Guest post: Kerith on pink and kissing

(dictated by Kerith, age 8 1/2)

Warning: only for boys to read (who don't like kissing)

It's rather hard to explain, but pink - an only girl's color - I count that can transform us boys into girls, or boys that like kissing. Why? Because the only place we boys see pink, is on - girls. We see it on bed covers, we see it on pillows, on shirts, we see pink patches, and everywhere in a girl's room, and worst of all - wallpaper! (Thank goodness my sister doesn't have pink wallpaper.) Usually when I accidentally touch pink, which, sadly enough, is very often, I feel this warm patch on the spot where I touched it. And it stays that way for a little while! It seems during that time, it is dissolving its powerful poison into us boys' bodies. I don't know what it does inside your body. I don't have the scientific materials to investigate that. 

Volume II: Kissing: what to do about it.

The way I count it, when you kiss, it sends atoms from your body to the next person's body. Sooner or later, in about 10 million kisses or more, there will be a hole in one person's body, and a big bump on the other. And also, when you see kissing, it seems to me it poisons my mind and makes me want to kiss. But worst of all - on the lips. Ugh. Usually with wives and husbands, it happens when one of them leaves to the office or a grocery store or something. Even a short trip down to buy some butter or something small. Kissing happens at bed too -but that's usually on the cheek from our mom. 

I'm starting a club to stop all of this. It's called the Girl Scouts. Get it? We're on the lookout for girls to capture them. So if you want to join, write me.

 

An honorary 6th grader - forever

Two weeks ago my class (the 5th grade) went to see Alice in Wonderland, the new movie. It was made by the same creator as another movie that was very scary. My parents didn't want me to see it, and I didn't want to either. We called Tatiana Vladimirovna, 2nd in charge, and asked if I could attend the 6th grade for a day. And since I had always wanted to be in the 6th grade, but couldn't, even though I am in the 6th grade by American reckoning, I was overjoyed that I would be in my dream class. My best friend is in the 6th grade, and the kids are more of my maturity level.

That day I had so much fun. But on Saturday, I cried, knowing that I would have to go back to immature 5th grade. The 5th grade didn't fit me, and the kids have not been nice to me, and it wasn't getting better, except maybe a teensy weensy bit. Not a lot of people get along, even though there isn't a lot of people. In the 6th grade, even though they may have little spats, they are all the same underneath and all act the same. The 5th graders are so different from each other that when they get in fights, they don't get resolved easily. I wasn't very much liked there. Not that I wanted to be, but I just wanted to be one of the 5th graders. (How do you blend in in such a small classroom? In a large class, there are more people with whom you can find a fit.) Anya is in the 5th grade, and she is not with Anita, remember? And there is Galya, who never treats me well. The girls ignore me, unless I do something accidentally to Galya, and then she gets all huffy. And then the 3 boys, who normally I don't talk with. They tease me most of the time, and the make fun of the teacher and yell at her, and I have seen one of them make a face at here directly behind her back. 

I talked with Dad, and tried to explain that I wanted to be in the 6th grade. I wanted him to at least understand and talk with the directors. He said he would pray about what to say, and I was subdued for the moment, glad that I had at least gotten it out there. Either way, even if I hadn't been put in the 6th grade, I would have been flexible and would have cheerfully stayed in the 5th grade. I think He was saying, you are going to have to trust me, no matter what. 

Actually Dad didn't have to do anything. The next Thursday, the 2nd and 3rd grade took a field trip to a children's home, and me and Mom and Dad were invited. Another mother was there who had asked me once why I didn't hang out with the other 5th graders. I had explained that I fit with the 6th graders better. She brought this up with Tatiana Vladimirovna. That's when the miracle happened. Tatiana Vladimirovna spoke up and said that she agreed as well. So without Dad even saying anything, I all of a sudden found myself the next day in the 6th grade. The night before, I was so excited, I could barely go to bed. 

I felt like God was saying, "you trusted me."

Going back to my old church

Recently, my family returned to our old church, and it was a very big shock. A lot of people were still there, and a lot of people had left. Some people that were on the praise team I had never imagined on the praise team. Some people were doing the same things, and others had changed so much. It was wonderful to see old friends and again it was a shock to see everybody almost three years later. A lot of my friends were gone. Knowing that some of them were gone and that we probably wouldn't see them again until heaven was hard to swallow. Then again, just being back in our old church was hard to swallow.

Right now I know that it will probably be a few years before I go back, and lots of people will probably be gone, but that doesn't matter. The point is that I really miss my old church, and it was wonderful to see people. I plan to come back to that church sometime, and right now that isn't going to happen. What really counts is the fact that it's always going to be in my memories.

My church hadn't changed in the way its fellowship went. We still same the same songs, and I still felt that we had some great singers in our church. right now as I look back on going back, I realize that I may be mad at God in some ways for allowing me to leave my church and friends. And then again, I'm not mad, because I know that where God has put me is the right place, and even though that I'll never constantly attend that church again, I'll still consider that my church, because I attended it for three years, and that will always be where "church" was.

Coming back to America was probably the hardest thing I had done in two and a half years, and holding a drunk's hand isn't' even an exception. I'd do that again a million times. But coming back to America isn't easy. Of course it isn't the people I would love to see the people again. I'd do that again a million times, probably a zillion times. But coming back to where I lived, seeing our across the street neighbors, seeing our old house, and seeing old friends is really hard, because they are now old friends, and yet they are still friends, but not people you will see regularly like most friends.

I'm getting off topic, but this sort of relates. See, when God put me in Russia, He had a big plan, and he know what I was going to feel. Even if at the time I didn't see it myself. Now fast forward three and a half years, and I almost understand why He wanted me to go through all that pain. Because it's written in the Bible that trials mature a person, not exactly in that way it's written, but it means that when you have a trial, suppose there's a bully at school, and he threatens you, and hurts other kids, including you, you may think it's the most rotten school in the world, but God is preparing you for something. Now you may not realize it, but God has a plan for you.

While I'm at the fact of moving and all this stuff, I want to say something that Dad has been urging me to say for the past 4 months: I have stress problems, and i let it out by pulling some of my hair. This does not mean you have cause to worry. Think it not contagious. I'm perfectly normal in a lot of normal ways. But could I ask you guys to pray for me? Stress problems can happen to anyone, and even though you pray about it, it can still come up, and only God can take care of it. I believe that God is already taking care of some things.

Moving on, I want to return to the fact that I miss my church already, and will remember you guys all the time. Not even my church right now can replace the wonderful memories you have left in my life. You all are amazing people, and even though I am pretty far away most of the time, you are not far away from my heart. You are pretty much in the center of it. And that raps up this blog of...well...um... mine.

Now excuse me while I go find the tissue box.

sniff.

Christina

After we finished our first quarter at school, we had a week's break. On the last day of school before the break, my friend Christina came home with me. I have found Christina to be a good trustworthy friend who has helped me on many occasions. 

I got to meet her when I first came to Russia when I came to the first day of school for the boys. She tried to talk with me, and unfortunately I could not respond very well. Every time I went to the boys school, I would usually see her, and every time I could speak a little bit better with her. Then when I went to school this May when Mother was gone for a week, we had a chance to hang together and get to know each other better. Now that I go to school again, we can talk and converse on breaks. She is in the 6th grade (the grade I would be in if I were in America) so unfortunately we are not in the same class.

It was Tuesday when she came over, and I had anticipated her going home on Thursday, but it turned out to be a day longer. In Russia people can do way more than a 1 day sleepover. I have gone myself on three-day sleepovers. 

Once we got home, we went to my room and painted each other's nails. Then we had dinner and before bed watched a movie. The next day we lounged around and played hide-and-seek. Since it was raining, we didn't play outside. Later that evening Dad had a man he works with came over who brought his daughter, and we all played together. 

The next day our Russian helper came over on her usual day, and she and Christina got along well. While Tanya ironed clothes, we would talk with her. 

The next night, another girl from my church came over, Anya. Remember her from my birthday party? Together we painted nails and made friendship bracelets. Unfortunately, that was the night Anya declared me to no longer be her best friend, because she had decided to be best friends with the popular group at church and that we were too different to be best friends. 

Christina and I went to bed around 11 and in the morning I took her to the metro to meet her grandmother. After such a long sleepover, I was finally glad to be able to stay in one language - not that I was incapable of speaking Russian for three days straight, but it does make one's tongue a bit tired.

Nonetheless, having a friend like Christina is a blessing because she is the kind of friend who can help me in situations when you need a friend. Compared to other friends, she is a winner at a good friend contest. She is better than a lot of Russians that I have met because she is kind, thoughtful, and caring. She helps me with homework. She doesn't change on a dime like some of the neighborhood girls. That kind cannot be replaced by someone else. God has strengthened our relationship through this long sleepover, and you can pray that this relationship would grow stronger. 

Private school

Recently I have been going to school four days a week. All summer we had been talking about me going to the boys' Russian school for the last few weeks before furlough. Even though I get teased often there, I have learned more than I myself can comprehend.

One thing I get teased for is the fact that I have to go to grammar and reading in the 2nd and 3rd grade. But for most of the time I am in the 5th grade. (note: Russian schools start 1st grade at 7 y.o., so while I am in 5th grade here, I would be in 6th grade in the states.) I used to get teased for my coat. I've learned to be more tolerant of the teasing through these situations. 

I've learned more words and to read a little better. I've learned a lot about Russian mindset, for example, if a teacher is absent and the kids skip that class, they will call the teacher and ask for homework. The teacher can give them the homework, but they might not at all understand it because the teacher wasn't there to teach the lesson.

Every day a different kid in each class is "dezhurny" (daily helper  [compare de jour - Lyle]). She or he will wipe up the blackboard after each lesson, mop the floors at the end of the day, wipe the tables after meals, and take out the trash. I've gotten to be dezhurny two times. 

School can be lots of fun, just so long as I am not late for the morning bell. No outside time for breaks when I am late. I hate that cause I get couped up inside. 

This week the cold has been going around, and our teacher has been gone. Lots of kids in other classes are also missing. On Friday it was only me and two boys in our class, which wasn't very fun being the only girl. It was really lonely.After school all the grades take a walk together -  a time where I can be with other kids who don't tease me. I like hanging out with 2 girls in the 3rd grade and 2 from the 6th grade. We play games together. For example, one person closes her eyes and she has to guess where she is when the others lead her somewhere and stop. 

Fickle Friends

Lyle, standing in for Lydia today. She asked me to write this one, as she's not in the right "spirit" to even talk about it, she says. It's been a hard month. 

We're learning that Russian kids are really tough to bond well with. They (I expect this is mainly girls) have a rule of thumb that you can have one friend at a time. The rest of the time, you are free to betray the trust of the other girls and treat them like dirt. So one day they are your friend and the next they hate you. For a girl like Lydia, it's been especially hard to bear. 

Even the girls at church are tough, in that they are generally quite immature and don't go out of their way to make an outsider feel at home. Lydia had a great overnight recently with some sisters, but they hardly talk with her at church. Another girl comes over to play when I work with her mother in counseling. Lydia is literally a few hours older than her, but this girl gets on better with Kerith because of her emotional maturity.

Diana and I are taking two very different but complementary courses of action. Diana is now on a warpath to find ex-pat friends. They are actually quite hard to find, especially with the diminishing missionary population here. We tried to avoid foreigners to some extend in the beginning, wanted to acculturate as much as possible, but we are now learning from the senior missionaries that no kid successfully makes it without close ex-pat friends. That's a shame, but it's the reality.

I'm a counselor, so Lydia and I have spent a lot of time talking and praying over these things, and she has grown leaps and bounds, though you hate seeing her have to go through what it takes to learn these lessons. She's letting go of her desire to have Russian friends for her own pleasure, and she is learning how to love them unconditionally and care for their souls as objects of God's reconciling love. She could have just pulled away from them, but she has shown tremendous resiliency in re-orienting her affections around God's perspective. It's a gift that I am confident she will reap the fruits of, as will many others, for the rest of her life.

V and Me

V. stands for Valery. Valery is the man who is always drunk in the building next to ours. He is almost always sitting on a bench in our courtyard, smoking and drinking. He's an elder man who often has other men his age sitting with him. Many teenagers and couples walk through and laugh at him like something funny to see on a sight-seeing tour. Many kids tell him to go home. A couple Saturdays ago, he was there again, very drunk. I was out playing nearby climbing a tree when I heard him cry out, and he fell to the ground with a thud. I hurried home and told Dad that he had fallen over, asking that Dad would pick Valery up again. Dad resisted, claiming that the last time he had picked him up, he had just fallen over again. 

I rushed back outside, the brothers following me. I watched Valery crawl like a baby to a nearby gate, pull himself up and stand. Simon, who had been watching beside me, ventured out and stood by Valery. Valery talked to him, and I, concerned for his safety, came over and stood behind Simon. Valery noted Simon's coat, buttoned all the way up, and asked him why his coat was buttoned up. I translated to Simon, since he did not understand drunken words. Simon unbuttoned his coat, but then re-buttoned it. I then told Simon to go get Dad, and he left. I never thought I'd do this, but I picked up his dirty cane that had fallen. I held it as he held on to the gate for support, and he slowly, like a child making his way around a pool, got to the steps to his building. When  he got to the steps, he had nothing to hold on to, so he slowly made his way up the steps. 

When he finished getting up the steps, the patio up to his door was sloped upwards, so it was hard for him to walk up. Steadying himself along the wall, one hand in front of the other, he made his way to the entrance. At one point he mumbled something that I couldn't understand. I finally understood, "Give me your hand." I was paralyzed with fright but realized that God would be with me, so I offered my hand. He took it, and I will never forget holding that hand. His hand was cold and dirty, and even from six feet away you could smell the liquor on him.  He held my hand very tightly and had me pull him up towards the door. When he said I could let go, I was so relieved I almost dropped him. Simon came back and told me Daddy was coming. 

The boys had been watching, and I urged them again to go get Daddy. Valery thought I was scolding them and told me, "Don't scold them." I told him that I wasn't, but kept telling Kerith to go, go. Once he reached the door, Valery started a conversation. "You're American, right? I don't know any American. I studied French for a while." I said that I didn't know any French. Imagine how hard it is to understand a drunk in Russian. 

Two men yelled from across the way that he acted like he was 5 years old. The other said he should be in bed.

Finally Dad arrived on the scene. Valery shook Dad's hands and looked down at the mittens he was wearing, asking about them. Valery said, "Your children...." Daddy finished, "helped you?" Valery retorted, "Wrong word... MORE than helped me."

I left, went home, and washed my hands with lots of hot water. When I came back, Dad told me that Valery had made it inside. I broke down and started crying and crying, telling him about giving my hand and the guys who were making fun of him. Dad told me that I had given Christ's hand, not my own. 

It was a moving experience, and through it God showed me what I'm here for. As shocking as it may sound, God wants me to work with drunks. If He had told me any earlier, I would have rejected it, but I'm now ready to do it.

My last words of encouragement you you: give Christ's hands to anybody's hand.