I couldn’t speak a work of Russian when we arrived in Ukraine. Nor any Ukrainian either, come to think of it. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to read street signs, subway maps or store fronts.
I felt like I was two years old all over again. There’s a reason they call Russian, “God’s language.” Because it takes an eternity to learn. And if I didn’t want each metro trip to begin and end with an index card Pete had written out the name of the stops I needed to look for in Cyrillic so I could compare and know when to exit, I had to learn. Olya tutored me three to four times a week.
I learned how to haggle over vegetable prices.
I learned how to yell for the bus to stop like everyone else did.
I learned how to tell taxi drivers, “I’m a foreigner, not an idiot.”
I learned how to say, “I love you.”
And all the while I was learning I was still thinking in English. I was desperately seeking the English equivalent of what I was trying to express in Russian. People took pity on me and tried yelling utilizing the apparent logic that if they said it louder I’d somehow be more likely to get it. There’s nothing like finding yourself in a yelling match with an old Babushka at 9 at night each repeating,
(Milk) !!!
over and louder in the hopes that someone will eventually cave and admit they understand.
Mostly we all just got frustrated.
I don’t know how we would have made it if it weren’t for the missionary families who adopted us. That taught us vital life skills such as how to order a pizza in Russian, which ploys pick-pocketers most commonly use, and what the most polite way is to decline vodka at 11am. They blew all my neatly predjucided preconceived notions of missionaries out of the water and showed me the kind of life I aspire to live no matter what country I end up in.
And they took us to church. At least two hours of it. All in Russian.
Nope. Not one like that.
In a very regular except-for-the-fact-that-everything-was-in-Russian, church building that looked like this.
Some Sundays I could understand more than others. Like one word in every 300 as opposed to one in every 1,000. It was humbling. And sometimes very boring. Except for the worship. The worship – well, it was electric. Somehow removing the ability to actually understand the words, but being fully attuned to the meaning of the worship is electrifying.
I would stand in a sea of people I couldn’t communicate with and for those few minutes we’d all be speaking the same language.
And it occured to me. It occurred to me for the very first time – God speaks Russian.
I was staggered. I looked around that auditorium and knew in my bones for probably the very first time – God is not a foreigner in this church. God is not a foreigner in this country. God is just as at home here as he is in the States. And suddenly I was so much smaller than I had imagined myself and rather than helping bring the gospel to a country I was simply the grateful recipient of it.
Hands up high in the air above me, elbow-to-elbow with gnarled Babushkas, families, and drooling babes, I worshiped. We worshiped.
Because nothing gets lost in translation with Our Father. Nothing.
Nothing that we bring to him is foreign to God. He speaks our language. Both inside and out.
/ Praise God
Oh, I love this!!!
I can have such tunnel vision at times. I love it when God just explodes our understanding of Who He Is!
I absolutely loved this post. ;0)
Glorious!!
Wow! You gave me goose bumps! Our God is so big.
Oh how I can relate to this post! I lived in Russia for almost 2 years and why I never thought to learn “I’m a foreigner, not an idiot.” Ha! I love that!
Standing in a Russian speaking church (you know, because you must stand to sing!) and be joined in worship with them for mere moments was always uplifting to me too! Amen!
Once again you have composed a symphony with your words. I can relate to so much of what you wrote. Thank you for pointing out the glorious in what can often seem the disorienting. Thank you for uplifting our God!
Linda
I love this post. I was laughing at the yelling and crying at the worshiping. : )
“People took pity on me and tried yelling utilizing the apparent logic that if they said it louder I’d somehow be more likely to get it.”
:-) yes, I get this.
And the worship too. Having sat in a church where I so often had little idea of what was being said and only picking out a few words here and there. But the worship time, the standing and singing… He speaks Cebuano too! How great is Our God!!
Wow. A great example of God being everywhere. I have never been to Russia, don’t plan on going, don’t thing God intends for me to go (but what do I know?) that’s not what I do. I sew and quilt. And God is there in each stitch I make. ~Nita
Great post!! It is a great reminder for me. I often have no clue what the women at the shelter where I work are saying because I am a woman from the burbs and don’t speak city slang (or spanish, which I often wish I did). God does. That’s awesome.
Two years ago, I was priveleged to go to Odessa to help with a mission trip. I had much the same experience that you mentioned! I pulled the following from my personal blog (not the one I have linked) that I had recalled from my first church service there:
“Children squirm and get wiggly long before the service is over.
Babies cry and have to be taken out.
Is there anything more beautiful than to hear a child sing about Jesus?
Women laugh and joke together as they prepare a fellowship meal.
There is never enough room on your plate for all the food you want to get at a church buffet. The good stuff always goes first.”
Today, people are learning about Christ from the concrete stage where i tied rebar and helped pour concrete so that they could finish the church…believers are being baptized in the baptismial pool I helped pour concrete on. I have heard back from the minister how the congregation there was encouraged that a group of americans would not just send money but take the time to come and work, and fellowship with them (three years running now- three different teams)….I feel like maybe what I did made a difference. At least I hope so….I know it did in me.
Rhonda – this has me all teary-eyed because I know just what you mean – the ability to be part of something, to build something, to love something without ever actually being able to say it in the right language. Love this. Thank you for sharing!
loved this post :) it brought back so many memories i have as a child growing up abroad. so true, yet so amazing, how our God is not bound by language. i think that it’s one of the most incredible things about God. i think God loves languages. they’re an expression of his greatness, love and creativity.
~Acolyte
Vodka at 11 am?? I have to visit this place.
And you are now officially my favorite comment of the day. {Snort!}
This hits home. I’m lost in a challenge with one of my special needs kids. And God is right at home here. And with me in the places I don’t “speak the language.” So grateful for your words today. Dios le bendiga!
I love the way you put that – that nothing gets lost in the translation with God. I’ve seen that on mission trips. How God is universal. One man might pray, “Blessed Senor” but it still means “Dear Heavenly Father.” I love it. I love how we are all so different, yet so much the same.
I know how to ask for a big cold beer in Russian and say please and thank you. But when I was in Moscow this fall I was gobsmacked! There is no way on this earth that I would attempt the metro by myself, index cards or not! I can now recognize the words for restaurant and coffee house (but could never pronounce them) now though so I wouldn’t starve!
And wouldn’t it be great to actually attend a church service in one of those awesome churches? Except St. Basil’s doesn’t actually have a room to have services in!
It’s amazing how fast you learn when there’s no other option. Two years later I can get around by myself pretty well. I think learning basic Russian is one of my proudest accomplishments! :)
I was grinning from ear to ear reading this…and so good for me to remember and be encouraged by as I’ve been sort of ‘freaking out’ at the thought of living long-term in Hungary within a year…of course, I am terrified as a mom…since I only had myself to try to get around when I didn’t understand…now littles ones in and out of public…
You are reminding me that I need to write more about that year! Neither my husband nor I spoke a bit of Hungarian before we stepped foot there…we had tried listening to a tape and laughed thinking…this is so crazy different. And the first day our team leader sent us out into the city to find things…like our own Amazing Race…except instead of winning we just needed to survive…oh the stories from that day!!!
And all of the worshiping in another language…my husband will still break into a Hungarian version of something…I love it!!!
And too, love that you had pre-conceived prejudices of missionaries…glad you’ve come around;)…i forget that this can happen…and think ‘oh, we’re just like everybody else. called and privileged to love and serve God in this way…’
Isten Aldjott!! (God Bless You:) and sok puszi (many kisses:)
Oh you absolutely HAVE to write it down as you live it! My husband kept a journal he called the, “My Wife Diary” filled with entries like, “My wife is tired of having me as her only friend; my wife may kill me if I send her out into the metro system alone again; my wife is not amused by people who pretend they can’t understand her when she tries to buy milk.”
Hysterical stuff! And so so true.
And then Pete’s parents did this amazing thing and printed out every single one of our emails from the two years we were there and put them in a binder for us – it’s the most amazing record of that time.
So, all that to say – yes, yes, definitely write it down. Those are stories to live by! For you and others!
What an experience…to worship in Russia. Beautiful pictures and true, true statement- “nothing gets lost in translation” does it?
Oh the memories! Sitting beside you no doubt, I remember being so surprised to learn that when one called God, “you,” it was “Tbi” not “Bbi” (not cyrillic but panymayesh). That church may still be my favorite church of all time, despite my similar comprehension rate, except when Boris kindly translated for us. :-) I also remember your and Peter’s last Sunday, which coincidentally was a day we could take communion. You said, through tears, that communion is a meal of leave-taking, of goodbyes. I think of that often when I take communion at my current Episcopalian church. XOXO to you, dear friend.
you could have heard me laugh out loud at this one:
“There’s a reason they call Russian, “God’s language.” Because it takes an eternity to learn.” very funny. ;)
I remember the first time I realized this too…
God speaks Spanish. and every language for that matter. HE knows what they are saying.
serious. it changed everything… and what a comforting thought it is that in heaven WE’ll all probably understand/speak the same language too… can’t wait.
:)
I love this post! I had a similar thought our first week here in Wales back in 2002…God is in this place. This tiny church w/ about 14 elderly people..and us. And I have to laugh at how I thought we were speaking English, but wow…the accent left me looking like an idiot- eyes squnited and blank stare on my face for a second until I figured out what was said in their thick Welsh accents :) My husband and I often speak to each other in Welsh accents now around the house. We are easily humored.
Babel. That’s all I could think of reading this.