiences. Dan was pleased on both accounts -- as only Dan could be.</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXrD4lXY0WS8G8kJ-RriKdWtrZFRQIvuaeiXqLURHAgdw8FL5W3KhEfxcTZTVBgdFUiy5ClGWfrUk8cXKAtvRjdqZJtxmfpDustO7RoNbLo2T1W09Sb2sCOP3snD7LlQaqrBSiedYLMgw4CLomj8a30k7funrCr9riEUH7c5klTfc4ZMKBJeXj5rzgw/s1600/P4110211.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNXrD4lXY0WS8G8kJ-RriKdWtrZFRQIvuaeiXqLURHAgdw8FL5W3KhEfxcTZTVBgdFUiy5ClGWfrUk8cXKAtvRjdqZJtxmfpDustO7RoNbLo2T1W09Sb2sCOP3snD7LlQaqrBSiedYLMgw4CLomj8a30k7funrCr9riEUH7c5klTfc4ZMKBJeXj5rzgw/s320/P4110211.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> <span> </span>At the end, I handed out the chocolate I had received at dinner, so we dispersed on that sweet note. Andrew, our interpreter, was waiting for Stefan in the hall to show him a beautiful wood carving he had made. We knew that Andrew had, among other things, done the wood carvings on the benches outside the mission center, so Stefan would naturally have asked him about the art of wood carving. <p></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepoeI1ErRn1Sb6DeUds-8TsJ90xSQyzH_ahvb0nbTbIipIuNFYwL2pVzOh7Ng7B7h500SIuhhyInVh7f7dX1yu66n6VpNP_gcw-uWLyq8YlnTIv9jehq6X4xqgVnZedkA0MtfVhpBLa4M33dGK3KwFOMwupUV4e4qpHoJ1eIy681DrkwVdNJdRjSTYg/s1600/P4110217.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhepoeI1ErRn1Sb6DeUds-8TsJ90xSQyzH_ahvb0nbTbIipIuNFYwL2pVzOh7Ng7B7h500SIuhhyInVh7f7dX1yu66n6VpNP_gcw-uWLyq8YlnTIv9jehq6X4xqgVnZedkA0MtfVhpBLa4M33dGK3KwFOMwupUV4e4qpHoJ1eIy681DrkwVdNJdRjSTYg/s320/P4110217.JPG" width="240" /></a></div> <span> </span>While I don't believe this was the carving in question, when Andrew showed up with this figure, Stefan bought it on the spot. And their art conversations, like many traceable cause and effect transactions, would lead us to one of the most profound and memorable experiences we were to have in Vladimir.<br /><p></p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-45662658281436305062023-05-08T07:08:00.001-07:002023-05-08T07:11:10.505-07:00Russia (#16) The Virtue of Hustle<p>April 9, 2004 (Day 7) <br /></p><p> <span> </span>I'm usually pretty good at paying attention, especially looking and listening. I have had to learn when and how to ask questions since my natural tendency is to try to figure things out first. Figuring things out may be both a "guy thing" and an American thing, but I would like to think it is more than that. I remain hopeful that that the happiness I feel in "discovery" plays a part.</p><p><span> </span>That said, it is sobering to realize after a week "in country" that the lessons I needed to learn are still ground level basic. There are many parts to the business of lifelong learning for which paying attention and awareness are crucial. On that score, I note that our "American" breakfast on Day 7 included the usual -- yogurt, twinky-shaped donuts with nuts at one end, sausages in round pasta, scalding coffee -- and a treat -- pears! All in all, a good start.</p><p><span> </span>Our morning ministry was a visit to a school near the ministry center, less than 100 yards in fact.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjKaQmG4qpTLuxP0EhrD7SKisscIR9c0Dng_cKlgNUguCNeq3NBkQGkWxLboCSJbxrSoDxu-J8Eq7HeNnO340-PkV6LwECQTQh-PlVL6jGDV_YBVYpS39ABipkeHbMSALMKDJ0RJCnUSEboC3hZSuhq6nvaS9g8lEP6E4Lf2Jcl8jABH1MpgoouQ39g/s1600/P4090003.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqjKaQmG4qpTLuxP0EhrD7SKisscIR9c0Dng_cKlgNUguCNeq3NBkQGkWxLboCSJbxrSoDxu-J8Eq7HeNnO340-PkV6LwECQTQh-PlVL6jGDV_YBVYpS39ABipkeHbMSALMKDJ0RJCnUSEboC3hZSuhq6nvaS9g8lEP6E4Lf2Jcl8jABH1MpgoouQ39g/s320/P4090003.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p>The gym was a box-like room with a colorful floor. School children came in and sat on short benches along the wall, with their feet toeing the out-of-bounds lines. We didn't know beforehand that we would be playing a game; but there was a team on site, ready to play, so the boys played a spirited game. Every so often, as classes were changing, the seated group of children filed out and another group made their way in.</p><p>After the game, players from both teams put on various ball handling demonstrations and teamwork drills.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBLwyb-c2f2jE39oMqSztKArFOC6ryuHlp3RO6Ja7-OT7UYb6DVwOqoAaqwBb0XTShJLWD5D7nuL1rAraArnIZO9FlaqOuAjVT2lJKVV6xdVqY388Gq-KkwPXuRK8BdF6ia51mTZtR6TC73RpPGG-zejECbI9Qmz-HwlDzj2t1PgQR3S11yNIiIJExg/s1600/P4090008.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBLwyb-c2f2jE39oMqSztKArFOC6ryuHlp3RO6Ja7-OT7UYb6DVwOqoAaqwBb0XTShJLWD5D7nuL1rAraArnIZO9FlaqOuAjVT2lJKVV6xdVqY388Gq-KkwPXuRK8BdF6ia51mTZtR6TC73RpPGG-zejECbI9Qmz-HwlDzj2t1PgQR3S11yNIiIJExg/w400-h300/P4090008.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span><span> </span>Over the course of our time at that school, a dozen or more small boys came up to me a few at a time and asked for an autograph. I was told that it signified respect for authority. So this really had nothing to do with my current skill level, I get that. I signed "For my Russian friend" above my signature. Although it seemed unlikely they knew any more English than I knew Russian, they seemed delighted.</p><p><span> </span>After lunch at the ministry center we boarded a bus to the Electropribor, the electronics factory where we had played the day before. A quick internet search will reveal that "electronics" actually means military technology and navigation systems, so there was considerable government investment in that facility. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVhFpRJwpHaC4MyojOwD7bQ3A1G5lIkEHhSFCQi_NWZBHqRJIRJh693Jl-31__Pzp4LdYMEDe_eLIgXJTC4eA3Q2uePQ6QT-5GV5dcBFRLW37RzgwX0RUbfVqhh52Dg-nNIeFuwvsUPLGbq6Xzp-76Dea__uHjBJkGpf0I77Vl4GuvRpyMPMx1PoNkQ/s1600/P4090089.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVhFpRJwpHaC4MyojOwD7bQ3A1G5lIkEHhSFCQi_NWZBHqRJIRJh693Jl-31__Pzp4LdYMEDe_eLIgXJTC4eA3Q2uePQ6QT-5GV5dcBFRLW37RzgwX0RUbfVqhh52Dg-nNIeFuwvsUPLGbq6Xzp-76Dea__uHjBJkGpf0I77Vl4GuvRpyMPMx1PoNkQ/w300-h400/P4090089.JPG" width="300" /></a></div> <span> </span>We were expected to play two games but again played just one when competition for the boys' team did not show. Skip tried to play each father-son combination for several stretches, reviving my flagging sense that running the floor (my primary contribution) was worth the effort. I must add that Stefan played well in all his games while I, as in the photo below, had to be satisfied motoring up and down the floor.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVZVNq8n4H0EmSUEhr06IuPute5GwDXOqeLAVHmq7q2XPVAIcW938dH53QmCdFoaaDB5DYuvQhfkGzHLUneBTuirL1ruExvXTTIxfXfJAKY2VgsJHUvBHOGLQKi3mCU2615twg85R8B228SiGlMqGtcO9gmbUEcNWWus2EFrgvesgrNrqzgMCgJZiDw/s1600/P4090060.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcVZVNq8n4H0EmSUEhr06IuPute5GwDXOqeLAVHmq7q2XPVAIcW938dH53QmCdFoaaDB5DYuvQhfkGzHLUneBTuirL1ruExvXTTIxfXfJAKY2VgsJHUvBHOGLQKi3mCU2615twg85R8B228SiGlMqGtcO9gmbUEcNWWus2EFrgvesgrNrqzgMCgJZiDw/s320/P4090060.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeoEqSCx8LO0S2-DqgwRLOKau5BhgIF-CIcxalrG7rVdvqNFPZOwea-mxwili4YGIplQ0xoft8BWxLHYdAnNwX32y7_kQs68HxHWDUTBHpVPyrGZuPTfhUVPCKcTS1rsnKCEqDDhHahZP_URg0q-T3nV3lzPmRtcNH4AlQ64rVRyp8ILpJCOmyVRytQ/s1600/P4090024.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeoEqSCx8LO0S2-DqgwRLOKau5BhgIF-CIcxalrG7rVdvqNFPZOwea-mxwili4YGIplQ0xoft8BWxLHYdAnNwX32y7_kQs68HxHWDUTBHpVPyrGZuPTfhUVPCKcTS1rsnKCEqDDhHahZP_URg0q-T3nV3lzPmRtcNH4AlQ64rVRyp8ILpJCOmyVRytQ/w300-h400/P4090024.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIbXAiFyIBUjG0wXacJ8e7zylWvr5SyeiuuldTot_kL22h4RajNyI_z5sT3hnr9KBqHBjwLhR6rISgLePCF2PSky3ndNdrhvgOXLwCK7LGg5ddzkfg411iVnLN6W07GPtCLLNQwWYrAnY6qARaY-uuPajw1jOPsx90YT0SJ5AmnM9DRTr0MSCNeM5Bgg/s1600/P4090031.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIbXAiFyIBUjG0wXacJ8e7zylWvr5SyeiuuldTot_kL22h4RajNyI_z5sT3hnr9KBqHBjwLhR6rISgLePCF2PSky3ndNdrhvgOXLwCK7LGg5ddzkfg411iVnLN6W07GPtCLLNQwWYrAnY6qARaY-uuPajw1jOPsx90YT0SJ5AmnM9DRTr0MSCNeM5Bgg/s320/P4090031.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><span> </span>No photograph of Stefan and me playing together seems to exist, so the father and son portrait in front of the Olympic bear will have to stand in for an action shot. Also, of no small note, the best action shot of me <i>in any of our games</i> is of my textbook free-throw form shown here. </p><p><span> </span>Do not be fooled, by the way, by the pot-belly on the player nearest the camera. He knew exactly how to use his size and weight for maximum effectiveness.</p><p><span> </span>This was a different team than we had played previously, but they too had played together for decades and had been champions of some city or regional leagues years before. We saw photographs from those days in the corridor after the game.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDrgVn0-qAlnxIgvn3sBhkfbMfrl0EyJ8terWRMJ4Xkp_e4SofTGSo8-ug9Pb9eHuTnuQiU8Mf7DIBHczpxJiiK5UQd7J81IVPH5pMml0hnTPgV4zEYLeM1j5TPD7av7q-_VwEVOKnUqhT5p6gHGGVX6ChF6oTpaC8Cls_WQJH5txWv2-fqH5BT5_NQ/s1600/P4090086.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUDrgVn0-qAlnxIgvn3sBhkfbMfrl0EyJ8terWRMJ4Xkp_e4SofTGSo8-ug9Pb9eHuTnuQiU8Mf7DIBHczpxJiiK5UQd7J81IVPH5pMml0hnTPgV4zEYLeM1j5TPD7av7q-_VwEVOKnUqhT5p6gHGGVX6ChF6oTpaC8Cls_WQJH5txWv2-fqH5BT5_NQ/s320/P4090086.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxaln7hPDhz7QMF-gxZueXdcZPc7aUpq194y26eh8Xc-jKOd6CbjfA66PgifklUqxVcdN1uZlmKM81o6l6Q4HsvDAflLYSe9y3ZJGRQVwiyhvfjxCbWO8KQv79CJsRx4hxXroyM9Fv3VD-4gogzDh-p_SJP6vBJRJ_FLZ6uKgv_XB4U0DdpMefzNISQ/s1600/P4090088.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyxaln7hPDhz7QMF-gxZueXdcZPc7aUpq194y26eh8Xc-jKOd6CbjfA66PgifklUqxVcdN1uZlmKM81o6l6Q4HsvDAflLYSe9y3ZJGRQVwiyhvfjxCbWO8KQv79CJsRx4hxXroyM9Fv3VD-4gogzDh-p_SJP6vBJRJ_FLZ6uKgv_XB4U0DdpMefzNISQ/w400-h300/P4090088.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>After the game we ate a chicken and rice dinner with the Russian team. I sat at a table with a man who looked like Boris Yeltsen. He had brought his wife. When the food was served, he and his wife got up and left without a word. Just as our dinner party was breaking up, he returned with a bag of chocolate bars made by the company of another man on the Russian team. He gave the bag of chocolate bars to me as a gift to share later with our team.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_OxnZStd_E0rtY3RV8WKcmstPLxJV8f35S4E4f3C7HQYTp8HVfRfBlIfnd06jFexRQlr_ry13s4PZDmZQspvPfFWxn7B2wI8G9ER5tYA3yzQQMy5stAdD0EOxdz8FWI7kQgza3561O7oLLi0EyjK0IB-s5v4K4sxhA_NxLt74upxRvppF0i-q92dvg/s3978/IMG_7907.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3978" data-original-width="2279" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_OxnZStd_E0rtY3RV8WKcmstPLxJV8f35S4E4f3C7HQYTp8HVfRfBlIfnd06jFexRQlr_ry13s4PZDmZQspvPfFWxn7B2wI8G9ER5tYA3yzQQMy5stAdD0EOxdz8FWI7kQgza3561O7oLLi0EyjK0IB-s5v4K4sxhA_NxLt74upxRvppF0i-q92dvg/w229-h400/IMG_7907.JPG" width="229" /></a></div><span> </span><br /><p><span> </span>After dinner we got back on the trolly-bus for a ride back to the mission center. Waiting for us was one of the players from our game the previous day. He was one that we could tell had been angry at us for something during the game although no one knew exactly what. He may have been a little embarrassed to see us as we trooped in. We all shook his hand and said our little Russian phrases to let him know we were happy to see him again. Whatever burden he was carrying from the game was not one we remembered or held.</p><p><span> </span>It had been a full day, but for a few of us it was not over. We had a promise, made on our early trip to the home church, that we needed to keep. So, after changing into better clothes, those of us who had gone to that church were heading out again.<br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-66485768133008193952023-05-01T07:07:00.001-07:002023-05-01T08:43:26.032-07:00Russia (#15) Cultural Instruction of the First Order<p> 8 April 2004</p><p><span> </span>Today we went to our second half-way house, which is to say "orphanage," twenty minutes outside of Vladimir down a dirt track, through a small village of small colorful wooden houses, to a <i>huge</i> building, plaster over brick in the Russian fashion. I'm not sure now what I meant exactly by noting "in the Russian fashion" but I will assume that it simply meant that this was a common feature and practice having to do with how brick buildings were treated.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhsAnjfaHsFCpDwm9HYv0Z73285mZ06kky9lOnoDOo8E2InTK4B8Nz7xCcKFDYrzfwkuvZrkMTVV1bACqQhgADJYJ0GgJBw46vJRAGTslbh2n8UL088G-T-YDkXoPebs4aRSix5oa71FXa-7xA6BtmNp2OiW4mSIEku8LO1WtudpCAWaNqDE7ZXl9RQ/s1600/P4080031.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlhsAnjfaHsFCpDwm9HYv0Z73285mZ06kky9lOnoDOo8E2InTK4B8Nz7xCcKFDYrzfwkuvZrkMTVV1bACqQhgADJYJ0GgJBw46vJRAGTslbh2n8UL088G-T-YDkXoPebs4aRSix5oa71FXa-7xA6BtmNp2OiW4mSIEku8LO1WtudpCAWaNqDE7ZXl9RQ/w400-h300/P4080031.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span> </span>Olga, the director, told us the facility, which had opened the previous September (so, 2003), was built by a countess as a residence in 1904. During the Soviet era the building was used as a hospital. This kind of reassignment of building function (houses, churches, monasteries, and so forth) was common. The interior of the building seemed to reflect both its origins as an aristocratic household and its repurposing as a hospital, which would have required stripping away the overtly decorative features of the interior, leaving rooms, hallways, and foyers that were clean, in good repair, bright, and plain. There were many tall windows and the walls were painted in light colors. There were tall double-doors for each room, and, as one finds in many English houses, one shuts the doors on leaving the room.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0CjAFEWWANrdXfJ-lISSMlXO_sd8Ca41RcX7RWbqCJCM895SdKKLVjTSwwvwyjiOmVOdUUYFGzHDbWC9SjK_A2MRCbag-uZAsTBU-UOPL-sr4UsathraQaau8owjMD0-CpnIc4mZa95yC11EsPO5Dl7hzjSC99rjB3q5oOkVtHwqBwg8Ov2tYqGvmdg/s1600/P4080027.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0CjAFEWWANrdXfJ-lISSMlXO_sd8Ca41RcX7RWbqCJCM895SdKKLVjTSwwvwyjiOmVOdUUYFGzHDbWC9SjK_A2MRCbag-uZAsTBU-UOPL-sr4UsathraQaau8owjMD0-CpnIc4mZa95yC11EsPO5Dl7hzjSC99rjB3q5oOkVtHwqBwg8Ov2tYqGvmdg/w400-h300/P4080027.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>We were given a tour, then taken to a room at the top of the central stairway where 26 children ranging in age from 3 to 14 were already assembled, seated along the walls, waiting for us. In many ways, this orphanage visit was like the orphanage we visited the day before. Skip gave a little talk to explain why we had come, our boys did tricks with basketballs, and then Skip demonstrated Andy's rope trick that had captivated children in the other orphanage. </p><p><span> </span>Given that as church people we were used to group singing, we offered our version of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," and then a Russian worship chorus we had memorized. Many of us were still singing from the phonetic sheet we had brought along. I'm not sure who picked "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," but it strikes me now as being an <i>odd</i> choice, to sing at an orphanage in Russia, given all the songs our group had in our memory banks.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpXHVoIkSd4wgeHZSq5Gcv7RTXjo7vmNWQJeBVJR4RQCQfj5PosfZvEgtVoRvrzdmW550vHMpvUTDSQEeDsPkJqko8s5YIHN725iqEgTRnOavWI0suVAqIOs-40PxVCZFXESSW8fVZeemQQcppX7O49RMU0Ci-wKcmdaBC5dUOX0jnTVG8Y4Y-1sMcw/s1600/P4080021.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPpXHVoIkSd4wgeHZSq5Gcv7RTXjo7vmNWQJeBVJR4RQCQfj5PosfZvEgtVoRvrzdmW550vHMpvUTDSQEeDsPkJqko8s5YIHN725iqEgTRnOavWI0suVAqIOs-40PxVCZFXESSW8fVZeemQQcppX7O49RMU0Ci-wKcmdaBC5dUOX0jnTVG8Y4Y-1sMcw/w400-h300/P4080021.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span> </span>The children gave us gifts they had made, and we gave them WWJD (What Would Jesus Do) bracelets and candy. Before we left we were encouraged to purchase handcrafts the children had made. These purchases were described to us as essentially donations, so we were told to pick something out and avoid the kind of product inspection we might have used at a retail shop. I bought a rooster tea-cozy for 100 Rubles. It was a very nice, quilted, flowery patchwork tea-cozy that I thought I could give to my mom. We had seen the old sewing machines the children were learning to use, one of which, no doubt, was the machine used for the stitching on my tea-cozy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG3cV6kz2RpHXi8t9sxJUMYH2pckwfF8sQv6JqvPij6m9ebkzZnzADXb5VqUzTFe6vAn5XwDsIsbaotsEypRP9d9tnJxretbeAFgYy7Ytv0do94bHmKMcNDHrHxk86L6Lx0KF3SXDTlLllumhmGETUbcXCiLCFsO4jtj6-N6ioJh1Aklxea-XXAWirQ/s1600/P4080033.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG3cV6kz2RpHXi8t9sxJUMYH2pckwfF8sQv6JqvPij6m9ebkzZnzADXb5VqUzTFe6vAn5XwDsIsbaotsEypRP9d9tnJxretbeAFgYy7Ytv0do94bHmKMcNDHrHxk86L6Lx0KF3SXDTlLllumhmGETUbcXCiLCFsO4jtj6-N6ioJh1Aklxea-XXAWirQ/w640-h480/P4080033.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><span> The rooster appears in this group photo in front of Phil Stockin. </span>But it humbles and embarrasses me, now, to confess that once we were outside again, before this group photo, I stuck the tea-cozy on my head as if it were a hat -- to everyone's amusement. I was acting, I suppose, on my usual impulse to express the humor in things.<br /></p><p><span> </span>Almost immediately I realized that anyone inside the orphanage who happened to look out could see me wearing the rooster on my head and find my "joke" to be offensive. I remember this specifically because I was asked several times to put it on my head again for pictures and I refused. </p><p><span> </span>Perhaps none of the kids or adults inside the building saw my moment of casual humor, I don't know. Perhaps anyone inside who saw me would have thought it funny. Again, I don't know. Perhaps it doesn't matter either way. Regardless, <i>I</i> <i>knew</i> <i>immediately</i> that my action was demeaning, however unintentional. Alarms were going off in my head. This was not the first lesson I had ever learned about cultural sensitivity, and I am sure I didn't understand the lesson completely, but I felt it strongly. As I look back I realize that cultural sensitivity and spiritual sensitivity in that moment were one and the same. What, after all, is the benefit of spiritual sensitivity, spiritual discernment, for which we have all prayed, if it ignores cultural sensitivity and general inappropriateness at moments like this?<br /></p><p><span> There were more personal lessons to come. That afternoon we played against a veteran men's team, but since the other boys team did not show up, the game was essentially our high school guys and Andy Norton against their men. Given their level of experience and talent, my notes tell me that I played just one minute at the end of the first quarter. At the time I remember hoping I would be sent in again. As I look at the photographs now of my 55-year-old self playing, I know why I wasn't.</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9C_zlV7WTRXHN9YDT2WYyeURxOVkkVPr_-fofkvmuoCxFYpKBxuoQK9hQxxFQl9VM8fQHQ72_7G-74ibq61JQ_MVoCd9TbO_GLkO6wiZq5a4kvT9WM0_Uw4h6XcWRrbsY43u8_jWiygrvscyh8V_5_s4N_p8kQqWKWSWiaqvnDGxRrGNrK7F7z50UA/s1600/P4080080.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9C_zlV7WTRXHN9YDT2WYyeURxOVkkVPr_-fofkvmuoCxFYpKBxuoQK9hQxxFQl9VM8fQHQ72_7G-74ibq61JQ_MVoCd9TbO_GLkO6wiZq5a4kvT9WM0_Uw4h6XcWRrbsY43u8_jWiygrvscyh8V_5_s4N_p8kQqWKWSWiaqvnDGxRrGNrK7F7z50UA/w640-h480/P4080080.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><span><br /> <span> </span>On the other hand, as visible in this teams photo, I seem to have made a connection with Victor, the man with the whistle. Perhaps it was all about good sportsmanship rather than competition after all.<br /></span><p></p><p><span><span> </span>After a day of hard, humbling, and eye-opening personal lessons, I noted that we had good conversations over dinner. At my table were Victor, who was Director of Culture at the electrical factory where we played, and Alexander, the man who had been active in setting up our games and visiting sites. I note that we parted after dinner having exchanged a lot of information and good feelings. It was a positive and hopeful way to end a day full of lessons in spiritual maturity that I am still processing.</span><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-57394959452914520332023-04-13T13:05:00.000-07:002023-04-13T13:05:42.652-07:00Russia #14 An Interlude Concerning Angels<p> <span> </span>One would not be surprised to find angels in cemeteries, carved into the faces of grave markers or perched atop a stone pillar. That and the presence of crosses on Orthodox Churches everywhere in Russia did not prepare me for the angels we found at war memorials. Americans commonly employ angels at war memorials in our country, too, but seeing them in Russia cast them in a new light. It allowed me to see them in a new way.</p><p><span> </span>This imposing angel-topped obelisk honoring fallen soldiers stands at a large memorial installation in Moscow; it is dedicated to the many who died during WWII. Russia has suffered greatly and for many centuries from various wars, invasions, the constant need to defend. The figure at the base of this obelisk is St. George slaying the dragon. St. George and the story of his slaying the dragon holds a long and honored place in the Russian narrative.<span> </span><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixml0LsVhOqamTf0cIRjS-Yn-6y_QtGg4o6DOM_7Tv-oh65RlwvwR-hr-GOjrcS_rwT778vuPmhhWLiec90CyLrBufYLke7Iv1cy1_oe44t_7--zXwjk8eh0DVviRyc1ocQJ7vlmshSWCnvCJBgBvoEb1qP1oPj3zSMjcNN9s0l5KImE6fZ6C0i-HDgw/s2160/100_0533.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixml0LsVhOqamTf0cIRjS-Yn-6y_QtGg4o6DOM_7Tv-oh65RlwvwR-hr-GOjrcS_rwT778vuPmhhWLiec90CyLrBufYLke7Iv1cy1_oe44t_7--zXwjk8eh0DVviRyc1ocQJ7vlmshSWCnvCJBgBvoEb1qP1oPj3zSMjcNN9s0l5KImE6fZ6C0i-HDgw/w426-h640/100_0533.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span>This white memorial with three kneeling angels, as I understand it, had been very recently built when we visited during one of our tours of Vladimir. It was one of several we stopped to see.<br /><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanqKNbik_ZrvJusZxaiZLurdhbCOQixQ-tTPpSn2Jiat0XM2IjFrEfpDQGgIa2v5RC6JnWLAH1S8_UAEj54lZHWPgEpt9eSM1qEkrQKiKALtMhgc9Srq_sE_hHpcLdyc6gdMQJ8sOASXABXaK0RGtfl1fBxw6brTSc2aH7_kI0ux6nCCklmPLZjeOxA/s1536/012_NR.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanqKNbik_ZrvJusZxaiZLurdhbCOQixQ-tTPpSn2Jiat0XM2IjFrEfpDQGgIa2v5RC6JnWLAH1S8_UAEj54lZHWPgEpt9eSM1qEkrQKiKALtMhgc9Srq_sE_hHpcLdyc6gdMQJ8sOASXABXaK0RGtfl1fBxw6brTSc2aH7_kI0ux6nCCklmPLZjeOxA/w400-h266/012_NR.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span> </span>One also finds angels in places and contexts. I might have thought these strange before I encountered them. While we lived in North London, for example, we frequently shopped near "the Angel," identified physically with these silver wings. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkr-qQNF6Pqe_UUwgD3xpIlrc-QV5PE1aaJos6SLx6WypgMNAOM5WgFR1qS19pUiTYfhuknENVB1p0l4uv6fcfMUrDMCJBu5cni01b0lizultWQyyQdqM114LEM22dnPMMp5Eaj-W6DWd_aWC8jQ6IqhBDY1WJ5102tDOG9KaOUfWjCRblcAwOuZFIA/s768/10%20Dec%202010%20024.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="576" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHkr-qQNF6Pqe_UUwgD3xpIlrc-QV5PE1aaJos6SLx6WypgMNAOM5WgFR1qS19pUiTYfhuknENVB1p0l4uv6fcfMUrDMCJBu5cni01b0lizultWQyyQdqM114LEM22dnPMMp5Eaj-W6DWd_aWC8jQ6IqhBDY1WJ5102tDOG9KaOUfWjCRblcAwOuZFIA/w300-h400/10%20Dec%202010%20024.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><p> </p><p> Some years after I took this photograph, I came across a reference to "the Angel" in Islington, North London, in <i>Oliver Twist, </i>the Charles Dickens novel<i>. </i>Dickens's reference predates the erection of these wings and he would not recognize "the Angel" were he to return for a visit.<br /></p><p></p><p><span> </span>Still, it was a joy for us to live there and discover this treasure, which like the memorials in Russia signify a deep and complex history of human activity. I am grateful for these opportunities and experiences.<br /></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <span> </span>Somewhere in the last few decades Donna has begun collecting angels of a smaller variety for display during the Advent season. These, crafted of a variety of materials, tell different stories, display degrees of formality, and, as one would expect, demonstrate a range of artistic vision. They also offer us different ways of thinking about the role of angels, seen and <i>un</i>seen, in our lives. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1IF8GbOrvkas0I3aQ0ayFqVIM4XAQah7gQXl6sTbOeZBPhSKliSAKtv8VOlM2py1vS4PfU6K_Ba_woXKONOEGw427iUPi5s3RsRMeZxm3gKBj1qY3s0tzCFpZ7YVuRqcxoZKXlMQxtZryMCHJqDxBk6B0j6_K5l-uCXJA7qzvv9Dxl6DX_Ob3Q32fQ/s4000/IMG_6165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid1IF8GbOrvkas0I3aQ0ayFqVIM4XAQah7gQXl6sTbOeZBPhSKliSAKtv8VOlM2py1vS4PfU6K_Ba_woXKONOEGw427iUPi5s3RsRMeZxm3gKBj1qY3s0tzCFpZ7YVuRqcxoZKXlMQxtZryMCHJqDxBk6B0j6_K5l-uCXJA7qzvv9Dxl6DX_Ob3Q32fQ/w400-h300/IMG_6165.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Ceramic, wood, metal, fabric; majestic, humble, starkly innocent; faceless or ornately detailed -- <i>all</i> make a contribution to the host of angelic beings we set out for that most holy holiday season. We use them in this seasonal way, but angels are surely <i>not</i> confined to any one season or occasion.<br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SkeNmLnRFoi2kP1E90A_PCSU-_ZQSPEFV4wC1Cv92XNx3HWtfnLW1D3Xf340USEmuNI63bc9USDhs8U9Dhtgn6alkEGzfaNyKTk_Cp6_jB_xLIWyTmPBwdkYI5vRITe8ekd3lHQ-T33Go0bil2nq9S5LbA2FFhAW7HRRPA3at1Y6SzpGQGQNc_jQ7Q/s4000/IMG_6167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1SkeNmLnRFoi2kP1E90A_PCSU-_ZQSPEFV4wC1Cv92XNx3HWtfnLW1D3Xf340USEmuNI63bc9USDhs8U9Dhtgn6alkEGzfaNyKTk_Cp6_jB_xLIWyTmPBwdkYI5vRITe8ekd3lHQ-T33Go0bil2nq9S5LbA2FFhAW7HRRPA3at1Y6SzpGQGQNc_jQ7Q/w400-h300/IMG_6167.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>I do have favorites among these angels, of course. I am very fond of this hand-carved and hand-painted angel from the nativity set carved by our Russian translator and my friend, Andrew. This strong personal connection to Andrew is also a strong connection to the faith community in Russia, to the Russian "folk" culture, and to the Biblical narrative we re-imagine and celebrate at Christmas. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8nKN3NAuqu3gSz9n0H6nsP9_FfKIynNOIik6k_dyysT6Hne8rbEPUeKr0Vv1cDBd83bnUjsTV8h2fZpBBTV5Tafx1-bxpYiqduCOSCQHn8iRVfpXNTHh6aaSfR6gR0ObTFVLFgrPKEHNSjMNR09_vioI8ib_PC4TvmoMsEImjtL3pNBIAayP7vynjQ/s3975/IMG_7809.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3975" data-original-width="2312" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN8nKN3NAuqu3gSz9n0H6nsP9_FfKIynNOIik6k_dyysT6Hne8rbEPUeKr0Vv1cDBd83bnUjsTV8h2fZpBBTV5Tafx1-bxpYiqduCOSCQHn8iRVfpXNTHh6aaSfR6gR0ObTFVLFgrPKEHNSjMNR09_vioI8ib_PC4TvmoMsEImjtL3pNBIAayP7vynjQ/w233-h400/IMG_7809.JPG" width="233" /></a></div><p></p><p><span><span> </span>Angels have served many functions, of course; they are not confined to Christian holy days. In our own family life, Donna and I have experienced the presence of angels. Those experiences deserve their own story on another occasion; their reality, though unseen, is tangible for us. <br /></span></p><p><span> <span> </span>Apart from that, we know that however much we are attracted to its "weight" angel figures can be misused in ways that make them superficial. Or in ways that attach them to deeply meaningful, deeply disturbing events or beliefs or circumstances. A careful look at the angel with the trumpet in the first photo will show that the obelisk takes the shape of a bayonet, which is attached at bottom to the muzzle of a rifle. For me at least, that coupling of angels to the bloody end of a weapon of war is hard to resolve. <br /></span></p><p></p><p> Nevertheless, in this Easter season, I come back to our Christmas angel collection. My favorite is a seated angel. Like its counterparts at the war memorials in Russia this one, too, is a cemetery angel, where it appears as a sign of hope for the dead. </p><p>Unlike the other angels, however, I imagine this one to be seated at Jesus' tomb. In Mark's account of Easter morning, he greets the women who have come to anoint his body. "Do not be alarmed," the angel tells them. "You seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here. He has risen." </p><p><span> </span>The angels we find in cemeteries signify our <i>hope</i> of resurrection. The angel at Jesus tomb testifies that <i>resurrection</i> is an <i>accomplished fact</i>.<br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDuqA4x2dp0fIH0mpQhD4BH2DUkLGWHpLyp45S47jSXn_H9Drw2CrriDObKrJ1DNbbQh0Pltdc2CY7q-1znvvNf8EitDaIkKISS4f4fNKGcQ4AzErqk_Xl8iskOEuy1MOaawoXsAI4qzgDYv8bt363U-zLFCXtxe0I2k8o1XBS0NHNysNadSANhCxDg/s4000/IMG_6703.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnDuqA4x2dp0fIH0mpQhD4BH2DUkLGWHpLyp45S47jSXn_H9Drw2CrriDObKrJ1DNbbQh0Pltdc2CY7q-1znvvNf8EitDaIkKISS4f4fNKGcQ4AzErqk_Xl8iskOEuy1MOaawoXsAI4qzgDYv8bt363U-zLFCXtxe0I2k8o1XBS0NHNysNadSANhCxDg/w400-h300/IMG_6703.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-44080634200718482972023-04-09T06:37:00.001-07:002023-04-09T06:37:40.950-07:00Russia (#13) Places off the Beaten Path, thank you please<p> Back at the Mission Center on April 7th, after our morning at the orphanage, we had a "Russian lunch" -- salmon soup with potatoes and carrots, bread, followed by circular pasta and tiny meat loaves that might have been sausages. And very hot tea instead of very hot coffee. No yogurt, sadly. I was getting used to it, but there you are.</p><p> We boarded the bus at 1 for a trip out of town. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYm2wXlC5mvvj6D2kGgklZ85PTHgAl6exo5yKHJueMB0vEcCWwTB_5nJ32qpaxt7pmkIvUfghQHjCLhbTKmWWa9krPl082ifjhctOrKwNNOSLzOCTb7tyiwsK7kJGinQMMXn1kdkByuCA6CamgftwNPOTUw7RBTc-csaH8E5_nfc2t6xrtsK2VnK1tA/s2160/100_0460.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQYm2wXlC5mvvj6D2kGgklZ85PTHgAl6exo5yKHJueMB0vEcCWwTB_5nJ32qpaxt7pmkIvUfghQHjCLhbTKmWWa9krPl082ifjhctOrKwNNOSLzOCTb7tyiwsK7kJGinQMMXn1kdkByuCA6CamgftwNPOTUw7RBTc-csaH8E5_nfc2t6xrtsK2VnK1tA/w400-h266/100_0460.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p> We traveled for an hour and a half through incredible countryside, seeing monasteries, old churches, even some famous ones none of us had ever heard of -- all at some distance. That the countryside is filled with this historic evidence of Christianity is evident everywhere.<br /></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pjIXOUqp0u1dhgl0UUJH5axFnTYVz62PMzJBRO8BgY5HGYBqnC2hjkG1HX0cly0HOF4NIUiJZyMPpHbbelYsLA-IlTLTaRnDMyVda18I3hSQhDk5ofpgap8Ha2YOjuud4t2oW_yrLbsKNJhJWgz0ImDTyLF3U7eyw61SR5rRvTwiqG-ZUVIcxgNHVw/s2160/100_0473.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-pjIXOUqp0u1dhgl0UUJH5axFnTYVz62PMzJBRO8BgY5HGYBqnC2hjkG1HX0cly0HOF4NIUiJZyMPpHbbelYsLA-IlTLTaRnDMyVda18I3hSQhDk5ofpgap8Ha2YOjuud4t2oW_yrLbsKNJhJWgz0ImDTyLF3U7eyw61SR5rRvTwiqG-ZUVIcxgNHVw/w640-h426/100_0473.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /> We saw huge fields where farmers were burning off detritus from last
growing season, smoke drifting toward the horizon. Here and there, many old-style villages -- two rows of facing wooden
houses on either side of a dirt road, many of the houses painted bright
blue or green. And the famous birch forests that I have read about in
Russian novels.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimz35PmzqYhnFDBXwuJ8U7pE015GikC6gllCO6_4ReZ3driKiLH3IGKapzuPNOAJPEVa6ciR5PwuQixEBCut-H1nUnxPaAm_dqs-jS1vKKlVa8HdlV-Q6z7PTaxz4_fj8ODc1ex3SFTeGHx1S_AupHp0YVt3y9DeJHFiVynaAJT0bVVqeEzraBjYKskA/s2160/100_0475.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimz35PmzqYhnFDBXwuJ8U7pE015GikC6gllCO6_4ReZ3driKiLH3IGKapzuPNOAJPEVa6ciR5PwuQixEBCut-H1nUnxPaAm_dqs-jS1vKKlVa8HdlV-Q6z7PTaxz4_fj8ODc1ex3SFTeGHx1S_AupHp0YVt3y9DeJHFiVynaAJT0bVVqeEzraBjYKskA/w400-h266/100_0475.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p> We traveled on a two-lane road, rough as rough, dodging potholes when possible. At one point we saw police around a car accident -- a truck had bumped into a small car, rear-ended it. The presence of police on the highway created a great deal more interest on the bus than pastoral landscapes and ancient villages that held my attention. Perhaps we were looking for some signs of confrontation, but there were none.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_pWfSGE5iX8AuT7VHopI71J2TRIbxfXbVk4BDkSNZT-xNhTGuDtYpaaFxjr8CKpRCp5GsKRSnNRqsRMxRCufzwQdVflu_VP0wi8EeQV6lY91H7rkG9rN_IDnNQ47vA7vr16Dso8muJ-AvFn-ppS15EFS3blE05UeP_eKm4zZuoUm4xJUgQ_lS-HllA/s2160/100_0478.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_pWfSGE5iX8AuT7VHopI71J2TRIbxfXbVk4BDkSNZT-xNhTGuDtYpaaFxjr8CKpRCp5GsKRSnNRqsRMxRCufzwQdVflu_VP0wi8EeQV6lY91H7rkG9rN_IDnNQ47vA7vr16Dso8muJ-AvFn-ppS15EFS3blE05UeP_eKm4zZuoUm4xJUgQ_lS-HllA/w400-h266/100_0478.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p> <span> </span>We turned off the main
highway onto another road that led through a very primitive town, on
toward Kovrov, a city used for high security industry during the Soviet
era. <br /></p><p> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q3uAMQj6pP9a6NVFX0NyNnoYGJvf3dBcI8ggWOSPJfoqyj5oPwM7K-XmstkKQFPMsaYrIyXSOpHBSmFifw4_egUyZBadFSAgf41ofMK87glAfT4yx1EhnZzcCV6G8XPM06jAs5YAlyD2sH_4BUCtuJLxYCmKqFeltxnwRvA4bw859Rvkl-My3VPAHA/s1600/P4070158.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8q3uAMQj6pP9a6NVFX0NyNnoYGJvf3dBcI8ggWOSPJfoqyj5oPwM7K-XmstkKQFPMsaYrIyXSOpHBSmFifw4_egUyZBadFSAgf41ofMK87glAfT4yx1EhnZzcCV6G8XPM06jAs5YAlyD2sH_4BUCtuJLxYCmKqFeltxnwRvA4bw859Rvkl-My3VPAHA/w400-h300/P4070158.JPG" width="400" /></a></p><p></p><p><span> </span> We played our basketball games in a munitions plant on the nicest floor we had seen to that point. The boys played tough once again, winning by one point in overtime. There were lots of spectators, especially kids. The Dads played a better game overall than our first one although we still lost by 13 or 14 points. I noted for posterity or, perhaps, to revive my shrinking hopes for basketball respectability, that I scored 7 points. Thus, the high point of my international athletic career.<span> <br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipC3mQlh-0R_aEYjc3PqXQAwHaHSARZcHBmNApH910cFeDwg7lq_aFRRDD1CSbsaGSwl3QkYC6XKibmMyR_LylC9rpDFMLVM-jci7-tClmMQnc-aUCh3pGjEGw0Ra79IkExlNySHAJsSPRlfhZMd6YGJKxu4MF8SdEMAlfYikxoC8DLQUU5ZtESD3k2Q/s1600/P4070164.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipC3mQlh-0R_aEYjc3PqXQAwHaHSARZcHBmNApH910cFeDwg7lq_aFRRDD1CSbsaGSwl3QkYC6XKibmMyR_LylC9rpDFMLVM-jci7-tClmMQnc-aUCh3pGjEGw0Ra79IkExlNySHAJsSPRlfhZMd6YGJKxu4MF8SdEMAlfYikxoC8DLQUU5ZtESD3k2Q/w400-h300/P4070164.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span> </span>After the games we gave away all the WWJD bracelets we had brought along to the teenagers and especially to the smaller boys who came around to ask questions and get autographs. There were many opportunities to tell who we were and why we had come.<br /><p></p><p><span> </span>Then both teams climbed onto our bus for a short trip down tiny lanes to a restaurant. John Horton and I were joined by Andrew, our interpreter, and the three big players (center, two forwards) -- Yuri, Mikhale, and Sergei. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFALwve1jPqeNDKX-LkO2spTFQCs02x5upjtDb4tz119p_iNeM56YpFCcyxb9koqI1V_WLMjnqKjXMfm7JqzN38786Yn8Twss4nh7TiuHe11851bOBqg5JJMcZAPLsgFe4wSpXc2GRnuYkhYx0PmYZv_N9xLLq-iHnGwK1jGPZhvzjhzhia2YrghW4XQ/s1600/P4070250.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFALwve1jPqeNDKX-LkO2spTFQCs02x5upjtDb4tz119p_iNeM56YpFCcyxb9koqI1V_WLMjnqKjXMfm7JqzN38786Yn8Twss4nh7TiuHe11851bOBqg5JJMcZAPLsgFe4wSpXc2GRnuYkhYx0PmYZv_N9xLLq-iHnGwK1jGPZhvzjhzhia2YrghW4XQ/w400-h300/P4070250.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span> </span>We asked about each other's occupations, man-talk as it were. When John said he was a pastor, Yuri started asking him questions with Andrew interpreting. Before long John had shared his testimony, John Wesley's testimony, and the plan of salvation. It was amazing.<p><span> </span> I managed a halting conversation with Sergei, who spoke as much English as I spoke Russian. As we got up to leave Sergei gave both John and me a coin from the old Soviet Union. The coin showing Lenin with right arm raised in that pose familiar to everyone from that era was well worn on the front side as if it had been rubbed repeatedly with a thumb. I don't know if these coins were or had been in common circulation. What it cost Sergei to part with this coin, I can only imagine; but as a gesture of friendship it was unmistakable and touching.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBtCnRT0weZyu4GbMEUFr9WEqij1gwxPXSz2kVA-XfACvOHfcFhfwdVkoMbKGmnWA7iQubz_xedEnJ2cB7uTRdsEjtyb0iwr7EyYgpVWsiUci2H48kK0s47WQgGg0Hp4qMA0u2uyCxlW-6shrcTpuvQye5FkJZW347IYdZz3Zp62d1FOwBmJr5CYo3g/s2803/IMG_7897.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2624" data-original-width="2803" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBtCnRT0weZyu4GbMEUFr9WEqij1gwxPXSz2kVA-XfACvOHfcFhfwdVkoMbKGmnWA7iQubz_xedEnJ2cB7uTRdsEjtyb0iwr7EyYgpVWsiUci2H48kK0s47WQgGg0Hp4qMA0u2uyCxlW-6shrcTpuvQye5FkJZW347IYdZz3Zp62d1FOwBmJr5CYo3g/w400-h375/IMG_7897.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p><span><span> </span>As our bus began to move back toward Vladimir through the dark, dark countryside, we were asked to move toward the back for team time, leaving our Russian translators and organizers in front behind the driver to have their own conversations. </span>As we sang a couple of hymns at the end of our team time, two of the Russians -- Alexander, our contact with teams in Kovrov, and Oxana, a university professor -- came back to sit near us. </p><p><span> </span>When we stopped singing, Oxana stood and said, "Can you sing more?"</p><p><span> </span>So we sang more, maybe 8 or 10 hymns and songs of the faith, often singing three or four or five verses of each if someone knew from memory how the next verse started. All of the us Dads (churched fathers) and many of the boys knew these songs well from years of singing them in church. Many of us knew harmonies as well, so the singing took on a richness as if we had been singing together for decades. Singing them <i>acappella, </i>in the dark, in this unplanned way as the bus bounced along, was a uniquely moving experience for many of us. As had happened earlier at our visit to the orphanage, I was aware of
how profoundly my world was being enlarged, and I was extraordinarily
grateful for God's goodness.</p><p><span> </span>I don't know what this experience meant to our Russian companions, but when we ran out of time or ideas or songs and the bus grew quiet again, Oxana stood again and said "thank you, please." <br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-67443766826690718902023-04-04T10:40:00.000-07:002023-04-04T10:40:28.042-07:00Russia (#12) Places Not on the Map<div class="separator"></div><div class="separator"></div><div class="separator"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8RIpMvGm3I8Igeo92LMXdVcE5RuNYMRnFrpcJL_xU0mKg4axWsfGv8PKEKUlN3EFpaq0m3AojeUakiSJ0ixpOpMowxnM-NjIPk4EtbgighDmQqJvO3LyvFoj1266xxLm5pKKWBMzbJIMpYz9m-Jvy0122UeKpw1Sn4zY4kTREYmVzHISYAxk8M0GXg/s1600/P4080032.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8RIpMvGm3I8Igeo92LMXdVcE5RuNYMRnFrpcJL_xU0mKg4axWsfGv8PKEKUlN3EFpaq0m3AojeUakiSJ0ixpOpMowxnM-NjIPk4EtbgighDmQqJvO3LyvFoj1266xxLm5pKKWBMzbJIMpYz9m-Jvy0122UeKpw1Sn4zY4kTREYmVzHISYAxk8M0GXg/w400-h300/P4080032.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p> 07 April 04</p><p> In these days of ubiquitous and instantaneous communication, it is both strange and surprising to consider just how few options we had in 2004 on our trip to Russia. We had one satellite phone and no cell phones with us. No one but John Woodard, our IT guy, had a computer. We had given over sending "news" home to Skip, who would log on every couple of days to provide updates.</p><p> When we were given place names as we boarded the van for our site visit, I wrote them down along with whatever information might also be disseminating from the group leader. The further back in the van or bus one was seated, the more fragmentary or generalized the information. I note this difficulty because when we would headed out, as we did to an orphanage on this morning of the 7th, I cannot locate it geographically except to say that it was not far away.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPp3PGk5xWBpLSV3zv2B5isQ8ZTKFjWOiNTicJFNKyRJNjHrtgeahNQoVUyx5A8t5hS_lFrUsP4Qq5ICjbRVOGtvNRKxFqkOLcSEKPFEIIGe_D2t7zFjiBV0uxFiJgVqQbj8y9KY-zooVpikk1EIJi9W5fMewYi3sQ69wwnyitRymKhSdBlpR0kty5IA/s1600/P4070157.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPp3PGk5xWBpLSV3zv2B5isQ8ZTKFjWOiNTicJFNKyRJNjHrtgeahNQoVUyx5A8t5hS_lFrUsP4Qq5ICjbRVOGtvNRKxFqkOLcSEKPFEIIGe_D2t7zFjiBV0uxFiJgVqQbj8y9KY-zooVpikk1EIJi9W5fMewYi3sQ69wwnyitRymKhSdBlpR0kty5IA/w400-h300/P4070157.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p><span> </span>At the orphanage, we heard from the Director and from the school psychologist. The Director explained that he was "Papa" for the children residing there.</p><p><span> </span>Then we moved to another room to watch the children perform. One teacher sang and told stories. She called on several of the eighteen kids assembled to participate at different points of the performance.</p><p><span> </span>Most of the kids living in this home were not orphans as we normally think of that term. They were "temporary" due to family problems such as alcoholism, domestic violence, and the blight of extreme poverty. "Temporary," I gathered, meant that they could go home when conditions there improved or when foster homes became available, although it struck me that neither situation was likely. Their parents were not deceased, as a rule, just not able to care for their kids adequately.</p><p><span> </span>While we watched, one little girl showed off her gymnastics skills. Then the "sports director" -- a retired gymnastics coach of some national reputation -- did hand stands, balancing on the hands of another adult who was lying on the floor. We cheered and applauded, of course.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN7Unnoo3XcdpXuXk6z7Hf6_9nSIzkHOzXho8JV27IxGqUahhqWR1K91t_LqFMLE-4kF8jmLCdHYU7I0FzmNT5soxbc_FEISi7Lc4DSm5fv8J5j7xPhV0-Uyr6xEh9G-hdS_nnJWP4UX1rfoh8OFVxlyb7MZfRT5w_dXozD3t2pP44DY9Wk8RDO5-jg/s2160/100_0483.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZN7Unnoo3XcdpXuXk6z7Hf6_9nSIzkHOzXho8JV27IxGqUahhqWR1K91t_LqFMLE-4kF8jmLCdHYU7I0FzmNT5soxbc_FEISi7Lc4DSm5fv8J5j7xPhV0-Uyr6xEh9G-hdS_nnJWP4UX1rfoh8OFVxlyb7MZfRT5w_dXozD3t2pP44DY9Wk8RDO5-jg/s320/100_0483.JPG" width="320" /></a></div> When they had entertained us for a while, our group stepped in to provide a few entertainments of our own for them. One of the guys juggled basketballs;<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AWmCkHp1fOr7I0rXlju0INPejhEpj2e14p4ZX6E1DHKAOhcvAAgYev0KRBCo7HaFaUrQBXG2QJgPBx7hIsDgzz5GXm8Uy5V8ocCNyvGM4Eb8myUuPea6nsQZuPdew034M58xHNYOs1JOuoZhxit290k_b4VYKG5CpEFXNbt5PSJeUmRH0aYd2HQVaw/s2160/100_0486.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7AWmCkHp1fOr7I0rXlju0INPejhEpj2e14p4ZX6E1DHKAOhcvAAgYev0KRBCo7HaFaUrQBXG2QJgPBx7hIsDgzz5GXm8Uy5V8ocCNyvGM4Eb8myUuPea6nsQZuPdew034M58xHNYOs1JOuoZhxit290k_b4VYKG5CpEFXNbt5PSJeUmRH0aYd2HQVaw/s320/100_0486.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p> </p><p>another demonstrated a rope trick that required two participants attached with ropes to separate themselves from one another without untying the ropes; and a third person (neither photographed nor named in my notes) performed several card tricks.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5YT_wtSbJcvWpMwE1i7rYn7Uz8mn06-Q7i0vhaDhsrSh5fOqrIiDMyinkln6xMj8MaaCUwFHaJnojryMQlGaSA4s4F8Mcb2FMHlnePohfFWIGAakRSrGQkqAzxuUYWRn2myPaYqdFKaQg9RMHEpdSt3RU1ennbwJAssGnZ8PddoUNXj75pMdRMOztw/s2160/100_0479.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5YT_wtSbJcvWpMwE1i7rYn7Uz8mn06-Q7i0vhaDhsrSh5fOqrIiDMyinkln6xMj8MaaCUwFHaJnojryMQlGaSA4s4F8Mcb2FMHlnePohfFWIGAakRSrGQkqAzxuUYWRn2myPaYqdFKaQg9RMHEpdSt3RU1ennbwJAssGnZ8PddoUNXj75pMdRMOztw/s320/100_0479.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span> </span>The show stopper, however, was clearly Mason Sorensen who played an animated version of "Mama's Little Baby Loves Shortn'n'in Bread" on his harmonica. The entire room got into it -- even the smallest kids were clapping to the rhythm. <br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUER8vpKNBgaKZRTWZlYn1cxxFRRiDcC_DUBGlh8bMYZ5a72cxpKFGrmTbTJSBGBV5gRKGfOC0UofAbyyKamX31TzzBl8IUttAaDm0UdRQUhJOmOtBhwAlPORQQHVCHvbzOk0LsFpmYXM-UQBbFkiLg-3qwjSet2U8YRkTttXUtr0qc18ghqEll8qpA/s2160/100_0484.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdUER8vpKNBgaKZRTWZlYn1cxxFRRiDcC_DUBGlh8bMYZ5a72cxpKFGrmTbTJSBGBV5gRKGfOC0UofAbyyKamX31TzzBl8IUttAaDm0UdRQUhJOmOtBhwAlPORQQHVCHvbzOk0LsFpmYXM-UQBbFkiLg-3qwjSet2U8YRkTttXUtr0qc18ghqEll8qpA/w640-h426/100_0484.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p> When he was finished, he gave the harmonica to the Director for the kids
to use, and then he gave out candy bars. We donated the basketballs as well. It was a great way to end our
short visit.</p><p> <span> </span>As we climbed back into the van, I thought about our short trip to the orphanage. What is to be said for showing up if only to sit, smile, clap, and observe as I had done? We tend to think of ministry opportunities in terms of grand gestures of some sort. Our thinking emphasizes <i>doing</i>. Was it enough just to <i>be there</i>? </p><p> I don't have a good answer to these questions, yet I know I would not have missed this experience for whatever else I might have been doing. My view of ministry was undergoing major reconsideration. In our technology saturated times, maybe <i>making the trip</i>, being <i>in the room</i>, seeing these kids <i>face to face</i> was communication enough. I know it was for me. <br /></p><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-64175949221020650212023-03-31T08:05:00.001-07:002023-03-31T08:05:03.572-07:00Russia (#11) "Aht - LEECH - nah"!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-ZjF-xyiGDbXNfZ2cZKRytauawnEU7IgJnXYnjuN8uzb-XdBv7XIAIgTDWLJADaUrsLX_ztbY6WeL8YFaRhZ2v4qjtHN6Et2EcDd7nI5wO735AfW_6IkkelcVHeqLP2jGqZD-BzBPh0o_mKCHm2EQCs-ILpumVSWy6jv2BdAdG_RpRxzyMzXNvLmsQ/s1600/P4030143.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-ZjF-xyiGDbXNfZ2cZKRytauawnEU7IgJnXYnjuN8uzb-XdBv7XIAIgTDWLJADaUrsLX_ztbY6WeL8YFaRhZ2v4qjtHN6Et2EcDd7nI5wO735AfW_6IkkelcVHeqLP2jGqZD-BzBPh0o_mKCHm2EQCs-ILpumVSWy6jv2BdAdG_RpRxzyMzXNvLmsQ/w400-h300/P4030143.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span> As an element of our preparation for this missions trip to Russia, we were told that our responses to the country and to the culture would likely change over the ten days we were there. We could expect, broadly speaking, to think everything is wonderful early on before finding all that "goodness and wonder" replaced by overwhelming negatives -- a kind of manic/depressive experience. That up and down roller coaster <i>should</i>, finally, even out, <i>find a middle ground,</i> allowing us to see the country for what it is, neither <i>all </i>good nor <i>all </i>bad. This last state of mind would allow us to see Russia realistically, objectively. The caution for us was that some would not have enough time <i>in country</i> for their perspectives to even out.<br /></span><p><span><span> </span>One doesn't have to leave home to know that there is enough "bad stuff" virtually everywhere to complain about if one is disposed that way. Complaint-worthy stuff can be comprised of many things on a trip to a foreign country -- being outside of one's comfort zone, discovering that few things meet one's expectations, actual hardships of one sort or another, or, even, boredom. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fS4f0eduy4ofwWjrofCuAy-Uu07x-Tvwdfj5z_jnOcxhHTMXC_-Ss1hQ9TwebOTr1MVTYWe1OCm8sRFMF3RqQFEAW5V46mL94wk73Q7GzXe1vj0Il3GintFgwmDv8U6IUq-regnfBxXCIU_Ts71rjsXnnMxleG3Zl9H601pKfzka5ajvzGNd6KsOiA/s1600/P4080060.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fS4f0eduy4ofwWjrofCuAy-Uu07x-Tvwdfj5z_jnOcxhHTMXC_-Ss1hQ9TwebOTr1MVTYWe1OCm8sRFMF3RqQFEAW5V46mL94wk73Q7GzXe1vj0Il3GintFgwmDv8U6IUq-regnfBxXCIU_Ts71rjsXnnMxleG3Zl9H601pKfzka5ajvzGNd6KsOiA/w480-h640/P4080060.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p></p><p> <span><span> </span>All
this to say, my personal experience in Russia, as it has been with all
the countries I have visited, did not follow this pattern. For me, it
has all and always been "aht-LEECH-na" ("excellent," according to our Russian phrase sheet), as I told my student
questioner at the Pedagogical University. Oh, the privilege and joy of <i>being there</i>!</span></p><p><span><span> </span> Even posing for a group photo in front of a statue of Lenin, whose patched, pasted, and strangely preserved body lies in state in a mausoleum alongside Red Square in Moscow, was a once-in-a lifetime treat. I'm not sure where the little boys who joined us in the photo materialized from but, I guess, everyone enjoys a serendipitous photo-op! </span></p><p><span> We were told that many of these soviet-era monuments had been torn down, but the ones that remain -- and there are many -- remind us that politically inspired hero adulation is tenuous and fleeting.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmOOvIKBujdtwiPCQ9WT19jl3A-EM4kNFQ8oH_iyOvUcQsE4q7n8wexw0uDs-Hi_U_1VbLCSUgNDyQs0NNYMbQ2V7H_KSLyGwbPuistqaxzeDtKz71ujSvsD3A0u3F-hfeO-yeMhUYUfdJ9zxD69TM5mI-uczo72AcecpGuZiGQbuZT2sLPwYvMflhg/s1536/013_NR.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvmOOvIKBujdtwiPCQ9WT19jl3A-EM4kNFQ8oH_iyOvUcQsE4q7n8wexw0uDs-Hi_U_1VbLCSUgNDyQs0NNYMbQ2V7H_KSLyGwbPuistqaxzeDtKz71ujSvsD3A0u3F-hfeO-yeMhUYUfdJ9zxD69TM5mI-uczo72AcecpGuZiGQbuZT2sLPwYvMflhg/w640-h426/013_NR.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p> We were fascinated, or course, by the gym floors that infused vivid color into our days. In many of these gyms we also found the Russian Olympic Bear mascot from the 1980 summer games that the US pulled out of over human rights concerns. These bears adorned many walls in the athletic venues we visited.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTUYojyb0n4eb_5UFq2v0mjWalMv0XvL9qQxvJnUWFhGDCkoQOkg3PHePStcuC9eKTgLGz3fvJym1ax70Hb7ZfGU4zhYnLWABb2UOIiXN1J5fLuy8pSYVi735klogh6Zma6d7vTOzb6IBOi7jIKnnIb6dTga5CdQjmoWr8DqR69duf8se1-5chvyxqQ/s1600/P4080072.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTUYojyb0n4eb_5UFq2v0mjWalMv0XvL9qQxvJnUWFhGDCkoQOkg3PHePStcuC9eKTgLGz3fvJym1ax70Hb7ZfGU4zhYnLWABb2UOIiXN1J5fLuy8pSYVi735klogh6Zma6d7vTOzb6IBOi7jIKnnIb6dTga5CdQjmoWr8DqR69duf8se1-5chvyxqQ/w480-h640/P4080072.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><p> On other walls in these athletic spaces we found whimsical cartoonish figures meant, I suppose, to lighten the mood and encourage the young athletes. Here, in down time before or after games, the boys found a training room with these figures. Stefan took on the climbing rope challenge and was rewarded with an encouraging thumbs up from the big dog on the wall.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcV0p8XkMjkuqNZOWot2ySDnbR1_uwRmFwb2XdQg-LfgcsqraPlluPPGui0lhtNusZxBd8zpmYPYj0qFxEWA98GsO6-XG2RkvSzWv7CmIM9ZjWI4kV2jRnSDoS9kIQtpeL00rQNLVzRvQPYOD1RCkSlXvW4Kz8dQnFjmNQtXnexxysg69Mqxx8XXe0Q/s1600/P4060053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcV0p8XkMjkuqNZOWot2ySDnbR1_uwRmFwb2XdQg-LfgcsqraPlluPPGui0lhtNusZxBd8zpmYPYj0qFxEWA98GsO6-XG2RkvSzWv7CmIM9ZjWI4kV2jRnSDoS9kIQtpeL00rQNLVzRvQPYOD1RCkSlXvW4Kz8dQnFjmNQtXnexxysg69Mqxx8XXe0Q/w480-h640/P4060053.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p> At some point among these astonishing sights and opportunities, it began to dawn on me exactly how extraordinary it was for us to be in Russia at that moment of relative peace and congeniality. The Dads among us, having grown up in the Soviet era, had to regard this experience as nothing short of miraculous. </p><p> I would have this sense constantly in the days to come. </p><p> I remember early on our first day in Russia, a<span>s our bus was driving away from the Moscow airport in, we passed a police station. In front of this small station were two uniformed solders sweeping the walkway with short handled brooms made of bundles of sticks or limbs. But for the uniforms, the long military overcoats, they might have been mistaken for the <i>babushkas</i> one sees frequently tidying up.<br /></span></p><p><span><span> </span>I was not fast enough with my camera to capture that scene. Like so much from that trip -- and from life as we might experience it -- I saw a richness that passes too quickly to be captured or saved, but for which I will always be grateful.</span></p><p> All notions of basketball prowess aside -- the idea that our
primary task of making friends and being ambassadors of good will, our <i>mission</i>,
was growing in me. It seems right to me now, all these years later, that what we understand of what we are doing in
God's service must be grounded in the common details of
place and time -- a grounding that fills us with unspeakable wonder.</p><p></p><p><span><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><br /><br />James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-33288693392998072422023-03-20T08:50:00.000-07:002023-03-20T08:50:06.149-07:00Russia (#10) 4-6-2004, An afternoon at the Pedagogical University<p><span> </span><span>My notes for this day are proving to be insufficient -- cryptic, sketchy. On days like this, there are too many holes in my cryptic jottings to be entirely filled in. So much for my own insistent admonition to the group to set aside time for the journal and keep the information basic rather than ambitious. Nevertheless, on the afternoon of our tour of the old city, we traveled for a game at the Pedagogical University, and a number of things stand out in memory.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3B7ne8qoK_nGaWwZnq5Xk6tMeNaadQqvvJQW_3SjtiMzQghEzrwGcAswrVrOx1pERc9GO47lIbWrhzxKaKl-iOUuubKaBeWHE8QicW00c9J1HS7uVCgoikdTGvsSADZLqOlJBIt4i0-yEKS7TOoa_iRluYFsRA85kdJK9t_NuSXLqjWYOjpR3C92Ow/s1600/P4060096.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3B7ne8qoK_nGaWwZnq5Xk6tMeNaadQqvvJQW_3SjtiMzQghEzrwGcAswrVrOx1pERc9GO47lIbWrhzxKaKl-iOUuubKaBeWHE8QicW00c9J1HS7uVCgoikdTGvsSADZLqOlJBIt4i0-yEKS7TOoa_iRluYFsRA85kdJK9t_NuSXLqjWYOjpR3C92Ow/w400-h300/P4060096.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span> </span>One thing that stands out was the playing floor -- pink in the center from foul line to foul line, a darker pink in the key, yellow in the side lanes, and green along the sidelines -- a real eye catcher. In addition to vividly functional, colorful paint, the floor showed its age. It was safe, but occasionally the ball would bounce oddly on a pass or a dribble. It reminded me of the old Boston Garden parquet floor with its "dead spots" that gave opposing teams fits . . . nice to look at but tough to play on.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQ9C2s4pr7Qt2O6ug7ZZDJyK0VKYLHMDGrcK5qsd07xcsLVQVZY7O6jo79lpna33r1wFIzSBOdBp2Kvgp8FK2aLvglJ7INHwj-k4toe_V-Ivfes2omUjUzS5oRnH_A5rDNr6fzuvjb7AhfQkkh6NSX-ZrVyaxmaKCkGCfpTTEaR-6r43FfvA4N9rtHw/s1600/P4060107.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQ9C2s4pr7Qt2O6ug7ZZDJyK0VKYLHMDGrcK5qsd07xcsLVQVZY7O6jo79lpna33r1wFIzSBOdBp2Kvgp8FK2aLvglJ7INHwj-k4toe_V-Ivfes2omUjUzS5oRnH_A5rDNr6fzuvjb7AhfQkkh6NSX-ZrVyaxmaKCkGCfpTTEaR-6r43FfvA4N9rtHw/w400-h300/P4060107.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><span> </span>While the whole gang made the trip, only the boys were scheduled to play. It was a tough game. Our high school sons played a university team, which made for an interesting match-up. Our guys played well but ended up losing. My notes say we lost by 3; Skip's official email home for this day notes we lost by 2 after leading most of the game. Either way, we lost, so who's quibbling: it was a good game, fun to watch. </span></p><p><span><span> </span>I remember finding a seat in the balcony that overlooked the court, where I chatted with Andrew before the game about what we had seen that morning and about the Pedagogical University. Just before the game started, Andrew said he'd be right back and he left. </span></p><p><span><span> </span>Almost immediately I found that students began filling in all the neighboring seats, including Andrew's. That was OK -- except that I didn't know what to say to my new neighbors; my page of "common Russian phrases" didn't seem all that useful. Just before he excused himself, Andrew told me that a student behind him wanted to know what I thought of my experience so far in Russia. I pulled out my sheet, located the word for "excellent," which I believe phonetically pronounced "Aht - <i>leech</i> - nah," which I said with enthusiasm. I hope it was heard with the measure of intensity and clarity I had intended. But starting a conversation once Andrew left was not likely to happen.</span></p><p><span><span> </span>The other memorable tid-bit from that afternoon, as I noted earlier, was the multicolored gym floor. It was quite spectacular. <br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVr2pPSe2HwncxY9QGpbI_NkaDmiEjeaeZhOOdy7djYASSSTs4xS72ERGjpA9PltL23CS2Gfho9FvIt69ja5MhkB6ToWB2rijokVZIdc_KolAPrvzd7QPWpfBvJS1gZ86OSDEw_cHDTQtrvn2iN_p1weTsMFH0KhKGvhCvNTptdGf5FuZX31vvzZS6w/s1536/002_NR.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyVr2pPSe2HwncxY9QGpbI_NkaDmiEjeaeZhOOdy7djYASSSTs4xS72ERGjpA9PltL23CS2Gfho9FvIt69ja5MhkB6ToWB2rijokVZIdc_KolAPrvzd7QPWpfBvJS1gZ86OSDEw_cHDTQtrvn2iN_p1weTsMFH0KhKGvhCvNTptdGf5FuZX31vvzZS6w/w266-h400/002_NR.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /><br /><span><span> </span>None of the photographs I have in my possession quite capture the way those colors dominated. After the game, as a gesture of our friendship, our boys gave the Russian players a bag keepsake gifts, and then everyone posed for pictures.<br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCPnyvhR-_IpJ3VAnRqpVEPxWVBdcZMbgV2XGOuWV84iG1jrvbyopWPDEFk8488R04wT7E_cPRXhievkkgaBp-c4CBCtxwzEMNIvC22UqJQOlkCNH6gpCbDN0M8Ye_vGsZq-B7Q-t0E-cR-EH41AiMlT7ZAT-bkGwsCLklmVg3t_1DK87ALkEtVYhKw/s1600/P4060100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span>.</span><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCPnyvhR-_IpJ3VAnRqpVEPxWVBdcZMbgV2XGOuWV84iG1jrvbyopWPDEFk8488R04wT7E_cPRXhievkkgaBp-c4CBCtxwzEMNIvC22UqJQOlkCNH6gpCbDN0M8Ye_vGsZq-B7Q-t0E-cR-EH41AiMlT7ZAT-bkGwsCLklmVg3t_1DK87ALkEtVYhKw/w400-h300/P4060100.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><span> </span>The real point of the encounter was that the Russian team joined us for dinner at our hotel. We had a translator at each table to facilitate conversation. The idea was to"break the ice" with these guys, to let them see us a people rather than competitors, and to create interest that folks from the Ministry Center could follow up on.</span></p><p><span><span> </span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgePo_ZYOW0Lv2lK_A7xQwTZ_k6UcZrddeoZMe9bYfs53G-WpbH66-ZUjVQnbPmf5l6Ul_1xuMaxLTwCp6i4oMOxA1t_iaTO0Cp2LuEzdOLHnFAcCktZxRXi_q5fVC1viCK0gTVOiFtVplPUOIXde_zrHWDeSK4BKBre-NNFbZsI2ALXE-6IKPoczLC8A/s1600/P4060147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgePo_ZYOW0Lv2lK_A7xQwTZ_k6UcZrddeoZMe9bYfs53G-WpbH66-ZUjVQnbPmf5l6Ul_1xuMaxLTwCp6i4oMOxA1t_iaTO0Cp2LuEzdOLHnFAcCktZxRXi_q5fVC1viCK0gTVOiFtVplPUOIXde_zrHWDeSK4BKBre-NNFbZsI2ALXE-6IKPoczLC8A/w400-h300/P4060147.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span><br /> <span> </span>My notes for the day make no mention of what we were served for these friendship dinners. But my notes do record that at our devotional time that evening, Andy Norton asked us "Why are you here?", to which Mason Sorsensen immediately answered, "To see a pink gym floor for the first time!"<br /></span><p></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-48713150951019018322023-03-14T07:24:00.000-07:002023-03-14T07:24:29.470-07:00Russia -- Tues 6 April '04 -- a day of leisure (#9)<div class="separator"><p style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> <br /></p></div><p><span> </span>Given that there were 19 American guys in our group with many talents, gifts, professions, and skills to offer beyond the Dads' team clearly fading basketball skills, it is not surprising that the folks at the Ministry Center had arranged to assign different men, different groups, to a variety of different tasks. John Woodard, our IT guy <i>extraordinaire</i>, was in high demand setting up IT systems and fixing computers at the Ministry Center itself. He was also our official photographer. John Horton and Mason Sorenson, as pastors, were sent to meet with other pastors in the city. The coaches among us were sent to meet with Russian coaches. And so forth.<br /></p><p><span> </span>All this to say, our experiences in Russia varied depending upon where one was needed. That meant for me at least a morning of leisure touring Vladimir on the Tuesday after Palm Sunday. The tour began after our American breakfast, of course, which consisted of short, fat hot-dogs, hollow noodles, hot coffee, and yogurt. I was becoming convinced that the "average Russian" knew about as much about America culture as the "average American" knew about Russian culture.</p><p><span> </span>Being neither pastors nor skilled technicians, a group of us were given the opportunity to walk the "old village" Vladimir. That is, we were given a tour of the original, once-fortified city by our interpreter and tour guide, Andrew, who described himself as a "Jack-for-all-trades." <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m6CuNu4BKu4Hx9XtZbf8zlyv3k_0bO0B0lmM2ClxdQtohUvtIgt2oeVW5zVLBBHC0kwf_XWFyu3bmR98GOMzPm9KyZJIfYsghM5gNZR0cqd1EKK35AUvDUZsAZ9ilXO8Qf8-kz-S25UVlJ54RlQgXXcSm24NO6YRtsXiYo1w6FKL55n8VDgg_vVmKA/s2160/100_0448.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6m6CuNu4BKu4Hx9XtZbf8zlyv3k_0bO0B0lmM2ClxdQtohUvtIgt2oeVW5zVLBBHC0kwf_XWFyu3bmR98GOMzPm9KyZJIfYsghM5gNZR0cqd1EKK35AUvDUZsAZ9ilXO8Qf8-kz-S25UVlJ54RlQgXXcSm24NO6YRtsXiYo1w6FKL55n8VDgg_vVmKA/w640-h426/100_0448.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><span> </span><span> </span> On reflection I will note that several "themes" appeared to run through what we saw in the "old village," also referred to as the "old city." One of these themes took the form of architecture expressed through old buildings that are curiously compelling, storied, and beautiful in their own right. Who knew, for example, that Vladimir has the greatest number of extant 12th century buildings in all of Russia?<span> Many, such as the church pictured here are built of white stone; others are built of brick or even wood.<br /></span></p><p><span> </span>For this walking tour, Andrew pulled me aside and asked me to relay to our group certain information that he would tell me. As his English was very good, I am not sure why he wanted assistance nor do I know exactly why he chose me as his relay, but it was a pleasant surprise to have gained his trust in this way. </p><p><span> </span>As has happened on visits I have made to other countries with long and complex histories, I quickly understood how extensive my ignorance actually was.These structures mirror other characteristics of the old Russian culture that are beautiful, compelling, and storied as well.<br /></p><p><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMe9JyNg53Zx8fvYBEX7EV0xhlwLzBy-ImkUOZ84ZiXEyFjnz5YsT9eZ1xocBBw_BIbceFlj7G5xy-bKW_osztv4f945nDPUhD1LhXjv2msHNnO7PeoCTLISBeJ3FnX1ZIxbSVLBOScXOJegUydB0ZpOMZ8N_jeVvwRSIpFI5yuLWX8y2ek2Mt2vNQSg/s1600/P4060010.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMe9JyNg53Zx8fvYBEX7EV0xhlwLzBy-ImkUOZ84ZiXEyFjnz5YsT9eZ1xocBBw_BIbceFlj7G5xy-bKW_osztv4f945nDPUhD1LhXjv2msHNnO7PeoCTLISBeJ3FnX1ZIxbSVLBOScXOJegUydB0ZpOMZ8N_jeVvwRSIpFI5yuLWX8y2ek2Mt2vNQSg/s320/P4060010.JPG" width="240" /></a></p><p><span> </span>Our tour began with a nunnery/convent and the church it is attached to, dating from the 12th Century. Neither this nor many old city buildings were actually open to visitors, so we toured mostly outside. </p><p><span> </span>In the old city we saw many one story wooden buildings, too, with elaborate window decorations. Andrew told us to think of the windows as eyes, which are a gateway to one's soul; the window decorations, consequently, are designed to ward off evil spirits, to keep these dark forces from the inner parts of the house. Although early April was not yet the season for leaves, mountain ash were growing at the corners of many of these old wooden houses for good luck. The mountain ash or Rowan trees can be identified by their compound leaves and their clusters of berries that turn orange or red. They carry a long history of bringing luck in the folk traditions of many cultures.<br /></p><span> </span>A second theme that ran through our tour of the old city were the ever present signs of Christianity, many cohabiting with these folk superstitions, which attest to traditionally deep beliefs in the supernatural. My impression was (and is) that centuries of hardship, war, scarcity, and centuries of oppressive government under both the Czarist and the Soviet systems have led to a strong sense that "fate" usually gets the last word.<br /><p><span> </span>The "Golden Gate," built in 1164, is the only old city gate remaining. The Copper Gate and the Silver Gate were destroyed during siege by one foreign army or another. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIQDh5M05qwAMbePCNvCLuNEMUEJwcuFd3JqDtJS6L8qsRxGdIO_2Pa44q1k2zBKEIvUsE3bOK8YiewgR4LoGF2tvCSgtZZf7t0bcdUO2vLSFBTf0l4Gz364nCIkTtoMbdhVGFaLmGqLVg4d5tLm79BCOrm8pAuecV52HE-ni81LjoUB92SseOxn2TQ/s1536/017_NR.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIQDh5M05qwAMbePCNvCLuNEMUEJwcuFd3JqDtJS6L8qsRxGdIO_2Pa44q1k2zBKEIvUsE3bOK8YiewgR4LoGF2tvCSgtZZf7t0bcdUO2vLSFBTf0l4Gz364nCIkTtoMbdhVGFaLmGqLVg4d5tLm79BCOrm8pAuecV52HE-ni81LjoUB92SseOxn2TQ/w426-h640/017_NR.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><p><span> </span></p><p><span> </span>A third "theme" I note in many aspects of old architecture is the persistence of suffering, particularly suffering as a consequence of war, of which there have been many.</p><p><span> </span>In the years surrounding our visit, the Russian Federation was engaged in military conflict in Chechnya, which, we were led to understand, caused worry among the parents of young men. I assume this conflict was little reported by the western press as I knew nothing about it prior to our visit. <br /></p><p><span> </span>In addition to the Golden Gate, which was intended to defend access to the old city, were remnants of the medieval earthen ramparts, essentially a protective wall that once encompassed the whole city (see below).</p><p><span> </span><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqbqX0yHld4wsALjO3JyC60SOMIu_jV5qD34yccZngi3t3dHwfTjop91YkQRM3xoHYi8GwJpr2mbl1yZMdfzgJIC5aV01f3sAWLHfU8QCrmOQ9RF0IkwaJdMCBdP-NAqj7fcX0cHHckVqCkorxsf3pK0QSBdi3_4tINgAaKknRM7QsiHgpKR10b7dHg/s1600/P4060027.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjqbqX0yHld4wsALjO3JyC60SOMIu_jV5qD34yccZngi3t3dHwfTjop91YkQRM3xoHYi8GwJpr2mbl1yZMdfzgJIC5aV01f3sAWLHfU8QCrmOQ9RF0IkwaJdMCBdP-NAqj7fcX0cHHckVqCkorxsf3pK0QSBdi3_4tINgAaKknRM7QsiHgpKR10b7dHg/w300-h400/P4060027.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span> In list form I will note that within walking distance we also had opportunity to visit the old city water tower [the brick building with the cone-shaped roof below] and a museum beneath it housing the "youth agricultural learning center." <br /></span></p><p><span> </span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9VOlVlPCRAkz4yEwapUki8cw27qTLQfS0eRSHGLT8ffJxzAc_EHSWhHXa4vYdnHj5Gu-lnTb97ORdVXenOVQ2LsJCUDNtLV1zlGp0N7wb7xIkGeaZq_2tN4-DPczwgsP21AKBhkNdfITPdeCIlR695lxRbWoMfw1waOilIbyHWskBZzJDAWROAbVHQ/s1600/P4060019.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK9VOlVlPCRAkz4yEwapUki8cw27qTLQfS0eRSHGLT8ffJxzAc_EHSWhHXa4vYdnHj5Gu-lnTb97ORdVXenOVQ2LsJCUDNtLV1zlGp0N7wb7xIkGeaZq_2tN4-DPczwgsP21AKBhkNdfITPdeCIlR695lxRbWoMfw1waOilIbyHWskBZzJDAWROAbVHQ/w300-h400/P4060019.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></div><span><br /> </span><p></p><p><span> <span> </span>We passed by St. Nikita (the Martyr) Orthodox Church established by St. Vladimir. My notes refer to it as the oldest church in Vladimir, which makes it very old indeed, although it seems unlikely that the present structure is the original one. But for the onion dome, the present church building strikes me now as then to resemble a Victorian house. The green of its exterior is a particularly Russian color, and its windows display the kind of decorative features found on many old wooden houses.</span></p><p><span><span> </span>Further on we visited the library where Andrew had studied as a student and the building that had housed the Vladimir Communist Party Headquarters where Andrew's father, now retired, had worked. As sensitively as I could, I tried to ask about that time; the question ran along the lines of "Did your father lose his job when the Soviet Union broke up?"</span></p><p><span><span> </span>Andrew answered rather circumspectly that his father, like many older Russians, missed the stability and relative predictability of life under the old regime. They had known nothing else.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2OoSyOrZGFAJGNrFJiLDihiuyJJgb8P0rKVUsgGN8dpaiakVEcKucPHUZdlYIcxgwQ124b2IbbTIkF4q1miLDowBJWO_Unk4qxhgxQQwj3iXjjNhk6Wc-ykEi8-39ACzXFSgPBPCzYaKE4cdL5OSKQ6Lz4naxB0CuZeGn_ssVl9xeb246Q3lIkh_rQ/s1536/003_1A.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2OoSyOrZGFAJGNrFJiLDihiuyJJgb8P0rKVUsgGN8dpaiakVEcKucPHUZdlYIcxgwQ124b2IbbTIkF4q1miLDowBJWO_Unk4qxhgxQQwj3iXjjNhk6Wc-ykEi8-39ACzXFSgPBPCzYaKE4cdL5OSKQ6Lz4naxB0CuZeGn_ssVl9xeb246Q3lIkh_rQ/w426-h640/003_1A.jpg" width="426" /></a></div><p><span> </span>In
retrospect, I think it was beginning to dawn on me that one large
benefit of a short-term missions trip extends well beyond what a
missionary might actually "do." Even before playing most of our games I knew that basketball was, after a manner of speaking, "incidental." The real benefit of our trip was personal. Whatever benefit there may have been to our missionaries and to the contacts we made, my world had been exponentially enlarged.<br /></p><p></p><p></p><p> <span><span> </span>The last words in my journal for that tour were "Wow -- What a morning!"<br /> </span></p><p> </p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-74871134874492278792023-02-18T10:00:00.000-08:002023-02-18T10:00:22.998-08:00Russia -- 6 April 2004 -- Game Day (#8)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPi3s_SZzS2cyQHEh-aadqaxW-TgBV7E6N1SDjQavgYWyj_8kiuY0K1y9kFpeBQRzKuTm_2lRrWG2AqdPcwHHFjlXmbc9dIVvaOFJuAQcuEojwEWz2h0glEuPVvBDQ1SlIYdbAXY7V0SLY3J2nTjmAwngqrQc5G41GPRSFYp9opRoOVp5zpNxeeds4g/s1536/011_NR.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDPi3s_SZzS2cyQHEh-aadqaxW-TgBV7E6N1SDjQavgYWyj_8kiuY0K1y9kFpeBQRzKuTm_2lRrWG2AqdPcwHHFjlXmbc9dIVvaOFJuAQcuEojwEWz2h0glEuPVvBDQ1SlIYdbAXY7V0SLY3J2nTjmAwngqrQc5G41GPRSFYp9opRoOVp5zpNxeeds4g/w400-h266/011_NR.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <br /></p><p></p><p></p><p><span> </span>Well, yes, it is game day; but before I can write about basketball, I have some catching up to do. </p><p><span> </span>When I gave my much joked about advice to everyone on keeping a journal, with the goal in mind of making a more accurate record of their experiences than memory alone might provide, I cautioned that whatever they plan for their journals, it needs to be do-able. The alternative is no journaling at all, no written record. Time and events will get lost very quickly. Days will run together. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLZ35A_bhtAPKnu-JgEbjh_qfqVVn6Oswb_RTUAkVaHGizvf4ZCHYU6FpzD02A_22LfwzSYfjeWxGOYe1GBzzWr0Oj5cbVDVgp1SwokW16iGIvWmZawpK0xxRisMjtd9WDY0MRWKcA9n0lD_BIiTRy5HS_Q72AlY1XxIMxWYLzqYF7P2Gznqi6JBhHg/s1536/009_NR.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjLZ35A_bhtAPKnu-JgEbjh_qfqVVn6Oswb_RTUAkVaHGizvf4ZCHYU6FpzD02A_22LfwzSYfjeWxGOYe1GBzzWr0Oj5cbVDVgp1SwokW16iGIvWmZawpK0xxRisMjtd9WDY0MRWKcA9n0lD_BIiTRy5HS_Q72AlY1XxIMxWYLzqYF7P2Gznqi6JBhHg/s320/009_NR.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><span> </span><b>6 April 2004</b><span> I should have followed my own advice more closely! I am trying to steal moments everywhere to record the amazing things that have happened. It is already Tuesday and I have not finished writing about Sunday! </span></p><p><span><span> </span>So my revised plan is to enter some notes about Monday and Tuesday so that I can return later to fill in the account. </span></p><p><span><span> </span><b>Palm Sunday [04-04-04]</b> ended with dinner at the Ministry Center. We have 'team time' at the end of each day with devotions and a briefing on what to expect tomorrow. Looming large in everyone's mind were the basketball games we had come to play. We knew the younger guys would be playing college (high school) or university teams, but as yet we did not know who the Dads would be playing or where the games were to take place.</span></p><p><span><span> </span>The Dads had practiced together as a team on a number of occasions in the weeks leading up to our trip; we had worked on plays, we had done conditioning drills, and so forth. And we had joked a lot about who our opponents might be. We had been cautioned frequently to remember that winning was not our <i>real</i> goal, although as a former athlete raised on American values about playing hard<i> that</i> advice felt more than a little off center. After all, Larry Bird was my guy: What Would Larry Say?<br /></span></p><p><span><span> </span>But first, the morning of<b> Monday, 5 April 2004</b>: Notes</span></p><p><span>Breakfast at hotel. Pancakes. Also, scalding coffee/ plain yogurt. </span></p><p><span><span> </span>We had a devotional time at Ken & Marilyn Blake's apartment attached to the Ministry Center (pictured above). All the Wesleyan missionaries serving in Vladimir were there -- the Robinsons (Canada), the Blakes, two young American women who work with orphanages. Sang four hymns, which all the older guys (the Dads) knew well and the younger ones did not.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1q7GgebzNjqmkRVcHX9Pkm4AGZdGeZ4rE9Mc8gCAoo5YrVPKEFYTBe7puJLJNUbWJG2M402N6saCjDokOuiHQbBMrMWYnVrOhSYt85VMLCUdZ7Ufw-KS0XjxadZWfx8ABNJFu4NvtPhbzll1HhsP1XYygzDoAYqJEutbEfAFThKOyJW_NiTsgNpBIQ/s1600/P4050081.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD1q7GgebzNjqmkRVcHX9Pkm4AGZdGeZ4rE9Mc8gCAoo5YrVPKEFYTBe7puJLJNUbWJG2M402N6saCjDokOuiHQbBMrMWYnVrOhSYt85VMLCUdZ7Ufw-KS0XjxadZWfx8ABNJFu4NvtPhbzll1HhsP1XYygzDoAYqJEutbEfAFThKOyJW_NiTsgNpBIQ/w480-h640/P4050081.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><span><span> </span>Four of us had been asked to share, so I gave another small testimony. One of the missionaries spoke on David and Goliath, encouraging us to face the Goliaths in our own lives. He wasn't talking about basketball opponents, but in retrospect he could have been. At the time, though, we still didn't know what to expect.</span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju96tbqWQsLym-T_ZxmmUfou-LjKBJiHUfYfa9iW9fj7TRid4ygTDIPRjEtZCn2ZpANR0X7Q9UJxtaz-O6u1THRUX4jubm40D4Q1mvtof5E3VS0TA8vAAg-pVZc5h8RqeCgaQks37cApfY4VA14vSV1PlcgnTQzLMcvWPRjMZpVoxeb0sOc-M_E_nQtA/s1536/023_NR.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju96tbqWQsLym-T_ZxmmUfou-LjKBJiHUfYfa9iW9fj7TRid4ygTDIPRjEtZCn2ZpANR0X7Q9UJxtaz-O6u1THRUX4jubm40D4Q1mvtof5E3VS0TA8vAAg-pVZc5h8RqeCgaQks37cApfY4VA14vSV1PlcgnTQzLMcvWPRjMZpVoxeb0sOc-M_E_nQtA/w426-h640/023_NR.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><span><br /></span><p></p><p><span></span></p><p><span> </span>At 3 in the afternoon we traveled a short distance to to play our first games. I will have more to say about basketball later, but for now the short version on our games is this: the boys' team won a squeaker against a well matched team of their peers; the Dads on the other hand, lost -- big time. We were outclassed. Overwhelmed. Crushed. Taken to the wood shed. Thrashed. All the cliches for being humbled in competition apply here. </p><p><span> </span>This may have been the David and Goliath moment I mentioned earlier.The photograph of me (in green) jumping center tells you all you need to know about who controlled the game from beginning to end. </p><p><span> </span>I am not sure now, years later, why I thought I should jump -- maybe it was the Larry Bird thing again -- but the Russian guys already had a play in motion that we couldn't stop. That pretty much accounts for the afternoon. It was a complete and fairly quick take down, which I was feeling bad about until I realized it allowed us almost immediately to play as friends rather than as competitors.</p><p><span> </span>We learned later, over dinner, that this team was not only Vladimir City Champions, they were also an Army Veterans team that had played together for over 30 years. Well, now! Had we known that going in, perhaps I would have approached the game with a bit more humility.<br /></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIe-q3gxGNzcqm4Hi-sfX1sR791eU-eqm3hHgwp_FwrA7oSo9A4Sqep6z86vt0eKMXbPwi1ovVlmIypRECCJYDiFOb4fCgR_ddxGQWy1l_fM4T9Nun7Pp7cyzrmknC_O-5k7E7qpGBL6qesxz6m8Br7IcdXKijcTOQaFIUYLRYGBTHN5wR7NtWv8ktA/s1600/P4050054.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghIe-q3gxGNzcqm4Hi-sfX1sR791eU-eqm3hHgwp_FwrA7oSo9A4Sqep6z86vt0eKMXbPwi1ovVlmIypRECCJYDiFOb4fCgR_ddxGQWy1l_fM4T9Nun7Pp7cyzrmknC_O-5k7E7qpGBL6qesxz6m8Br7IcdXKijcTOQaFIUYLRYGBTHN5wR7NtWv8ktA/w400-h300/P4050054.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span> </span><span><span>We
played at a place call Elektropibo, which had a gym, locker rooms, and a
nice room for dinner that accommodated all the guys on the teams. A
quick internet search for this place seems to indicate that Elecktropibo
is an industrial and/or research center with these athletic facilities as part
of the complex. At the time, however, none of this information was explained to us
and none of us could read Russian.</span></span></p><p><span> </span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span><span><span> </span></span></span><span> </span>After the games, as was to be our practice, we had dinner together with the other teams, all in the same complex as the gymnasium. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ-d7QIWrc1iFKYW9kbhHwkgWmC4I1caY50HtfbPy8j6JOfp-jaobmdajt3NNSpIAcfaK33O_TyBaPHTI_os92GY56KR1hwUla-tVLXLmXXVsUGw3ZF23RhvG5D3SG_VmPqgxLLNTWTzqvTAt_cEXIwx8sbJ7nu2vuI7_8GqONtoTDRWSQMrXLYy2lsQ/s1600/P4050062.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ-d7QIWrc1iFKYW9kbhHwkgWmC4I1caY50HtfbPy8j6JOfp-jaobmdajt3NNSpIAcfaK33O_TyBaPHTI_os92GY56KR1hwUla-tVLXLmXXVsUGw3ZF23RhvG5D3SG_VmPqgxLLNTWTzqvTAt_cEXIwx8sbJ7nu2vuI7_8GqONtoTDRWSQMrXLYy2lsQ/w400-h300/P4050062.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><span> </span>Dinner was already laid out for us when we arrived at the dining hall. Here Stefan (in green) is talking with Andrew (Andrei) our senior translator and tour guide. He described himself as a jack of all trades. Among other things, he made the yellow bench pictured above as well as the nativity set I was able to purchase and bring back to the U.S. He is the man in the black jacket in the Mission Center photograph above.<br /></div><p><span> </span>I talked mostly with Misha and Yuri, two young men who had come along as translators. They spoke English very well, and they were eager to talk. I tried to ask questions of the older guys through the translators but it was tough going. The older men were friendly enough but quiet with us, which I can understand; and I from my end just flat out didn't know what to say or ask. We had been told not to ask certain kinds of questions -- anything related to politics, for example -- and not to show pictures of our own houses, and so forth, so I wasn't sure where to start.</p><p><span> </span>Nevertheless, my notes record that we had an "excellent time."</p><p><span> <br /></span></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-65095542432583289932023-02-13T09:20:00.003-08:002023-02-13T09:21:39.405-08:00Russian -- 5 April 2004 Home Base (#7)<p> <span> W</span>e arrived at our hotel in Vladimir after dark following an long day or more of travel. Early the next morning, Palm Sunday, we got up early to begin visiting churches and worship services. Although we did not spend much time at the hotel, we were able to get our first daylight look at our home base. We had been told various things as preparations for our trip, but being there was different in significant ways from our expectations. That is to say, better in some ways, not in others. Subsequent experience has taught me that such variation is nearly always the case.<br /></p><p> <span> From outside, our hotel was hard to distinguish from many of the buildings in Vladimir. Given that none of us could read Russian, this kind of uniformity afforded us no clear way of noting distinguishing features should we have needed to find our hotel on our own. Those of us who had grown up seeing black and white news footage of events in the Soviet Union would have described the blocky, multi-story, nearly colorless, nearly featureless concrete structures as typically "Soviet era."</span></p><p><span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFWgFoBzhf78BPQB6e6Gi7f_0RyzB8t6TN-nGFseDfi6VMeMtrkt8Z03TCiG4u9_PF7Wm3Oe_Fc6rnwnG52nUHNXTUUa3vZ9S3hdV7F3FXXIGgRXh5tn91ULGlzI0pCnKvuOI4Xw-wau3IPktD2SXcT86ti0aU1a9ILVre25N9Z-LKXeAEOOAalfSHmg/s2160/100_0413.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="2160" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFWgFoBzhf78BPQB6e6Gi7f_0RyzB8t6TN-nGFseDfi6VMeMtrkt8Z03TCiG4u9_PF7Wm3Oe_Fc6rnwnG52nUHNXTUUa3vZ9S3hdV7F3FXXIGgRXh5tn91ULGlzI0pCnKvuOI4Xw-wau3IPktD2SXcT86ti0aU1a9ILVre25N9Z-LKXeAEOOAalfSHmg/w400-h266/100_0413.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span></span></p><p><span><br /> </span></p><p><span> <span> To be fair, new buildings were going up. We saw construction in various parts of the city, so surely this and other Russian cities experienced renewal in the twenty years since our visit.</span></span></p><p><span><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQA0Ltp5YREZFMMgb6iVHwQ6hhdjh5Moz_Du3tEwoDczPHW1mrHE0LwO0aWBmwS-fABWalhkC_6ynDQiKSZiy3P9bZ9dFaWseN7XdIq6pmU1QyVct2S44h4li73dXyLh17qtuKC1eZR79g4ovfUBiaESiSU6Oz7Y8Ehqmm_oXWAUC0BQfi8r_BU44KJA/s1536/008_NR.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQA0Ltp5YREZFMMgb6iVHwQ6hhdjh5Moz_Du3tEwoDczPHW1mrHE0LwO0aWBmwS-fABWalhkC_6ynDQiKSZiy3P9bZ9dFaWseN7XdIq6pmU1QyVct2S44h4li73dXyLh17qtuKC1eZR79g4ovfUBiaESiSU6Oz7Y8Ehqmm_oXWAUC0BQfi8r_BU44KJA/s320/008_NR.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span><span><br /> </span><br /></span><p></p><p><span><span><span> We began and ended each day meeting together for devotions, debriefings, and next day assignments in a room basically lacking furniture. My understanding is that team meetings of this sort are common for athletic teams and for teams doing short-term missions, but it was a new experience for me. These meetings were important for many reasons. I understood their value although I found myself impatient at times to get back to the room Stefan and I shared to write in my journal.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvIK-JzPJOONzIAW1ovhqCnOAyPzyYa6Z5jJ5xaXLbeeaSybEI6A_LgHgyksoKTCe9lVMsgYb_mBdohH3JOshhLzRdl64Qmnzs4wz8uaAlIhRjZiW92X3glXFoAulzHdQcHw5JrpP_WYnd93CxxkH-27oaAjyQD3AaJgH4rLJ6ritF1jTQdS-OYGltg/s1552/P4030149.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1075" data-original-width="1552" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvIK-JzPJOONzIAW1ovhqCnOAyPzyYa6Z5jJ5xaXLbeeaSybEI6A_LgHgyksoKTCe9lVMsgYb_mBdohH3JOshhLzRdl64Qmnzs4wz8uaAlIhRjZiW92X3glXFoAulzHdQcHw5JrpP_WYnd93CxxkH-27oaAjyQD3AaJgH4rLJ6ritF1jTQdS-OYGltg/s320/P4030149.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div><p></p><p><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>Many of us sat on the floor around the edges of the common room where we had our meetings. Well, that choice was more comfortable for some, i.e., the younger among us, than for others. </span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>Some needed the ease of the couch and chairs.</span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span>And some of us preferred standing to sitting on the beautiful parqueted floor. We were told that the hotel was undergoing renovation, which had begun with the common rooms and would at some time in the future work through to the bedrooms we inhabited.<br /></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPYRKEt1NZ2uelrGEHbkk0jW4o8SE6vC9udS9D66z1N2CrCDiUURM0evVj4-tG65lVWTCasjxv3qqhenNTzPIPyK3LlsJtEtswlyKiQ5j2br4-TlkeQ_hXTIoLsdOkNsIOT8HZqZTpSzoJrvTbzlmEXjnZgIFi8EGdEKb9QFieY4qS2cEaNx4zZWOfQ/s1600/P4030151.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPYRKEt1NZ2uelrGEHbkk0jW4o8SE6vC9udS9D66z1N2CrCDiUURM0evVj4-tG65lVWTCasjxv3qqhenNTzPIPyK3LlsJtEtswlyKiQ5j2br4-TlkeQ_hXTIoLsdOkNsIOT8HZqZTpSzoJrvTbzlmEXjnZgIFi8EGdEKb9QFieY4qS2cEaNx4zZWOfQ/s320/P4030151.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VS5JZZAWYod5kwCVA-dvDJIEmdEH2NfcLQm9SESJPtKlXbWrO65JZsu6hdw5vksD217QfBM6ERW4OsA9oYUdpkvqAz2DHuBPw9Sh_uFb0X89pjyfvaUxc_4HVOxywVazI8ztYLv5WoWVg4jvrzz6NGUd-CtxRFVB522-O7yFfDuEgSA3pE3rh-OAGw/s1530/P4030152.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="957" data-original-width="1530" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3VS5JZZAWYod5kwCVA-dvDJIEmdEH2NfcLQm9SESJPtKlXbWrO65JZsu6hdw5vksD217QfBM6ERW4OsA9oYUdpkvqAz2DHuBPw9Sh_uFb0X89pjyfvaUxc_4HVOxywVazI8ztYLv5WoWVg4jvrzz6NGUd-CtxRFVB522-O7yFfDuEgSA3pE3rh-OAGw/s320/P4030152.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br /> </span><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> Some of the bedrooms assigned to us were "better" than others, but all shared the same basic layout: two single beds along the sides ending at a window with a steam radiator and a very short bureau at one end, and a desk at the other.<br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjET5wmK8vhmrOFeClYQKtF5kl-c4qdrQTUf3VkQSMFTgXRhCNtMhbV47aaNGYGfGFxK9tawZqkgC4R9h9ardrTuGgnZ0bNYtmNdHna0yWhVlO4xLv6jlKsKsNjfXY9hJ6l56TfPZCGhP0V4T4NRAadnpoHo0jZU6TajeFXl-NHTCu9Tn6xu4iKwfe_UA/s1536/026_NR.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjET5wmK8vhmrOFeClYQKtF5kl-c4qdrQTUf3VkQSMFTgXRhCNtMhbV47aaNGYGfGFxK9tawZqkgC4R9h9ardrTuGgnZ0bNYtmNdHna0yWhVlO4xLv6jlKsKsNjfXY9hJ6l56TfPZCGhP0V4T4NRAadnpoHo0jZU6TajeFXl-NHTCu9Tn6xu4iKwfe_UA/w266-h400/026_NR.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><p></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> <span> </span>The photograph to the left is my side of the room, which I have been able to identify by my travel bag. Our window looked out onto another building, which I believe is the first building featured above. For identification purposes (if you are inclined to look for such clues) I will note that the window in our room matches the windows in the second picture above, whereas the windows of the pink building match the windows visible from our room.<br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmb82YyBVAIkVaYAP6hyd0mVAhhgkN0-FggQSYuJTaGQlMG8x1BLvhRvKkQrj0cE016gxa3fnfep-JACQ3Pvtt05BvNQtI7JWFZAJi-0UAKsFBMem_mJNF0DSR4VBwW2-PkYz6qQQlJ0x99QvQdDrBHHaP-NlU31GMPn5Vjzs8CpjqtzZeLN8FRiv6w/s1600/Hotel%2059.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDmb82YyBVAIkVaYAP6hyd0mVAhhgkN0-FggQSYuJTaGQlMG8x1BLvhRvKkQrj0cE016gxa3fnfep-JACQ3Pvtt05BvNQtI7JWFZAJi-0UAKsFBMem_mJNF0DSR4VBwW2-PkYz6qQQlJ0x99QvQdDrBHHaP-NlU31GMPn5Vjzs8CpjqtzZeLN8FRiv6w/w300-h400/Hotel%2059.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /> </span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span>I will also note that what might be construed as mismatched wallpaper in the photograph of the bed to the right is, in fact, the curtain. This photograph is some other room, as one can easily tell from the carpet. That said, the diamond patterns clearly prevailed when design choices were being made lo those many years before.<br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GWmTg6cPa5OZxuk5NYtKXCBzLOP5C9TIJd4DiklgTUMP7tFFSWBRDavEilsAomsZC6xrMxaQOo9lNKDXXZpSlkm080GVgy1g06FYbN0xP4BMDtU8zp2TOxHEvlwEYtW5FZ2w9e1TgS2lYFdxiVbsgIU4ajfQjAePUCUpKM5hSgWTcsGebMwSmd-IpA/s1536/025_NR.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6GWmTg6cPa5OZxuk5NYtKXCBzLOP5C9TIJd4DiklgTUMP7tFFSWBRDavEilsAomsZC6xrMxaQOo9lNKDXXZpSlkm080GVgy1g06FYbN0xP4BMDtU8zp2TOxHEvlwEYtW5FZ2w9e1TgS2lYFdxiVbsgIU4ajfQjAePUCUpKM5hSgWTcsGebMwSmd-IpA/w266-h400/025_NR.JPG" width="266" /></a></span></span></span></div><span><span><span><br /> </span></span></span><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span>In those minutes before, after, and between other obligations, the journal keeper sat at the desk at the end of his bed and wrote the things that made these blogs possible. If I had a gift as a student other than my curiosity about nearly everything natural or man-made, it is that I am usually able to make notes that will summon memories. It is quite a bit more difficult to work with notes written nearly twenty years ago than with recent notes, but the practice seems to hold up better over that time than one might expect.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span>The only remaining information one might need to fill out the profile of our living circumstances is the bathroom that one passes to reach the sleeping area. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> </span>I shall leave it with the observation that we found the shower/toilet area workable and that we have seen in our travels conditions much more primitive.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span><span><span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBvrAMjHEOw7ASsCwHK5mnJz_zn7YXGgJ1VqVWhkDoTR4zFHCmv7bpxWsG9-adTUYWI2RnYE7HPJqwAodqrNoQkzJGfzzxnwHrz8Fz5i_AiuAMDcmb5hGq7n0Bh7XKmaIuyOOiLOqTmUFn6POTFSC52LaPVSryO987Cd7I_vuCgwIWiIkScBMbRBFBg/s1600/Hotel%2059%20shower.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBvrAMjHEOw7ASsCwHK5mnJz_zn7YXGgJ1VqVWhkDoTR4zFHCmv7bpxWsG9-adTUYWI2RnYE7HPJqwAodqrNoQkzJGfzzxnwHrz8Fz5i_AiuAMDcmb5hGq7n0Bh7XKmaIuyOOiLOqTmUFn6POTFSC52LaPVSryO987Cd7I_vuCgwIWiIkScBMbRBFBg/s320/Hotel%2059%20shower.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></span></span></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQzPnXstlh2-g1-nqnYZvnFEb3r83EuNCnExv35m1ou-SEo4nP5apGCvm5sy0zZTWx_BKPHlIdyNHz4fZEMo7oegKC2XH4jRan5uwgPjnJv7wWa_op7XGcELm7cJNDAfQTWMeX-sUI_hFuXx2cUHceTBU_0KmuON5K3H9V-se9E2EHAapaHON82NQXA/s1600/Hotel%2059%20Loo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQzPnXstlh2-g1-nqnYZvnFEb3r83EuNCnExv35m1ou-SEo4nP5apGCvm5sy0zZTWx_BKPHlIdyNHz4fZEMo7oegKC2XH4jRan5uwgPjnJv7wWa_op7XGcELm7cJNDAfQTWMeX-sUI_hFuXx2cUHceTBU_0KmuON5K3H9V-se9E2EHAapaHON82NQXA/s320/Hotel%2059%20Loo.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1185549851682452807.post-84355943717473395952023-02-04T11:21:00.001-08:002023-02-04T11:21:32.917-08:00Russia -- 2004 (#6)The church at the end of the trolley line<p> <span> The house church we visited at the end of Palm Sunday was about half a mile by my estimation from the last trolley-bus stop. The streets were full of potholes, litter, and mud. In our brief time in country so far, this was the common condition of streets.</span> <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjV8n3Pv4C6LTGiL-QDELdvE9ydcUt8CQkXK3OKiKxenzHOVJBQ6HrZL_UYiNbpORefGib6w4FMKSpYZGZhqIsLbEaAu3n9BSnxppBB0Xx7g8X9tz-PTn-6MfNW6Qm3HrC0xzZgxePdD-JPEdfsOz1x8ABQgE3XLe2D2jmjQjg6QDcM75Z4KoDGxlAkA/s4000/IMG_7804.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjV8n3Pv4C6LTGiL-QDELdvE9ydcUt8CQkXK3OKiKxenzHOVJBQ6HrZL_UYiNbpORefGib6w4FMKSpYZGZhqIsLbEaAu3n9BSnxppBB0Xx7g8X9tz-PTn-6MfNW6Qm3HrC0xzZgxePdD-JPEdfsOz1x8ABQgE3XLe2D2jmjQjg6QDcM75Z4KoDGxlAkA/w300-h400/IMG_7804.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p> The apartment buildings were all startlingly decrepit. One sees such things in American inner cities. Here this level of architectural wear and tear seemed to be everywhere. After a bit we turned down an alley although the street we had been walking resembled an alley. The alley was largely mud. It had grown quite dark and there were no street lights. Someone from the leadership group mentioned that the head of the Orthodox Church lived nearby. Like many things we heard, there was no way to verify the information or time to ask follow-up questions to clarify what was being passed along to us as we walked.</p><p> Seventy-five yards down the alley we turned in at a gate in a rough wooden fence. We entered one of those small wooden houses that look ruinous from the outside although details were hard to see in the dark. The only light on the street seemed to come from the open door we were entering. We entered what is usually called a "mud room" in the US, where we removed our muddy shoes and left them in a pile.</p><p><span> </span>The mud room was cold, but the house proper was cozy warm. The inside of the house had been remodeled very nicely, mostly in wood paneling and partly in plaster. A parenthetical note in my journal adds, "real pine." The young couple who owned the house had been in the worship service we attended at the Mission Center; they were doing the remodeling themselves. The woman was one of the singers in the worship team.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwlfSSZ_gZ6bM8fRCb8CkryDyK3iEIlluJpxsBrtJQYV01QI-00eFVWP-zotoQreYfNFlRJC9QIf7nakPC9WdZ2UFOnbi5YOXDwbh3eBL4LyH7WCGxopdDX87EKT1H5_M1JTIhEIcTlxMqlPYqYtgXFMWvGSlZzvYjEUX4UlPcwBr9VxoJlMULuZB_g/s1600/P4040051.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNwlfSSZ_gZ6bM8fRCb8CkryDyK3iEIlluJpxsBrtJQYV01QI-00eFVWP-zotoQreYfNFlRJC9QIf7nakPC9WdZ2UFOnbi5YOXDwbh3eBL4LyH7WCGxopdDX87EKT1H5_M1JTIhEIcTlxMqlPYqYtgXFMWvGSlZzvYjEUX4UlPcwBr9VxoJlMULuZB_g/w400-h300/P4040051.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> <span> </span>The room we held our service in lay just off the kitchen. It was simply furnished by American standards but very nice. I cannot identify the house church members pictured here but I am pretty sure there were folks gathered in the house for the service who were not in the photograph. Our Houghton ministry team -- John and Eric Woodard, Gary King, Stefan and I -- are all to the left.<p></p><p><span> </span>The Canadian missionary who brought us to the house led our discussion for a short time before the house church pastor, a young Russian man who had been through the Bible School, arrived and took over.</p><p><span> </span>Each person in our visiting team was asked to contribute something from personal experience that had made a difference in our lives related to discipleship. Our experiences were translated into Russian. For my part, I told about a man in the church I attended from 3rd grade until after Donna and I were married; Edgar Gray had always been for me an example of a believer who put his faith into action every day. He had a reputation for being the same person at work on Monday that he had been in church on Sunday. He was kind and generous and loving, soft-spoken and consistent. He invested himself in his large family as well as in the young folks of the church, overtly conscious that his actions and attitudes set an example. His devotion and behavior should have been the norm rather than the exception, but, as I say, he stood out. An example to follow.<br /></p><p> We had a sincere time of sharing. The householder played guitar and the others sang a few songs in Russian with great conviction and animation. I was touched despite my inability to comprehend the language. Then, before we left, the pastor asked that we return in a few days to talk with the young people about "dating," an idea (as I understood it) for which there is no equivalent word in Russian. The term that was translated for us was "sexual relations."<br /></p><p></p><p> I must admit I had not seen <i>that</i> request coming. It certainly gave me pause as we pulled on our cold shoes and headed back into the darkness outside.<br /></p>James A. Zollerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07589822716587488968noreply@blogger.com0