On the day he found out that the people of Moldova speak mainly Russian (at least in Vulcanesti, where my team is currently located), my father said to me, “I speak fluent Russian.” In Russian, of course.
He grew up in a Spanish speaking home.
One of the cool things about living in community is learning random things about other people and loving them not only for their differences, but also for their quirks and the things that you never expected. Right now, my team is learning that my family has a lot of secrets, and they’ve decided we’re all spies and planning to take over the world (for the record, Chez Daché has way better things to do than global domination). Today’s reasons for Natalie- is- secretly- a- spy comes from my unusual Russian heritage, since my family isn’t Russian nor do we have any legitimate Russian connections.
Though my mom named me Natalie, she loved to call me Natasha. My little brother Nicholas is frequently called Nikolai. I grew up on a healthy diet of folklore (and Russian folklore was lovingly included), studded with Baba Yagas and fiercely beautiful Russian heroes running around, characters that were deeply loved but have now long since been forgotten. One of my favorite characters was the Babushka, the tiny grandmother who stood quietly in the corner, smiling sweetly under her neatly tied head scarf, and then without warning erupted onto the scene to rescue her precious grandchildren.
This weekend my team went to a tiny 8 person church in a remote village for a night of worship, and when we walked in, we learned that the church is entirely a community of Babushkas who, without speaking a word of English, hugged us tightly and kissed us on the cheeks and silently said they loved us with their wrinkled eyes that had smiled- and certainly laughed- at their often difficult lives and calloused hands that had never had a day off from incredibly hard work. That night I was surrounded by mighty women of God who had bravely walked through life: they had borne children and kissed them goodbye, because it is nearly impossible to find work in Moldova; they had gotten their hands dirty in farms and fields and vineyards, breaking their backs but never eating the bread of idleness; they had loved deeply and probably stayed up late nights crying out to God. These women had passed through His refining fire, and now as their bodies begin their final decline, they are able to pour out comfort and affection to a team of young missionaries who are wandering the world for a year, sharing the love of Jesus even at the cost of the love of our own families.
Being surrounded by these beautiful Babushkas was a little bittersweet. These women, with their toothy smiles and constant motions for us to eat more (“why thank you, but I must insist that eight pieces of cake is more than I could possibly eat, and no, in one sitting I don’t actually think I can be any less skinny than I am now, dear grandmother”) reminded me so much of Abuelita. Sitting in their midst, being counted equal with these women who, despite every language and cultural difference, were the women that I would naturally look up and love to shower with hugs and kisses made me feel so at home and simultaneously feel a million miles away.
Abuelita won’t be around when I get home, but there are so many tiny old women who will be, who just want to squeeze their grandchildren a little too tightly, pat their stomachs and tell them for the millionth time that they don’t eat enough. Baba Yaga won’t be prowling around, looking for small children to eat, but our enemy the Devil will be, who wants nothing more than to convince humanity that the people in our lives aren’t important and don’t need to be loved, especially the ones who might be hard to understand, who make you feel a little uncomfortable, who perhaps aren’t best friend material. You don’t have to go on the World Race to love on people; you don’t have to leave your home to be Jesus to people who need Him.
My family isn’t a family of spies and my team isn’t perfect. In life, we don’t always get to choose the people around us. But we do get to choose how to treat them, whether or not to love them, how much we’re willing to sacrifice our own chocolate and comforts and even life. Yesterday is behind us and tomorrow is waiting to see what we choose to do today, so all past mistakes over, it’s time for me to choose to walk forward and love the people around me- Babushkas and street kids and team and all.
