Bringing Hidden Things to Light

Bringing HiddenThings to Light

Lydia P. Istomina

Copyright © 2012 Lydia P. Istomina

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1502427109ISBN-13: 978-1502427106

DEDICATION

To Julia and Paul

LYDIA P. ISTOMINA

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BRINGING HIDDEN THINGS TO LIGHT

FOREWORD

Lydia Istomina's fascinating story brings the reader as close as possible to the triumph and tragedy of first-century Christianity. The story of Lydia's conversion, with the help of American pastor Dwight Ramsey, her subsequent struggle with her new-found faith, the impact upon her family and friends, and the reviving of the Methodist community in the Soviet Union are all told with sensitivity and insight. The reader is able to "feel her soul" as she opens her heart to the struggles of bureaucratic red tape and hostility to the Christian church.

This moving account not only portrays the struggles of beginning a new church in the face of resistance, but also allows the reader a rare glimpse into Soviet family life and the sacrifices that generations of Christians had to endure under the Communist regime. The freedom of movement and the privilege of religious expression–rights that Westerners so often take for granted–are hard-fought on a daily, if not hourly, basis, for the Soviet Christian.

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LYDIA P. ISTOMINA

As Lydia fulfills her vows as pastor of the new community of faith, she experiences the love and affection of American people and thededicated church members who undergirded her faith journey and supported her with their prayers, presence, and financial assistance. As the community of faith takes hold, she begins to experience other, more internal, forms of resistance and strife–namely, conflict within the Christian community. Of all places, there should not be conflict within the body of Christ, but this realization tests her faith and ultimately makes her commitment even stronger.

Ronald P. Patterson Advent 1995

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C O N T E N T

1. FREEDOM OF CHOICE 3

2. THE PARADOX OF GROWING UP RUSSIAN 7

3. NINE DAYS THAT SHOOK OUR WORLD 26

4. THE LAST SOVIET GENERATION 55

5. THE STRUGGLE TO EXIST 73

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6. I AM NOT A PROPHET 94

7. GOOD AND EVIL 115

8. THE STRUGGLE TO LOVE 139

9. KOURNIKOVA OF METHODISM 162

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Raisa and Pavel Istomin, Irina and JohnGibson, Rosie and Jim Wood, Gaye and CalCranor, Gene and Jack Bush, Michael and JeanCarmichael, Ivan Kozlov, and Lucy Smolenskaya

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1 FREEDOM OF CHOICE

Our church came into being in defiance of theprevailing conventional notion. In the midst ofagonizing former Soviet Empire, we looked foolisheven for our families. No wonder, we arousedsuspicion, laughter, irritation, andbewilderment. My persistence made some peopleshrug their shoulders. Others openly twirled anindex finger near the temple.

“Why suddenly a church? Just yesterday sheworked for the ideological organization! Clear asday, she is not all there."

In the opinion of many, I sold myself toAmericans for dollars.

Ridiculous! A cleaning woman in America ispaid twice as much just for 4-5 hours of work. Iam working 15 hours a day for twenty-five dollarsa month! When I was accused by one of myneighbors that I sold my soul for dollars, Ilaughed. I was making more as a Znanie Executive!I knew better, but a poisonous doubt had alreadymade a nest in my head. What if other peoplethink of my involvement with American Methodiststhe same way? However, I could no longer affordbeing shy.

“Leave me alone or better come and help!”My parents began observing a drastic change in

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my sister’s behavior since Dwight Ramsey prayedfor her during his very first visit toEkaterinburg in July 1990. From a cynical andapathetic person, she turned into a workingfanatic.

Just yesterday, Irina tried to escape anyhousework. Now, suddenly, she started visitingsick people, bringing them food and caring forthem. The church became a niche for Irina’spassionate personality. Mother was proud that shewas right about Dwight. Even Dad stopped beingcritical of me. Irina–his pride, his firstdaughter suddenly fulfilled his highestambitions. Nothing could make him happier thanseeing Irina climbing to her newly foundmountaintop.

Children in the church adored my sister. Shewas full of surprises and creative ideas, andkids loved and trusted her like she was a realMary Poppins. With children, my sister was achild herself, playing, giggling, jumping, andrunning even if she did not feel her best.

Soon, Irina applied all her passion to helpingyoung families with children in the church andstarted a church school. It was something aboutmy sister that I did not see before: she beganattracting people like a super magnet that picksup not the pieces of iron only but even the lostcoins.

There were so many “lost coins” in our citythat had been waiting to be found. Young parents

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and single mothers especially wanted theirchildren to find a better future and shared theirheartaches with my sister, not with me. Itsurprised me a bit. I was the Pastor, but I wasalso an introvert. Irina had a genuine gift toreach out.

Miscommunication

The phone rang a little too soon for Dwight–hedid not have time to make it to Shreveport yet.

“Lydia! You and your sister embarrassed me! Ido not want to do anything with you anymore.”

“What did I do?” I rushed through the events of the last week

and remembered nothing that could upset Dwight tosuch an extent.

“Dick Davis happened to sit next to yoursister. She was laughing and joking and then shesaid something about her affairs. My group wasdisappointed in you because you are Irina’ssister! I do not want to continue working withyou anymore.”

Dwight hung up.“Irina, what affairs did you tell Dick Davis

about?” I tried to be calm. I was a spiritual leader,

but I did not notice that I raised my voice andspoke like an interrogator. My sister turnedwhite as soon as she got the meaning of Dwight’saccusations.

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LYDIA P. ISTOMINA

“Don’t yell at me! If your Dwight thinks ofme this way, then to heck with him! But howcould YOU? Hypocrite!”

“How dare you?! Dwight is not a hypocrite!”“You are!” My sister cried. I sat next to her on the

floor, thinking that my life was ruined.“Don’t’ worry. It is too late now to correct

anything. Dwight is ashamed that he even metme!” My sister and I sat on the floor of one ofthe smallest rooms in the house that we used toshare when we were little.

“What did you say about your affairs?”“Affairs? Ah, that tall guy asked me about my

job and summer plans and I told him about myaffairs. I talked about our university and whatI was doing there. I was talking about my job,what else should I talk about?”

We studied British English at school, and theword “affair” was common in our vocabulary whenit came to business.

“Remember, how Elena Stepanova’s daughters atemy only chicken when Dwight wanted to meet inyour place?”

That chicken was my sister’s most woundingmemory. She never forgave Elena Stepanova andher girls for eating her chicken. Irina waitedfor over an hour in line to get that chicken forthe family.

“Remember how you tried to stop them? Girls,girls this chicken is for Dwight. Masha, Dasha,

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why are you eating so fast? Dwight will thinkthat you are hungry.” Irina liked to acting.

“We are hungry!” I imitated Masha’s voice.We rolled on the floor laughing, and

everything went back to where we started. No moreDwight, no more church, no more need tosacrifice, just us, sisters.

“The worse, the better!” We both laughedwith relief.

That was our Russian conviction: the good willalways come out of the worst situation. Thesooner the worst comes, the sooner the realfortune will follow.

Dwight finally answered the phone after threeweeks of silence.

“Dwight, let me explain what had happened. Westudy British English at school, and the word‘affair’…”

“What are you talking about? It was a simplemiscommunication.”

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LYDIA P. ISTOMINA

2 THE PARADOX OF

GROWING UP RUSSIAN

“I’m 33 – the age of Jesus Christ. And what have I achieved so far? I didn’t come up with my own teaching, I lost my followers, and I failed to resurrect Panikovski.”

– Ostap Bender, GoldenCalf

Writing about oneself is never painless. Aperson runs the risk of meeting the mockingglances of acquaintances who suddenly know one'sinnermost thoughts. We Russians find it difficultto "strip" ourselves in public, to share ourheartaches, and sufferings. It is no lessdifficult to cry from the housetops about ourjoy.

It is common though to share the life storieson a train with other passengers, whom they neversaw before and would never meet again. I'm in noway different. I'd feel much safer keeping mylife to myself. But after meeting Dwight Ramsey,I felt an urge to speak about myself, tounderstand what my ''I'' really means.

My "I" embraces many people and things. My

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grandfather, my parents, my sister, my husbandand children, my few real friends, my town and(I'm not now afraid of seeming over patriotic) mycountry. People ought to talk about themselves.If we don’t, we'll lose our history, our past,which is rather like a stained-glass window–acollage of thousands of multicolored pieces. Onepiece of glass can't remain in place if it isn'tsupported by the other pieces. So when we relatesome seemingly commonplace story about ourselves,we are also, perhaps innocently, tell stories ofother people. We, like the pieces of glass, can'texist without the others.

As I look back, I can see that God had plansfor me, even before I came into existence. Whenmy mother was pregnant with me, her doctorinsisted that she terminate the pregnancy. ThankGod my grandpa intervened, or I might not havebeen born. He was a true believer and trustedthat God would preserve the mother and child.Firmly, he took up his stand in the doorway ofthe house, not letting my mom out.

"Don't be afraid, Raisa! We'll help you andbring up the baby, too!”

Those words can be found in the book mygrandfather kept writing throughout his lifeabout our family.

My parents had a hard time of it with me. MyMother still tells me that her pregnancy with melasted ten months instead of nine. I was afraidof the dark and terrified of being alone. If my

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parents had to leave me at home alone, I wouldhide motionless in the corner between the doorand the wall and would breathe quietly, tryingnot to be seen or heard. Sometimes I wouldactually go to sleep standing there. This shallowand quiet breathing remains a habit to this day.

Mother had nicknames for me, like "the slyone" and "the quiet mouse." Unlike my sisterIrina, who was a quick and noisy rascal, I wastaciturn, stubborn, buttoned up and, at the sametime, capable of any act. Even at the age of two,I took offense in silence and waited for a longtime when my offender had long forgotten about itand never expected revenge, I would react. Atthat age I didn’t so much plan my retaliation–itwas just my nature. Then, I would hide under thedining room table and sit there, imagining. I sawmyself going away to some very distant place sothat my parents missed me.

While she was very young, my sister began towrite poetry and to watercolor. Everything shedid was a success. The mother hoped I would be anartist after she saw me looking at reproductionsof famous paintings. That was something I woulddo for hours. Reality somehow faded into thebackground, while the smallest details of thepainting reveal themselves to me, the finest andmost indistinct brush dashes and shades. I wasamazed when some new figures suddenly appeared ina well-known picture, formed by interlacingbranches, crosses, and lines. However, the day I

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overheard my mother’s hopeful whisper for me tobecome an artist, I lost all sense of mystery–and any desire to continue in the art.

Because my Mother constantly compared me withmy sister, I always felt inferior. Mother was thedirector of education at our school, so whereverwe turned, there was tight control.

"How different your children are! Just heavenand earth!" Our teachers often said to Mother.

My sister was heaven. Naturally, I was theopposite. I could read for hours, especiallyRussian fairy tales, but it was so dull to dohomework! When I did do it, I was creative: outof five problems I solved the first, third, andfifth. I also tried to follow this rule whendoing calligraphy exercises, copying paragraphsfrom a Russian story. But once, when I was towrite just one sentence, I wrote only the first,the third, and the last word! I did not like towaste time on useless exercises.

At school, we had to wear ugly uniforms–darkbrown dresses with black or white aprons, but myparents wanted to see us dressed differently. Sothey ordered a blue suit for my sister and abright brick color suite for me from a localseamstress. My new outfit annoyed my classmateslike a matador’s red banner irritates a bull. Myclassmate labeled me “voobrazhala”–imaginer. Idid have an imagination, and my stories on thetop of the suite worked as an explosive.

“Istomina, come to the school stadium after

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classes. We are going to beat you.” I wasinstructed by one of the activists.

I was not a coward and went, thinking it was ajoke. Girls made a semi-circle. When I saw allthe boys from our class standing behind thegirls, I felt safe. Boys liked me. They won’t letthe bullies touch me. I bravely stepped into themiddle of the circle, and the circle closed. Iwas lying down on the ground in silence, waitingfor the execution to end. The boys did not touchme, but they did not stand up for me either.

"Mom, buy me a uniform. I really want to belike all the others!” I said at home.

There's no telling what kind of person I wouldhave become if it weren't for a strange sensationI began to live with as if someone was watchingme. I experienced this at the most unexpectedmoments. Being raised on Gulliver's Travels, Icould easily imagine a giant playing with ourplanet as if it were a toy. I tried to live insuch a way that I would be worthy of hisattention. I couldn't lie because he wouldimmediately expose me. Thanks to this sense ofbeing watched, I stopped doing things that couldbe disapproved. I stopped being lazy, defensive,rude, and cruel practically overnight. In this, Iwas assisted by the Voice, which I heard for thefirst time when I was twelve.

One day, when I was feeling frustrated andhopeless, I sensed something like a vibration inmy ears. At first it was frightening. Then the

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vibration ceased, and I began to hear a strangelanguage. Without understanding the words, Isomehow grasped the essence of the message. Thespeech was unemotional and monotonous, but theforce of what it was suggesting grew, as did myinner sense that I was doing something wrong.

The Voice would take me unawares when I wasprocrastinating doing homework, or trying toshirk washing dishes. To ignore the Voice wasuseless, I could not! I was never able to doanything that would divert me from my duty. Butas soon as I began doing what I should, the Voiceof Conscience, as I named it, left me alone, andI understood that I was doing the right thing.

You Shall Not Lie

I lied to my parents about two things. Onewas about skipping music lessons. I didn’t havemy mother’s permission to play outside with myfriends- the only way for me to do that was toskip a lesson. I lied to my teacher, too. I hadto, for consistency’s sake. Otherwise, she wouldcall my father. I was a smart girl, and frequentcolds became my cover stories until I messed upand called my teacher that I got the flu. Myteacher got really concerned and called to checkon me.

My father came home, worried, “Lydia, areyou having the flu?”

“I have a cold, Papa. It’s not bad.” The

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truth was that I didn’t have even a singlesniffle.

“But why did you miss three classes? Yourteacher called me very concerned because you toldher that you had the flu.”

“Papa, don’t worry! I am OK.” I suddenlyremembered how much money my parents paid for mymusic school.

“Papa, I lied.”“Next time when you lie, stick to one

version. But trust me, it is much simpler to tellthe truth.”

“Lidia changed so much this winter,” mymother bragged to her friends and to ourrelatives, “the house is clean and her homeworkis done.” I sourly smiled, listening. Lying forme became physically painful, but the habit tolie didn’t go away entirely until, one afternoon,I was putting on my winter coat in the hall of mymusic school. I pulled a small mirror out of mypocket and got puzzled, not finding my money inthe pocket. I noticed a girl among the coats andher unusual behavior. At first, I thought thatshe couldn’t find her jacket. That was when Irealized that one of our classmates–a girl from awealthy family–was stealing money out of otherstudents’ coats. I turned away and began lookingat what she was doing, in the mirror. The rackswere almost bent under the weight of hundreds ofbulky winter coats, and Mila had to be careful tomove from the coat to coat, so not to bury

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herself under the rails. I couldn’t believe thatMila was a thief. Her face expressed terror, andthat grimace taught me that lying was a sin. Evenwhile not being noticed, she was alreadypunished. Mila didn’t look like a beautiful girlI knew. I didn’t want to look like that. Afterthat, I made a decision to always tell the truth.

I found it more pleasant to always tellingthe truth, not having to remember what I said,how, when, and to whom. The Voice that continuedguiding me and the girl’s face wired my brainjust right for honesty. I am sure that was partlywhy God let me start the church in Russia rightat the core of the booming black market, Mafia,and political corruption. Grandfather

Growing up, we were told by our parents torespect our elders, to help the weak ones. Butmore often we heard, "Don't do good to people andyou will not know any harm." Somehow, it provedto be true: people paid back evil for good moreoften than not.

We used to sing in school about being "mastersof our boundless motherland." In actuality, wewere degraded little by little: standing in longlines outside of grocery stores with numberswritten on our palms; purchasing butter, flour,and meat with coupons. We were rationed to buyonly two kilos–4.4 pounds–of meat twice a yearfor every member of the family.

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"They want to feed us to be strong enough todrag our feet to a parade on the Main Square andshout a 'Hurrah!’” People joked.

We all had equally little. But some people hada little extra on the top of that little. Alittle more than just the rationed meat. We had aversion of socialist social justice–a curiousside effect of socialism.

Mikhail Zhvanetsky’s sarcastic jokes were invogue: "What I guard, I have. If I guard nothing,I have nothing!" Peter the Great's saying waspart of our culture: "If you are hiring a cook,don't pay him more than sixty rubles a month. Hewill steal the rest of his salary, taking foodhome." Another saying was, "What belongs toeveryone really belongs to no one." So brightRussians kept carrying "nobody's property" totheir homes. One day the ancient cobblestoneswere wrenched out of the pavement in front of theSverdlovsk Opera House, where they had beenplaced two hundred years ago. In exchange for abottle of vodka, three truckloads of cobblestoneswere moved to my boss’ summerhouse, he bragged

People in the former Soviet Union wereintuitive because they had to read between thelines. We could even envision the life in foreignlands. Even with only one TV channel that wascarefully censored, we "knew" almost everythingabout foreigners anyway. Our imagination andconversations with those people who managed to goabroad helped us to connect the dots.

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Every year we were called to prove ourpatriotism in the face of some natural disaster.The announcer's voice would be anxious andsolemn, a little sad and grim. After suchannouncement, we all felt the dread of non-voluntary annual slavery in the potato fields.The harvest was in constant danger and theinvoluntary deployment of scientists, doctors,teachers, and students on potato and onion fieldswas key to success. Only a few people knew thetruth behind those natural disasters.Mismanagement, greed, laziness, hard drinking,and bribery were flourishing.

I often wondered how Granddad, persecuted andhumiliated, kept his tolerance and purity,knowing and seeing the truth.

"For what did they make this revolution?People are the same beggars they were before!” Heonce said in his old Slavic style.

My grandfather was known by his threepassions. Sincere faith in God, hard work, and adream to publish his book. Grandpa left thislife softly as if he was gradually parting witheverything he held dear. Ignatii spent his lastfive years in the same room, on the same sofa,staring at the rough, whitewashed wall. He wouldlie there and not get up at all–not because ofillness, but because he didn't want to get up.There was no longer any point in his living. Thewalls of the comfortable, warm log house he had

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built fifty years before had been taken down bythe city. But he had not been back to see thedisfigured, ruined dwelling it had become. Norhad he seen his former neighbors digging amongthe ruins, looking for things he couldn't take tohis new small apartment.

His last strength was spent on taking down twobird-cherry trees just a week before he had toleave his home. The trees had grown with hischildren and grandchildren. My grandfather hadplanted them just after he came to Sverdlovsk,escaping persecution and serving his term at thelabor camp, thus marking his place on the landalong with his earned new freedom. Only afterthat did he begin to build his log house.

When his oldest daughter Faina insisted thatIgnatii leave the house and move to an apartmentfor her benefit, he decided to destroy what hecould himself. Grandfather could not bear thethought of strangers tearing down his house andeverything around it that had been part of hislife. But he managed only to take down the bird-cherry trees; after that there was no strengthleft in him. And he lost his memory in aninstant. It was like he closed the book that hewas writing his whole life coming to the end.

It would be a lie if I said that Ignatii hadadmired those trees for their beauty. Peasants'love is practical. Every August, Granddad wouldtie a large container on his belt and slowlyclimb up the sturdy branches. He had to climb

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high: the trees were almost fifty years old andhe could no longer reach the fruit-bearingbranches, even from the top of the longest ladderhe had. The grandchildren would squeeze theireyes in horror and admiration, watching insilence, waiting for him to climb back down withthe lustrous berries lightly powdered with summerdust.

It was our family tradition to make preserves,dry them or ground them with sugar, pits and all.On holidays, my grandmother Makarina baked hot,sweet pies with light crusts and bird-cherryfilling out of the Russian stove, and thefragrance would fill the house. When we ate them,the ground-up pips crunched in our teeth.

Ignatii never stored more berries thannecessary. After he had picked what he needed, hewould call the neighborhood kids and they wouldclimb up and settle in the trees for a long time,picking and eating. One can't imagine how many ofthem came on those cherry-pickin' days. And ifGranddad happened to have a spare moment, hewould stare up at the trees, lost in reverie, andthen look around at the cherry-stained teenagersrushing through his yard.

Granddad's memory associated his log housewith many things: hunger, war, and persecution.He had not moved to Sverdlovsk of his own freewill. He grew up in the little village ofPod’elniki, west of Sverdlovsk. The Stalin’sterror of the late 1920s and the 1930s uprooted

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the family. The accusers called him a“churchman.” That label was enough to causepersecution. They also called him "Kulak!" He wasno kulak–no wealthy, exploitive landowner–just anindustrious farmer, as many others. But thelabels stuck and sealed his fate.

On that terrible day in February 1928, mygrandmother had been in labor in the Russianbanya– bathhouse. When she finally draggedherself to the porch with the newborn son in herarms (her fourth child, my Father), she found thedoor boarded shut with two boards nailedcrosswise. A few people with red bands on theirsleeves–her neighbors–were waiting for her withtheir verdict. The house, the land, the horses,and the cattle were taken away in the name of theGreat Revolution.

My grandmother took an ax and laid her head onthe steps of the porch.

"Chop my head off. I won't be able to raisethe children." She didn’t even cry.Love Your Neighbor

Granddad often told me a story about hisneighbor in Podyelnik–an idler and a drunkard. Iliked the story, but its true meaning came to meonly after Granddad's death.

Every summer, Ignatii would harness his horseand call to his horseless neighbor,

"Hey, Ivan, time to go make hay." Ivan, lying in a drunken stupor, could not

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even mumble a reply. So Granddad cut his grass byhimself. But his peasant's heart didn't give himany peace until he finished his neighbor's plot,too. And so it went all summer long, year in,year out. Ignatii cut, raked, and turned Ivan'shay, then stacked it for him. When the snow came,he towed Ivan's hay from the field to Ivan'sbarn.

Years later, I found in my grandfather'shandwritten book that it was that very Ivan wholed the activists to my grandparents house. Ivanstood over my grandmother’s body on the porch ofher house.

Granddad obeyed the commandment, "Love thyneighbor as thyself." When Ivan got cancer, hehad no one to take care of him. Ivan showed up atmy grandparents house in Sverdlovsk and they tookhim in. Because of him, I have come to understandthe tragic meaning of this commandment.

Granddad told us a lot of stories from thevillage and from his early days in Sverdlovsk."Oh-ho-ho-ho" he would sigh, usually after a longperiod of silence. Then the grandchildren wouldknow he had remembered something interesting fromhis past. We would immediately settle down besidehim near the stove, fighting for the placeclosest to him. I liked to think that I was hisfavorite and as often as not found myself at hisright side. We would sit on our haunches allevening listening to Granddad. His much-lovedvoice would merge with the crackling of the

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resinous wood and the smell of the stove andimperceptibly cast a spell over us. Sometimes wewould doze off, lulled by the greedy, furiousfire behind the red-hot stove window. I stillhear Granddad’s sighing, "Oh, kak tiazhelo-tobylo–Oh, how hard it was….”

In Sverdlovsk, later in life, Granddad used tosit on a bench under the bird-cherry trees everyevening after work. People going by invariablystopped and greeted him. Talking with mygrandfather was extremely interesting. He wasquite an educated man. He knew a lot of poems byheart, had read a great deal, and alwaysrespected and envied people who knew foreignlanguages. He was a rare Russian intellectual.His speech was clear, his soul was not burdenedwith grave sins. Even during World War he neverkilled a single man. He shot his rifle into thesky. His soul was free from the sin of murder.That's why he was like a magnet. People wanted tobe around him.

Granddad was also one of the leaders of asecret Christian home group. He observed all therules of conspiracy. Fearing he might lose hisBible during a search, Ignatii several timescopied out a good portion of the Bible by hand,as well as Christian hymns. He kept those hand-written books, which he had carefully boundhimself, in a metal ammunition box under his bed,along with his writings.

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The thing Ignatii valued most was his Biblethat had once belonged to an Orthodox priest, arelative, who was arrested during the dreadfultime of Stalin’s repressions and spent 10 yearsin Gulag. The Bible was leather bound and hadmetal locks. The gravures were covered with athin transparent paper leaf. We grew up with thisBible without understanding its value, or ourgood fortune in having it, but only feeling sometrepidation when we watched Granddad perform thesame solemn ceremony each time he opened it. Hecarefully spread a newspaper on the table, then,washed his hands thoroughly before taking theBible out of the metal box. Only after he hadprayed for a long time did he begin reading.Children were strictly forbidden even to touchthis secret place. But as soon as Granddad leftthe house, we immediately dragged out the heavybox from under the bed, to look at and read theBible, which attracted us because of itsinaccessibility and mystery. I think now thatGranddad did it on purpose. He was a wise man:"Forbidden fruit is sweet!"

The bench under the trees and the Bible areinterconnected in a strange way. Once, whenGranddad was sitting on the bench, he wasapproached by a bearded stranger who got talkingabout his dream of becoming a priest. In thosetimes, that was next to impossible. People talkedabout churches in whispers. Yet there, before

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Granddad's eyes, was someone who wanted to go toMoscow seminary to be a priest! The onlydifficulty was that the young man had no Bible.My grandfather brought out the most valuablething he had–his Bible and gave it to thestranger. Whatever the relatives said,reprimanding him later, Granddad's answer wasshort: "That was a man of God." And even when apoliceman came later on and informed him that theyoung man had been detained in Moscow when tryingto sell the Bible to foreigners, my grandfatherremained blissfully calm. He was convinced thatthe scammer needed the Bible more than he did.

In His mercy, God took away Granddad's memoryduring his last years. It seems to me now thatGranddad was getting ready for this loss all hislife by painstakingly, in his peasant's way,writing down every event in his book. He dreamedof seeing his book in print and holding it in histoil-hardened hands.

Toward the end of their lives, my grandparentswere moved to a tiny room, where they were lockedup by their oldest daughter and her family. Mygrandparents were not allowed to leave the roomwithout permission, even to go to the bathroom orthe kitchen. A bucket was placed in their room,as well as a thermos of hot water. Otherrelatives were unaware of these conditions, forthe impression of well-being was contrived, sothat when they came for a visit, the door was

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unlocked and open. Grandma had been intimidatedinto keeping silent, and we never suspectedanything wrong. Only when she neared her deathdid she begin to complain.

During his last years, Granddad had only hismemories of the three houses he had built. Thehouses were gone, as were the trees, the bench,and the yard where he made and repaired things.There are no trees with a bench under them, nohouse, and no garden. There was no work to bedone. There was no sense in living. There wasonly a whitewashed wall for him to stare at, anda stain that grew wider with each day, created byGranddad himself. All his life he likedcarpentry, and he had a habit of holding nailsbetween his teeth. Little by little, a sort oferosion appeared on his lip, which eventuallybecame malignant. Granddad found a way toalleviate the constant irritation and pain; hewould moisten his finger with saliva, touch thewall with the wet finger, and smear his lip withthe lime. That was how the large round stainappeared on the wall over his head.

Five years with the widening stain. Five yearsalone with his thoughts, heavy heart, and gradualdecline. Grandpa died with a sigh, asking for adrink of water but failing to take it. He diedwithout explaining to me the meaning of thecommand, "Love thy neighbor as thyself." He died,leaving me an unceasing heartache: why couldn't Ido anything for him? He died, leaving the

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enormous round stain that kept coming through thenew paint as a reproach to us all.

Rebellious Atheist

As a young person, I knew next to nothingabout Christianity. However, I felt closer to Godon the mountains than anywhere else. I owe thislove for the mountains to my father. On amountain, I was myself, free to talk rather thanbeing shut up in my own shell. I could talk withsummits for hours. I liked this conversation–respectful on my part, the voice of Godempowering and no longer chastising.

I didn't know much about churches, either, butevery time I happened to be out of town, I wouldgo to church. There, I would be wonder-struck andfind it difficult to leave. As soon as I got intothe cold silence of the church, I had only onewish–to fall on my knees and pay homage to God'sgrandeur. In my hometown, Sverdlovsk, peoplegoing to church got onto "lists." Mother, abeliever at heart, had never been to churchunless she traveled out of town. But I used to besent to accompany Granddad when, having lost hismemory, he would lose his way in our large city.

The spiritual family atmosphere contrastedstrangely with what we were taught at school. Itwas quite common, though, to hear teachers whotaught us that there was no God and then followedwith, "Thank God!" When we heard about Yuri

26


Gagarin's cosmic flight–the first man in space–there was no end to excitement. Almostimmediately, a short song appeared about how thisvoyage proved the absence of God and showed allbelievers the absurdity of their faith:

“Gagarin proved the earth was round And there was no Cod around!” Shouting these words, we ran into Grandma's

house and began jumping around her, repeating theverse. Grandma helplessly tried to make us stopand looked around for Granddad. Granddad, who hadnever laid a hand on us or even touched us inanger, now banged my forehead with a woodenspoon. He drummed the important rule into my headforever. Faith, as well as old age, must be treated with respectand reverence.

Every Sunday our grandparents went to church.I would still be lying in bed when I would hearGranddad's boots stamping at the cement stairs–welived on the fifth floor. Granddad didn't likemodern clothes, and to his last days woretrousers tucked into cheap leather boots and aRussian shirt belted over the trousers, nottucked in. Seeing Granddad on the street fromafar we would rush to meet him, squealing,hugging, and kissing him while our classmates,who were usually ashamed of their olderrelatives, looked down at us.

Every year, before Kreschenie–Russian OrthodoxEpiphany, Grandfather brought holy water from thechurch and sprinkled all the corners of our

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apartment. I remember how earnestly he fastedduring Lent: he ate only bread, vegetables, andvegetable oil–no meat, fish, butter, milk, oreggs. But he was very soft with us. Feeling pityfor him, I would secretly add sour cream orbutter to his soup. Then, with sinking heart, Iwould wait: Will he guess my secret? His eyes wouldnarrow. "What kind of soup is this?" he wouldask, smiling into his mustache.

"I don't really know, Granddaddy. Grandmacooked it," I hardly moved my lips. I knewGranddad hated lies.

Before Easter, Mother dyed eggs with onionhusks, made Pascha, ii and baked Kulich–Easterbread. On Easter morning, she woke us up with thesacred words: "Xristos voskres!–Christ is risen."

"Voistinu voskres!–He is risen indeed," wewould answer, kissing each other three times, asRussians do.

Eggs were dyed and Kulich baked in everyhouse, but nobody talked about Eastercelebration. In the end, parents always remindedus to tell no one about it. The morning afterEaster, my classmates seemed embarrassed. It wasas if we all had experienced somethingmysterious, but nobody wanted to admit it.

ii Pascha is a variation of a traditional Easter dessert that Russia Orthodox make. Here is Pascharecipe http://www.food.com/recipe/russian-easter-dessert-cyrnaya-pascha-164592

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http://www.food.com/recipe/russian-easter-dessert-cyrnaya-pascha-164592

http://www.food.com/recipe/russian-easter-dessert-cyrnaya-pascha-164592


"Those who ate colored eggs yesterday, raiseyour hands," our teachers asked. A forest ofhands rose in every class! We talked aboutatheism, but at every step we missed and everytime we slipped we exclaimed, "O Lord," "ThankGod," "Lord, save me!"

The process of change began with my son. In 1985, I had been looking forward to the

birth of my second child. I use the time to bealone, to read and think, to understand what Iwas and why. After my son's birth, I felt youngerthan I was. Braver. More confident. I felt Icould do anything. But that was soon to change.

When he was twenty months old, Pavlik had anattack of convulsions and his temperaturesuddenly shot up.

"Palik, Pavlushka, don't die." I didn’t knowwhat to do and where to run to get help.

For forty minutes, I tried in vain to call theambulance. The emergency operators rather coldlyadvised me to reach the doctor on duty at thechildren's clinic. However, it was a holiday andnobody wanted to take the call. All that time Iwas in another room, forgetting how my son neededmy presence. Then something made me return to myson's bed. Suddenly he gave a start, and then hislittle body went limp and his chest did not riseanymore. Sobbing, I grabbed Pavlik and began toshake him so that his little head bobbed fromside to side, but nothing helped. I laid him on

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the bed and opened his eyes. His eyeballs wererolled back, and he wasn't breathing.

Then something in my brain cleared up. Time! Hasit been less than five minutes since his breathing stopped? Ibegan to give him artificial respiration. Itseemed as if somebody was telling me: Tongue! Itcould have rolled back! It's necessary to clear the throat. SomehowI knew what to do. My fingers gripped his tongueand pulled it out. I heard a whistling gasp andthen such a frightened cry that I could hardlybear it. Pavlik looked as if he had just been insome very distant place. For a long time afterthis he was unable to smile.

Pavlik had not completely recovered from hisillness when I developed a strange sickness. Mybody shook with awful fits of trembling until Iwas sure I could no longer endure the pain or theterrible fear. It seemed to me I was in theterminal stages of a mysterious illness for whichmy doctor had no remedy. I was having six toseven attacks of shivering a day and anticipatedthe worst.

Where am I at fault? I wondered. What sin is God punishingme for?

One day right after work, I decided to go tothe Russian Orthodox Church, St. John–the onlychurch in our city. In the church, though, I feltout of place. I couldn't understand what I wasexpected to do without my grandfather. I knewonly that people usually lit candles–but whereshould I put them? Suppose I made a mistake and

30


put the candles for the dead where those for theliving were supposed to go. God forbid! I lookedaround for help and saw two elderly women inblack polishing brass ornaments.

“How dare you leaning on the icon of St.Mary!” one of the nuns reprimanded me. Trying tonot be too obvious I chose to be closer to thewall and I accidentally touched one of the iconson the wall.

“You don’t come to church with the makeup andwithout a scarf. The head should be covered!”

So I went away. Then I thought of singing inthe choir–but I didn't know how to go about it orwhere to apply. I began praying at home. If myson went to sleep early, I had a few moments leftbefore leaving his room. Those were the momentswhen I prayed and talked with God–a naive andprimitive, but frank talk. I needed no one asmuch as I needed Him. But I understood and knewnothing about God. Only later did I learn that mypainful attacks of shivering were His attempts totalk to me, His efforts to help me. But I was toofrightened at the time. I just thought I wasdying.

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3 NINE DAYS THAT SHOOK OUR WORLD

July 1990 in Sverdlovsk began with a heatwave. Many had already enjoyed their vacation onthe Black, Caspian, or Baltic Seas. Breathing inthe dusty industrial air, I craved fresh saltybreeze. I loved the sea. Ordinary people had tostay in the stifling heat of the colossal city,unable to find coolness either in the shade ofthe trees or inside the buildings devoid of anyhint of air conditioning. My vacation was two

32


months away and, like many Russians, we couldescape to our dacha–summerhouse on the outskirtsof the city on the weekends. Only in oldmansions and some military defense plants was itpleasantly cool. Of course, the air conditionersin the plants served for armaments, not forpeople.

On Friday, July 6, I was eager to get out oftown to spend the weekend in Gagarka villagewhere my son and other members of my family hadalready gone, except for my daughter Iulia. Herwhole class had a field trip to a Dom Miraiii tomeet American teenagers, the first "live"Americans in her life and in the life of ourtown. Sverdlovsk was a closed, restricted cityin the Ural Mountains on the western edge ofSiberia, and as much as I hate to admit it,provincial. Snobbish Muscovites always lookeddown on us while we always teased them forspeaking with a distinctive Moscow accent.

It shocked us that the first American groupcame to Sverdlovsk by mistake. After travelingfor thirty hours in the overly hot “Ural” trainfrom Moscow, they have seen a vast country andstarted getting scared of finding themselves inthe tundra, among wild animals. But instead, theAmericans arrived in the remarkable town withtheaters, museums, beautiful old mansions–and thetragic history of the last Russian Tsar NicholasII violent murder. Yes, my hometown got quite areputation.

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It was Friday. You know it by the suddenlyemptied streets. Red-faced sweating gardenersrushed to the railroad station with nylon stringshopping bags, filled with groceries in one armand holding crying children in another. Therethey were innocently being stared at by realAmericans, who failed to make it against the flowout onto the square in front of the station. Itseemed like the whole urban population wasemigrating into the rural communities for theweekend. Americans were horrified, trying topress through a crowd of rushing Russians.

And then, without explanation, the Americanswould board a bus that rushed them to a youthcamp where they were to stay for nine days.Americans concluded that they ended in Siberia.Their worst fears were coming true. First, theiritinerary was confused, so instead of Moscow, thegroup was sent to Sverdlovsk. Mistakes like thisare typical for Russians, but not for Americans.Now, the bus was taking them away from the citydeeper and deeper into the woods that looked likereal Taiga.iv

How does a person survive in a heat wave?Only by taking cold–and frequent–showers,preferably every hour, at work, at home, andespecially after a stuffy city bus ride! My dayin the office was over and all I could think ofwas a cold shower. But there was that mandatoryfor my daughter meeting with the Americans at DomMira–the House of Peace and Friendship. How can I

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manage to drag Iulia off with me to the village, I wondered? Ican’t insist; she is thirteen–almost grown up now. Even whenshe was a child, I'd never tried to make Iuliaaccept my point of view, giving her full freedom.My credo was different from other parents: all Ihad to say was, "It's for you to decide.” Then,Iulia usually followed me. Not this time: themeeting was MANDATORY!

My thoughts ran on: I can’t leave her alone – it was toodangerous. Children were disappearing every day. All familymembers had already left. Iulia had never traveled on a train byherself… and how I hate going to this ambitious Dom Mira thatgot a nickname Osobniak Sultanovykh or Sultanov’s Mansion.The Sultanov family "reigns" there, peoplegossiped. It's a house for the elite, and I neverhad anything to do with such elite. Perestroikaand privatization began messing up people’sminds.

Iulia came to my office at the Ural StateUniversity, and after our conversation, I made adecision: we would attend the meeting with theAmericans, and then catch the last train to thecountry. The occasion called for taking a taxi tomake a short trip home to shower. It is just aone-way trip and it costs just one ruble.v Imentally attempted to justify my luxuriouschoice. I knew, however, that my arriving in acab wouldn’t be missed by our ever-presentneighbors and strategically got out of the cab atthe bus stop. You have to be strategic in Russiato avoid bad-tempered criticism.

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What luck, I thought, to have that cold shower on such ahot day, even if we had to rush in a taxi to the other end of townfor it! The poor Americans were not so lucky, Ilearned later. They had no shower accommodationsin their rooms at the camp. Exhausted by theheat, they had waited for six hours for the busto bring them into town for the concert andmeeting.

When a shiny Intourist bus stopped in front ofthe old mansion, teens, and a few grown-upsspilled out. All Americans had sunburnt smileyfaces. The first person who approached meintroduced herself as Ann Jones. But talking tome was useless! I forgot all the English I knew.Lena Stepanova–the mother of Iulia’s classmate–came up to lend a helping hand, and Ann’sattention switched over to her. I sighed withrelief and went inside the building with thecrowd. There it was cool, as in all oldbuildings.

All the seats were taken. When the concertbegan, those who couldn’t find seats stood in themiddle of the hall looking for help. Most of theAmericans casually sat down on the floor–customwe Russians to this day find rather unusual. Iwent upstairs to avoid the crowd and found a spotbeside a woman in a bluish dress. Sure that shewas somebody’s grandmother, I forgot mynervousness and took my place right next to her.I was afraid to lose sight of my daughter in thischaos and was glad to see her from the balcony. I

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was not just her mother, I was her bodyguard. One more hourand I would finally relax on a train.

The concert went on and on–it seemed it wouldnever end. The balalaika, accordion, and theflute of the director’s daughter were bountifullysprinkled by loud, repetitive short folk songscalled chastushka. Every song combined with funnycomments shared by either the husband or the wifehad to be interpreted by a woman in a transparentsundress and an old fashioned up-do wig. Theguests were exhausted. A few Americans had fallenasleep right on the floor. My patriotic feelingswere not outraged. Everybody looked tired fromsensory overload. Everything is good in a goodmeasure, but the concert organizers, it seemed,kept escalating up the passion. The Sultanov’sfamily, it seemed, were getting more and moreenergized by their own performance. Their shouts,stomping, and tapping were getting louder andstronger. The old building seemed to groan. But Icouldn’t leave. Iulia was nowhere in sight.Luckily, it was still some time before the train.I decided to go with the flow.

At the moment the concert was over, the suddensilence woke up those who had fallen asleep onthe floor. There was a storm of applause.Everybody was delighted, and obviously relieved.My neighbor sighed with joy, which furtherconvinced me that she was somebody’s grandma.

The young people were beginning to talk andintroduce themselves. I went downstairs to find

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my daughter and spotted her talking with a groupof kids. I didn’t feel right to drag Julia awayfrom her new friends, seeing how visiblyenjoyable it was for her to connect with Americanteenagers. An American in blue jeans and aflannel checkered shirt made his way toward meand I noticed a simple wooden cross on his chest.

"Hello," he greeted and looked attentivelyinto my eyes. Many years later I would laugh atmyself, saying, “He got me at ‘Hello.’”

Something like an electric shock seemed toshake me, leaving me bothered and baffled. Thestranger had already passed by as I managed toanswer, “Hello." But he turned suddenly and cameback, and looked deep into my eyes. I couldhardly see his face because of his domineeringeyes. They studied me, exploring methodically asif probing or taking a sample. The eyes narroweda little, revealing multiple wrinkles aroundthem, then they laughed, glad to see something.As his eyes widened, the magnetic field betweenus weakened just a bit and I could make out hisface, but not in detail. It was as the eyes had alife of their own, very deep and completelybeyond my comprehension. We Russians are not usedto be looked at this way, and I averted my eyes.

Again he turned away as if to leave. But thestranger came back again. This time he asked myname and introduced himself:

“Lidia or Lida.”"My name is Dwight Ramsey.” The name meant

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nothing to me–and suddenly it became everything:the precursor of a whole new world, theforerunner of a new self, of my new life.Suddenly, I was afraid I would never see thoseattentive, searching eyes again. Dwight was not ahandsome man: round freckled face, large baldinghead. He was not athletic, neither was he young.But the eyes seemed held eternity in them.

Dwight began to talk and ask questions, givingme no chance to retreat. And without realizingit, I started speaking English to him. I toldhim I worked at the State University, that I hadcome with my daughter. I gave him my businesscard. He looked at the card, then at me andasked: “Are you really the Executive Advisor ofZnanie Association?”vi Unexpectedly spottingIulia in the crowd, I dragged her away from hernew friends and introduced her to Dwight.

“This is my daughter Iulia.”“Julia!” Dwight’s eyes narrowed down again and

he looked at my daughter with interest, then hebegan searching for something in his pockets.

"I want to present you with these symbols."Dwight gave us each a small pin with a goldenfish with such significance that I thought thatthose tiny pins were made out of pure gold. Itried to decline the gifting. It took a greatdeal of determination for Dwight to explain themeaning of those pins. Obviously it was somethingsignificant if he had to draw an arc on theparquet floor with his foot, as he explained, the

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first Christians had done, making the secret signon the sand. I kept nodding my head and smiling,not understanding the symbolism behind the arcuntil Dwight imitated another curve mirroring thearc. The image looked just like the pin!

“Ichthysvii–fish,” Dwight looked down at thefloor again and then touched the pin that I heldwith my fingers. “Sand–fish–conspiracy!” You donot need to explain “conspiracy” to a Russian twice.

“Ah, Konspiratsia, of course!” That was anAha–moment! Who knew that many of the earlyChristians escaped persecution, drawing thesecret sign on the sand instead of saying theywere Christians? Genius! Why millions of SovietsChristians murdered by Stalin didn’t think aboutan innocent image like that to avoid persecution?Could that “fish” save Christians from the Gulag?I remembered how my grandfather was persecutedfor his faith. Could a sign like this keep himfrom being arrested and from losing his house andhis farm? Memories of my grandfather somehow hitme hard.

I looked at the antique parquet scratched byan American shoe and admitted that it could beconsidered an act of vandalism–old mansions wereprotected by law. Often, tourists are required towear special soft shoe covers to protect thefloors. I quickly checked our surroundings forsecurity personnel and signaled to my daughterthat it was time to leave.

When we were already at the door, Dwight

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suddenly gripped my arm from the back. "I wantyou to go with me." The American man pulled meaway from my daughter. I was at the point ofmental exhaustion and was afraid to miss thetrain. If we missed the last train, my son wouldbe crying all night. But Dwight was alreadydragging me away from the door toward the womanin the blue dress, my neighbor at the concert.She was not a grandmother, but a mother of threechildren: Jenny, Kim, and David.

Forty minutes later, I lapsed into silenceunder Gay’s look, suddenly realizing that I wasspeaking to real Americans. My tongue becamesluggish, and words stuck in my throat. I forcedmyself to speak, but the result was only aconfused and croaky mumble. Dwight showed nosurprise but tactfully tried to help me. Hiswife was laughing, trying to tease me, but I wasready to run away from shame.

“Come tomorrow to hear me preach in a localchurch!” I nodded my head, faking that Iunderstood. The only word I recognized out ofmany was “church.”

I could never guess! So, a “minister” is a“priest”! Go figure! The word “minister” neverhad anything to do with the church in the Russianlanguage. Besides, Dwight was without a longrobe, without greasy hair. Beardless–and injeans? Dwight looked like anybody else.Impossible! We didn’t have a high opinion ofpriests, cynically trusting the rumors that they

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were all KGB informers. Though, there weresaintly and pure men among them, we knew thattoo. I just read about Alexander Men, an Orthodoxpriest who was very open to ordinary people andwas very approachable.

I found it difficult to leave Dwight and hisfamily. We stood outside near the bus sayinggoodbye. I forgot all about the stifling heat.The train! The only consolation was the thoughtthat I would see him on Sunday. On the way to thevillage, my daughter and I kept laughing happilyfor no good reason. We hardly contained ourexcitement on the train, interrupting each other,sharing our impressions, comparing notes. We werehappy as though we had just visited some newworld and were eager to bring that world intactto our relatives, to share it with them, to makethem feel the same joy. But that is as hard astrying to make people experience your ownnostalgia by looking at your personal photos.

Our family greeted us with relief,reprimanding at the same time that we were latefor dinner. In an instant, we lost the groove.Smiling Americans–our new friends–didn’t matchthe reality of country life with its demands toweed and to water. The less the family approvedof our adventure with the Americans, the more wewanted to go back to see them on Sunday. Iuliaand I worked hard all Saturday to gain myparents’ permission to return to the cityearlier. By Saturday night, everybody was

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intrigued, and the whole family packed in a hurryto make it to the earliest train in the morning.

How I Was Renamed

Back in Sverdlovsk, I went to hear my firstsermon ever at the Baptist chapel. I went withtrepidation. If not for my boiling curiosity, Iwould never bring my children to a Baptistchurch. I was afraid of religious fanatics. Buteven more I was childishly horrified at meetinglive Baptists. There were rumors that sectarianssacrifice young girls. For us, Baptists werethose sectarians. If we ever met such people, wewere to call a policeman, our teachersinstructed.

But Dwight’s eyes had won me over at our firstmeeting, and I would have gone to hear his sermonanywhere. I didn’t come alone. My children, Iuliaand Pavlik, accompanied me. I found myself at thestrangest stage in my life. My marriage wasshaky. My parents’ marriage was not working,either. My sister was balancing on a razor edgebetween anger and depression because of herfrequent miscarriages. I almost lost my littleboy when he was not even two, and I was scaredfor his health. My job was also to blame: thelonger I worked at the Ural State University’sbranch of the organization, Znanie, the morecynical I grew toward all public speakers withwhom I worked. I tried to stay away from all

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ideologists, but, mainly, I didn’t trustCommunist Party Department professors, who onlyby a capricious chance were superior to others.They were invited to lecture more often and werepaid better. They knew they were in demand. Theylooked down at the rest of us mortals, until theday of the collapse of the Communist Party. Then,overnight, those same professors got transformedinto no less passionate promoters of Perestroika.Seeing how public speakers could change theirideology 180 degrees from “Alleluia” to “Crucify”left me in awe. I hated demagogues.

I don’t think I looked at this Americanpreacher through rose-colored glasses. I knew howmanipulative public speakers could be, but Dwightwas unlike others. Somehow his charismaoverpowered my cynicism. His conviction lifted meover stupefying fear and dull existence. Hismessage cleansed me through tears drawn by thewords addressed to me personally and heard by mefor the first time: "God loves you!" I forgot thepast. I even lost my fear to be among Baptists,though I still didn’t like their worship. Itdidn’t feel like the Russian Orthodox service Iknew. The songs were very primitive and sad.Everybody cried for no reason, even men. Iglanced at my children. They didn’t have to payfor my sudden interest in Protestant religion, inany religion for that sake! Both children weresecretly baptized in the Russian OrthodoxCathedral of St. Peter and Paul in Lvov, Ukraine,

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but otherwise I never took them to Church.The first sermon in my life evoked feelings

more than any understanding. The interpretersomehow disturbed me. Not that I could understandDwight without his assistance, my English was notstrong enough at all! Luckily, Dwight’s eyes weretalking, and I was able to hear and understandbecause my ears suddenly opened to anothertongue. God was saying to me at that hour: “I’vecome to you because you’ve been waiting for me. Ialways knew you, but you were not ready.”

Tears of joy were diluting grief. The fears,I’d been living with, disappeared and I couldbreathe more easily, more deeply. I could evensee more than I usually did. What was the matterwith my eyes? Where was all that blinding lightcoming from? What did I know about God? Nothing.Yet suddenly I seemed to have understoodeverything at once, in a twinkling. That eternitythat I saw in Dwight’s eyes had something to dowith me, I sensed. That God he talked about inhis sermon had something to do with me.

The message brought back the Voice thatchanged me when I was a stubborn teenager. Thesound of Dwight’s voice lifted me over stupefyingfear and tiresome fuss. It purified me throughthe tears drawn by the words addressed to mepersonally and heard by me for the first time:“God loves you!” I forgot the past. Even thenasty feeling of resentment, after an earlymorning exchange with two men who introduced

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themselves as KGB officers, which had stuck likea lump inside me, now disappeared.

I had to pay for my spontaneity to inviteDwight and his family over. The KGB talk wasinevitable, I’ve learned quickly. Another thoughtI dragged was talking to my parents about what avisit like this could do to their careers.Thinking that my apartment was not big enough, Iasked my parents to host this American family,not realizing that, with my parents’ positions,it would be harder to get a required clearance.To do that I had to specify my parents’ names,address, places of work, phone numbers, and otherdetails. Sitting in that stuffy Baptist chapel, Iwas not sure yet whether we would be able toinvite Dwight over. Somehow in my gut I wished atthat moment that it wouldn’t work out. Aninnocent invitation could harm the family.

But as I listened to the sermon, theunpleasant feeling that somebody was constantlystanding behind me and watching evaporated, andthe choking lump inside of my throat dissolved.And, as it turned out, there were no doubts orproblems God couldn’t cope with. Somehow, living inthe Soviet Union, I managed to never doubt God’s presence; I justnever had a chance to see God at work before. As I’velearned, to get KGB clearance usually takesmonths and months for an occasion such as this,but we got it in an instant! It truly looked likea miracle to many of my friends, who thought thatI either bribed one of the officers or was

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related to somebody. The truth was I would ratherget nothing than humiliate myself by giving abribe.

As for being related to someone important,that was true. My uncle Gennady Zhelobov was aKGB General. A famous one! After an American spyplane U-2 had been shot while flying above myhometown in 1960, Francis Gary Powers wasarrested. My uncle escorted him to Moscow. Mymother, protecting her brother’s name, wouldnever admit to him that we invited Americans fornot hurting his career. We did not have to use myuncle’s name. Since I met Dwight, everythingstarted happening on its own like my lucky starwas suddenly activated.

After the service, Dwight gave to eachworshipper a Bible. Just think of it–the Biblethat was impossible to buy in those times! Whileforeigners were permitted to bring to the SovietUnion only one Bible that belonged to thempersonally, Dwight Ramsey had managed to getpermission to bring in one hundred Bibles! Helooked heroic. Now I feel like laughing at thoseKGB people trying to find some secret meaningbehind the American pastor's plans. The puzzlewas why he had come to Sverdlovsk, of all places.

Dwight signed my Bible and when he gave it tome, I noticed that he misspelled my name with the“y.” Lidia or Lydia–it didn’t matter: now had a Bible of my own!

Two Enemies–Two Families

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Dwight Ramsey, as he shared later that day,had been dreaming of going to Russia for twentyyears. The dream had been haunting him since hisdays as a student. If I had known anything abouthow God works, I would have called it exactlythat–destiny. But I didn’t attempt to look intothe soul and heart of this American.

As soon as Dwight's family crossed ourthreshold, we began staring at him and at myfather. He and Dwight looked like brothers–thelikeness was striking. Dwight did look like aRussian, perhaps even like a relative of ours.

Maybe that was why I felt a connection withhim from the first moment? Several months later,when I looked through negatives of photos I hadtaken, I could never be sure which of the two menmy father was unless they stood next to eachother. Dwight was a little taller. Both werepilots in the past, both were public speakers,and both were proud of their families. But therewas one difference. One was a convinced Communistand atheist (though my father was baptized whenhe was a child), and the other was a pastor.

As ideological opponents, two men beganstudying each other at once, trying to win eachother over. Two strong personalities clashed. Ikeep out of politics, so I did not find theirdiscourse interesting, in spite of itsextraordinary psychological and intellectualdepth, and I was soon lost in thoughts of my own.

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Looking at the two families, so different and,one would assume, so alien, I thought: Why do wefeel so comfortable together from the first minute, so natural?Our family didn't get along with other relatives,and we never shared our innermost thoughts,feelings, sorrows, aches, and joys. Our immediatefamily was enough–a safe, magic circle. We wereself-sufficient people. Why, then, this eagernessfor personal contact, along with such confidenceand trust? Was it just because these strangers were enigmaticor because they were simply foreigners?

"Raisa, bring three shots of Armenian cognac,please."

My father's loud voice interrupted my thought.There was a pause after his words addressed toMother were translated to help Dwight and hisfamily understand what was going on. Dwight’swife raised blondish eyebrows in amusement. Itappeared that a few minutes earlier my father,Pavel, had asked Dwight the question, "Do youbelieve in the Trinity?"

"Of course, I do." Dwight had not suspectedany tricks.

"Let's drink then," said my father. "One, two, three. . . ."

My father drank all three shots down to thebottom. Following his example, Dwight drank threeshots of cognac at one stroke, surrenderinghimself to the Creator, for he never, as heattempted to explain, drank even beer. Butretreat was impossible while Pavel was testing

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him, looking so searchingly. Loud laughter sweptaway the last traces of awkwardness, and we felteven easier.

We were like fellow travelers on a train whoknow they have just a few days to spend together.Everything that we had been keeping to ourselvesall these years now found expression in words,gestures, glances, and smiles. We were suddenlytalking after so many years of silence–aboutdisappointments and hope, happiness and burdens,suspicions and doubts. We felt safe to share,believing that we would never meet again. Allconceivable and inconceivable boundariesdisappeared. We forgot the interpreter, who couldnot follow the changing course of ourconversation in which all those present took partsimultaneously. The fear of personal contact withforeigners was thrown away, and we mixed Russianand English words, overusing expressive (as wethought, but not always understood) gestures.

When words failed, Dwight took his guitar fromthe case and opened his soul to us in music. Iwanted to play guitar since I was a teen andenvied everybody who could play even little.Dwight played one simple song, but the fact thatthe pastor played guitar was even stranger to methan seeing a priest in jeans! So, he is just anordinary man! He was not afraid to make mistakesplaying. He is just like you and me. He can beapproachable and friendly! That was anotherdiscovery.

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"Do you believe in God?" Dwight approached myfather again.

"I'm an atheist." My father suddenly stood up and left the room

in full silence. I was disappointed. Well, they arebeginning debates again! But my father brought out severallarge, thick, hand-written and hand-bound booksauthored by my grandfather.

Dwight heard an extraordinary story, almost alegend, about a simple Christian man, who wasfaithful to God all his life in spite ofpersecution. Ignatii Istomin–my grandfather–livedthrough the revolution and two wars, the terrorof collectivization and expropriation of kulaks(wealthy farmers), and the betrayal and repeatedthe loss of what he valued most. A Christian whostill managed to keep his love for the human raceand remain a surprisingly trustful man. Dwightwas astounded by what he saw and heard, andfather's face was beaming.

"We are no fools either," he said.

Listening to my father’s story, I got chills.I did not know that I would take the same path asmy Granddad: the path of pain and love,disappointment, and discovery, sacrifice andbetrayal. I wanted to say so much but was tooshy. I preferred to escape from conversations,thinking on several levels at once. I tried todecide whether I could entrust any part of mysecret heartache to the dry, and rather

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sarcastic, interpreter. Suddenly, I got overwhelmed with sadness. The

days of our unpredicted companionship with Dwightwould be over, and we would return to ourreality. This whole time in our parents’ housefelt like a sudden break in the midst of adreadful turmoil. All these parallel thoughts andimages filled my brain as I was mentally writingthe book that had been torturing me for years.Some of them had already found expression inshort stories, comic sketches, and notes forwhich I could not find any use.

Sometimes I felt a weird inspiration to letout what was in my head only to be surprisedreading what just came out from under my pen: Inever believed I could write like that. Once Iwrote a comedy piece about a womanizer and tookit to the publishing house just to be yelled atby the Executive Editor.

“Where on earth did you see men like that?!Soviet men are good husbands, they do not sleeparound!”

I looked at the red-faced journalist leaningtoward me over his office desk served with vodkaand caviar at ten in the morning. The setting ofthe executive office was self-explanatory.

“I don’t even need to leave your room to finda man like the one I described in my short story.You are just one of those men, I wrote my storyobserving my boss, my doctor, my colleagues–allcommunists, by the way.”

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Not my brightest moment. After this visit, Ifelt even more confident that it was better notto share my insights.

I almost envied my father’s gift ofstorytelling. He filled the whole evening withjokes, laughter, and anecdotes. It made me evenmore withdrawn. My resulting silence lasted forthree days. But to be with Dwight became anecessity. That’s why I was so glad to hear hiscomplaint that he was not allowed to preach atMoscow University. Eureka! Because of my positionat the Ural State University, I could make hisdream come true in Sverdlovsk. Our university wasone of the best graduate schools in the country.Who knew that my time was coming?

I had been working as an Executive Secretaryfor the Znanie (Knowledge) Association at theUral State University for eight years. My job wasto create educational programs for adults andfind professors to give seminar and lectures forengineers, teachers, students, officers, and evenprisoners. But I was also to invite interestingpeople–like scientists, actors, singers, famouswriters, and politicians–to the University.Dwight Ramsey would be just another motivatingspeaker, I decided.

I had managed to order a bus–free of charge–totransport the Americans. The President of theUniversity Dr. Vladimir Tretyakov, a nuclearphysicist, was the Chair of my Board, so withouthaving second thoughts, I asked him for help. He

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gave me one of the university buses and advisedto contact the regional television channel to getthe reporters since that was the first AmericanProtestant pastor to visit the Ural StateUniversity. In spite of successful preparation, Ifelt jitterier with each hour before the meetingon July 11, 1990, another sweltering day whileperestroika was in full swing. Not too manythings fall together easily in Russia.

Early in the morning, I got into a beat up theGAZ-651 bus to pick up the Americans from thesummer camp. It was not a glamorous Intourist busthat Americans expected to see. Dwight’s wifedidn’t trust the rusted bus and gave Dwight ascolding look. I didn’t blame her. How could amother entrust her children to a piece of junk todrive them in a foreign country? Now, there wasno turning back. When we drove through thewoods, we jumped on our seats every time the bushit another hole in the road. There were no seatbelts. I was embarrassed. That was not how Ienvisioned the trip. But Dwight laughed, showinga thumb to the driver,

“Russian roads! Khorosho! Great!” The driver lost the way twice and now drove

really fast that made Americans hold to the grabbars really tight. We were an hour and a halflate and we still had a long way to go. By thetime we rushed into the university building alongwith journalists and an American TV crew who hadcome to the Soviet Union with the youth group led

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by Dwight, I was terror-stricken. Will anyone staythat long? What shall I tell all these people I invited if they didcome and waited? What shall I tell Dwight if there was noaudience?

The Hall of Academic Council was packed, andit made the place stuffy in spite of the openwindows. Who will stand this torture for more than 15 minutes?University people like independence, especiallyconcerning working hours, and particularly insummer. The only thing I could do to encouragethem to stay was to tell them about the man I hadmet three days before and hope for the best.

To my relief, the meeting went well. Dwighttalked about eternal things. He didn’t preach asJimmy Swaggart, to my relief. He talked humblyabout us, humans. From the very first word hesaid, there was intense silence. Everyone,without admitting it, was waiting for an answerand for a prediction of long-awaited positivechanges. What if this American pastor is reallyin possession of the absolute truth? What if heis a prophet?

It would have been so easy to alienate us all,to make us shut ourselves up in our own shells.We were so fed up with empty talks and speeches,with flowery and ornate phrases. Only God couldhave helped this American pastor find the rightwords and a genuine tone of voice. Again I feltthe mysterious ability of this preacher to reachout each of us simultaneously. It was a miracle–to see mature and well-educated atheists shed

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tears. There were professors in the audience Iknew and respected. Their tears meant that thismeeting touched their hearts as it did mine. Itwas not deception, or a gimmick, or just anactor’s trick.

The words addressed to us may have beeninterrupted by translation, but the response wasgenuine. Dwight asked us if we believed that lovewas better than hatred, that peace was betterthan war, that forgiveness was better thanvengeance. Yes, of course, everybody agreed inwardly.How can there be any doubts? This is the truth! Everybody wantspeace! But why do we live without following thistruth? Why do we yield again and again to envyand malice and then suffer and repent and sinagain, turning our life into a tangle with ahopelessly lost end?

“Who can heal our loved ones?” “Where can we find understanding and

forgiveness?” “Who will give us the strength to live, if our

disappointment is so demoralizing that we cannever believe anything again?”

Never before had I heard such a discussion.Neither had any of the others present, I felt.That’s why nobody left after Dwight spoke, butstayed to talk and ask questions.

“They say, life is like a zebra,” a youngwoman said, looking at Dwight with hopelesslyempty eyes. “Why then is my life like an endlessblack stripe?”

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The answer was short and quite unexpected,“Don’t you think that all the time you are goingalong the black stripe?”

Dwight knew how to take that step, I sensedand, more important, in what direction. Iswallowed every word. Suddenly, I wanted to tellhim everything. I felt like a hurt little girlwho would like this big and kind man to put hishand on her head to comfort her and show heunderstood. It was so pleasant to feel himlooking at me when he needed assistance though Ididn’t stop to think that only by force ofcircumstances was I singled out of this multitudeof people. And, I thought, he does need me here, in thisnew situation. That feeling counterbalanced mygrowing need to be around him and helped me keepmy seeming independence.

Finally, the meeting was over. I found myselfmentally urging everyone out because Dwight’sfamily requested to stay in my parents’ homeovernight. I was excited to have a chance tofinally talk about myself with Dwight at last! Onthe other hand, my mother was in shock when Ihesitantly called her and proposed having Dwightand his families stay with them.

“Why don’t you invite them to your home?” That was a profoundly rhetorical question and

not without sarcasm. Mother knew better that Ihad no food in my refrigerator. What she didn’tknow was that it would take at least a day toclean my apartment to host the Americans and I

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didn’t want to lose an opportunity to be aroundour new friends. Iulia and I spent the last threedays with the group and were home only to sleep.

“How can I feed them? Where will they sleep?” But I knew my Mother better. And after being

cranky for a few minutes, she finally said, “You’ll have to give me some time to have

things arranged.” So, however much I wanted to talk with my new

friends in private, I was glad, for my mother’ssake, that the people crowding around Dwight werenot in a hurry to leave.

To give Mother more time for preparation, wewent sightseeing to the site of the Ipatiev House,where Tsar Nicholas II and his family had beenkilled after the revolution. There were so manylegends about the house, stories told in whisperswhen I was a little girl. Later, the house hadbeen demolished, so that people would forget thetragedy. But with glasnost and perestroika,changes had come, and advocates for justice wereinspired to erect an Orthodox cross to mark theplace of the execution. The large wooden crosswas erected overnight on a former empty spacemaking it look like a grave. The tragic memoryof the site invited passersby to stop and bow,baring their heads. To place flowers in front ofthe cross became a new tradition that almostreplaced the old one that required each newlymarried couple to visit Lenin’s monument on themain square. It was hard to explain all those

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recent changes to the Americans. The urban humor was even harder to translate.

We had a joke about the monument of VladimirLenin, who stood with his right arm stretched upand forward and his eyes stared at the Gorsovet–City Council.

“I trust the workers (the industrial part ofSverdlovsk with poor neighborhoods happened tobe located on the back of the monument), but asfor those bureaucrats, I have to keep both eyeson them!”

Dwight followed my dad’s middle finger thatcopied Lenin’s gesture directed to the CityCouncil and laughed even before my fatherfinished. Obviously, he did not get the joke. Butwe learned soon what made him laugh. Pavel alwaysused his middle finger for not using his indexfinger that is considered rude in Russia. But forAmericans, my father’s middle finger articulatedmore than words.

Periodically, the wooden cross was destroyed.Persistently it was erected again. I had neversuspected such deep-seated political strugglegoing on in my own hometown! Now, seeing some ofits outbursts, I tried to stay out of it, nottrusting either side.

When we finally arrived at my parents’ place,my Mother’s smile said everything. With herresourcefulness, Raisa had managed to come out ofthe situation with credit. Nobody suspected howmuch effort it had cost her to prepare food for

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all of us! I knew I would pay for that later, bycleaning my parents place and listening toMother’s lecturing. But that would be later.

After dinner, we continued talking andlaughing around the table. Our American friendslearned that Russians do not just eat: dinnertimeis a family time, the time of conversations andsharing. Then we went for a walk around thebeautiful and now deserted central part ofSverdlovsk. Returning home, we stood inamazement, looking at our little boys, David, andPavlik, who had gone asleep together. They werelying in identical poses, sucking their thumbs.The silence of these moments told us somethingabout one another than any words could ever do.The two children, American, and Russian weretrustfully snuggling up to each other, and wecould feel love for our children conquering allfears and doubts. Seven of us spent the night onthe floor in my parents’ one-bedroom apartment.

In this newly developed trust, we still hadtroubling questions about Dwight and his faith.There were more questions than time. To get asmany answers as possible, we tried to spend everymoment together and, not knowingly, created aproblem for Dwight. David Stone, the head of theAmerican delegation, was quite upset with Dwight,who often broke the group’s schedule so he couldspend more time with us.

All we knew was that the Methodist Church wasthe answer to our dreams. Dwight was trying to

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find out through my father the rules andprocedures for starting a Methodist community inSverdlovsk. My father got on the phone with hisfriends and was able to set up a meeting forDwight with the city officials at City Council–that very building that Lenin’s monument’s eyeswere staring at.

After we all had spent that night at myparents’ place, I began to speak English againwithout realizing it.

“Lydia, it appears you know English.” SaidDwight’s wife.

I suddenly felt like spy caught unexpectedlywhen trying to conceal her knowledge of English.But Gay had laughed and it helped me to cope withmy sudden confusion.

Unusual Request

On the day of the official reception by theCity Mayor, I felt quite out of place. Who am Ito be present at the City Council? So I remainedin the secretary’s office when the whole group,including my father was invited into the Mayor’soffice. Through the open doors, I could hearevery word. After the greetings and exchange ofpresents, it was Dwight Ramsey’s turn to speak,and he addressed the city administration with thespeech, “I’ve got a dream . . .”

Dwight shared his vision about bringing peaceand economic prosperity to the suffering Russian

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people through the Methodist Church. “I want to start a Methodist Church in your

city and I want to ask the Mayor to give theCommunist Propaganda Center to this newcongregation.”

A day before, my Dad took Dwight to see DomPoliticheskogo Prosveschenia–The RegionalCommunist Propaganda Center. That was aremarkable building with marble floors andgranite columns. The Regional Communist Partyheld its annual conferences in this building.

The walls of the City Council hadn’t heardlaughter louder than this for decades. It was abelittling laughter of powerful people at thosethey considered to be fools. Dwight wasobviously crazy! No man in his right mind wouldhave dared in those times to bury the CommunistParty this building belonged to. Dwight requesteda property that belonged to communists a yearbefore the President of Russia Boris Yeltsinbanned the Communist Party.

“Can I register the church?” Dwight askedserenely after the roar. Another wave of laughterfollowed.

Receiving no permission to officially registera religious community, Dwight made anotherrequest.

“You’ve got public organizations of writers,veterans, and scientists. Why not permit anassociation of Methodists?”

That was a smart move. Dwight’s request was

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honored. City Council Deputies voted to grantpermission for the new association to registerwith the condition that it collects thesignatures of no fewer than 20 supporters. Cityofficials continued laughing, leaving themeeting, thinking that, first of all, theMethodist Association was not a significantthreat, and, second, that Dwight would never getenough supporters. The official sign up sheet wasobtained. Our job was to spread the word tocollect the required signatures within theremaining 36 hours Dwight had before leavingRussia.

Dwight didn’t even move 5 feet away from theCity Council when he got 12 signatures. We allsigned it–all Dwight’s new friends. We knewnothing about Methodism, but our American guestsalready infected us with their free spirit ofopenness and independence. Suddenly, to getregistered as a new association became ourpurpose if it was the only way for us to be withthese unusual people.

We began nurturing Dwight’s vision anddreaming big. We sat and talked for hours aboutthe ideal spiritual city, getting more and moreexcited.

“Our streets will be clean!” Said VictorPeretolchin, a childhood friend of mine.

“The restrooms! We will have clean publictoilets! In our city, this will be the number onepriority!” I said.

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“And they will be free!” My sister added.“And people can use as much of toilet paper as

they want unlike in those paid restrooms whereyou get a tiny slip of paper for a dollar!”Victor said.

Victor also was excited about building a newapartment complex, a school, and a kindergartenfor young families. He was in the constructionbusiness and he believed he could help. We werenot too naïve to expect the Soviet mentality tochange, but if we teach our children from thevery beginning to live with faith, one day wewill see a new generation.

With all this excitement, we forgot where welived. While our American friends were still intown, some odd incidents occurred that seemed toindicate that the authorities were keeping closetabs on them. One evening some universityacquaintances of mine invited Dwight and all ofus to their apartment. Dwight and my sisterIrina stayed at our friends’ house overnightafter the party. They were to come the nextmorning to the summer camp where the Americandelegation was placed, and we would meet themthere. When I drove up to the camp, twoinsignificant looking strangers blocked theentrance.

"Do you know what term of imprisonment you mayget for speculation in icons?" It was anaccusation with pressure.

Icons? Since my grandparents' deaths, I never

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held a single Orthodox icon in my hands. Whatwas going on? But the men's hostility wasescalating. Fortunately, at that moment Dwightappeared on the top of the stairs with the smileand explained the situation. My friendspresented Dwight with an icon. Though, no onebesides Dwight, my sister, and the hosts had beenin the house when Dwight came to the camp thenext morning, everyone there knew about the icon!My friends tried to understand how thisinformation could leak from their house to KGB ifno one else were there.

“I’m sure the house was wired!” Dwight said.The Americans' last day in Sverdlovsk was

marked by another incident, both weird andsenseless. Several of us waited near the House ofPeace and Friendship on the day of Americans’departure, talking and saying goodbye, whenDwight suddenly looked across the city pond andsuggested going to the former cathedral. Notgetting permission to use the CommunistPropaganda Center, Dwight got an even biggerappetite and switched his attention to the oldVoznesenski Cathedral on Ipatievskaia Gorka–oneof the most attractive places in town. TheCathedral was located across the street from thesite of Tsar’s assassination. My father thoughtit was pure madness to assume that the governmentwould allow Protestants to use this OrthodoxCathedral. Dwight didn’t listen to my dad’sreasoning and was eager to see the building,

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which at that time functioned as the RegionalMuseum of Religion.

“Your Dwight is no better than Ostap Benderviii.One day he wants the Communist Propagandabuilding, today–the famous cathedral. He does notshow much respect to our history. I do not wantmy university colleagues to associate me withthis enterprise. I am going to the village. Thegarden can’t wait.” My father lost interest toparticipate.

Victor Peretolchin drove us to the Cathedralin his new gray Volga. Anatoly Arshavsky and hiswife followed us in their new Zhiguli. Just as wereached the parking area, another Volga passed usin a hurry and parked in front of the cathedral.Dwight and Victor, Irina, and Anatoly Arshavskywent to the museum while Victor's wife and Iremained in the car. We both noticed a bulky manin a Nike suit practically plummet out of the carthat just passed us and followed our group.

“Oh, no! Look, he has something in hispocket!”

Tatyana whispered pointing at the guy behindher husband. The man walked, pressing his hand tohis right side.

My heart missed a beat. It was like watching athriller in a drive-in theater. Were we justimagining things? No other people were near themuseum except for a slim young man reading abook. The man with something in his pocket ranup the steps of the cathedral, and a little later

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ran back down the steps. Then he began to strollleisurely before he stopped near the young man,talked to him briefly, and then disappeared.

Dwight, Victor, Irina and Anatoly came backupset. They told that some woman explained tothem through the closed door that the museum wasclosed for the day and that she was alone in thebuilding. Fortunately, I happened to have with memy business ID that I worked for ZnanieAssociation. So I decided to try my luck. After along negotiation through the same closed door, weheard the metallic sound of the bolt beingturned. Very slowly, the front-desk woman openedthe door–and there were two more men standingright behind her!

The Last Supper

We all rushed to my apartment to get somethingto eat. On the way, Dwight asked to stop at thestore to get a Russian flag. We had to take himfrom store to store to find it. There were noRussian flags. When we finally found the flag, Iasked him did he want anything else. Dwightlooked at me and said,

“I want YOU!” Trying to understand what he meant, I

remembered the song, “I want you; I need you!”But it was such silliness to assume that thisAmerican could say anything frivolous. We methis wife. His whole family slept in our house.

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Dwight was a pastor. He was a holy man. Idecided to check with my English-speaking friendslater what that phrase could possibly mean andasked Dwight to get back into the car. We hadless than three hours before taking him to theairport, and we promised David Stone and Dwight’swife to deliver Dwight to the airport on time.

We forgot about the food that my sisterbrought and began to sing and to talk. Only Mashaand Dasha glued to the plate with chicken. Dwightinvited all of us to stand up and asked me tobring my new Bible that he gave me last Sunday.He asked me to open the Book of Acts and readchapter 16 like I knew where it was. I found theplace with difficulties, but Dwight waited. Heasked me to read it in Russian. It was the storyof the first woman Christian in Europe–Lydia! As Ifollowed the story of Lydia and Paul, my bodybegan to shiver. I felt that God arranged aspecial road for me. What was it? I did notknow. I only felt in my heart: This is the moment tocome to a decision. Now, I thought I knew whatDwight meant when he said, “I want YOU!”

There were twelve of us. My sister Irina, myhusband Sergey, my friend Victor, my childrenIulia and Pavlik, my friends Larisa and Anatoly,my childhood friend Ninka, Lena Stepanova, andher two girls, Masha and Dasha, and myself. Thetwelve of us decided to form a MethodistAssociation, and I was elected the leader of thecommunity.

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Thus a Methodist community, the first suchcommunity in Russia since the destruction of theMethodist church in St. Petersburg in 1934, wasfounded. We didn’t know anything yet aboutMethodism, and we knew very little about God.But we were sure of one thing: we wanted to bewith Dwight.

Later, when we were alone, Irina warned me,"You’ll be put in prison! Think about thechildren!"

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4 THE LAST SOVIET GENERATION

“If you live in a Soviet country, You should see Soviet Dreams.”

– Ilya Ilf & Evgeny Petrov, The TwelveChairs

The Need for Tolerance and Understanding

In the subsequent events of 1991, I continuedasking why we need Methodism in Russia, and whyit has begun to revive just now, in my time, notearlier or later. For one thing, the MethodistChurch teaches people to be tolerant andaccepting. Tolerance–that is just what weRussians lack. Raised on the milk of socialismand the ideas of brotherhood–the principlessimilar to Christian–most of us had becomeintolerant and cruel individuals. We were trainedto repeat what we didn't believe ourselves and tocondemn anyone who dared to think different.

Now, on the threshold of approachingbloodshed, we needed a new foundation that couldcalm people down. The Orthodox Churchhistorically gave Russians such a peacefulrefuge, but after 70 years of atheism, the

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prodigals didn’t rush back. Our trust waspoisoned by the articles exposing Orthodoxpriests, calling them KGB officers in priestlyrobes. History did us an ill turn. Many of usforgot the thousand-year history of Christianityin Russia; we forgot the many thousands ofOrthodox priests who had perished for their faithafter the revolution and during the Stalin’srepressions.

In 1990, the foundation of the Soviet systemcracked. Our faith in Communism and in theultimate victory of the USSR, and even in theWorld War II was shaken. Nothing could fill thevoid left in our souls. Besides, we were afraidof being deceived again. Nobody had confidence inGorbachev’s long-worded promises, but peopleeasily switched their hopes to healers.

That could describe the country from 1989 to1991. During this turbulent period, the countrysat gazing at TV screens, thirsty for bothinformation and entertainment–and hoping for amiracle.

A Drowning Man Will Grasp at a Straw

Every night, the country watched the magician-psychiatrist-healer Anatoly Kashpirovski fromKiev in the Ukraine, who promised instantrecovery for all suffering people in the SovietUnion. All and at once! No less than Jesus’healing! Neither touch nor personal contact with

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people was required. The lame, the blind, thedisfigured, those who suffered from acuteillnesses, even people seeking a cure forproblems such as baldness or bladder problems–allwere healed by the voice of Kashpirovski. Everyevening millions of Russians sat in front oftheir televisions for another injection of mediamedicine.

Another healer, with the expressive nameChumak (chuma means "plague" in Russian),converted others into drinking his miracle water.Every morning these people filled containers withtap water and placed them near their TV sets soChumak could "charge" the water with healingproperties. People drank this modified water,hoping to get rid of their ailments.

Being Russian, I was very trustful by nature.I started watching those TV programs trying toact like I didn’t believe much. I did not set outany water for charging, fearing that my husband,Sergey, quite a pro in electronics, would thinkhis wife was silly or even stupid.

"What if there is really something there?" Iasked carefully.

"Where? I know how this box is constructed.There is nothing there and there cannot be!”

My little son Pavlik, seeing Kashpirovski'sface on the screen, hid behind the sofa.

“I do not want to look at that "uncle!” Hecried.

The country also watched the Supreme Soviet

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meetings, which began to be broadcast on TV in1989. Everyone was glued to their TV sets tryingnot to miss a single word. We used to say, "Thecountry sits staring at the box." The box, by theway, was rather bulky–to the detriment of thescreen, which was quite small–and could notwithstand overheating. Some political fans whosat in front of the television set all nightbecame innocent victims of the politicalarguments when their TV sets caught fire.

The government and KGB archives were opened,and everyone, young and old, was eager to learnnew facts about the horrifying history of theOctober Revolution, the Great Patriotic War, andthe KGB. The country was anxious to know its"heroes," real and imagined.

Who is to blame? That age-old Russian questionwas on everyone's mind during those days.

Watching the historic battles of deputies,which sometimes turned into real feast fights,diverted people from reality. The new life,marked by a frail democracy, provided anotherkind of narcotic–an illusion of participation inwhat was happening. As if anyone could solve evenone problem while sitting in front of the TV set!But, no doubt, our preoccupation diverted peoplefrom barricades and demonstrations for quite along time. We listened to the mockeries ofseemingly well-mannered and educated leaders.

"I spared no effort so that invalids could sitin this hall." Declared the USSR Supreme Soviet

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chairman, Anatoly Lukyanov, at one of thecongresses.

"We wanted to do the best and got it asalways," stated another deputy.

"The Soviet people want full-blooded andunconditional democracy.” “What we need is StarPeace and not Star Wars," said MikhailGorbachev.ix But “There is no sex in Russia!” wasthe winner that outlived others.

Russians and Work

“We pretend that we are working,

i Pod’elnik translates as “under the fir trees.” This village was located near the town of Krasnoufimsk, Sverdlovsk Region iii This building is one of the historic buildingsin Ekaterinburg: Дом Мира и Дружбы http://www.tolz.ru/library/?cid=364&de=1

iv Taiga – Russian word for forest. It stretches over Eurasiahttp://www.blueplanetbiomes.org/taiga.htm

v The ruble or rouble is a unit of currency of various countries of the former Soviet Union and especially in Russia

vi Znanie – National non-profit organization served as a gigantic pool of lecturers; provided continued education for adults and entertainment

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http://www.blueplanetbiomes.org/taiga.htm

http://www.tolz.ru/library/?cid=364&de=1


and the government pretends that it is paying.”– Folk wisdom

Practically no one worked during thebroadcasts of the Supreme Soviet meetings. Peopledidn't want to miss a single word. Next day atwork, they spent time in heated discussions.Actually, it hardly mattered that no one worked,because salaries almost never depended onperformance, nor did bonuses! Every time we hadidle time at work, I thought of our children.What was the point to leave my daughter in theDay Care if there was no work, just an appearanceof it? I would rather do all my work in fourhours and then go home, even though I would bepaid only half of what others in our company weregetting for sitting idle all day.

"If we have nothing to do," I used to urgeother women, "why don't we better go home andtake our children from state 'incubators’?”– Thatwas how we called our overloaded statekindergartens.

"Of course, it would be nice," replied one ofmy colleagues. "But then my husband will make medo all the housework. And now I'm at my job, justas he is, and earning just as much."

vii Ichthys (ΙΧΘΥC), the Greek word for fish

viii Ostap Bender–popular character from The Twelve Chair of Ilia Ilf and Eugenie Petrov

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Yes, there was a deep feminine wisdom in thatreasoning. Another side of it was that not everywoman could afford working part-time.

“Sure, Lydia, easy to say when your parentshelp you. We can’t afford to go on vacation onthe Black Sea every summer as you do.”

Earning some extra money by taking a secondjob was basically prohibited in those times. Noone was allowed to hold two jobs at the sametime. (Many people did, however). Only teacherscould legally have several jobs. I knew that, notmerely by hearsay. My sister and I grew up withour parents seldom at home. Both of them–asteachers–worked in two or three places to breakaway from paycheck-to-paycheck misery and to livea little better than others. Every summer,instead of taking a usual vacation, they went towork in summer camps so they would have enoughmoney to take us to the Black Sea.

My parents never learned how to take a rest.The mother planned carefully for her summer"vacation," so she wouldn't have a single day athome! She came to this practice by trial anderror, after having several breakdowns on herdays of doing nothing. The nervous stress thatshe thought would have burnt itself out in thewhirlpool of regular teaching in several placesovertook her on vacation. Because she couldn'tafford the time for being sick, she found a wayout–substituting her work-related stress with thestress of traveling by train.

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Those who worked as my parents did–and therewere many–were apparently thinking about theircareers and promotions. But there was anotherreason. Somehow, grown-up adults in Russia couldnot make it without assistance. That’s whyinstead of paying for the Day Care, it was mucheasier for my parents to have me working part-time.

Trying to help their children, parents werealso concerned about their pensions. That's whythey worked in the same place for a long time,setting a high value on the notes on theiremployment records. To lose this document wasworse than losing a passport. Without either ofthese documents, a person is nobody and nothing.

A registration record is in the passport. If aperson isn't registered, he or she will not begiven employment. If a person has no employment,he or she will not be registered! Many peopletried to solve this puzzle in one way or another.But anyone caught in such a state of affairs wasstared at with suspicion.

Public opinion was cruel and intolerant:"Decent people don't find themselves in suchsituations. Decent people have a registration, apassport, and a job." Any deviation, even a half-step to one or the other side, met withdisapproval. We Russians were used to marching inthis regimented column formation.

The Fear of Getting Out of Line

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I knew from personal experience the painfuland humiliating consequences of stepping out ofthe column, even though it ended up being only akind of flick on the nose. One November, whenIulia was a baby, my husband Sergey and I joinedthe parade that marched through the streets ofSverdlovsk toward the central city square. It wasunbearably cold, and not only were we gettingchilled ourselves, but we had overestimated ourlittle daughter's endurance. We decided to find ashortcut to the main square, where loud music wasplaying, and a voice kept shouting out cheerfulwords of greeting and salutation to all themarching columns of workers and intelligentsia.

Our attempt to merge another column wasunsuccessful. Policemen, red-faced from thebitter cold, began rudely pushing us and theothers toward a side street. None of the marchersstopped and interceded for us–not even for me, ayoung mother with a baby. When policemen got usinto Vainera Street, they gave vent to words.Filthy cursing I had never heard poured down onme and others as we’re criminals. My husbandbegan frantically looking around, trying to finda way out, but the street was blocked at theother end with a black police van. All of us inthe side street were being shoved toward the opendoors of the bus, where another policeman’s handsreached out to grab us. When I saw those hands, Ibegan shouting too, trying to convince the police

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officer to let us go. Then, I pushed Iulia'sstroller with all my strength between the twopolice officers. Somehow, miraculously, weslipped away.

That's how important it was not ever to leavethe track defined by the state, not even bychance, not even mentioning any hidden agenda.The safest way was to march in column formation without askingquestions where it was going. It helped if you knew a few patrioticsongs to shut those questions inside your head. The louder yousing, the fewer questions you ask. And if you get lucky tobe placed near the head of the column, then youalmost feel like you belong to something big. Youhush your questions, you silence your thoughts,you numb your morals, and you’re all good to go.

But after perestroika, what did the country dofor those who had never fallen out of step, whohad worked harder and more diligently thanothers, who had all their papers in order?Nothing. Their pensions, as often as not, wereless than those of people who had never worked atall or who had done poor quality work. Morallosses can cause more suffering than financialones. Such poor retirees had to suffer bothmorally and materially. They barely managed tosurvive. And now new politicians looked down atthem and said,

“You took our country to this mess, you don’tdeserve any care.”

The Need for Dignity and Justice

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Our country did not like upstarts, infantprodigies or even champions; it distrusted thetall and handsome, the creative and originalones, the bright and sharp. Everyone had toconform, to be part of the same "smiling-faced"community. Thus "stepchildren" appeared–those whodidn’t merge well. These were people who did notlike the uniformity of dress and ideas, who didnot like to march in formation. And stepchildrenare just stepchildren, aren’t they? They're notblood relations. So they can be isolated withoutour feeling guilty. We need law and order.

Take, for instance, the principle "Ignoranceof the law doesn't relieve you ofresponsibility." We had to live by thisprinciple, no matter how absurd the application.The Criminal Code was published for professional,and only lawyers could read it. The Criminal Codewas protected no less than the Bible in medievaltimes. It was not available in the bookstores.But ordinary civilians had to answer for anysmall violation and be punished in full. Peoplewere intimidated and put in prison without havingany idea that they had broken the law. Police andthe KGB used this principle without anyrestrictions.

I had an experience with this principle duringmy second pregnancy. It was not a relaxingpregnancy, but I was bearing it with joyfulelation. I was waiting for a son, dreaming of

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him, all the time seeing in my imagination, forsome reason, a cute, red-haired little boy.

At the beginning of my eighth month, I got aphone call. "You have lost your passport and mustcome to the City Department of Internal Affairs,"a law officer commanded me over the phone.Answering, I sensed how my back straightened upas I was in the military. A mixture of guilt andpremonition struck me in the pit of my stomach,near the place where my baby sometimesunceremoniously gave me a kick. How could I? I am agood citizen! Where? When? I thought, terror-stricken,unable to think logically. But then my headcleared.

"My passport is here, in the house," Ireplied, glad that the misunderstanding was over."I have not lost it."

"You have lost your passport," repeated thepoliceman stiffly, "and it has been used by adangerous criminal. You must come hereimmediately."

"But I have nobody to leave my young daughterwith, and she is running a fever." I got caughtin a trap, not even knowingly. It didn't matter.My heart thumping madly, I tried to resist, notwanting to take my sick nine-year-old daughteracross town to the Department of InternalAffairs. But I had no choice. I would go thereand prove that I had not done anything wrong. Iwas caught by the cunning hook of "law andorder."

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My thoughts jumping a hundred times fasterthan the second hand on the taxi clock. At theInternal Affairs office, I ran upstairs withlittle Iulia, opened the door of the official'sroom, and stood stock-still under the fixed stareof a slender young man.

"Leave the child in the corridor," he said. "But she can't stay there without me. She'll

be frightened." "Leave the girl in the hallway. I must

interrogate you," he snapped, and he bent hishead over the record of evidence that was lyingon the table.

I was stunned. I hadn't expected this. I hadthought I would just show my passport as proveand hear his apology for the mistake. Instead,the interrogation lasted three hours, and mydaughter was sitting alone in the hall.

At first, I quickly produced my passport andexplained that I had never lost it at all. Theyoung man paid no attention.

"Where and when did you lose your passport?" Again I tried to explain to no avail. After

hearing the question for the fifth or sixth time,I burst out crying.

The officer had begun shouting and yelling atme. Lastly, it hit me: The scoundrel is shoutingat me! Me, the woman with another life beating inside her. Heis yelling at my son! The mother in me rose inrebellion.

"Stop shouting at me! How dare you!" I told

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the official, even striking the table with myfeast. How I wanted to hit that power fanatic,but the table and my belly prevented me.

Suddenly, I began asking questions. "Hassomeone used my passport? What did that personwho stole it do? Why are you keeping me here?”

“Where did you lose your passport?”“Why don't you listen to what I am saying? I

did NOT lose my passport! Do you have my lostpassport?”

“Where did you lose your passport?” The manraised his voice instead of checking my passport.

“And why do you allow yourself to shout at me?Why do you keep repeating the same question likea parrot?"

"Ah! You even insult the Soviet officer on topof everything! I've got a witness here!"

Only then did I notice another man in theroom. His face looked more intelligent to me, andI addressed him,

"You, at least, must see that it is all amistake!"

The man dropped his eyes without answering.Then, in a flash, I remembered. Four or fiveyears before, I had picked up a new passport atthe police station. When I got home, I had leftit in my handbag, which I hung on the wall coatrack. That same evening I went to the post officeto pick up a small package. While standing inline, I got out my new passport and began to flipthrough it. Horrors! The passport was covered

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with my daughter's scrawl and scribbling. She had"filled in" the passport with the thoroughcalligraphy of a three-year-old! Iulia, as wefound out, had pulled a chair into the hall,climbed up on the chair, and pulled out thepassport while I was cooking dinner. Afterfilling it in with scribbles, she put it backinto my handbag. The situation brought me a lotof trouble at the time. First I was refused toget the package, and then, I had to appear infront of a strict commission in a local policestation. I had to answer a lot of questions aboutwhere and how I could damage my passport.

"I've remembered! My passport was not stolen!My passport was damaged!"

I told where my passport was. Again I expectedto hear an apology. But it seemed that I had onlypoured oil on the flame.

"You see, you were trying to conceal such animportant fact from justice."

The interrogator shook his head reproachfullyand began to stare hard at me as if he justlearned that I was a serial killer.

"And thou art not such a naive girl as thouseemed at first." His use of thee and thou, thefamiliar second-person singular, was a method ofcondescension. That tactic was the final blow.Now the interrogation took another turn.

"What didst thou do with that spoiledpassport?"

I don't remember I don't remember what I did with it. I was

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talking to myself, trying to jog my memory. Did Ithrow it out? No, I couldn't have. Is it at home? No, it can't be!

Then suddenly I was on the offensive again. "Why are you playing me? There is an order in

our country: the spoiled passports are left atthe police station. So it is lying somewherehere, and you know it!"

Here my heart missed a beat. They know everythingwithout my telling them. They are just mocking me. But why me? Idon't understand what is happening–something impossible,absurd. It's not happening to me. Is it a nightmare? But mydaughter has been sitting in the corridor for three hours.

No, it was no dream. It was the horror andgloom, which, as I came to know later after theKGB archives were opened, hundreds of thousandswent through during the years of the Sovietpower. Hypnotized by the gravity of accusations,innocent people pleaded guilty to politicaloffenses. Result? Ten, fifteen, and twenty-fiveyears of imprisonment and labor camps, if theywere lucky.

But I did not know about all that as yet. Istill believed that "my militia–Soviet police–isguarding me," as the trendy song put it–a phrasethat acquired a malicious meaning in later years.

"Where do your parents work?” Theinterrogation continued.

“Where do they live? When did they move intothe new apartment?”

“How are they doing the repair work?”“Where did they buy the paint, the wallpaper,

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the sink, the toilet?" I was flabbergasted. How could they know that my

parents were remodeling their new place? Why should anyonecare about it anyway? What has it got to do with my passport?

After more of this absurdity, I found myselfin another, equally ridiculous situation.

"I shall tell you a secret." The interrogator addressed me in a friendly

manner now, using the polite "you" and eventrying to smile playfully. "If you'll help uswith the information against your mother, weshall forget the story with your lost passport."

Oh, Gosh! Hasn’t he comprehended that I did not lose mypassport?

The interrogator's pen was busily scratchingsomething against the paper. I could see the fileswelling. New pages were being added one afteranother.

"So what can you tell us about the renovationof your parents' house?"

"I don't get it! What has the renovation gotto do with my passport that was not even lost?”

“We want to know where your parents bought allthe building materials.”

“My Papa bought all the building materials inMoscow and sent them here in a container after hegraduated from the Academy of Sciences.”

“In Moscow? Hmmm.” “Yes, in Moscow. You must know that it is

impossible to buy anything in Sverdlovsk." And then, like a bolt from the blue, came the

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truth. "We've got an anonymous letter here, saying

that your mother has stolen all the buildingmaterials from her work." The interrogatoroffered me an unsigned letter, written in anunfamiliar hand.

"My mother works at the Medical University,not at the construction company!" I groaned,throwing aside the dirty sheet with disgust.

"How will you prove it?" asked theinterrogator spitefully.

How, indeed? Who will believe me? Then I suddenly hada mental picture of our family's teasing Papabecause he kept every piece of paper that came tothe house, even quite useless ones. He learnedthat hard way to always carefully store all hischecks and receipts.

"Just in case," he would say. "It may come inhandy."

"You had only to ask my Papa about thebuilding materials, and he would have satisfiedyour interest." I was quite calm now, feeling theinterrogation coming to an end.

"Sign your testimony, then," the interrogatorsaid with an unexpected sweetness.

My testimony? But I was ready to sign anythingjust to get out of that room. I began to read,absentmindedly at first until I was stopped bywords I had never said. I moved my eyes to thetop of the page to reread the text. It was acondemnation of my parents.

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"How dare you! I never said this! Rewrite it!"“I've got a witness who will confirm that I am

right," the interrogator threatened. Only after I began to repeat, word for word,

what I had said during our four-hour "talk," didthe interrogator, amazed by my memory, or maybeafraid of something, gave up.

"Dictate what you said, only sign it." Idictated and I signed–not knowing that, by law, Ididn't have to sign anything, that I could not beinterrogated without an advocate! I knew nothing.

Only when I got home, I found out my parentshave been worried all this time, not knowingwhere did I went. Happily, I told them about howI handled the interrogation.

“What a silly girl you are! Why did you evengo? Next time some idiot calls, would you runagain because you were told to?” My Papa said.

When my father calmed down, he explained thatall kinds of law were broken in my case. Only avery naïve person like myself could obey astranger on the phone. Even so, I found it hardto believe. I went to the regional publicprocurator, who put an end to the nightmarearound our family and apologized to usofficially. It was a miracle that all thedocuments concerning the building materials myparents had been buying for three years were keptintact.

It turned out that the root of the matter wasmy mother's job. Mother had been working for

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twenty years as an administrator at the MedicalUniversity. Before entrance exams, all the youngpeople who were eager to enter the institute cameto Mother's office with their documents. Once, agirl with forged documents and influentialrelatives in both the local government and theKGB came to the office. Refusing to take thegirl's documents, my mother made a few powerfuland vindictive enemies who tried to intimidateher in every possible way. We eventuallydiscovered that the letter was written by mychildhood friend. She apologized. All those yearsI'd been helping her, trying to lift her out ofthe swamp of ignorance and dullness she and herparents lived in.

An anonymous letter in itself is of no importance. It's just apiece of paper. But in our country this Piece of Paper can have amonstrous destroying force. As a result of one, my sonwas born prematurely, a month before his time. The Need to Confront the Pain of the Past

Why am I writing all this? Some people mayfind it a strange way of justifying the need fora Methodist church in Russia. My pregnancy, myfamily problems, long lines for groceries–whatdoes it have to do with faith? Some, perhaps,will not see my point. But it is essential for meto be honest with myself so that everyone readingthis can feel the tragedies, the pain, and theforces that brought so many former atheists tous.

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Soviet people have been hurt and humiliatedunjustly. Many died without being rehabilitated.Many are still keeping family secrets, afraid ofsharing them, though everything is longforgotten. The history was re-written. TheCommunist Party continued brainwashing us thatour country continued its triumphal march fromone stage of Socialism into another. SurvivingStalin’s repressions our parents found themselvesin Khrushchev's “mature socialism.” Then, from“mature socialism” they were led to Brezhnev’s‘developed socialism,” and from Gorbachev’sPerestroika to Yeltsin’s open society.

One day in 1990, the KGB archives inSverdlovsk were opened, and over one millionresidents learned that just near the city gatesthere was a nameless burial ground. Thousands ofguiltless people had been secretly shot withoutany interrogation. The dead and the wounded werethrown into ditches and covered with dirt.Relatives, who had been desperately looking fortheir fathers, mothers, brothers, or sisters lostin prisons, went hopefully to this place. Thus anew “cemetery” was born. People began to pin thephotos and names of their relatives to the trunksof the trees that had grown in the area.

When my father took me there, I sensed thesouls of innocent victims were still soaring overthe mass grave. That was the first and the onlytime in my life when my father admitted fear. Hedid not say much. He raised his right hand above

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his head and marked the level of fear he has beenliving with his whole life. He was afraid to tellanybody that his father was persecuted in the30s. If a single soul knew about it, my father’scareer would be doomed. Shaken by the spirit ofviolence and gloom, I stopped at a littlenameplate with the name Schegolev that wasrepeated four times. A father and three sons hadbeen killed here. At the time, it seemed just achance moment. But it wasn’t! A year later oneelderly woman came up to me.

“I want to tell you my secret,” she said. She was the last Schegolev, the daughter and

sister of those four men. As the relative of“enemies of the people,” she had been afraid tomarry and have children; she spent her youth inSiberia and was not able to get an education.Because Russian citizens of her status wereoutcasts for many years even after the World WarII was over and had to keep their stories insecret.

How many more such people are there? I wondered–children of murdered Orthodox priests,dispossessed peasants, and political and economic“criminals.” For seventy years, the country hadbeen flying towards the “bright Communistfuture,” destroying the best and the most honest.Yet even in prison camps, prisoners proudly sangabout our vast country, its eternal beauty, andof how free they felt in it!

When guests from America came to Sverdlovsk in

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1991 to celebrate the first anniversary of ourchurch, they were astonished, even staggered byordinary people’s innocence and trust. Theyexpected Soviet people to be quite different,perhaps antagonistic or at least suspicious.Americans were also surprised by the differencebetween us and Moscow citizens: they saw fewersad-faced people here in Sverdlovsk and heard nocomplaints. What is more, our church members asoften as not seemed to be better dressed than ourAmerican friends! Russians couldn’t afford tolook pitiful, nor did we want anyone to know thatsome of us had no jobs, and even food.

That characteristic puzzled Bishop Oden’swife, Marilyn. She also couldn’t understand whyour new church members did not respond when sheasked them to share their life stories with herfor her new book about the Russian soul.

One elderly woman exclaimed, “But can’t yousee? It is so painful!”

Yes, the path to faith for all of us was verylong and painful. And, I confess, I couldn’tbring myself to sit down and write out my storyfor Marilyn either. What was so difficult? Likeothers, I was unable to bear the pain of re-experiencing my past. Our wounds were stillbleeding.

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5 THE STRUGGLE TO EXIST

Sometimes when we receive a gift, we wonderwhat to do with it. I felt just like that afterDwight's departure: overjoyed and scared.

"You'll be put in prison, Lidka!" My sisterwhispered to me waving to the car that tookDwight to the airport. I began to shiver again,

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just as I had when Dwight was talking about Pauland Lydia–the first Christian woman in Europe. Mythoughts were all in a jumble–not because of fearfor myself or even for my children. It was ratherfrom accepting the truth of what made my sisterso worried about. Why me? Will I have enough strength?The devil of doubt took hold of me and was tryingto destroy the fragile temple that had sosurprisingly risen in my soul: Who am I? Who willbelieve me?

All these thoughts insistently led me to onesafe conclusion: Lena Stepanova must be theleader! She knows the Bible, she speaks English.She lived in America for two semesters! Though,she used to teach atheism, but miracles arepossible. Three years later Lena confessed to mehow tortured she had been by the question, "Whydidn't Dwight choose me to lead? Why Lydia, notme?"

My hesitance was not only honest but, Ithought, realistic. The Bible presented to me byDwight Ramsey was my first step toward knowingthe Scriptures, if you don't count my childishexperience with Granddad's Bible. But my friendsassumed that because I had been elected theleader of our community, I certainly knew theBible and had already been initiated into thesacred circle of the faithful.

I felt like a puppy thrown into a pond withonly two options: to swim for life or to drown.The only thing I knew at the moment was that I

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had to swim for life. I promised Dwight to makethe group going. So I began by looking forsomeone who would be a "real" leader of thechurch, one who believed in God and knew theBible. I had to find somebody with authority.Thus, my first step was made away from myself.

My job at the Ural State University gave me achance to meet different people. One whom Irespected most was Daniil Pivovarov, a doctor ofphilosophy, a true intellectual and humble man. Iadmired him, especially after I saw him vacuuminghis office instead of making his secretary dothat. So I went to him with my proposal. Ofcourse, I was upset and disappointed when I heardhis soft refusal. I wanted so much for ourcommunity to be led by this experienced andspiritual man from the first days of itsexistence. Only much later did I appreciateDaniil’s tact and his advice.

Our first meetings took place in the office ofthe University Communist Party Committee! Notofficially, of course, but only because I hadaccess to the key. It sounds funny, but historyis history. These meetings looked like anythingbut prayer or church meetings. We did not knowhow to pray. We were not even allowed topronounce God's name in that official place. Butneither could we have started worshipping in anyother place, for two reasons. First, there was anenormous barrier of embarrassment and awkwardnessin every one of us–there was not a single

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practicing Christian among us. The Chair of theRegional Committee on Religion Valentin Smirnovexplained to me that our gatherings "may beconducted in the form of meetings, but withoutprayers or singing." Our meetings were nodifferent from the Communist Party committeemeetings: we had to have an agenda and speakers.Ironically, it was my straw that I grabbedknowing nothing about the church.

My First Disciple

The sense of responsibility for the future ofthe Methodist church began to sprout in me afterI met Vladimir Tomakh, a tall young man who cameto my office just after Dwight's departure.Vladimir wanted to enroll in the ManagementInstitute that I had founded under the universityroof that summer. He responded to the radioadvertisement. While telling him about theprogram, I suddenly switched to the MethodistChurch, to my own surprise. My ManagementInstitute was something that I was really proudabout, but here I was talking about Dwight andhis church. Vladimir was a very attentivelistener.

The task we had at this point was to get anofficial registration. Nobody had ever heardanything about Methodists. But the pulse of ourlife was beating already. There had to be more ofus. People had to learn about us. We had to find

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more supporters and followers. Vladimir made thistask the goal of his life. I gave him Dwight'soriginal document, signed by the governor ofLouisiana and he left with it, promising toreturn several days later. While I waitedanxiously for his return, I wondered why I gavehim the only document I had from Dwight. I couldnot answer that question then. Three days laterVladimir returned in a state of euphoria. He hadspent those days talking to different people,friends and strangers on the streets, tellingthem about the Methodist Church and Dwight's ideaof building a spiritual center in our town. Thedocument now was signed by sixty people!

At that moment, looking at those sheets ofpaper with the names, addresses, and signaturesof sixty people I did not know, I suddenlyunderstood that those people were my personalresponsibility. To sign any document and give one’saddress was a tremendous act of courage. Though they knewnothing about the Methodist Church, these peoplewanted to support the new movement. Their desirewas far from being faith yet. In fact, not manyof them joined us later and became Methodists.Their signing could have meant many things:perhaps they were sick and tired of the graymonotony of our dismal, and in many respectslimited, life.

By September 1990, we had 602 signatures. Regrettably,Vladimir became famous as a man obsessed with theMethodist Church. Many people laughed at him, and

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with his typical ardor he got into an argumentand landed in the psychiatric hospital. Knowingnothing about his tragedy, I lost touch with himfor a long time.

The second step to register the church couldnot have been predicted. I went to Moscow to meetBoris Yeltsin in person and show him the list ofsignatures. Yeltsin, the future RussianPresident, was at that time head of the SupremeSoviet.x

This insane idea could have occurred only toDwight Ramsey. But it didn't seem crazy to me.Usually very rational, I didn't even ask myselfwhy I was going to Moscow. My primary concernbeforehand was finding money for the trip. Neverhad I been so brave. I went to my boss, AphanasiiKuznetsov and asked him to send me on business toMoscow.

"Where, exactly, are you going?" "To the Supreme Soviet," I told plainly like I

was going to a grocery store. My boss was struck dumb, and I got the money

for my airplane ticket and for a hotel! I never doubted for a moment that Yeltsin

would receive me. I knew, of course, that I wouldlook funny to Muscovites–like "a petitioner froma province." That was the name that used to begiven to any person who came to Moscow to seeLenin after the Great October Revolution. But Ialso knew that my cause was right. "Our cause isjust, the victory will be ours." This slogan was

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hammered into my head since childhood.xi It was only when I walked up to the Supreme

Soviet building–the Soviet version of The WhiteHouse that was to become so famous three yearslater during the coup–that I understood just howsilly my venture was. At the gate, I was stoppedand questioned about my invitation and pass. Withno invitation, but also without any doubts,somehow I won! I was inside, and the magnificentelevator was taking me up to the floor whereAlexander Tsaregorodtsev, one of Yeltsin'sassistants, had his office. And there all wonderscame to an end. Even God retreated in the face ofthe Soviet bureaucracy!

"What do you expect me to do?" The tall man with a pious, emotionless face

appeared irritated by my request to see BorisYeltsin and gave me a puzzled rather than asurprised look. Obviously I didn't deserve thesurprise. I was just some crazy woman from theUrals, hoping to see Boris Yeltsin personally.

"There are many pastors," Tsaregorodtsevpronounced at last in a weary voice, "but thereis only one Yeltsin."

"How can you say that? Are there really manypastors?" I began to defend the Pastor, who hadchanged my life.

"The audience is over." Leaving the Supreme Soviet building, I walked

along Kalinin Prospect, crying. For the firsttime, I felt lonely. Near Old Arbat, I saw a

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crowd of people and wondered what was happening.From afar I recognized Boris Yeltsin and MikhailGorbachev. Good gracious! What a chance! I thought.Then as I pushed through the crowd, I burst outlaughing. They were cardboard figures of bothleaders, put up for the benefit of anyone whowanted to have their pictures taken with theleaders. There were a lot of volunteers.

Then I was struck with a naughty idea. Why notdo the same and bring the photo to Sverdlovsk asa joke? And I did. Many people examined thepicture of me next to Boris Yeltsin withsurprise, unable to believe that Yeltsin was notreal. When I look at this photo, it reminds me ofmy naiveté and my powerlessness.

Why Are We Always Afraid of the Truth?

Soon after my return, a frightful tragedyhappened in Moscow. Alexander Men, an Orthodoxpriest, was murdered on the way to his church ona Sunday morning. Why should Father Alexander bekilled so brutally and with such cold-bloodedpremeditation? To find the reason, I tried toread everything I could about his murder. I foundand bought Men’s books, The Human Son and Herald ofGod's Kingdom, and after reading them, I fell inlove with the author. It was critical for me toread his books. I wanted to follow the course ofhis reasoning. That man was genuine and had aspark of God. But my attempts to find any of his

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books ended in failure. Then I received a sharpreply to my request from the attendant in a newOrthodox bookstore.

"There are no books by Men and there won't beany! Father Alexander had some serious doctrinalmistakes, so his works are prohibited now." Thestore assistant, a young man who looked like anascetic, explained to me gently.

Just like that! The man is no more. There areno books by him. There are no problems either.xii

Fr. Michael Plekno wrote,

“As with numerous other assassinationsin the chaos of Yeltsin's Russia, thelogic would point to the political-cultural and religious extreme right-wing, partisans of the group Pamyat("Remembrance") and like traditionalistfactions, for whom his writing andspeaking was anathema, precisely theperspective of those who wouldeventually burn his books.”

The man, who was called “the apostle to theintellectuals” and preached hope for the Churchand a new renaissance of the nation was notsimply assassinated, his teaching was pronounceda heresy. After I had found this paragraph, Iunderstood why Fr. Alexander Men was murdered:

“Even if I were a Muslim and came toyou, having read your Christian books

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I would have to say to you: Folks,it’s not this way. Your religion doesnot consist in this at all. Your Godis a consuming fire and not a warmhearth, and he is calling you to aplace where all sorts of cold wind areblowing so that what you imagine doesnot exist. You adapted and developed acompletely different teaching to suityour own human needs. You transformedChristianity into a mediocre, popularreligion.”xiii

There is no man. There are no more problemseither. This solution is radical and well known.How vicious and how cynical! Alexander Men’sattacker was never found and brought to trial.This was the familiar peremptory shout: "Notallowed!" How much all of us lost because ofthis.

Why are we always afraid of the truth? The mostterrible thing is that we all keep silent, isn'tit? Soviet people remained silent for seventyyears. We've all kept quiet about seeing priestsmurdered, churches and books burned, the best ofmen persecuted. Twenty millions lives weredestroyed under Stalin.

This was the familiar dictatorial command,"Not allowed!" How much all of us lost because ofit in the past. We were deprived of the right tochoose. We could read, see, and eat only what waspermitted. But people remained silent. That is

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probably why Soviet people had such a great powerof imagination. We had nothing left but to beproud of the little we had. We were doomed torecite by heart Vladimir Mayakovski’s line"Soviet people have a pride of their own; we lookdown on the bourgeois and the rich!"

People must be right when they say that Godtakes the best people to Himself, I thought,after Alexander Men’s murder. I tried toreconcile my doubts with God’s ways without anyclosure. How did God allow a murderer to strikeone of his best? Aren't the wild times ofrepression over, when thousands of priests wereshot, tortured in prisons, and sent to Siberia?What, then, about Protestants?

If someone could kill such prominent Orthodoxpriest what is the fate of Protestant Pastors?What will my fate be in Russia? I was the firstwoman who stepped on this path and felt verylonely. In September 1990, I was frightened,thinking of the dangers for myself and for myfamily, even though I was just an unknown leaderof a tiny Methodist community. My hope was thatwe will remain unnoticed until we find a realpastor to lead us.

But being proud, I never told anyone about myfears. "If you pledge, do not hedge!" the Russianproverb says. Once you've begun, you can't backout.

Birth Pangs

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Our church was registered on October 24, 1990,as "The Methodist Church Community." The daybefore the registration was to be discussed bythe City Soviet Presidium, xiv I had to coordinatethe last details with the City Soviet lawyer andthe head of the City Religion Committee, MayaMikhailova. This usually pleasant woman wasunusually aggressive and distrustful. She greetedme with the angry reproach.

"You are only going to register yourcommunity, aren't you? But you have gotten thebest land in town for your church building!"

“Have you already given us land? What are youtalking about, Maia?"xv

"Stop playing the fool!" Maya snapped. "Youhave managed, behind our backs, to get the bestplot of land in the city, to stir up localinterest to yourself. Tomorrow the city newspaperwill publish a letter of protest against theMethodist church. Scientists, historians, andveterans are going to picket roads leading toVainer Park."

Vainer Park, named after a local RevolutionaryWar "hero", was quite an attractive park when myparents were young. Leonid Utesov–the Soviet jazzstar–used to perform there once. A brass bandplayed there in summer, and people danced and hada good time in the evenings. It was now neglectedand overgrown with weeds, but our localnationalists were going to stand up publicly for

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this historical heritage! I was embarrassed andperplexed by the accusation–because I didn'tdeserve it. I only knew that though guiltless, Iwas guilty! The arguments against me wereobvious:

Was I a Methodist? Yes! Was I developing the church? Yes, I was. Was I going to receive the land? Apparently

so! Well, there is the evidence. The sentence is

passed without the right of appeal. Suddenly Iunderstood. There will be no registration. Therewill be no Methodist Church. I almost feltrelief.

"We are not even registered as the church yet.How could we get the land to build the building?Please, stop the article, it's a mistake," Iwhispered, hardly able to check my tears.

Maya Mikhailova exchanged glances with thelawyer, and I sensed their struggle. Maybe therereally is some kind of confusion; she sounds quite sincere andeven flabbergasted. They promised to contact thejournalist who wrote that malicious andunverified article to convince him to interviewme before releasing it. That same night, I had along conversation with the reporter, telling himour story and trying at the same time to find outwhere he got such false information.

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Mr. Urmanov represented the Center forAssistance to the People's Deputy B. N.Yeltsin.xvi Somehow, he got a hold of DwightRamsey’s documents and brought them to the Mayorof Sverdlovsk Yuri Samarin. The mystery wasresolved. Yuri Samarin wrote his resolution:

"The Center of People's Deputy B. N.Yeltsin. I ask to work up the questionof defining the place and furthersteps. Yuri Samarin. 9/25/90."

That was how the most attractive plot of landwent to politicians. I found out that Urmanovactually did meet with Dwight in person about hisproposal to build a Methodist church inSverdlovsk. That put Dwight in a dilemma. Shouldhe develop the church with inexperienced novicesor say yes to skillful politicians who were readyto materialize the pastor's dream in the shortesttime? Though the temptation was great to go thequick way, Dwight chose me. Choosing our smallcommunity, Dwight took a long and far from thesimple path to his goal. For that, we wereeternally grateful.

Our group had a difficult meeting with theleaders of the Center for Assistance. Red-haired,freckle-faced Urmanov said that he had intendedto surprise our congregation with the gift of achurch building after it was built. Then came abelated offer of cooperation. The idea ofdeveloping the church with the support of

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experienced politicians was very appealing. Butwe refused. It just didn’t feel right. We wantedto do everything ourselves and, most important,to do it with clean hands.

In spite of the journalist's promise to thecontrary, the article did appear in the townnewspaper, The Evening Sverdlovsk, under the spitefulheadline "Setting the Axe to the Old Park."Actually, one didn't have to read the news to beaware of the fact. On the bus, I heard theindignant passengers cussing "those Methodists."The citizens, united by skillfully triggered"noble impulses" demonstrated re-discoveredpatriotism vigorously–but hardly decently.

Good gracious! I thought as I listened to them.What am I doing? I don't know anything about the MethodistChurch yet! What if this church should bring misfortune here?

At that point I saw that my vocation was notonly to bring Methodism to Russia, it was also todevelop it without insulting and wounding the"mysterious Russian soul."

And then I thought of Granddad. How would I havetold him about the Methodist Church? I suddenly realizedhow critical it was for us to find some Methodistroots in our history. We had way too many foreignreligious groups that began messing up people’sminds. I wouldn’t dare to bring another sect to Russia!

I started by asking Papa, to his surprise, forthe old notebooks left by Granddad, and I beganto look through them. I read with interest aboutGranddad's family buying an American harvesting

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machine in 1912–the only one in their village. Iwas amazed that Granddad had also had somecontacts with Americans and had thought highly oftheir technology and machinery.

When I read about secret prayer meetings, Iwas surprised. Was it not enough for mygrandfather to go to the Orthodox Church? When Iasked my father, he told me that Granddad notonly had been the Orthodox believer I knew him tobe but also had been a member of a Protestantunderground Bible study group. Something in theOrthodox Church was missing for Granddad. That'swhy he attended the secret meetings and tried toexpress himself through his writing. In time,Ignatii was condemned by the leader of the sectbecause he had not turned away from the OrthodoxChurch. All his life Granddad kept patientlytrying to find his church, I wished I knew whatit was.

Perhaps it was the Methodist Church Granddad was lookingfor! I thought, startled. I did find in hisnotebook some mention of Methodism, but I can'tplace too much emphasis on it–it was justmentioned in passing. Still, rereading those oldjournals somehow eased my inner tension: Granddadwould have understood and supported me! I felt hewould have been happy that I had come to God, andI wanted my grandfather to be proud of me. Fromthen on, one of my aims was to make our churchhospitable for such people as my grandfather.

The day after the article appeared, our fate

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was decided by the City Council. In spite of theloud scandal, our group was registered as thechurch. Now, our community got the right to opena bank account, then, we could apply for a landto build the church. The name we chose for our churchsounded ambitious, but we felt like we earned it: The First UnitedMethodist Church of Russia! And it was in Sverdlovskthat it was born!

We were and remained the first UnitedMethodist Church in Russia. I laughed, "Russiansare very modest. Now our name is not The FirstUnited Methodist Church of Russia, but merely TheFirst United Methodist Church of the wholeworld!" Humor was often my only salvation, attimes my only support.

In the weeks that followed, not many peoplecame to our meetings though there were newmembers. Ludmila Vaschekina joined ourcongregation, then her daughter Marina. When ArdoRennik, an Estonian, joined our community, hehelped me find fellow Methodists in Tallinn.There was a Methodist church in Estonia, he toldus. Through his brother, he got the contactinformation. When I heard the calm, soft voice ofGeorg Lamberg, the pastor of the Russian-speakingMethodist Church in Estonia, I could not helpcrying for joy; we were not alone anymore. Whilewe talked, his daughter Marika began playing thepiano and singing "What a Friend We Have inJesus." I never heard this modest song before,but the fact that a young girl played for me so

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far away was a better encouragement than of thewhole orchestra.

Soon after that, a stranger called: "I am fromGeorg Lamberg." Through him, I got a copy of thecharter of the Estonian Methodist Church–my firstMethodist document in Russian. Later on, I got acopy of The Book of Discipline, but it was in English.All through "hand-to-hand" Methodist mail!

When it came time to receive the land, anothertrial was in store for us. At the city councilmeeting, Deputy Goncharenko shouted hystericallythat I was trying to stir up a second Ulster inthe Urals (war between Protestants and Orthodox).Let the land go to waste rather than give it to Americans! Therest of the deputies, accustomed to theircolleague's rude manners, agreed. The issue wasput to the vote, and the majority of deputiesvoted against the terror of the Protestant warthat could be started by the Americans in ourprovincial city. Perestroika apparently transformed ourdeputies into radical patriots, I thought.

When someone is up against a brick wall, thereis a slight possibility that he or she can breakthrough it. The wall of bureaucracy is made out ofunbreakable material unless you know a secret door or the rightname. But here I had no hope whatsoever. For Ihad no knowledge of either. I felt as if I wassinking in quicksand. A feeling of impotence andhopelessness gripped me–the more I struggled, thedeeper I sank. I can't stand shouting in general,

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but it's especially offensive when people yelland insult in public. But there was more to come.

Another woman from the Religion Committee ofthe City Soviet, Tatiana Tagieva, invited theprofessor of religion and a former KGB officer tothe next hearing. The debate was againaccompanied by the Goncharenko's abusive attacks,and the head of the City Soviet had a hard timecontrolling him. Vladimir Victorov focused onlyon one idea: the Methodist Church is a peacefulchurch, it never acted aggressively againstanybody.

In spite of a lengthy and zealous speech indefense of the citizens' patriotic feelings andagainst the dangerous invasion of Protestants,"Comrade" Goncharenko failed to win his point.The noise was suddenly interrupted by theremarkably calm voice of one of the deputies.

"Why all this fuss? One would think, lookingat you, that the Methodist Church was going tobury the nuclear waste in the center ofSverdlovsk! It's clear that it only wants tobuild, with American assistance, a religiouscenter which, by the way, could beautifySverdlovsk and become a new center of culture!"

Embarrassed, all the deputies fell silent.Then they began the voting. This time, we won!

Call it Intuition

Just before Easter of 1991, out of nowhere I

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felt an urge to go to Leningrad. During one ofour telephone conversations, Dwight corrected methat we had not brought Methodism to Russia–wewere reviving it. At first, I got upset. I put somuch energy into something that was not new! Iwas so proud of being called a Founder. On theother hand, I was tired of being called a traitorand desperately needed proof that our church wasnot an American Church and had roots in Russia.My church should have a history! Dwight’s wordsmade me start searching, but the literature Icould find on the subject was scant. My primarysource of information was the third volume of TheDictionary of Atheism, under the title "Protestant."The few articles I did find were not enough and,frankly speaking, almost turned me off. In one ofthem, I saw a photo of wild-looking people in astate of religious ecstasy, with the author'scommentary:

"The Methodist preacher brought theparishioners to madness and made themextremely nervous. After such sermonsmany fell down on the floor inconvulsions, others were unconscious ortrembling and screamed for hours." I showed that article to no one! Something

was telling me that the Methodist Church wasdifferent from Jimmy Swaggart’s shows. Hisservices reminded me of a pop show and hadnothing to do with worship. That kind of churchcould never suit Russian people. This was when I

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decided to go to Leningrad to do my own researchin the city's archives.

When I boarded the plane to Leningrad, I wasalone with my thoughts for the first time inmonths. The mixture of recent events made meanxious. My whole life was no longer the same. Asa result of that trip, I learned to love to fly.It's like entering some in-between state: betweenpast and future, sky and earth, friends and newacquaintances. For a short time, I belong only tomyself. I like to travel unaccompanied.Unexpected revelations sometimes come to me, asone did that day while the plane was still takingoff.

At first I fell asleep, it seemed. Thensuddenly I saw people in white garments, ofdifferent ages and appearance. They looked likeancient Roman sculptures, but they were livingpeople. They appeared, then gave place to others,saying nothing. For some reason, I scrutinizedtheir faces as if I was looking for someone.

Then, I saw a man! The man was unlike othersand he was looking at me attentively, studyingme. I thought perhaps I was sleeping, but my eyeswere open. For no reason, I began to weep, butthe man didn't disappear. Then I got scared.Jesus Christ! No, I didn’t say it out of fear! Itwas Jesus! Nobody could tell me it was He, but Icouldn’t be wrong. God has come to take me away. Theseare my last moments. God doesn’t show Himself to humans–whichI knew! It’s impossible just to see Him and continue living. I must

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be dying. How about other people on board? Will they die too?But they’ve done nothing wrong! Did I have to die because Istarted developing the Methodist Church on the Russian land? AmI cursed?

Part of me felt dead. The former shy Lidia–diffident, full of fears and doubts–died at thatmoment.

Tears streamed down my face, so many that theywashed away all doubts, all pain. I sigheddeeply. And then I saw the frightened eyes of myneighbor. If she only knew . . . I made an effortto smile. It was impossible to explain myexperience. The whole thing was crazy! When Ileft the plane, I was quite a different person–now I was just the way God made me.

From that time on, I began to pray. Now, Iknew whom did I talk to. It was no longer anempty corner of my room where I prayed. In oneshort, blissful moment, I was given clarity. Fromthen on, every time I prayed, a pillar of lighttouched my lowered head. Words can't describe thecolor of that light. This full, shining, milkyray of light lifted up my prayers and gave mestrength and support. Often, while praying, Ifelt a touch on my shoulders, as someone came upbehind me. It quickly made me bow my head.

During my time in Leningrad, I learned howlittle a person really needs to get along: a bedfor sleeping, a table for working, and a chairfor sitting. I remembered Granddad saying, "Youcan't sit on two chairs! It's too

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uncomfortable!" In this mystical city, I found what I was

looking for in the Museum of Religion on NevskiProspect. The museum had been created in the oldKazanski Cathedral. To organize a museum in achurch was better than to open a swimming poolthat was built in the beautiful Lutheran Churchof St. Peter and St. Paul across the street fromKazanski Cathedral.

Inside of the museum, I found a displaydevoted to Protestants. Here they are Baptists,Lutherans, and Adventists. There were picturesand documents about them on the wall. Finally, Ispotted out the name “Methodists." But there wasno information concerning Methodism under it,just one word. But that was the proof! It wasenough for me to see with my own eyes that therehad been Methodists in Russia once. What could havehappened to them, I wondered, so that only the nameof the denomination was left in the museum?

I found a research staff and asked her to helpme get permission to work in the archives. IrinaSimonova, a tall, slender blonde woman, agreed.After going through all the formalities, I wentto the depository, where I was permitted to lookthrough old journals and magazines. I had neverbeen lucky in the past, but now I had entered theunfamiliar territory, where dreams come true, andeverything is possible. It didn’t’ surprise meanymore. We succeeded in finding copies of ajournal published by the Methodist Church from

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1910 to the present–The Christian Advocate. I alsofound copies of the first Methodist hymnstranslated into Russian.

But the thing I value most, I found in the oldjournals–a sheet of paper covered with writing inpencil. The note was written in 1923 by one ofthe leaders of the Methodist Church. I figured itout after finding the names of Sister Ann andBishop Burt in the text. With the researchworker's permission, I took the sheet home withme to keep–nobody at the museum, she assured me,needed it.

At last it became clear to me what I must do.I must tell people about leaders in the past whowere brave to believe different from the majorityof Russians. The more I read the old magazine,the more I understood the secret of the firstRussian Methodists. They didn’t do anythingsophisticated. They only went where their helpwas needed most.

Early Methodists in St. Petersburg educatedchildren and adults, helped the orphans, andcared for the sick. My task from now on was tohelp my members learn to give more than to get.We all need to follow my grandfather’s example.But it is not easy to teach people, who haven'thad enough for generation after generation,generosity. It is also too much to expect it frompeople who are already giving a lot in a time ofsocial or natural cataclysms. The question is,what about the rest of the time? As one of our

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humorists said, "A giant misfortune is needed. Ingood times, people are like wolves."

In that connection, I remember a true storythat took place in my own hometown. An olderwoman was dying of hunger in her studioapartment. To the right and to the left, aboveher and below her, were neighbors. There weregood people all around! But none of them foundtime to knock at her door. When there was no foodleft in the apartment, the woman lit a burner onthe gas stove and switched off the lights in herstudio apartment. She layed down in bed that shecould see the flame of gas, and waited to die.Perhaps the view of the flame helped her forgether loneliness.

A year later, someone asked the neighbors,"When did you last see this woman?"

The neighbors called the police. When the doorwas broken down, they were horrified, but not bythe tragedy or even their own cruelty. They wereterrified by the thought that all of them couldhave died if the gas had spread through thebuilding!

"The house might have exploded!" they said.Only later did a few of them feel embarrassedbecause they thought first of themselves.

All of us had gotten into the habit of being apathetic. Whilethinking about achieving "great victories,” we had gotten used topassing by the poor, the lonely, and the deprived. Was it becauseall of us were equally deprived? Perhaps.

On the way to the hotel, I went to the Russian

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Orthodox Cathedral on the Blood. Seeing thesplendor of this holy place, I was disturbed.Maybe my place is in the Orthodox Church after all, I thought,and my doubts agitated again. I recalled my talkwith my fourteen-year-old daughter, whose opinionI valued. Iulia, for whom the beauty and mysteryof the Orthodox Church were vital, could notaccept the Methodist Church. It seemed to herthat Jimmy Swaggart’s buffoonery was what aMethodist service really was. As for me, I had noinformation and personal experience to help herfeel the spirit of Methodism that I accepted byfaith. Perhaps my daughter is right and I am in error, Ithought.

Greatly disturbed, I went to the IsakovskiSobor–Isakovski Cathedral xvii. From my childhood,I remembered the enormous pendulum hanging in thecenter of the cathedral. This time, the IsakovskyCathedral seemed less like a museum. Byintuition–for I knew nothing then about theimportance of the center in the cathedral, whichwas outlined by a circle–I rushed into the centerand turned my face to the altar. The golden doorsof the iconostasis were wide open, and I couldsee the altar and behind it Christ rising inbrilliant light in the magnificent stained-glasswindow. xviii

The view 0f the glorious risen Christ spoke tome of the mystery of God. It settled all mydoubts. I wasn’t given an answer, as I expected,but I didn’t need it. Somehow just looking at the

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stained-glass window satisfied me. If thestained-glass window can coexist with theOrthodox iconostasis, then Methodism can coexistwith Orthodoxy. The Orthodox roots and traditionsof Russian believers will enrich Methodism.Methodism will help the nonbeliever get to knowChrist and choose his own path, whether Orthodox,Catholic, Protestant, or some other.

Leningrad filled me with its innovative andfree spirit. Methodism has always had educationaltendencies. Maybe the purpose of the MethodistChurch in Russia is to educate the people, tohelp them find answers, and then to give them achance to apply their freedom of choice anddecide for themselves.

I stood in the center of the Isakovski Soborand torrents of light along with a new sense ofliberty streamed down on my head. Unable to takemy eyes off the figure of Christ, I felt like Iwas given permission from above to continue.

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6 I AM NOT A PROPHET

Blessing and Suffering

Now that I was the leader of the recentlyregistered Methodist Church, one thing led toanother and not in a good way. Dwight didn’t give

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me clear directions, and the videotapes of hisworship services were not the same as the realthing. Without a pastor, we were stuck. But onequestion kept torturing me more than others:

"What do I have to lead these long-sufferingand disillusioned people?"

Many of them started coming to me with theirheartaches, but I could only listen. As a girl, Iwas sheltered by my parents. I married early andhad spent all my life beside my children. I hadnever been beyond the borders of the SovietUnion. I did not really know people and had notraining to help them. Why Dwight didn’t hurry tosend us someone with authority?

Early in the summer of 1991, not long beforethe first anniversary of his first visit toSverdlovsk, Dwight Ramsey unexpectedly invited myfather and me to come to Shreveport. The ideaseemed absurd, for we had none of the thingsrequired for a trip abroad: an internationalpassport, a visa, or plane tickets.

At that time, we could get internationalpassports only in Moscow, at the Ministry ofForeign Affairs. So that's where I went. Afterattempting to get an audience with Boris Yeltsinhimself a year ago, the new task seemed even lessrealistic. Only an extravagant person would havegone to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs withoutany kind of backing or patronage and certainlynot without a gift. When I got there, theemployees kept sending me from one room to

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another. The process might have lasted for monthshad I not lost patience! Patience was never myvirtue. I hated lines as much as I hatedbureaucracy. Besides, I had no time to waste. Ifound the chief's office, opened the door, andwalked in. At first, I thought there were two mensitting at the desk, so powerful and massive didthe chief appear. His face was swollen and puffy,and I could hardly discern his tiny eyes, whichlooked at me attentively.

"Well, what can I do for you?" he askedlazily.

Acting on impulse, I opened my handbag, gotout my Bible, and said, "This is for you." Yes,it was a bribe. I took the Bible with me toMoscow to give it to my friend, but under thecircumstances, and as much as I hated bribes, Ibribed the official giving him a Bible.

"Who are you?'' he asked, suddenly bendingtoward me so that his body almost lay across thetable littered with hundreds of applications.

"I am from the Methodist Church," I whispered,not knowing that I wouldn’t be arrested forbribing.

"Give me your documents," the big man said.Then, almost as in a fairy tale, I was led todifferent rooms for one formality after anotheruntil finally I was given the proper papers forthe passports and visas. That meant wepractically had them.

Now, all we had to get were the airline

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tickets. All the savings I had–about 2,250 rubles(equal to around $700 then)–would barely coverthe cost of a one-way ticket. Besides that, I hadto pay my colossal international phone bill, andI would also need some money for souvenirs andgifts that Russians must take on a trip. As itturned out, Dwight’s friends had alreadypurchased our tickets for us. We learned thedetails only after we got to Shreveport. Dwightrealized that it wasn't a simple matter to sendthem to us. If he declared the amount he paid forthem, he would have to pay an exorbitant amountfor insurance. What should he do? He decided topay 48 dollars for FedEx delivery to Moscow,knowing that we do not have express mail inSverdlovsk. Dwight laughed that he had beenpraying for four days until I finally called himfrom Moscow just to say that we had the tickets.I had no idea what a storm was raging in his soulwhile my Dad and I stood in line for six hours atthe Moscow Central Telegraph Office to call him.If I had known the state Dwight was in, I wouldhave gladly stood in line for ten hours!

After twenty-seven hours of traveling, Dwightand his wife Gay met us in Shreveport and took usto the Centenary College for the Annual LouisianaUnited Methodist Conference.

Five hundred people held their breaths afterPavel Istomin came to the microphone to talkabout the Russian economy, politics, and about

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the official position toward religion. Then, Ishared about how our church in Sverdlovsk wasstarted and how our enthusiasm to see our liveschanged continued growing.

“I told you–this is all about politics. Dwightwants to show off. He converted a Communist intoMethodist!”

“If it is a church, why they call themselvesconference?” My Dad had one question afteranother. “Why pastors wear ordinary suitesinstead of robes? How do you know they arepastors?”

If Methodism is all about the reason, then Idoubted Dwight made the right choice making me aleader. I found nothing reasonable to say.

“Look! That guy just dozed off, but as soon asit was time to vote, he immediately raised hishand like he knew what he was voting for. Themajority is voiceless! People are afraid to saywhat they really think! It is universal. Oh,Lida, you are so naïve. You are a Prodigaldaughter. You bow to the system that is no betterthan ours!”

“I bow to God, Papa, not to the system!”“The system will break you, you will see.”But outside of our arguments at the

Conference, my father and I had fourteenunforgettable days in Shreveport with the peopleof Broadmoor United Methodist Church. I felt asif a dam had been opened in my heart: I trustedeveryone and seemed like the feeling was mutual.

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I was immersed in a sea of love, goodwill,elation, and delight! It is impossible to tellabout Methodists from Russia without tellingabout the Methodists from Broadmoor. Broadmoorcongregation taught me what I needed to learn:lessons of faith, charity, and the enjoyment offellowship.

How difficult it was to leave, but not becauselife in the United States is better. Actually, Iwasn't surprised by the American way of life,even though this was my first trip abroad. No, itwas difficult to leave because I fell in lovewith the people. I was still weak as a Christian,so unprepared as a leader. I not only needed allmy new friends' prayers, but I needed theirpresence as well. We had been able to understandone another even though my English was veryrough. But I hadn't needed an interpreter–peopleunderstood me and I understood them.

At home, tragedy was waiting for me. Five-year-old Pavlik had pneumonia! He was already illwhen we were in the States. When I called myfamily from Shreveport, they didn't say thatPavlik first got salmonella and that hiscondition was serious. He had not fully recoveredwhen my husband took the children to Sochi onvacation. The change of climate weakened my son’simmune system, and he developed pneumonia.

When I arrived in Sochi, I refused toacknowledge my son's serious condition. Either

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because of the jet lag or because my head wasfull of extraordinary memories, I lost my abilityto think critically and denied that my son's lifewas in danger. After two fantastic weeks inAmerica, I couldn't believe that somethingfrightful and unfair was happening. Such things justcannot be! My little boy will be up and running around in no time,I told myself.

The morning I arrived, Pavlik said he wantedto be with people, so we decided to go for awalk. I knew it! God had already healed my boy!But he didn't have the strength to walk very far,so we sat down on a bench. When my husband and Itried to take Pavlik back to the room, he criedout, "I want to be with people!"

We had to call the ambulance that evening. Asthe doctor was taking Pavlik’s pulse, he lostconsciousness. The doctor said our little boy wassuffering from a severe case of respiratory andcardiac deficiency and would have to be taken tothe hospital.

At the hospital, the doctor tried to send meaway from the ICU ward, saying, "You are notsupposed to be here!"

"Do you want to find a crazy woman among thebushes in the morning?" I responded.

The doctor surrendered and allowed me to staywith my boy for five days in the intensive care,then twenty days in a regular ward. I had no bed,nor was I fed because I was in the hospitalagainst regulations. But I would not leave. Every

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morning small corpses covered with sheets weretaken out of the building. There was no medicine!Sometimes, Pavlik lost consciousness and criedout in a hallucination. For much of the time, Iread the Bible aloud to him. I never read theBible aloud before. I read it because I washelpless. I frequently whispered my prayers, andpeople in the hospital thought I had gone off myhead. I stopped praying only when it wasnecessary to scrub the pots and mop the floors inthe hall and in my son’s room. Then I resumedreading again. When Pavlik fell asleep, I went onreading and kept asking myself, "Why is thishappening?" Then I read that the Lord “punishesthose whom he loves" (Heb. 12:6). I focused onthe word “love” instead of “punish.” So the Lordloves me, I thought. Then I knew that he wouldnot leave us in this affliction. Later, at home,my sister corrected me, “God does not punish, Godteaches.” Oh, no! I knew better. Sergey and Iuliaspent all these days and nights near thehospital. Both slept and ate randomly. The fourof us were desperate to leave that place ofdeath. If God punished me for whatever I’ve done,then why was my whole family had to suffer withme?

"Pavlik, aren't you tired of listening to meread the Bible?" I asked once when he was lyingquietly. "Shall I read some fairy tales to you?"

"Sure.” I did not notice any excitement in mylittle boy’s voice. I hardly started on a couple

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of pages when he said urgently, "Mummy, it's better to read the Bible! I'm

tired.” It was the first time he had asked foranything after four frightful days.

After that the doctors were surprised by thesudden changes in Pavlik’s condition. One day hesat up, then took a few first steps. Just twodays ago he hadn't even been able to hold up hishead, his muscles were too weak. Not only hislungs but also the whole of his tiny body wasaffected.

My parents had sent us the best medicine byplane, asking complete strangers to find us anddeliver the medicine. Those people found us inthe hospital, but by then Pavlik was already onthe way to recovery.

"This is a miracle,” the doctors said.We were discharged from the hospital only

after we signed a document saying that we wouldnot raise any claim in case my son’s conditiontook a turn for the worse on the plane. Anambulance took us straight to the aircraft, andthe doctor was with us until the takeoff time.Fearing Pavel might develop lung edema, Imonitored his breathing during the flight. Butanother miracle: the longer the trip lasted, themerrier my son became. He’s alive! I rememberthinking.

When we got home, the first thing Pavlikwanted to do was to light a candle. I was readyto do anything he wanted. In the hospital, I had

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mentally vowed that I would stay at home with myson and take care of him. My decision was toleave the church. My place was near my son.Pavlik looked at the flame for a long time.Suddenly he said, "Mummy, I know what God islike. I have just seen a church with a dome andmetal letters on the wall: METHODIST CHURCH!"

I took this as another of God's signs to me–similar to the one I saw in the stained glasswindow of the Isakovski Sobor. Again Iunderstood: Methodism is my vocation. I can’t getaway from it.

Later, Pavlik revealed another of his newgifts. Out of the blue, he asked me, "Mummy, whatdo you think about Victor?" referring to who wasone of the first among us to meet Dwight. Thefact that my son called an adult by his firstname was strange.

"Do you think he believes in God?" Pavlik wenton. "No, he is very far from God. Look," and hemoved his index fingers far away from each other,"Victor is far from you, so he is far from God,too."

Somewhat puzzled, I asked my little son abouteach of the first members of our MethodistAssociation. He told me what their relationshipwith God was. I wish I knew at the time that itwas not a game.

Why Not Giving Up?

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After a long interruption–the nearly twomonths of my absence–our monthly meetings beganagain, this time at my mother’s work, not mine.Noticing new people in the audience, I sensedtheir anguish along with curiosity. Friends werebringing friends. Are they here because of our direct link toAmerica or because they need God, I wondered.

The people who followed us were fed up withwords. Distrustful, spiritually bankrupt,disappointed, cynical–they needed to hear someonelike Fr. Alexander Men, not my words. People inour congregation needed a prophet. I had to berealistic: even if I was the best preacher, I wasstill a woman. In Russia, women are not allowedto preach. Regardless of denomination, womencan’t be pastors or priests. Dwight was far away.When will we find a suitable pastor to preach?Meanwhile, I had to bring a message to my peoplenext day.

I am not a prophet, not a priest, not a theologian. I’m justsome sort of hybrid: a local leader, but without a thoroughknowledge of the Bible; an electrochemical engineer behind thepulpit. How can I convey God’s message to these people? Should Iteach them through chemical reactions or technologicaldiagrams? Or should I use my non-for-profit experience? Should Ioffer leadership training? Those were the only resources I had inmy stash.

Not knowing, where I could get a theologicaldegree overnight, I fell on my knees in despair.That was probably the clumsiest prayer God everheard. My hope was that my prayer would go

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unnoticed but answered. It was evident even to mehow ridiculous my expectation was.

Suddenly a torrent of light came down on me,and I swam in euphoria. I stood under that showerof newly discovered dimension and wished toremain there my whole life. It was the safestspace I ever found myself in. Then, somethingmade me get up. It felt like my brain was rewiredin that silent moment. That day, as soon as Iopened my mouth in front of the audience to givea speech I prepared–but, no, I couldn’t! My lipspronounced entirely different words against mywill. It was not even my voice that I heardcoming out of my mouth. Everyone present wassitting so quietly that I felt uneasy. Was itgood? I had no idea, but I went on talking. Ispoke to the point, smoothly and calmly, not evenemotionally. But the tears were running down mycheeks. My members were in tears too. Who wasthat who took over my voice and me?

To preach in public is not easy, particularlyif all the people around you have known you sincechildhood.

“How can it be?” they will ask. “Onlyyesterday she was just like all of us, but today–just imagine–she’s preaching or acting likepreaching? Has she gone off her head?”

Who could be so inquisitive that he wanted to see everythingin detail? I wondered, hoping it wasn’t a religiousfanatic with a gun to remove that heretic womanfrom the stage. It turned out to be my cousin

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Elena Pasynkova. We had been out of touch formany years. Immediately after the service sherushed to my parents’ house and babbledexcitedly,

“Aunt Raisa, do you know that Lidia lost hermind?”

“Where is she? What happened? Is she OK?”“Didn’t you know? She’s agreed to become a

pastor. And how a sane person could decide tobecome a pastor in a twinkling?”

“Ah, this!” Mother sighed with relief. “Elena,you scared me for a second! I thought somethinghad actually happened. It’s for you in a‘twinkling.’ As for Lydia, she’s been doing thisfor over a year now. You can’t even imagine whatshe went through. You just didn’t know.”

But evidently Elena understood very little.She had to see for herself. So she began toattend the services. I had never had a moreattentive listener. Elena never missed a singleevent and she even took notes painstakingly. Thenshe would call me and for hours ask about thedetails of what I said, probably still trying tomake sure that I was in my right mind. Then, shedisappeared. I never really learned what herconclusion about my sanity was.

When our church members stopped being ashamedof sharing their faith experiences, their lifestories and tragedies, it turned out that many ofthem had known God since early childhood. Theyremembered their praying grandmothers, the icons

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in their village houses, their own journeys, fullof suffering and astonishing endurance.

As they did so, I saw that my own lifeexperiences were not that unusual. The spirituallife of my members proved to be so full, so rich,that as I listened, I cried and laughed togetherwith them. Until this day, I know I never taughtRussian Methodists how to believe! Truth to betold, I learned from them.

The Threat of Revolution

In August 1991, a coup d’état ended withGorbachev’s arrest. Another revolution washappening before our eyes of those who had beenbuilding and defending the outdated socialsystem. It was a real tragedy for older folks.Youngsters projected anger on their parents, whocreated all that mess they had to clean now. Thetruth was we were all sick and tired ofsophisticated lies about the bright future thatwas just around the corner. That future wasobviously on a backup order because of the needto protect the country from the evil West.Weaponry was more important than food andwellbeing. Nothing unites people better than acommon enemy, and the government played that cardreally well. But even that trick stopped working.Russia wanted freedom of choice. Russians thought they wereready for democracy.

It’s difficult to describe the feelings of all

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of us those scary days. Some were glad thatperestroika might be stopped. Others anxiouslywaited for perestroika to continue. It was auniversal shock, generating feelings of bothapathy and fear.

I spent the whole day of August 19 on thephone, trying to get information from Moscow. Itwas useless to watch the news. Television andradio reported nothing. But when the ballet SwanLake was broadcasted on TV, we understood thatsituation took the worst turn. We knew fromexperience that if symphony or ballet werebroadcast on all channels, it meant that one ofthe top officials had died. As was our custom, wecould only wait for the official information. Atfirst, we had nothing but speculations, thenthere were rumors of a coup and Gorbachev’sarrest. Even our parents, with all the surprisesof their lives, had not seen the like. Myapartment looked like a headquarters. People keptcalling and coming over.

“We are so lucky to find each other! Togetherwe shall handle this! It is not so terribletogether!”

“Lydia! Are you alone? I must talk to youconfidentially. Where do you keep the records?Hide them or better destroy them!”

My neighbor, Venera Khabibulina happened to bein Moscow at the most crucial point. She was nearthe White House and with her bare hands had torncobbles out of the pavement to use as weapons.

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The Dog’s Park

In two weeks, we expected to host the firstlarge group from our sister church Broadmoor UMCand were afraid that the visit would be canceled.We were grateful that our unknown friends werenot afraid to visit us right after the attemptedcoup.

The plane from Moscow with our guests couldnot take off on time because of fog. But we werealready at the Koltsovo airport, dressed in ourbest and carrying flowers. We eagerly awaitedevery announcement and didn’t think of returninghome. To go back and try to call to the airportfrom home was impractical for at least tworeasons. First, not everyone has a phone at home,and public phones are practically always out oforder. Second, even if phone access isavailable, it’s next to impossible to getthrough. Furthermore, only two or three familiesin our church have cars, so if we had gone home,there was no guarantee that we could get a rideback to the airport on time. So we did the mostreliable thing–we stayed at the airport and tookturns to get to the Information Desk. We didn’twant to miss the moment of meeting our guestsneither did we want to lose our seats. We waitedfor twenty-four hours! Just before sunrise, lyingcurled up on hard benches outside of the airportbuilding, we began to giggle nervously–we were

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sure we could feel the fleas biting. What if thereare fleas here? All that time our American friends,unwashed and uncomfortable, were waiting forhours in the crowded Intourist terminal inDomodedovo Airport. But at least they wereinside. That was the way we met the next day:sleepy, hungry, but infinitely happy.

We got our guests into the cars and on the busas quickly as we could, considering the piles ofbaggage and drove toward Sverdlovsk at highspeed. The ceremony in the Sobachyi Park–Dog’sPark should already start. In the car, Victoropened a newspaper and we learned that our citywas renamed from Sverdlovsk to Ekaterinburg. Wewere not surprised: Leningrad was renamed a fewdays ago into St. Petersburg. Many Russian citiesvoted for returning their historical names.

Russians love to nickname places. The park fordog owners to walk their big and small dogs–so itbecame Dog’s Park. The dedication of the land,where we were given permission to build ourchurch, was scheduled at 2 p.m. Several hundredpeople were waiting for us in the park that wenamed between us Methodist Park.

We didn’t have to tell our visitors when wearrived at our destination; they could hear thesinging of Methodist hymns, amplified byloudspeakers. The crowd flowed forwardspontaneously to meet us. Only when the world-famous boys’ choir from our city, conducted by

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Yuri Bondar, began to sing, did silence fall, andwe could feel peace filling every cell of ourbodies. The forgotten sensation of serenity andsafety we used to have in childhood now came backto us, and hope was born again on that land.

The service began without any preparation orrehearsal with a blessing of Hans Vaxby–thebishop of Northern Europe. Bishop William Odenfollowed with the dedication of the land. As partof the liturgy, Bishop Oden spoke three longphrases, from which I caught only a few words.Lena Stepanova translated them into three shortsentences:

“We are blessing this land.”“We are blessing this land.”“We are blessing this land.”

Women in kerchiefs, believers from otherchurches who had come to the ceremony, approachedme one after another saying,

“People have no right to bless. Only God cando it.”

I felt awkward about asking any of our guestsabout the liturgy, feeling they would think thequestion showed ignorance on my part. All I wasworried about was that the land blessedappropriately or not.

“Dwight, this dedication is not done right.”“Why so?” Dwight’s cheeks were pink from fresh

area and excitement.“God alone can bless. People should not! Could

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it be the translation?” “Just ignore it. Go with the flow. All is

fine. This is just a formality.” At that point, a suspicion crept into my mind

for the first time.My attention was swept away by a view of a

tall, dark-skinned woman, who stood all this timenext to Bishop Oden. I guessed she traveled withthe group from Moscow because I saw her at theairport. Chris Hena once studied in Krasnodar butwas made to leave the Soviet Union for herreligious activity among the students. Chris wasofficially appointed a missionary for Russia in1989 by the General Board of Global Ministries.How much easier that would be for us to developour church if we had someone, who knew what todo.

“Dwight, why didn’t you tell me that we had amissionary from the General Board of GlobalMinistries in Russia?”

The dogs were barking so loud in the Dog’spark that I was not surprised that Dwight did nothear my question.

That evening, we had the first real worshipservice in the hall of the SverdlovskPhilharmonic Theater. The organ played, and theBoys Choir sang again, boys’ pure voices risingup to the high vault of the hall. There were novacant seats. The service lasted three hoursbecause there was a long line of people whowanted to be baptized. We decided to let the

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children come first. Dwight Ramsey, who led thedelegation this time, preached. He talked abouthis love for Sverdlovsk and its people.

“When I die, I want my body to be buried inShreveport. But I’d like my heart to be separatedfrom my body and buried in Sverdlovsk, the townwhere my heart is living now.”

After he had finished, he was unable torestrain his tears, and people in the audiencecried as well. Sitting behind Dwight on thestage, I was no better. I vowed right there toGod to be faithful to Dwight, whatever happened.That evening 132 adults and children werebaptized. We had to invite people again nextevening to baptize the rest who waited in line.

That was the day I became a Pastor. BishopWilliam Oden and Bishop Hans Vaxby laid theirhands on me. There was no turning back.

Inside of the Russian Prison

Soon after the Americans left, Elena Tischenkocame to me with a proposal to begin preaching ina main Sverdlovsk prison right across from theCentral Stadium. Elena’s husband, Vasilii, workedat the Administration of that prison, and thisidea, naturally, was born in their family. I wasnot willing to preach for criminals, but I saidyes instead of saying no. I didn’t know how to say “Net.”

Elena was my sister’s classmate and mymother’s student back in middle school. She was

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so enthusiastic about Dwight and the church thatshe even stayed a few nights a week in our two-bedroom apartment in case if Dwight called. It isnot that she could speak English, but she wasdetermined to let me sleep.

“Don’t worry, be happy! If Dwight calls, I’llwake you up.”

Elena crawled into our bedroom at 3 or 4 inthe morning, managing to yell and whisper atonce, “Quicker, quicker! Dwight is on the phone.I had already told him everything! He just got afew more questions!”

“How did you communicate without speakingEnglish?”

Elena took her favorite saying, “Don’t worry,be happy!” after the Bobby McFerrin song that waswildly popular in Russia. Elena’s optimism washard to beat and her personality worked like amagnet. I couldn’t let her down.

As much as I liked Elena–we called her Lenka–Ihated criminals. I hated them pathologically,thinking that all killers should be executed. Iremembered well from school Hammurabi Codexix thatwe learned in sixth grade: “And eye for an eye,and a tooth for a tooth.”

Now, I was expected to go to rapists andmurderers to say, “God loves you.”

Loves them for what? I kept asking myself, gettingready for the service. Then I remembered mysurreal experience of being interrogated, and Ithought, What if some of these prisoners had been convicted

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wrongly? I must help them. I didn’t tell anyone aboutmy doubts. And having found for myself a positivemotivation for visiting the main city prisoncamp, I felt better about the preaching.

But when I stood in front of four hundred boldmen dressed in black, I was panic-stricken. Oh,no! Where am I? Why did I say yes?! I was standing highon a stage, and eight hundred eyes were fixatedon me as I was a rabbit in the presence of fourhundred pitons. The men had not seen a woman forseveral years. While I didn’t want to let Elenadown, my naiveté let me down.

The officer clarified that only rapists andmurderers were sitting in the hall. And thenumbers were growing as more prisoners came in.No vacant seats were left, and men were standingin the aisles. The picture was becoming more andmore dismal. Suddenly I felt like grabbing thehem of my dress and stretching it down to thefloor, so unbearable it was to feel those hungry,almost brutal eyes on me. I need a robe to wrap myself infrom head to foot! I thought in despair.

That first moment, when I was trying tocollect my thoughts in front of the prisoners,seemed to last as long as a year. They say thatbefore people die, they see all the events oftheir live rushing through their minds. Somethinglike that happened to me then. And I thought ofGranddad dying silently with his face to thewall, reliving his life in his memory, especiallythe bird-cherry trees.

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Memory! That was the thing I must talk aboutto these brutal convicts who hated the entireworld. They wouldn’t buy a cheap talk about sweetJesus. Luckily, it wasn’t my style. I spokeunemotionally and without any pathos as though Iwas using their manner of speaking. The memoriesof the heart: childhood, happy or otherwise;grandparents, parents, brothers, and sisters; thewomen they loved, faithful or faithless; theirhometowns or villages. Little by little theatmosphere of the hall became peaceful and calm.I felt the thick, icy-cold wall between theprisoners and myself disappear, along with mydesire to wrap myself in something long. Thoseeyes that looked at me with a wolf-like glitterat first now became more human and warm. In thatblack, swaying crowd, full of malicious buzzingat first, then turned silent, I could now discernindividual faces. They were humans sitting infront of me now.

I talked about those who waited for them athome. I talked about the reality of life outsideof prison with long lines to buy groceries andunemployment. I told them how their relativeswere counting the days till they were reunitedwith them, and meanwhile were sending everythingthey could here, to prison.

Then, I noticed a white head bending lower andlower. Was the man dropping off to sleep? But hishands suddenly shot up to his face and his

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shoulders shuddered with childlike helpless andunrelieved weeping.

After the sermon, more than 170 prisonerswanted to move forward in response to myinvitation to get baptized. The officers had tointerfere and commanded everybody to sit down.Then, they repeated my question but askedprisoners to raise their right hand to get theirnames on the list. I was told later that myinvitation could create dangerous chaos on thestage and should be first approved by the prisonadministration. I was relieved that I didn’t haveto baptize prisoners without first talking toDwight.

“May I baptize prisoners?” I called Dwightright away. Usually, it was Dwight who called meat 3 a.m. The difference between Ekaterinburg andShreveport was eleven hours, and I woke him up.

I was afraid I’d done something wrong. When helaughed happily, I knew his answer. Over the nextyear, 172 prisoners in this particular prisonwere baptized. Once it seemed to me that I hadalready baptized the young man who stood I frontof me. When I hesitated, he repeated frantically,“I haven’t been baptized. I haven’t beenbaptized.” I placed my hand on his head andnoticed that his very short hair was already wet,besides I sensed a thick scar under my fingersthat was hard to miss. What he needed, Irealized, was just one thing: someone to touchhis head again.

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Probably many crimes are committed by people, who saw verylittle kindness in their lives. From now on, I feltcompassion for every one of the prisoners insteadof revulsion.

Behind the scenes at the prison, I tried tofind a piano player who could play during theservice. “No problem,” said one of the officers.“We’ll send one of the prisoners to play.”

I didn’t have to wait long before a tall, leanman who walked with a limp came up to me.

“I am Vladimir Polukhin. I was sent to playfor you. You’re Protestant,” he snapped. “I’mOrthodox! I’m not going to play for you!”

That was odd. I was told that detaineesresponded to “requests” very quickly. They wereafraid if they did not comply with the rules theywould be transferred to a lower rank prison whereconditions would be, to put it mildly,unspeakable. Even in this exemplary prison therewere two and a half men per bed. From forty tosixty men stayed in overcrowded cells that couldaccommodate only half of them. Some men had towait in line to sleep in a bed. The bullies tookover the beds and made the weak ones sleep on thefloor. It was not difficult to imagine otherprisons’ conditions.

But after the sermon that same day Vladimircame up to me again and said, “I will play foryou.”

As much as I wanted to think that he made hisdecision after my great preaching, I knew that

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there were not wants in prison. Vladimir Polukhinhad already spent eight years in prison forburning his wife and her lover alive. He had tocomply to remain in this prison for anotherseven.

“When I saw my wife with another guy in bed, Igrabbed a canister of gasoline and splashed itall over them, and it was all finished.”

Some time later he presented me with anotebook with his poems. I wrestled, readingabout his love for his mother, who wasprematurely old and brokenhearted. Atenderhearted murderer? But talking to others,I’ve learned that prisons were full of dualities.

Vladimir was both wise and cynical, butespecially he was sarcastic and angry when itcame to our life in Russia.

“Are you sure you are not in prison?” Vladimirasked with sarcasm. “We both look at each otherthrough the bars. I am on this side and you areon the other. Which of us is in prison? At leastwe prisoners are fed here regularly and havejobs. There are no lines here. We get freeclothes and even haircuts. We are not afraid towalk after dark here. But what about you, the‘free’ people?”

That’s true, I mentally agreed, and I thoughtabout his observation for a long time. Ourimprisonment had lasted for several generations.And things were still just as rotten now as they

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had been. The whole country lived in a survivalmode for generations.

When I started thinking about the way myfamily and I were living, I was dismayed.Standing in line–a constant fact of life–wastorture for me. I’d had my fill of it inchildhood and hated it ever since. Now, mydaughter was older than I was at that time, butthe lines got only longer, and the shelves goteven emptier. Back in my childhood, the pyramidsof sweetened condensed milk were displayed inlocal dairy stores instead of fresh milk.. Mychildren did not even had that. The shelves ofeach store were shamelessly empty. There was noreason to stand in line unless you hoped againsthope.

My Dad was stubborn and sometimes hevictoriously surprised us with a bottle of milkafter hours of waiting. He did it for hisgrandchildren. I felt humiliated when looking atoverfed store assistants’ faces, full of contemptfor us customers. As for getting food through theback door, I thought that was even morehumiliating.

Our refrigerator was chronically empty. Thechildren met me in the evening, their faces pale,their eyes ringed with blue, but I arrived empty-handed. Wherever I went after work–there werelines. I was not lucky: the chicken or butterwould always end right in front of my nose afterthe long wait. Every morning Sergey went to the

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nearest milk shop, but as often as not, afterstanding for two or three hours in the spiral-like line, he came back empty-handed. My parentslaughed that Sergey and I were not resourceful sothey shared with us what they got through theirfriends. I knew, I was a hypocrite. I didn’t liketo stand in lines, neither did I want to get thefood through the back door. Though, I didn’t mindmy parents providing food through their usefulconnections.

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7 GOOD AND EVIL

Looking at old photos, even while listening toexplanations, you still must find it impossibleto grasp the full depth and meaning of pastevents caught by the camera if you didn't takepart in them. Old photos are always an enigma, amystery. These people from the past, long dead,once young loving or loved, smiling grieving–where are they? Often we don't even remembertheir names.

I write this book to tell the real story. Iwrite so that, no matter what happens in ourcapricious history, we apply critical thinking tothe most exciting and even sacred things. I writethat our history does not continue as silentpictures.

Moscow

“Lydia, I want you to go to Moscow. We need tostart a new church.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that when I was stillin Moscow?”

I had no desire to go back after I did not seemy children for over a week. Luckily, I had ElenaTischenko. She found Ludmila Garbuzova, who used

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to take music lessons from Elena’s mother. By thetime Dwight landed in Moscow, we had the leaderand the new church that he wished for.

What a passionate and charismatic personLudmila was! Dwight was highly impressed. Hebrought a team of pastors and businessmen withhim in January 1992 to meet with the First Ladyof Russia Naina Yeltsina. He had something toshow to them: his vision did work. The newcommunities were formed, and Dwight’s excitementgrew even faster. He wanted to open morechurches.

The Easter service in 1992 was the first realtriumph of faith and was held with the blessingof the Patriarch of the all-Russia OrthodoxChurch. Methodists from many countries came tothat service. But the greatest number came fromEkaterinburg. The Methodists from the Urals camewith their families, bringing with them thespirit of our church–the spirit of liberationfrom our fears and the spirit of unity.

The Easter celebration was broadcast as “EastMeets West.” Before the service, a corner of RedSquare had been designated for our group. We hadjust gotten there when we saw on the oppositeside of the square, in front of the Hotel Russia,a crowd of people with red flags and banners.

“Yankees, get out of Russia!” “Let’s defend children from the harmful

influence of the West!” “Russia for Orthodox believers!”

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The communists began to move toward us. The“patriots,” apparently hired by someone for thisaction, were obviously drunk and were holdingtheir banners with difficulty.

“Shield the children!” one of us shouted, andwe closed ranks, forming a semicircle around ourkids. Then, suddenly, the pure voices of YuriBondar’s Boys Choir began singing behind ourbacks, seeming to raise a protective dome overus. Though the Methodist church had no buildingon its own in Russia then, it suddenly acquired atemple; all of us, the ordinary people united byone Faith, became that temple.

“What do you teach the children, sectarians?” Through the singing, we could hear the insults

and curses of the aggressive men and women.“Listen, they are singing in Russian,” someone

answered calmly. “This is Russian music.” This argument, or possibly the purity that

surrounded us, cooled the attackers. Some of themunnoticeably disappeared in the crowd and others,still holding high the now ludicrous slogans,walked away through the Red Square.

At that Easter service, the First UnitedMethodist Church at Moscow was represented by theyouth choir, which played a central role in theservice. Ludmila Garbuzova took her place infront of her choir. This short, dark-haired,attractive woman impressed me with her energy andoptimism from the first time I met her in January1992. She lived with her seventeen-year-old

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daughter and had to be both mother and father forher. It was a coincidence that our daughters hadthe same first name–Iulia.

Perhaps it won’t surprise you if I tell youthat Ludmila was born and educated in Sverdlovsk,where she studied music with Elena Tischenko’smother, a musician. Obviously Russian Methodismhas the Ural spirit!

Before becoming a Methodist pastor, LudmilaGarbuzova was a Russian Orthodox choir director.She and her choir received several awards andtoured Europe. After Ludmila had found interestin Methodism, she had faced a real problem.Should she follow her career or take an unknownway–a way full of difficulties,misunderstandings, and possibly danger.

Ludmila started the church around the youthchoir, all of whom supported their favoriteteacher. So the First United Methodist Church ofMoscow got the nickname “the singing church.” Andhere history came alive. The early Methodists inRussia, before the October Revolution 1917, had asimilar name–“Singing Methodists.” The churchbegan worshipping in the District Music Schoolbuilding, not far from where Ludmila lived. Thehall, seating about three hundred, had beautifulstained-glass windows and looked like a realsanctuary. Unfortunately, Protestantism wasn’t verywelcomed in Moscow and it wasn’t easy for Ludmilato keep up her relations with the school after

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she switched to Methodism. One day she and hermembers were extremely frightened by the angerand hatred exhibited when Orthodox believersvisited their worship service and tried tointerrupt and ruin the service. Eventually, thecongregation had to leave that location.

Ludmila’s spirit and tolerance, however, drewa lot of other Orthodox Christians to her.People loved Ludmila and loved her church.

Whenever we traveled to Moscow, my members andI always stayed with Ludmila and her daughter.Their patience was endless. We were alwayswelcomed and hosted with smiles and deliciousmeals. Hundreds of people came to Ludmila’s houseand into her heart.

Two years later, Ludmila Garbuzova and I metas two suffering weeping women, who remainedwomen in spite of everything. We were not madeout of stone after all! We could afford to beweak sometimes and to cry our fill.

I was frightened, though, for Ludmila. She wasso pale and seemed ready to collapse. I finallygot the truth out of her–she had been bleedingfor two months and was scared to have surgery,Compared to her problems, mine didn’t seem sosevere. And I really had a real church and suchgood leaders.

Ludmila, however, had even more troubles. Itwas as if she had opened Pandora’s Box. She hadno place for worship services and no money to

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rent a building. Every Sunday Ludmila and herdaughter Iulia loaded themselves with heavy bagsand went to the library, where they were allowedto hold services only because Ludmila gave freemusic lessons to children there.

Looking at this woman pastor during hersermon, I felt like crying again. My God! What isshe doing to herself? From a detached point ofview, sacrificing oneself is so beautiful. Butsomebody has to think of those who sacrificethemselves for others, someone has to support anddefend them–and not just in heaven, but here onearth. The church members couldn't do it–theyneeded a lot of help and expected their pastor tobe constantly on the go. So Ludmila couldn'tcomplain. And being proud and wanting to doeverything well, she kept smiling, talking, andsinging splendidly, empowering all the peoplearound her with her optimism. But inside she wasthinking about death.

When I tried to talk her into risking anoperation, she told me, "I won't survive anothersurgery! I won’t wake up.” She had nearly diedafter a previous surgery. The daughter was veryconcerned about her mother, but couldn't helpher.

In the next day or so, it became apparent tome that God tests the tough ones longer andharder than the weak ones. But when the end seemsto be near, God stretches out His hand and sendsgood people to the rescue.

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In 1993, I had come to Moscow to introduce theGeneral Secretary of The General Board of GlobalMinistries, Randolph Nugent, Associate GeneralSecretary Kenneth Lutgen, and Bishop WoodrowHearn to the First Lady Naina Yeltsina. I knewand trusted these people, and was always amazedat how openhearted they were. So I didn'thesitate to tell them about my friend's potentialtragedy. What happened then was a miracle.

It took just one day to solve all theproblems–arrange the date of the operation,obtain her visa, buy her tickets. Fantastic!Ludmila Garbuzova had no time to realize what washappening or to raise any objections. The verynext day she was on the plane to Houston, Texas,where Bishop Hearn’s family looked after her.When I called his home in Houston, Ludmila wasalive and full of new plans.

"Lidochka, you can't imagine what wonderfulpeople they are! They’ve become my family. Weunderstand each other without words. They’vespent sleepless nights taking care of me afterthe surgery."

This was how she was rescued, how her life andmy faith were saved.

Sevastopol

One of those who was with us for the Moscowcelebration was Ivan Kozlov.

Ivan Kozlov, Irina, and I had grown up

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together in Sverdlovsk, where our parents werefriends. Irina and Ivan used to sit side by sidein their strollers, looking like twins with theirblond curls while their mothers chatted on abench.

The history of Methodism in Russia has therare chance to preserve a photo of three futurepastors sitting together in a boat in the middleof a lake, wearing identical satin bathing suits!About twenty years later Valery and GalinaKozlov, Ivan's parents, moved to Sevastopol inthe Crimea. Valery was in the Armed Forces, and,after he had retired with the rank of lieutenantcolonel, he moved to the Black Sea. Ivan joinedthem later.

We lost touch with Ivan for a long time, butone day, out of the blue, he called to say thathe was in town and wanted to see us. Though hewas a grown man, the curls still lying in lockson his shoulders reminded us of the formerdarling Vanechka. Irishka and Mother,interrupting each other, began to tell him howour church was started. Ivan kept glancing at me,his eyes narrowed ironically.

"And do you really believe?" he asked at last.That question always annoyed me. Russian

people are not accustomed to talking about faith."Red-tape" officials from the City Soviet usuallyasked me the same way about my faith. They hadthe power to ask anything they wanted. Their toneof voice was always that of a healthy man

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addressing a sick woman. So inwardly I bristledup at Ivan's question, and for a long time Imistrusted him, thinking his frequent visits toEkaterinburg were just idle curiosity. But I waswrong.

Ivan came to the dedication of our land sixmonths later and had a long talk with Dwight,where I was the interpreter. In September 1991,when I saw Ivan among the 196 people waiting tobe baptized, I was not surprised. Neither was Isurprised when he asked Dwight for a blessing tostart a Methodist church in the Crimea. He didnot ask for help but for the blessing.

Ivan developed the church on his own. He hadno official support, but he found an originalsolution. He sold his land on the waterfront forcash to leave his job as an architect and devotehimself full time to the church. He felt he wascalled to help people, both his friends andstrangers, to fill the spiritual vacuum in theirsouls. He already knew that God was real andwanted others to experience the change that camewith that intimate knowledge, as we had also cometo know.

Every time I think of Ivan and his family, Ismile, remembering our childhood. His smallfriendly church somehow became a part of thatloving circle. Four members of my church oncetraveled together to Sevastopol to help Ivanbecause they knew how difficult it was for us tobegin on our own. Tamara Alekseeva, Tatiana

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Tomakh, Galina Pervushina, and Rudolf Streletskyset out for Sevastopol by a car in the midst of ablizzard. They were glad for one another'spresence on the long and arduous trip to the warmCrimea.

It was like a family reunion. Our churchbecame for the Sevastopol Methodists what theBroadmoor United Methodist Church in Shreveportwas for us–a source of strength and support.

On this trip, Tamara Alekseeva got to visitwith her sister, Lidia, whom she hadn't seen formany years. Not only was Sevastopol a closedcity, but as perestroika took hold, it had becomeimpossible to travel from one former Sovietrepublic to another because of the growingdivisive nationalism.

A year later, when Lidia knew she was dying,the first person she called was Ivan. Tamara wasunable to get to Sevastopol in time for hersister’s funeral, but it was a comfort to knowthat Ivan had been there for Lidia in her finaldays. We all shared Tamara’s loss. Her griefwas our grief.

The history of Sevastopol goes back to Greeks,who founded a city-state Chersonese in 5thcentury BC. Romans built roads Via Militariesmaking Chersonese in the 1st century theirstrategic outpost for 500 years until Byzantineturned this place into a spiritual center markedby Prince Vladimir’s baptism in Chersonese in 988

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AD. Renamed by Katherine the Great into

Sevastopol, after almost 500 years of Turkishcontrol over Crimea, the city has memories offour presidents. President Roosevelt and WinstonChurchill visited Sevastopol during YaltaConference at the end of the World War II. NikitaKhrushchev handed Sevastopol to Ukraine. MichaelGorbachev, who started Perestroika, was arrestedat Foros near Sevastopol during the coup of 1991.xx

Russians used to go on vacation here likeAmericans go to Florida. In the 90s, Sevastopolbecame a strategic hub for military submarinesand warships. To get a visa to this city became aproblem. Even those of us who are citizens ofRussia had to get a special permit. Once, mymother, who had traveled to Crimea on business,decided to visit her friend Galina, Ivan Kozlov’smom, in Sevastopol. If it hadn't been for afortunate coincidence, she would have only beenable to talk with Galina through the man on dutyat the admission control station. The twofriends would not be allowed to be together evenfor a minute. But the man on duty happened to befrom our hometown. He let my mother enter theclosed area of Sevastopol on his ownresponsibility.

xx Vladimir Putin took over Crimea and Sevastopolin 2014

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Dwight Ramsey appeared to be the firstAmerican allowed entering Sevastopol in 1992.His documents were covered by resolutions andsignatures of nine high-ranking officials. WhenIvan met us at the Sympheropol Airport, about afour-hour drive from Sevastopol, he was exhaustedafter running to all the government departmentsand could hardly believe that his marathon wasover!

Traveling to Sevastopol by car, we passedthrough the beautiful Crimean countryside. I sawroses blooming at the end of October for thefirst time. It’s much colder in Ekaterinburg,besides roses are not used for landscaping in myhometown. The sea I had missed so much was calmand mirror-like.

We were following the same route that EmpressKatherine the Great had once traveled. Theplaces where she stopped bore unusual names incommemoration of her visit. One of the namesastonished me, Chistencoyeh, which means,"Clean." Stopping here, Katherine took a bath ina portable Russian bathhouse especially made justfor her on the road. Happy and refreshed,Katherine came out of the water and exclaimed:"Yah–chistenkayah!"–I am clean.

The public worship service took place in theDom Cultury–The House of Culture. The hall wasalmost full. Valery and Galina K0zlovy, Ivan'sparents, came with their daughter Velya, and her

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two little boys. That first evening we receiveda lot of notes with questions that we tried toanswer after the service. Some were difficult;others were frankly aggressive. It was a reallearning experience for me, though a ratherdifficult one. I didn’t know that there were manyvery conservative Pentecostal believers inUkraine. I was not ready for such challenge.Because of the Americans, I’ve got to believethat all Christians are kind and loving.

The next day there was another service, whichwas attended only by Methodists and peopleinterested in joining. At the end of worship, weheld a baptismal service.

Immediately after we finished, Dwight, Ivan,and I were scheduled to fly to Samara on theVolga River, to take part in the first conferenceof all Russian Methodists. But there were farmore people than we could possibly baptize in thetime we had to leave for the airport. And whenwe saw the pleading looks of those whom weweren't going to baptize, we decided to continuewith the baptisms and ignore our scheduled flightand all the other problems our sudden decisioncould cause.

The women and children who stood waiting to bebaptized were our central concern at that moment.Their gratitude still follows us. Anna Arkhipova,a teacher from Sevastopol, wrote us later, "Youchanged my life! You brought us together. Youbreathed new life into me after baptism."

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It is astonishing how many people were broughttogether by Methodism: relatives andacquaintances who had not seen one another fordecades, old friends, even former enemies.Christianity entered our souls, changing us.

Methodism proved to be "just right" for us,helping us become aware that we are people, humanbeings, just as God, not the state, created us.Methodism helped us regain our dignity andcourage. Against the circumstantialdisappointment and panic, Russian Methodistslooked strange with their infectious smiles andopenness. People used lots of epithets todescribe us: "crazy.” But we didn’t mind: themore people talked about us, the faster thechurch was growing. It worked like freeadvertisement.

I can hardly believe how many events haveoccurred during the short period of five years.But then five years is long enough for a smallchild to learn almost everything that will comein handy later on in life. From a helpless baby,she grows into a little child whose parents haveput into her everything she may need in his life.

That was what happened to the Methodist Church in Russia. Itabsorbed not only what our American Methodist friends hadgenerously shared with us, but it also took in the XIX century-qualities of Russian Methodism: sincerity and intellectual curiosity.Also, it brought up what has always made the Russian soulmysterious. Humility, gentleness, and the willingness to sacrificethemselves for the sake of the future.

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Methodism in Russia was restored to life afterseventy years of atheism with such enthusiasmthat it could only be God's plan.

Facing a New Bureaucracy

“Lydia, the General Board decided that it istime for Russia to have its own Bishop.”

Dwight was a master in hiding emotions, buthis voice expressed something I never heardbefore, so I jumped out of joy.

“Are you going to be our Bishop? Why did youkeep silence all these days?!!!”

Dwight reached for something in his pocket,pulled out a folded letter and slowly opened it,one edge at a time.

“No, the Bishop from Germany is going to beyour Bishop.”

“Who? Why? From Germany? You’re joking!” Ididn’t want to hear Dwight anymore.

“Papa, listen to this! No, Papa, you mustlisten to this!”

My father was watching the news in our hotelroom in Moscow and was not happy about theinterruption.

“I told you! Nobody is going to consider whatwe Russians really want!” It was all my fathersaid.

My dad spoke very loud like he wanted Dwightto hear him, but he forgot that he needed to betranslated. I didn’t usually speak that loud, so

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his emotional response was lost between thetranslation and the loud TV.

“What did Paul say?” Typically, Dwight listens with fifty percent

attention but this time he looked like a huntingdog in the attack mode.

“He comments on the news.” There was no need to agitate Dwight and

especially my father with this conversation. Iknew it was a mistake: the General Board respectsRussians too much to allow this error.

“If Americans allow this, we the oldergeneration would feel like we lost twenty millionpeople during WWII for nothing.” My father said.

“Dwight, do you have our itinerary with you?When is our train?”

“Lydia, what is Paul saying?” “Did you pack? Soon, we have to leave for the

train station.”“I want to know! I respect your father and

trust his judgment!” Dwight insisted and then, after listening to mydad’s criticism, he concluded, “I am completelyon his side, Lydia. Your dad is right, but let meat least introduce you to Ruediger Minor. xxi Youmight like him. He is here in the hotel.”

“Here? Why so soon? Do I really have to meethim now? We need to get ready to leave for thetrain station, Dwight! We don’t have enough time!Papa, are you packed?”

“You can handle it, girl! It will be a short

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visit. Your dad and I will be right there withyou…”

“You are not saying that this Minor is goingto be our Bishop, are you? You promise he willnot?”

As endless and as narrow, and as dark theHotel Russia’s hallway was, it was not darkenough to hide my face, neither was it long toprepare me to meet my fate. My intuition wastelling me to turn around and run away, but myfeet obediently followed Dwight and my father,and I hated it. I hated Dwight for making mefollow him, but I had no choice. The name“Ruediger” caused an unexpected emotionalhurricane in me. I sensed the coming dread.

Ruediger Minor looked tired. His hair wasprobably brushed in a hurry. The room was icy.Listening politely to this potential Bishop, Inoticed a brief movement on the wall and saw abig lonely cockroach. There was no embarrassmenton my side. Quite opposite! I hoped, the view ofcockroaches would make Rudiger change his mind.Ruediger is from Eastern Germany, he knows what socialism is.

I didn’t want to think that my father wasright about church politics. The end of the coldwar and the end of dictatorship in Russia was notenough for the West to leave the “mysteriousRussian souls” without control. Russians werestill a threat to the civilized world. Democracywas not tested yet, and the “iron fist” was the

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only thing that we supposedly could understand.“Mr. Minor, my father and I need to go back to

our room to pack. We are leaving tonight forEkaterinburg.”

On the way to the room, my father explodedwith anger. All he could talk about was theheroic war against Hitler. He was agitated andgesticulated so aggressively in that narrowhallway that I had to walk closer to the wall.

“Papa, we are going to be late. Let’s talkabout it later.”

All I wanted was to cry. Later, I failed todescribe Bishop Minor’s face to my sister on thephone.

“He looks like…gosh, I do not even remember!Wait, I know! He looks like a KGB officer–faceless. You will never recollect his face evenif you try.”

Divide and Rule

After Minor’s very first visit toEkaterinburg, a rumor crawled through theyoung congregation and ended at my ears.

“People are talking that our church is not achurch but a family enterprise.”

It didn’t matter if I said that my family wasthe one that started the church. Each member ofmy family was supportive in many different ways.How could I refuse my family’s help? AdamHamilton started his church with his wife and two

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little children. Did anyone called his church afamily enterprise?

All I needed was to remind my members how thechurch was started and they would agree andrespect my family, but I was too afraid to ruinsomething as precious to me as my church. Facingthe need to either choose the church or myfamily, I wanted both, but I had no choice.

“Irina, we should put someone else in chargeof the women’s program.” My sister became myfirst victim.

“Why are you taking my program away? Istarted it! People rely on me. Am I not thechurch member?! Am I not doing a good job?”

Then, I took our church school from Irina. Theschool was started by our father with Irina’shelp. My sister stopped talking to me butcontinued visiting the sick and elder membersmaking rounds from one edge of town to another–our members lived all over Ekaterinburg. Nobodywanted to do it.

One night she called my husband from the ER,“Sergey, please take me home. I fell on the iceand broke my shoulder.”

That was how I killed my sister’s optimism:her passion for life and her health wentdownhill. My fear of being criticized took overthe spirit of joy that Dwight installed into mysister by his prayer during his very first visitto Russia.

Irina decided to stay with us after the ER,

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and I felt like she wanted me to see what I’vedone to her. Irina’s was throwing up the entirenight, her pain was excruciating, and medicinedid not do the job the first night. I couldhear her cursing the church and me.

“I should sue your church. I would be rich.Dwight should pay for my suffering! Because ofyou I lost my job at the university, because ofyou I lost all I started in the church, and nowI am in pain.”

The healing was slower than the depressionthat hit my sister as a train. She stayed inher bathrobe for weeks, not taking even ashower. She stared at the wall no less than ourgrandfather. We couldn’t motivate her to washher hair or to take a bath. Her blond hairlooked oily and messy. Her fair face lookedalmost white because of the pain. We couldn’tfind painkillers. All we had was aspirin. Irinarefused to be visited by anybody and didn’t pickup the phone when somebody tried to talk to her.I felt awkward: I was her sister and her pastor,she was in my house, but I couldn’t visit Irinaand pray for her. I was not allowed in mysister’s presence.

The only help my sister accepted was of my ex-husband. Sergey became Irina’s caregiver, takingeven her bedpan in and out of the bathroom–Irinarefused to walk to the restroom.

I tried to reason her, “Irina, you didn’tbreak your leg, you broke your shoulder–you

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should walk!” “I hate you! You are so cruel! Why aren’t

you talking the same way with your members? Whydid you bring me here? Let me go! You canbring all your members to live with you– youlove them more than you love me! Let them sleepin your bed! You do not need any bed anyway:you do not sleep, a robot!”

One day I came to my sister’s house to pick upa few things for her. As soon as I opened thedoor I thought that the house was robbed. ThenI looked carefully and found out that it was adefinite system in that mess: I saw a narrow waypaved over the piles of clothes on the floor.It looked like a tunnel.

My sister’s house revealed something about hermarriage that I didn’t know or didn’t want toknow. The narrow path separated the house rightin the middle. Irina’s stuff was on one side andher husband’s clothes on the other. Irina usedto be so neat. It was I who was really messyback in our childhood. My members called tofind out where my sister was and I didn’t knowwhat to say. No wonder she wanted to heal in ourhouse after the ER. I looked around anddecided, I am not leaving until I clean at leastIrina’s side!

Three hours later I had to stop–the projectseemed too big even for me. I came back nextday and only when I picked up a pair of

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pantyhose from the floor, eaten by moths, Iwept, holding my sister’s pantyhose in front ofmy face. I didn’t know why that image got intome, but I wept and wept. I guess because mothsaren’t supposed to eat nylon! How long mysister’s pantyhose were lying on the floor? Whydidn’t she want to pick them up? Was she hidingher agony behind her church activity andliterally broke down when I took her programsaway from her?

“Poor, poor Irina! What did I do to you?!” Now, I understood why she called me once and

said, “I have nothing left in my life. I amready to step down from the roof of my fifteen-floor building.”

I was not sure anymore that I made the rightdecision. I was not sure I was a good pastoreither. My house became a living hell.

“Oh, sure you are the true Madonna, you areabove our sinful life, aren’t you? You are somuch better than all of us! Go ahead, sacrificeus all! You already did! You almost lost yourson, then, your dog. Now, you see me dying. Putus all on the altar of your God! Let peopleenjoy our misery!”

After three months, I felt like I didn’t haveany compassion left for my sister. It was timeto do something. The idea was right on thesurface and I was surprised that it didn’t cometo me earlier: the church that we started in St.Petersburg did not grow without a strong leader.

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The church needed Irina and Irina needed thechurch!

St. Petersburg

I met Roman Tselner quite "by chance" inFebruary 1991. I was returning from theSheremetyevo International Airport in Moscow,having failed to meet Dwight Ramsey and thedelegation from Shreveport. This team, underDavid Stone's leadership, was planning to visitSverdlovsk after Moscow.

I had come to Moscow to meet Dwight. He’d hadsurgery only eight days earlier and was rushinghis recovery. We thought his coming was heroismbordering on madness. In Russia, afteroperations like his, patients stay in thehospital for twenty days.

The plane landed, but the team did not arrive.All kinds of horrors crossed my mind when theydidn’t get off the airplane. As I boarded thebus to go back to Moscow, my mind was occupiedwith horrific images of Dwight’s plane crash. Ipaid little attention to finding a seat exceptfor the fleeting thought, I hope I don’t findmyself beside a man, I don’t want to be pursuedby a stranger.

Then suddenly I was sitting beside a short,dark-haired man, even though there were severalother vacant seats. Roman told me later that,seeing me standing in the aisle, he had decided

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to test his rather remarkable hypnotic abilities!“Sit next to me!” he commanded mentally,

stopping my attempts to choose the person I wouldsit beside.

Since then, Roman has been my friend andhelper. Whatever happens, day or night, rain orsnow, in Moscow or in Leningrad, Roman willlisten to my wildest requests and just say,"Well, with you, it seems, I wouldn’t die in mybed!"

It has become a sort of sign or natural lawfor him and his friends: "If Lydia and Dwightappear on the horizon, it's the end of normal,peaceful life."

Where will you get a car if all the cars intown seem to be in one long line to get gas,waiting for hours? What driver will agree togive you a lift if you are standing beside yourcar with a dead engine? Who will find you ahotel room, if there is no reservation anywhere?Who will work on New Year’s Eve so you will notmiss the humanitarian aid sent to your church?Who will meet you and all your friends at thetrain station or the airport? Roman Tselner could domiracles!

“Irina, Dwight wants you to move to St.Petersburg to develop the church that we startedtwo years ago. It doesn’t grow.” I thoughtIrina would naturally be thrilled to live in St.Petersburg.

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“Are you crazy?! I am not going anywhere.First, you ask me to do something in yourchurch, then you take it all my programs awayfrom me. I am not doing anything for you andDwight anymore. I am staying right here, inyour bed!”

“I need your help! This is a lifetimeopportunity. Besides, I know how much you loveSt.-Petersburg!”

Irina moved to St. Petersburg to help developthe first United Methodist Church there. But evenI couldn't foresee what she would do. All I knewthat she had to start from ground zero. NoMethodist community in St. Petersburg haddeveloped regardless of Dwight’s reports to theGeneral Board. And it was partially my fault.The first interested people, who had earliersigned the organization petition, did not want toserve for free.

Tatiana Peretolchina gave Irina the address ofher aunt in St. Petersburg, as a possible placewhere Irina could stay. At least the first nightwas covered. Tatiana assured that Irina wouldhave a roof over her head. But the addressproved to be wrong, and Irina called me infrustration.

“You sent me to exile! You just wanted to getrid of your sister!”

“Irina, you are not alone! Exile! Silly you!Roman is probably standing next to you right atthis moment! Look for a short dark-haired man

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with sparkling eyes. He will help you!” I knew,I could trust Roman with my sister if I trustedhim with my life.

Roman circled around the block where Tatiana’saunt supposedly lived. Finally, he could standit no longer. He brought Irina to his office andhis co-workers managed to find Maria MikhailovnaVolkova's phone number. It turned out she hadnot been informed of her guest's arrival.

Most of those new people, who joined my sisterlater, probably never realized how crucial thismoment was. There were too many obstacles todeal with at the beginning to even think thatsomething will come out of my sister’s leap offaith and her efforts. Maria Mikhailovna mighthave refused to shelter Irina, who was norelative of hers. Maria had only one 9' x 15'studio apartment. It would be difficult foranyone to live in one room with a stranger evenfor a day. But Maria allowed Irina to stay withher when Roman brought Irina to her door,uninvited. She even shared with them her modestdinner that night. She was a native ofSverdlovsk, our hometown. That was, perhaps, theonly thing she and Irina had in common.

That year of living in a new place, withpeople who were at first complete strangers, wasa good schooling for Irina. Bread and potatoes,joy and tears, dreams and fears were sharedequally. My sister’s guardian angel MariaMikhailovna adopted Irina as her own daughter.

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Maria was a veteran of the World War Two. Thisunbreakable woman started my sister’stransformation.

One of the first initiatives she and MariaMikhailovna took, as the church developed slowly,was to visit libraries, telling librarians andtheir customers about Methodists. People wereimpressed that the Methodist Church had existedin St. Petersburg before the Revolution.Miraculously, Maria and Irina met people who evenremembered the name of the church and where itwas: on the 10th Line of Vasilyevski Ostrov, anisland in the Neva River! It was there inbuilding No. 37 that the chapel of the MethodistChurch had once existed. The chapel was destroyedduring the bombings of World War II, but theeducational center remained.

George Simons, the District Superintendent andthe editor of The Christian Advocate, had lived in theapartment building opposite the church a hundredyears ago. God connected two eras and moldedthem into a new beginning.

When I came to St. Petersburg first time in1991 I was not able to get inside of theeducational building, but with Irina’s help, Isaw what remained of the church's stained-glasswindows above the doors. We were quite excitedat these discoveries!

In this house, I met an old woman who had beena janitor for the church decades ago, who told me

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about the chapel and the early Methodists. Thememories of that history and the atmosphere ofgenuine excitement were still alive and helpedIrina and Maria to restore Methodism in St.Petersburg again! Little by little, people beganto follow Irina. There were elderly residents whohad endured the horrors of the Stalin’srepressions and of the German blockade, who hadnot forgotten the artillery barrages that haddestroyed so much of the city.

The horror of World War II was still alive inSt. Petersburg. Hitler’s Operation Barbarossa killed632,000 civilians by starving them to death.People still remembered the thousands of corpseson the streets during the 900-day siege by theGermans. People needed care and healing evenforty years after the war. Perestroika madepeople feel like they stepped back in time. Noone knew the future.

My sister was needed again! Nothing couldmotivate her more than this! From now on, Irina,who used to sleep until two in the afternoon, wasup before five in the morning to jog and to makebreakfast for her roommate, Maria. Later she wasalready on her way to the closest Metro stationto get to seminary that just opened in St.Petersburg. Nothing could make me prouder–mysister finally became who she wanted to be.

“Lida, I am a student of a BibleAcademy now–I passed all the requirements.”

When Irina first moved to St. Petersburg, she

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had no thoughts of preaching. She was sent thereto create a community. But one day I got anunexpected phone call from her.

“Lida, I've preached today!”“Are you OK?” I thought at first that I didn’t get it right.

The connection was weak, I just came back from myown service and tried to catch my breath.

“Somebody must do it, and no one can preachhere, you know." My sister’s voice expressed itall. She didn’t even sound excited; she was inawe. I even sensed something like a quiethumility in her voice.

She would get up at five o'clock to be on timefor classes. She lived a long way from theseminary. She had to cross a vacant lot in thedark to get to a subway, it was a dangerous partof town where people were robbed and murderedevery day. No one was surprised to hear gunshotsevery night, so she always carried a can of macein her pocket.

Once Maria Mikhailovna was attacked just asshe got to her doorway. Her bag was snatched,along with her war veteran's certificate.xxii Itwas not a siege by Germans this time in history,but the market was scarce during Perestroika. Toget food, Maria needed her veteran’s certificate.

“I suppose it's because of the church," wasMaria's frightened comment. Again Roman Tselnercame to their rescue. He changed not only thelocks but also the door.

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“I used to live peacefully and quietly beforethe church,” Maria said.

Such conclusion probably occurred to Irina aswell. She was now living in a damp, cold climatethat was bad for her health. Her feet werealways wet because her only pair of boots thatshe had soon became worthless in the constantrain and snow, and it was impossible to buy newones. She could not stay home in bed sick ifseventy-five years old Maria Mikhailovna, withher diabetes–did not stay home sick. Two womencontinued working together in spite ofdeprivation, colds, and fear for their lives.They didn’t have the luxury to relax.

As one of the first Methodists in St.Petersburg, Maria Mikhailovna's method neverfailed. She had never liked to waste her time bysitting with her prematurely aged neighbors on abench near the apartment building doorway andgossiping. She used to pass them in a hurry toavoid questions. But since she started thechurch she changed her tactics. Maria went up tothem with a gentle reproach.

"Well, what are you sitting here for? Don'tyou know that the 'Methodical' church has opened?Come every Saturday evening to our meeting, anddon't try to find any excuses!"

The secret of Maria's influence was herauthority among the women of the neighborhood.They had all worked together at the same plantfor many years. She had also been the head of

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her company's Communist Propaganda Committee.People had gotten used to obeying Maria. Theseelderly women, who came to Irina’s church onSaturdays, later became her faithful members.Maria and Irina cooked meals for them in theirtiny kitchen and visited them in their homes.The hearts of the women were melted by the loveand care, and they learned to give their time andlove to others.

Sending my sister to St. Petersburg, we killedtwo birds with one stone: I was free from Irina’scynicism and criticism, and the new church gotthe second chance with the new leader.

What a relief it was! Irina proved that we,Russians, need suffering to open up the best inourselves. My sister’s growth had begun.

Ludmila Garbuzova in Moscow, Ivan Kozlov inSevastopol, and Maria Volkova and my sister inSt. Petersburg used their own limited financialresources for their ministries. That is why, whenwe received humanitarian aid from the UnitedStates, we tried to share with our baby churches.They had nothing!

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8 THE STRUGGLE TO LOVE

"We don't need Soviet-style voting. Let's vote the honest way, the European way: secret ballots.”

– Ilya Ilf & Evgeny Petrov, TheTwelve Chairs

The Split over the Priviledges

In 1992, Dwight invited me to speak at severalAnnual United Methodist Conferences in Americaand advised to take my children with me to reducesome tension around my family. Dwight decidedthat it was necessary to remove us fromEkaterinburg for at least a month or two to letthe unhealthy interest subside. For not leavingthe pulpit barren, Dwight asked a pastor of asmall church from Texas to substitute for me inEkaterinburg for four Sundays. Clinton Rabb camein April of 1992 for the initial visit and wasecstatic about coming back in July.

When Clinton appeared in Ekaterinburg with hissun-kissed curls, cowboy snake leather boots, andten-gallon Texas hat, not only single but evenmarried women in the church held their breath

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when he hugged them. Clinton opened his arms to everybody. His hugs

were so passionate and so tight that a few womenjoked that he squished their breasts to thespine. I believed them, remembering how my chesthurt for several days after Clinton hugged me,pressing my breasts against his chest. Being inmy clergy robe, I felt doubly awkward to behugged like that.

Clinton was not the first American, whointroduced us to hugging. Slavic women, areextremely reserved and do not embrace strangers,but becoming Methodists, we quickly adjusted towestern ways, desiring to become real sisters inChrist. As I learned later, American pastors hadto be more considerate of the personal space oftheir female members, but in Russia they had ablast hugging Russian women without anyprecautions. It was a new “wild, wild West” forsome of them–the Klondike of beauty and grace.Some Americans even kissed, as Ostap Bender wouldclassify their kisses with strangers on themouth, “The way people used to kiss before theage of historical materialism.”xxiii Christianssupposed to give a holy kiss, we decided. It was,though, an innocent time of enthusiasm and joy.

My father liked Clinton Rabb from his firstvisit and anticipated him with excitement, alwaysomitting his last name, introducing him to cityofficials simply as “Clinton.” Back in the timeof President Clinton the name “Clinton” worked

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like a bomb: many people thought that ClintonRabb was his younger brother. He even looked likeClinton in many ways: same hair, same nose, andsame body type.

Unlike my father, I was jealous over mychurch. I couldn’t help, wondering why it wassuddenly so important for Dwight Ramsey to bringClinton to Ekaterinburg even for a short time.Did Dwight stop trusting my leaders? ValeryShirokov, my assistant, was a better fit for thejob than this over-joyful Texan man. I trustedValery as one of the founding leaders of thechurch. He was a humble, caring man, whosacrificed so much for our church. People likedhis preaching.

Clinton Rabb returned to Ekaterinburg in July.He preached in English followed with thesynchronized unemotional interpretation ofVioletta Bryzgalova, Elena Stepanova, and GalinaDracheva. As a result, instead of two-threehundred people in attendance, I found hardlyforty members in the sanctuary upon my return. Icould hardly recognize some of the faces. Almostall first members, as they confided later,refused to accept Clinton’s version of Christianworship and left.

“Lydia, it was nearly a caricature! Clintonled our worship services in jeans and his cowboyhat. He stomped his cowboy boot on a stool andbegan stroking his guitar like he was in a bar.Maybe this is what Methodists do in Texas, but we

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are in Russia. He had no sensitivity to who wewere and what we loved about our church.” Theremaining members reported.

While we’ve been trying for two years to buildour identity as Russian Methodists to prove thatwe didn’t sell our souls to Americans, ClintonRabb replaced it all in an instant with one manshow. But a few English-speaking members reallyliked him, and especially they liked hisreverence-free relationship with the Creator.Clinton Rabb obviously had God for a pal and thatreally clicked with some of the former atheists.

Before I left for America, we had alldocuments ready for eleven church members to goto Austria in July. The idea was to reward ourbest leaders, who started the church. Since manyleaders left while I was in America, those, whostayed around Clinton Rabb, changed the names onthe list and included new people, whom I hardlyknew. As much as it made me question theintegrity of my assistant Elena Tischenko, Ididn’t blame her. She reported that half of theoriginal group was behind in getting passports bythe due date, and the third of the group wasdenied visas. She said that the new peopletraveled abroad before and they had theirinternational passports.

“Lenka, but the whole idea to send our leadersto Austria was to reward them for their hardwork.”

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“The new people one day will become goodleaders and will work as hard. Besides, wepreserved a few older members of the church. Yourmother did go.” Elena explained.

“I wish, she didn’t!”The Austrian trip became a dividing point in

the history of my church. If not for my mother, Iwouldn’t even know what had actually happenedthere. It was a typical case of Russianstraveling abroad. Living a life of scarcity, manyRussians cannot handle international trips in ahealthy way. It is very easy to lose yourself inthat mirage of new possibilities and shoppinguntil you find yourself back home in front of anempty refrigerator. That’s where all crazyambitions stop.

In Austria, everybody got a taste of freedom.Russians had a natural desire to communicate thefirst time in their lives with other people fromall over Europe. Life in the former Soviet Unionin the 90s was inhuman. Everybody tried to findpossibilities for at least children to studyabroad. The English-speaking members, who joinedthe church just recently, became "the elite." Therest of the delegation, including my mother, feltlike a second-class and doubly offended. Not onlywere they left out, but also their new brothersand sisters, Christians, refused to interpret forthem.

"This is work and must be paid for!" was theanswer. "We don't have time for making our own

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personal contacts!" That was the end of theconversation.

Listening to both sides, I was ready to giveup being a pastor. The new members of my churchforgot all the lessons of Christianity andstopped helping others as soon as they foundthemselves on another side of the border. Thisapparently led to personal conflicts. To find thechurch in an uproar upon my return from Americafelt like entering somebody’s house in the midstof domestic quarrels. I failed to recognize mycongregation in the midst of this unannouncedwar. That was a mini version of a coup d’état; atleast it was bloodless comparing with Yeltsin’scoup d’état in 1991.

Soon, our church inevitably turned into aforeign exchange club. The worship attendance wascomparable to an accordion’s bellows: itstretched during the visits of Americans. Lookingat my members, I couldn’t help wondering what therole of the Church was. Dwight used to say, “Givea man a fish and you will feed him for a day, butteach him to catch fish, and you will feed himfor life.” Nobody knew for sure how the MethodistChurch should function anyway. But people reallyliked Dwight Ramsey’s concept. And if “teachinghow to fish” brought all those new people in thedoor, then why not? At least people have passionand desire to get together. Young and older womenhoped to find husbands among the Westerners. Icould only hope that I would be able to sow some

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seeds of faith while they were still in thechurch.

At the same time, perhaps it would be lesstragic if someone had explained to all of us thata conflict in a church is nothing to be ashamedof. In a sense, it is growing pains. It happensand passes. Conflict isn’t fatal. But,unfortunately, no one was on hand to tell usthat. It was especially sad that Bishop Minor,who invited my leaders to Austria, was behind theconflict. He didn’t like Dwight Ramsey from thevery beginning, and now my church gave himreasons to criticize Dwight for planting immaturechurches too soon.

The Conflict over Salaries

Perhaps I was wrong to begin to fight forpastors to receive salaries, particularly since Iused to say that the Church is not the place forfighting. But I felt responsible for people Ibrought to Methodism. I was still the only paidpastor out of all new clergy. I approached BishopMinor with the question about his strategy toprovide salaries to other pastors.

“No one asked you to open those churches,Lydia. I do not have the money to pay salaries.”

I felt tired and worn out as all my strengthhad been pumped out of me. I was concerned aboutthe new churches that we started in other placeswith our assistance. They were going through hard

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times, just as we had. Their pastors didn’t getany salaries, even though they risked everythingfor the sake of their churches: theirreputations, their families, their health, andtheir lives.

I don’t really know whether my questionplayed the decisive role, but in September 1993,all pastors were put on $100 a month salary.

I received $500 in cash, with a note sayingthis was my pay for the next five months–we hadgotten a raise.

When I called Ludmila Garbuzova in Moscow tocongratulate her on getting her first salary, shebecame very upset. She hadn’t received anything.(I found out later that Bishop Minor hadforgotten about her salary.) Well, then I decided, I’llwait too, and returned my money in sympathy withLudmila, thinking that the sooner Ludmila got hermoney, the sooner I’d get mine. As a matter offact, it took six months for the mistake to becorrected and for our salaries to be reinstated.That was a terrible time. The children nevercomplained. Sergey lost his job during thosemonths and was unable to find another.

The decision that seemed to me such a naturalone began to have, for some reason, aninternational echo. Rumors and conjectures beganswarming around my name.

“If Lydia refused a hundred dollars a month,evidently she has more money than she needs. Whatreasonable person would deny a salary?”

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Others, wanting to make me comply, pressed meto take the money so that all the talk wouldstop. But I’m obstinate! The more it hurt, themore stubborn I became.

“Russian women are tough.” Bill Warnack’s eyesnarrowed. “And you are the toughest. You are abrick wrapped in velvet.”

“A brick?! I am not a brick! Russian women arenot bricks… it is easy to crush a brick! Russianwomen are…” I was desperately looking for a wordstronger and more elegant than a vulgar brick.“Russian women are diamonds! Diamonds are notjust beautiful–they are much tougher than bricks.This is how Russian women are. Not a brick!”

Bill Warnack came to Moscow to work for BishopMinor after many years of missionary worksomewhere else. I liked Bill. He was open andhonest. I sensed that I could trust him and hiswife.

“Girl, you are too political. Be careful: ‘thehigher you go the more painful it will be to fallif you slip.’ Is it not your Russian saying?”

Bill owned absolutely gorgeous mustache and acharming smile. He looked like a big pedigreedcat. I do not know how women handle handsomehusbands like Bill. But his wife was absolutelycontent and comfortable.

“Bill, I am clueless what is going on.” But itwas hard for Bill to believe that.

The letter that I received almost the same dayexplained Bill’s warning. Bishop Minor wrote,

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“Let me be very direct andstraightforward (you know that is oneof my weaknesses, but I hope you canbear it). There are rumors in manyplaces that you have to your personaldiscretion financial means from churchresources that go far beyond yoursalary. Working without pay would onlyfeed such rumors. As your bishop andfor personal affection to you it is myduty to protect you against thoseallegations. I do it best in securingfor you a current salary. As I said toyou already in our conversation, itwill be to your discretion how youwould personally use your salary, butI would appreciate that you tell me ifthere is a need in one of the churchesthat has come to your knowledge.”xxiv

Help from American Friends

A surprising thing happened when we weredistributing the humanitarian aid we had receivedfrom the United States among war veterans. Myfather had been a probationer pilot during WorldWar II, and as a veteran was entitled to receivea parcel. When he opened the one given to him, hediscovered that it had been prepared and packedby our dear friends in Shreveport, Jim, and RosieWood. Such a coincidence was incredible–one boxout of eight thousand sent from different cities

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and states in the U.S. was given to my father.There were a letter and a picture of Jim andRosie, who had become so dear to us during ourfirst visit to Shreveport.

Both Jim and my father had served in Marineaviation. Jim had served in Alaska, and my dadhad flown to Alaska several times. Some timeafter our first visit to Shreveport, Jim came toEkaterinburg as a member of the delegation todiscuss with the Russian government the sendingof humanitarian aid to the citizens of our city.Did he ever expect when he was buying food forsome unknown Russian friend that he was packingit for his friend Paul?

Just as Jim and Rosie wood, Cal and GayeCranor, Gene and Jack Bush, and Jean and MikeCarmichael helped our family in hard times.Whenever I came to America, I stayed or visitedwith them. They became my American parents, andGod used them, I think, to heal me, even though Icouldn't share with them all my disappointmentsand heartache. But they seemed to senseeverything about me without my telling them.Rosie, Gaye, Jean, and Gene became my secondmoms–sensitive and tactful, tender andprotective. I was lucky: one mother took care ofme in Russia; the others took care of me inAmerica.

Rosie's patience was astonishing. As soon as Iappeared in their house, she managed to isolateme from the entire world. She created peace and

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solitude, trying to teach me how to find time formyself. That lesson was something absolutely newfor me. But I didn't take it to heart right away.I really thought I should have enough strength tocare for the entire world.

"You can't burn the candle at both ends." WhenRosie quoted this saying to me, I didn't realizeshe was talking about me. But Rosie didn't takeinto consideration my optimism and excessiveenthusiasm. Reading my soul as she alone coulddo, she saw other things: exhaustion and doubt.Often we would stay up long after midnighttalking about faith, my grandfather, our lives,and problems. No one can listen as well as myfriends! And how much I learned from listening tothem!

I worked on my first sermon in English in Jimand Rosie’s’ house. While they entertained mychildren with boating and sightseeing, I wentover my sermon again and again, trying to get myEnglish in order. My Russian was so much richer,and I never liked to use any notes, preferring tosee the eyes of those I addressed.

There were a lot of strange, even mysterious,coincidences during my stays with the Woods. Webegan to notice that every time I came for avisit, Rosie's air conditioner broke down, andwe'd laugh about it. But the time that I wasworking on my sermon, the refrigerator, themicrowave, and the VCR broke as well, and Rosie’snew Lexus wouldn't start! After I had preached at

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Broadmoor UMC, Rosie told me that a journalist,David Westerfield, asked her, "How do you feelliving under the same roof with Lydia," Shepaused significantly.

"What did you answer?" "Of course I told him about all these strange

coincidences,” she said, her eyes twinkling. "Andnow everyone will be afraid to invite you for avisit." We both laughed.

Whenever I returned from a trip to the UnitedStates, I felt stronger because so many peopleprayed for me. But after I got back into theroutine in Ekaterinburg, I would soon begin to besuffocated again by the same problems over mystaff performance. I had to fire drivers, schoolteachers, secretaries and hire the new peopleagain just to repeat the same process over andover again. Especially, I couldn’t take well thechange of the attitudes in the office. My fullypaid staff had been spending hours chatting anddrinking tea. Upon arrival, I found at least adozen of dirty mugs on the top of the restroomsink waiting to be washed.

“Girls, why do we have so many mugs in therestroom?”

“Pastor Lidia, welcome back! We did not knowyou would come to the office so early. Weexpected you later. You needed a rest after sucha long flight.”

“You didn’t even find time to wash mugs afterdrinking tea! How long did you keep them in the

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sink? Since I left? I travel to America sofrequently not for pleasure but to fundraise themoney for our church, for all our programs, andfor your salary first of all!”

“Why do we need so many programs, Lidia? Wealready have three soup kitchens, prisonministry, hospital ministry, refugees... Why dowe need to start another ministry? We need toslow down. Jim Waddle called our church a gorillathat does not let other churches grow. Wesuffocate everybody!”

That was true. Jim Waddle, who became ourchurch construction coordinator, did say thatduring the meeting with my Board. He said that mychurch was like a gigantic gorilla that elbowsother small churches. He also said somethingabout too many programs and that it was time tostart thinking about the quality not only thequantity.

I felt worn out as if all my strength had beenpumped out of me. I went to the restroom andwashed all the mugs.

The Conflict over the Prison Ministry

Soon, Elena Stepanova became the right hand ofBishop Minor. One day, she came into my officeand stated, “I want my own chair. I hate to playa secondary role.”

"Why don't you become a pastor yourself,Elena?"

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"I haven't got charisma," she said with asigh.

She was right, but I encouraged her anyway."You can become a good pastor." I wanted so muchto help her, hoping that becoming a pastor wouldchange her, help her stop smoking, and help herstop being so demanding. Perhaps then she'd findwhat she needed.

Two months later I asked Bishop Rudiger Minorto consecrate her as a pastor. In October 1993,Elena Stepanova did become a preacher.

Not long after, the Committee on Religionrepresentative, an Orthodox woman took me asidewhen I came to the City Council to get someforms.

"Lydia, there's no worse sin than consecratinga wrong person to serve God. You recommendedsomeone who is far from God. You have committedan awful sin. God will punish you for this soon."

In September 1992, I was invited to speak atthe clergy school in Mississippi. When I told thepastors from more than two hundred churches aboutour church and our parishioners, many of themwept and wanted to help. I was exhausted when Igot back to Ekaterinburg, just in time for Sundayservices. During the service, Elena Tischenkoannounced that a large group of members wasleaving the church. It was a massive blow comingto me after I had not slept for three nights in arow. Why hadn’t they told me before the service? I wondered.Why hadn't they discussed everything with the Board? Two

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months later, however, almost all of those whohad left came back, but very quietly. They cameto services, taking seats and not sayinganything. But it was not a happy ending.

Elena Tischenko, who joined the opposition,enlightened me about the second exodus.

"We're all SOVKI. We all have the Sovietmentality. You should understand and forgive.We've been all brought up by the Soviet system.We didn't discuss anything beforehand because wewere afraid. We were afraid that if we criticizedanything, we'd never be able to travel abroadagain. We take the prison ministry with us.Bishop Minor helped us this time with theformalities to make our separation official."

The split revealed irreconcilable differences.It demonstrated that everything had been thoughtout and approved by Bishop Minor. The church wasconfronted with a fait accompli. I could only try toput a good face in this awkward situation byannouncing at the council meeting that ElenaStepanova and Elena Tischenko wanted to devotetheir lives to prison ministry.

As a result of this split, a second Methodistchurch eventually appeared in Ekaterinburg,organized in February 1994–the Return UnitedMethodist Church. The more churches, the better,I decided. The problem was the way it wascreated. Those who left us took with them theprison program we had begun with such difficulty.Actually, there were plenty of prisons to go

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around, and there was room for more than oneprogram in that particular prison. And I was notthe only one who went to that jail. Other leaderswere taking part in that ministry and loved it.I preached only once a month, but three othermembers went to prison every Wednesday. Theirministry became necessary not only for theprisoners but also for themselves.

Yet, one Wednesday the guard would not letthem in to meet the prisoners, and on Sunday Iwasn't able to enter the prison. Our admissionpasses had been taken away. The officers who usedto welcome us with smiles, now, looked aside,embarrassed.

“Talk to Elena Tischenko, maybe you can getyour permit back.”

With that word, everything became clear.Elena’s husband was on the prison board. So, nowwe had no access to the ministry we started–howsimilar it was to the old Soviet times!

Soon after that, I asked the two women who hadleft our church to come to my office so we coulddiscuss why they had wanted to leave. ElenaStepanova was honest.

"I needed a chair of my own, a title. I wassick and tired of playing second fiddle. I stilldo not understand why Dwight chose you over me.You couldn’t even speak English!”

Her words reminded me of one of our previousexchanges when she was disturbed and very upsetover the same issue. In the aftermath of the

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split, there were various reactions, and no onewas indifferent. Some said, "Things must not beso good in Lydia's Church."

My reaction was more complicated. I was upset,but I felt much easier without them in thechurch. I was disappointed by the way they hadleft: treacherously, behind my back. The worstthing was that Bishop Minor enabled them to dothat. That really hurt.

Elena Stepanova reported to the RussianInitiative in 1994 in her low over-smoked,unemotional voice,

“The romantic period of development ofMethodism in Russia is over. We are entering thenew phase with joy–the new stage of the ordinaryand routine function of the Church. It feelsgreat and reassuring! This is what the churchshould be about–stability.”

As soon as Elena finished her presentation,one American pastor spoke,

“I thought, Methodism is supposed to beromantic. Was it not John Wesley who once wrote,my heart was strangely warmed?”

Knowledge is Power

In Russia, we lived under the Damocles Swordof the Soviet justice system. In a way, we“slept” in Procrustes’ Bed, which meant that wewere supposed to adjust our egos, ambitions,talents to the required standard. I joked thatProcrustes, the cruel highwayman from Greek

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mythology who forced people to fit into the ironbed, made his way to the Soviet government. Thelegend says that Procrustes forced each bystanderto lie in his bed, and he either stretched theshort ones to fit into his bed or amputated thelegs of the tall ones. In the Soviet Union, wedidn’t have much chance to stick out of thecrowd. We were never good enough as we were, butthis “adjustment” created the whole generation ofsoulless or spiritually handicapped people.

I started the church in a country whereMethodism was known only among certified atheistswho studied religion. I was equipped not with theknowledge of the Bible but with the Book ofDiscipline.

“This is our constitution and law. You need toconsult this Book of Discipline on each step. Itis all in there.” Dwight said.

I opened the book, and it was in a highlytechnical English language. My best efforts touse at least a single paragraph for our dailyneeds failed, and the book soon was collectingdust. To translate it into Russian would requirelots of money. The church grew naturally withoutit.

Our enthusiasm was skyrocketing without anyrules: we simply loved each other. The silencewas broken, the fears erased, and we saw the newlife. That was better than any book. We fit sonicely into that dream–there was enough space forall of us. We’ve been dreaming dreams of building

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a new community. That was when I met the First Lady of Russia.

Naina Yeltsina gave me a military plane, AN-124,to transport humanitarian aid from the AmericanAir Force Base at Barksdale, LA to Ekaterinburg,Russia in April of 1992. Americans promisedRussians business and economic development, andmy church blossomed. We did not want to developour church on American dollars; we wanted to earnmoney ourselves.

“Lydia, the Book of Discipline doesn’t allowbusiness in the Methodist Church.” Rudiger Minortapped his bended finger on the Book ofDiscipline. I sensed the familiar Damocles’ swordover my growing church and over my head.

“Bishop Minor, there is even an InternationalMarketing organization under the United MethodistCommittee on Relief that helps churches fromdifferent countries sell their goods around theglobe. Why can’t we do it? It will be much easierfor you if my church becomes self-sufficient.That will free your hands to find financialsupport for other churches.”

“Those rules are written for Americans. Theserules DO NOT apply to Russia.”

Balancing on the Edge of Authority

Next morning we were all invited to meet ThePatriarch of Russia, Alexy. The last person Iexpected to see there was Bishop Minor.

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“I didn’t invite you to come to Russia!”Bishop Ruediger Minor, a German man, yelled atDr. Randolph Nugent and Dr. Kenneth Lutgen, Jr.from the General Board of Global Ministries.Bishop Minor was stomping the floor to the beatof his short sentences.

“This is MY territory! This is MY land! Nexttime you ask ME before you decide to come toRussia!”

Whew! I didn’t know that men could be thathysterical. Lucky Dwight was late, as always, andwas not yelled at. Ruediger knew that, in Russia,he was next to the Tsar for Methodists. Dr.Randolph Nugent was not a Russian woman, he was ahuge American black giant with the power, and sohe retaliated.

“I am the General Secretary of the GeneralBoard of Global Ministries!” I decide where Iwant or should go. I am your boss, Ruediger, notthe other way around! I do not need YOURinvitation! Lydia arranged the negotiations. Mrs.Naina Yeltsina invited us to come. She didn’tinvite you, I’ve heard!”

Bishop Minor turned around and almost ran ontoDwight, who appeared from nowhere. Ruedigerjumped off Dwight and left, slamming the door ofthe Patriarch’s office behind him. ThePatriarch’s assistant attempted to hide hersmile, probably thinking, “O those Protestants!They show no reverence to the holiest of theholy!”

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Dwight looked sleepy and lost. He stood in themiddle of the office with his arms sticking outof his short sleeves stretched toward us, “Whatwas that?” He stuck his head out of the door fora moment to see if Ruediger was coming back afterthe storm or not. Ken Lutgen and Randolph Nugentbegan simultaneously updating Dwight on what justhappened.

“Oh, Dwight, that was priceless! You missed areal show!”

Ken Lutgen repeated the whole scene alone witha few loud stomps to illustrate Bishop Minor’soutrageous behavior in the office of thePatriarch of Russia. Randolph Nugent was laughingso hard that I got scared that we would be askedto leave the Patriarch’s headquarters.

“I am the General Secretary of the GeneralBoard of Global Ministries! I go where I want togo. I do not need YOUR invitation! Naina Yeltsinainvited us to come, not YOU!” Randolph Nugentrepeated his part.

The guys were laughing as hard as onlyAmericans could laugh. Dwight first leanedagainst the wall, and then he embraced himself tostop uncontrollable spasms of laughter. Myfriends’ boisterous laughter was so infectiousthat I just let it go, forgetting where we were.I didn’t feel threatened by Ruediger’s anger. Ifelt invincible next to Ken Lutgen and RandyNugent. I knew that they would protect me.

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To become a Protestant pastor in Russia meantto become an outcast: the Orthodox Church treatedus as a sect. The government applied to usseparation of the church and state rule, whichmeant one thing–neither pension nor healthbenefits. The church was just started and manypastors didn’t have even a salary.

Irina was getting sicker and sicker; poornutrition, stress, and the damp climate startedaffecting her health. However, her enthusiasmwas so intense that she made not only her churchgrow, she also started another church in Pskov.

Bishop Minor, who became our Bishop in Aprilof 1993, didn’t like the fact of Irina’sappearance in St. Petersburg without hispermission. Dwight Ramsey appointed her and itwas a reason why my sister fell out of grace.But she didn’t care–she loved her little oldwomen.

Now, as the pastor of a new growing church,she got authority to speak her mind. RudigerMinor didn’t know that Irina’s directness wassafe–she never kept grudges. Irina never had anax to grind and it always attracted people toher. Bishop Minor had no experience workingwith someone with such child-like openness andsincerity. So when Irina addressed the issue ofRussian pastors’ health problems and theirfuture without pension, Rudiger retaliated witha German accent.

“You make a problem hard. You open another

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church. Did I ask you to walk to Pskov? Did Ibless you? It is my job! Russia needs no morepastors! Lydia helped Ludmila Garbuzova to starta church, but that is not a real church! This isjust a choir! We have no money to pay to all newpastors! Dwight Ramsey should not start churchesand promise salaries! This is not his job! Andas for you, pastors should be humble. Youshould not demand, Irina! Pension, healthbenefits! No!” Rudiger attempted to speak inRussian, and it sounded very instructive withhis strong German accent.

“Nelly Mamonova is not a real pastor. I blessher not! She is your girlfriend, but Dwightmade her a preacher!”

“Dwight Ramsey came to Russia before you andhe is the Director of Church Development,Ruediger! He is here to start new churches.Nelly Mamonova was a complete stranger whenLydia and I met her at the airport. This is howwe met Nelly and converted her. Nelly is ahero! Do not kill her enthusiasm, please!”

My sister tried to defend another woman who,just like Ludmila Garbuzova and Ivan Kozlov,sacrificed everything for the sake of thechurch.

“You and your sister should stay where youbelong and stop wandering all over the country!It is not your job! It is not Dwight’s jobeither! It is mine! This is my land! This ismy territory! I am the one who should open new

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churches!”“Then, open them!” “You do not even have a theological education;

neither does your sister! You’re both are justengineers!”

In Germany, where he came from, Rudiger Minornever served a church with more than twentyworshippers. He couldn’t handle a woman who grewher church up to a thousand members in threeyears. Our Russian enthusiasm and our eagernessto die for any idea, even for Christ, lookedtruly barbaric to him.

Back in Ekaterinburg, Dr. Vaughn, the leaderof the group from Oklahoma offered me to leaveDwight Ramsey and our sister church behind.

“Lydia, why not make us your sister church?Our church has got a lot of money. What canBroadmoor do for you?”

I was so offended that I wanted to snub himfirmly by saying “Lydia is not for sale!” But Ipulled myself together and began to tell him whatwas so important for our people and for me aboutBroadmoor–that congregation from Shreveport, LAthat started our church. Nothing could be as agood as that, even money.

“That’s just lyricism–just words. We offer you stability.” This short man always held his head high, as

if he was looking for something above otherpeople’s heads. Dr. Vaughn’s attitude proclaimedthat he had come to teach us ignorant Russians,and he always talked–and sang–loudly. He began a

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lengthy discussion with an Orthodox priest whocame to our church to hear him speak, and it wasclear he felt he had utterly defeated him.

After three days in Ekaterinburg, choosing tosee what he wanted to see, Dr. Vaughn knew mychurch well enough to write a report. In hisopinion, the church was organized the wrong way.At the end of his report, he wrote, “In aparishioner’s words, this is not a church but afamily enterprise.” (I knew where he’d gottenthat comment.)

After Dr. Vaughn had left, I had onequestion: Why did he come? To criticize or to help? To breedstrife or to unite? To reconcile us with the Orthodox Church andwith each other or to make enemies of us?

Guests of this type created more problems forus by making my adversaries bolder in theirantagonism.

My mama commented later at home, “In Russia,we have a saying, Zastav duraka bogu molit’sia, on i lobrashibet.” - “Force a fool to pray to God, and shewill break her forehead.” My mother told me thetruth that I was too embarrassed to admit tomyself: we were working too hard when it was notnecessary. But we Russians take way too seriouslyany idea and give up our lives to make it work.

Healing

I went home after the service the Sunday Ilearned some of the members were leaving, and

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slumped down in my armchair. My body stayed inthe armchair, but my soul wasn't there. I had nostrength to pray, not even any thoughts. How long Iremained like that? I don't know. A day? A few hours? I seemedto lack the energy even to breathe.

Then images began to form in my mind.... A Church in Oklahoma... Shawn Powell, a girl

in a wheelchair, coming to me after my sermon andkneeling in front of me, kissing the edge of myskirt. I saw myself rushing down to help her getback into her wheelchair, crying, "Don’t! Who doyou think I am? How can you kneel before me?"

In my armchair, I felt tears slowly rollingdown my face, reviving me.

A church in Florida… The pastor and I werekneeling to pray in front of the altar before theservice. Light streamed from the altar and a handappeared out of the light and touched my head.

An old school in a small village nearEkaterinburg… More than a hundred elderly womenhad come to the service. Their church had longbeen destroyed and they had invited us to serveCommunion. After my sermon, the old women werecrying, wiping their eyes with their kerchiefs.During Holy Communion, they kissed my hand. Oh,Lord! Who am I that these Russian widows whosurvived the war should kiss my hand? I couldn'thelp kissing the wrinkled hand of the next oldlady.

How many blessings I had been given! Howgenerous God had been to me! And God kept on

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being generous. When my spirit was killed, I wasraised from the dead. I opened my eyes. Strange–I'm alive!

In April 1993, I went to Indianapolis for theGlobal Gathering, a celebration of faith, and forthe General Board of Global Ministries meeting.

At registration, each person received adifferent colored nametag. My tag came with asmall flag with the encrypted word “Director” onit. I didn't know what that meant, so I didn'tpay much attention to it. Dwight Ramsey, who hadcome to the gathering, read the tag and looked atme, then he looked at the nametag again.

"Are you really a director?" He kept asking. “How do I know? What does that mean?”My other friends had the same question. I

still had no real idea of why it was sosurprising, but I didn't have time to think aboutit because I had to concentrate on my speech. Infront of several thousand Methodists from allover the world, I shared my story and told whyMethodism was so important for Russia.

I had been asked to take part in someworkshops about Methodism in Russia along withBishop Rudiger Minor.

During the first workshop, I told of startingthe Methodist church in Russia. At the secondone, the bishop introduced me as "anelectrochemical engineer without theologicaleducation," I was hurt. But after the workshopseveral people I didn't know came up to me

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responding to this negative comment, "Lydia, don't worry. We have a proverb in

America: If it ain't broke, don't fix it!" After the Global Gathering, the General Board

started its work. That's when I discovered whatthe word Director on my tag meant. I was thedirector for Russia and the C.I.S.

The encouragement I received during those daysby the board members was much needed. I was evenwhistled at by a few delegates and had to askDwight what they meant by whistling.

“Never mind. They simply like you.” SaidDwight.

“Ah, so whistling here means the same as inRussia? Are you sure?” We laughed.

Then, Dr. Lutgen enrolled me in St. PaulSchool of Theology in Kansas City, Missouri. As Istudied, I began to see all my problems in adifferent light and could take a detached view ofthem. As I studied the history of the MethodistChurch and its theology, I realized with reliefthat all the conflicts in our church and aroundme were quite natural. Lastly, I understood thatthe church is just people–people with all theirvirtues and all their flaws. That was howMethodism had developed in other countries, soone can't expect anything different in Russia.There are so many problems, one right after theother. We don't have time to forget one beforeothers beset us. It's a pity no one told us thatthis is the way of the world. It's tragic that

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Russians have thought for so long that we are toblame for everything. We always thought that ourcountry was different from other nations andeverything is wrong with us.

9 KOURNIKOVA OF METHODISM

“Wait a second! What is this?” Dwight grabbed my arm in the hall of the

Convention Center in Indianapolis. He leanedcloser to take a careful look at the green satinribbon–one of many tags that were pinned to myjacket at the time of registration. The tag hadjust one vertical word printed in gold capitalletters –“DIRECTOR”– and nothing else.

“Are you sure it’s yours?! Did you not take itby mistake? You can’t be a director! Where didyou get this tag from?”

“Which one?”

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I looked down at six or seven multi-coloredribbons that got pinned to my jacket during theregistration.

“Ah, this! I got all my tags at theregistration.”

Why he is so surprised? I wondered. I didn’t knowwhat my position meant yet as well as I didn’tknow how hard it was for pastors and laity to getthe same status. Truly, ignorance is bliss!

“Now, I’m not surprised that the General Boardpaid five thousand dollars for your airfare! Oh,m-y-y… you are the star! Go, girl, go!”

Dwight patted me on a shoulder, lookingpuzzled.

Soon, I’ve learned the reasons behind Dwight’scuriosity. From now on, my life was lifted upeven higher: to become a Director of the GeneralBoard of Global Ministries was like exiting anelevator on a Penthouse level. I never had toworry about finding my way in New York since Ibecame a Director: the designated limo waited forme at the J.C. Kennedy airport. When I saw myname digitally displayed on a computer’s screeninside of the limo, I felt like I was somebody.The driver handed a red rose to me, and I feltfor a moment like a movie star. I didn’t evenhave to give directions–the driver knew where totake me. For the first time in my life, I didn’thave to count money in my pocket, wondering if Ihad enough. After filthy domestic Russianairports and corrupt cab drivers, it seemed like

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fiction. I didn’t realize how much I missedcivilization.

I am not a Babushka

I got spoiled right from the get-go. Theattention to me was frustrating–the very firstwoman pastor in Russia after seventy years ofatheism and persecution. Oh, she grew her churchup to a thousand members…. She knows the wife ofthe First President of Russia, Mrs. BorisYeltsin… The newspaper articles with my interviewsmade me blushing. They told the story of a youngwoman, who cut her communist roots off. I’venever been a communist! I either looked like ahero or like a naïve Russian peasant girl. I wait behind the stage to be taken uponto a conference platform. My body is tense andmy fingers are shaking. I lightly touch my tightleopard-print French dress and follow a man who,at the edge of the platform, took my hand andpushed me toward the crowd. Piercing ovationssound too real to be pre-recorded. The panoramaof the convention center revealed thousands ofstanding people. I saw audiences like this onlyduring the Communist Party conventions inKremlin, and that was on TV. The ovation seems like it went to somebodyelse–everybody is looking behind me with feverishanticipation. My knees, locked by fear, relaxed a

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little. I take a short breath, thinking, “What dothey all stare at?” Carefully, I glance behind my back. Acelebrity, probably, follows me, I think tomyself. I manage to join my shaking hands insincere applauds. My mouth is dry, and the headspins. What if I still have to speak? I lost allprepared words. The man, who took me up on thestage, adjusted the mic. “I know, you probably wait to see Lydia,but this is her! There is no confusion! This isLydia!” In silence, people look over my head. “I know, I know–this young blond doesn’tlook like what we all expect a Russian woman tobe. Yes, there is no shawl or an ugly coat, butthis is that very Lydia that you heard and readabout. Lydia–the founding pastor from Russia, whofought Mafia and the KGB, who went throughpersecution and harassment, and didn’t quit.” The presenter laughs out loud, pointing atme, and then hugs me, wiping tears in his eyes–this is how funny it was. The audience got numbfor a short moment and then broke into uproariouslaughter. I missed half of what the man said and allI hear is the roaring laughter. The crowd remainsstanding, staring. The dress! Is everything OKwith my dress? Do I even have it on? Sometimes,we women forget to put on the most essentialpieces of clothes when we are stressed out. The

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view of leopard pattern on my dress calms down myhorror of a fiasco. The crowd was gettinghysterical. I felt like I was standing right inthe middle of a circus arena. Is my dressridiculously sexy? But I have nothing else towear–that is my best dress! My friend made it forme. Fainting or running away seems like myonly option, if not for the Bishop Winner, whoalmost yelled into my year, “Lydia, this is you they are so anxious tosee. There is no one else coming. Dress? Whatabout your dress? The dress is fine. Just turnaround, please. People thought you were aninterpreter for the first woman pastor fromRussia. They expected to see a big Russian woman–a “babushka.” A shawl over your head, militaryboots, and elephant-like walk.” Oh, no! I do not want to be stereotyped.Another stereotype was the Mafia and the KGB. Dothey have to be mentioned every time I am onstage? Like in ancient Rome, people are still inneed of bread and entertainment. The last thing Iwant to see is people being entertained by mylife. But I am on stage, and I smile and re-tellmy story again about… KGB and Mafia and the FirstLady of Russia Naina Yeltsina, who did give me amilitary airplane, “Ruslan.” That is the onlystory I know… at least, I am not a “babushka.”

There is no Such Thing as a Free Lunch in America

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My new VIP-quality life came with the price.Days at the General Board of Directors Conferencestarted early and ended late. My body was tiredfrom sitting in a comfortable but notergonomically designed chair for hours and hours.Lengthy meetings made me aware that I hardlytolerated long speeches. Microphones served as anaddictive substance, proving it’s exhilaratingpower over people. Just like agitators in theformer Soviet Union would exploit the microphonesfor hours, I found that Methodists suffered fromthe same disease. Speakers, regardless of theirupbringing, usually don’t remember their ownsuffering from other talkative speakers beforethey get to the microphone. I’ve learned to likepeople, who were capable of staying on the topicand express their ideas clearly.

Luckily, I was not the only one who have beenjerking and sliding up and down the chair. Thejars with candies strategically placed on eachtable were empty by 10 in the morning, but it wasa short-living remedy after coffee. But I wasproud of being a part of the Board–such carefullyselected group. In Russia, I wouldn’t even dreamof becoming a deputy of the Russian Duma.

Getting out of the icy-cold conference room toget a cup of coffee I envied strangers wrapped inbright beach towels around their hips–such a wildcontrast to us delegates. I recognized quite afew of the General Board attendees among them,

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but I could only wish to have a spare minute tosneak out. After the plenary sessions, I had toattend late executive meetings with bishops andthe hierarchy of the church. I was the only womanat those nighttime emergency meetings, in a roomfull of men. I had their full attention for areason not clear to me.

The General Secretary Dr. Nugent patted me onthe shoulder, “You are for the United MethodistChurch what Anna Kournikova is for world tennis.”

“I don’t play tennis, Randy!” “You should be the next Bishop of Russia!” He

said.The attention to my country after perestroika

was almost unhealthy, and that was how Iexplained such attention at first. I was almostafraid that bishops and other directors of theGeneral Board would ask my opinion on politicsand economics that I have not had an interest inbefore. I chose not to watch the news or read theSoviet, and later, Russian newspapers.

“So, how is Mrs. Boris Yeltsin?” That was usually the first question that just

seemed like an icebreaking question. NainaYeltsina became more important for the UnitedMethodist Church than even her husband–the FirstPresident of Russia. But all questions werealways about her husband, whom I never personallymet. Even my connection with Naina Yeltsina couldbe explained by divine intervention alone.

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Yeltsin’s family was from my hometown, Sverdlovsk(Ekaterinburg now), and that was all that we hadin common before I contacted Naina Yeltsina inJanuary 1991 with the wildest request to give usthe largest Russian military airplane Ruslan AN-124 to transport humanitarian aid from America.

In his gratitude to The First Lady of Russia,The General Board of Global Ministries wanted tooffer Naina Yeltsina a job for her daughterTatyana Yeltsina–the older daughter of thePresident of Russia. Dwight ordered me toschedule a meeting with Kenneth Lutgen, Naina,and Tatyana on the subject of Tatyana’s hiring.

Naina Yeltsina picked us up in the last modelof “Volga” from the presidential garage to takeus to the recently built Renaissance MoscowMonarch Center Hotel. Her daughter followed us inanother car. I entered the marble lobby next tothe First Lady of Russia. I felt like Cinderellaentering the king’s house for the first time.Walking through the gallery of flags from allover the world, I caught myself thinking thatFive Star hotel was not built for the ordinaryRussians. In a matter of seconds, I wastransported into the world of wealth and power.Naina suggested that we go upstairs to have aconversation over a cup of coffee–this time, ashard as I looked around, I noticed no bodyguardswith us.

“Lidochka, how about a dress like that foryou?” Naina pointed at the elegant nightgown

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dress behind the window. On our way up, we bothallowed ourselves quick boutique window-shopping.

“Four thousand dollars for a dress? NainaIosifovna, you have an expensive taste!” We bothlaughed.

“You would look stunning in it, Lydia! I amsure, you can afford it doing such an importantjob.”

“Naina Iosifovna, I don’t like anything shinyand I can’t afford it.”

“Me neither!” Naina’s laughter was so infectious and sincere

that I laughed very loud, which is very unusualfor me. Did I try to please Naina? Possibly. ButI also felt so much at ease with her, like shewas a friend. The more I knew this woman, themore I respected her. Being the First Lady ofRussia–the most influential country in the wholeworld–she could probably afford something likethat dress, but she had respect for her peoplenot to wear extravagant clothes.

Naina had a very graceful way of presentingherself. She always had her back and neckstraight reminding me of my math teacher MariaIvanovna, who had an ideal posture of a militaryofficer. Maria was as petite as Naina and stoodin front of the class as if she was a sharppencil on high heels. She was strict and fairjust like Naina. I owed Maria my “A” because Iwanted to be like her.

“What responsibilities will Tatyana have if

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she accepts the job?” Naina asked a validquestion as soon as we got a table in the opensitting island of the spacious lobby upstairs,and our business conversation had begun.

“What the daughter of Boris Yeltsin will berequired to do if she accepts the job?”

“She doesn’t have to do much at all. All weneed is to have Tatyana on our staff. Lydia willdo the rest.”

Dwight leaned toward Naina and took her handsinto his. He smiled so friendly and so lovinglythat it was hard to say no.

I interpreted. Naina talked to Tatyana for alittle while.

“Please, do not translate. Do you know howmuch Tatyana will be paid?” Naina said inRussian.

“Seven hundred fifty dollars a month.” “Lydia, you need to help our American friends

to understand that Tanya is employed. She has asolid job at the newly opened international bankand she gets the same amount without taking anyrisks. You have to understand that my husband’sname is at stake in this situation.” I was elatedby this trustful conversation with the First Ladyand interpreted only the part about Tatyana’sjob.

“What kind of job is that?” Dr. KennethLutgen asked Tatyana Diachenko directly.

“I am a computer specialist. I work for one ofthe largest Russian banks.” The daughter of the

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President answered in perfect English.Dwight promised the First Lady that the

President’s daughter would be able to travel toAmerica very often. “I would be happy to hostyour daughter in Shreveport and to take her toNew York personally!”

“My children will never be paid just becausetheir father is the President! We want to beproud of our children. Tatyana is Boris’daughter–it says everything. Besides, sevenhundred fifty dollars is a very small pay. Shemakes more even now.” Naina’s posture and hergestures showed significant distress.

I was embarrassed that the General Board thatpays at least twenty-five dollars an hour to itssecretaries in New York offered seven hundredfifty dollars a month to the daughter of theFirst Russian President Boris Yeltsin. I wasdouble offended, pondering over my twenty-fivedollars a month salary for the last two years.Seven hundred fifty dollars sounded like a bunchof money to me! But on another hand, I was notthe President’s daughter.

Next visit, Dwight came up with anotherrequest, “I want you to talk to Naina aboutgranting me a status of the Honorable Citizen ofRussia.”

“Dwight, but this award is given forsignificant contributions only. It is almost likethe Nobel Price. I don’t think you’ve done

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anything yet to deserve it.” I translatedDwight’s request and my answer to my father andhe laughed, shaking his head in agreement. ButDwight wanted to explore the possibility.

“The Russian government decided not to giveaway titles like this anymore. There are too manyscammers who want to take advantage of Russia.”Naina said when we met in the old Kremlinbuilding. I agreed with her fully, reading aboutsuch con men in the news. But Dwight was not acon man!

“Lydia, I need your help!” Naina suddenlycalled me at home. “You know how bad theinflation is. This is about my sister Rosa.Remember she helped us meet? Now, she needs yourhelp. My sister retired but now she realized thatshe couldn’t survive on her pension. Do you haveany positions open in your church?”

I happily smiled, “Even if I didn’t, I wouldmake one for your sister!”

My dad couldn’t help being sarcastic, “Someoneused to hate favoritism.”

When Rosa started taking frequent time off tomake trips to Moscow or to work in her garden mydad got mad.

“Of course, Rosa is spe-e-e-cial. She is theFirst Lady’s sister, sure!”

I knew that my father was always for fairness,and I was for fairness too, but fairness somehowdidn’t fit into this arrangement with Naina’ssister. Rosa’s trips to Moscow were a part of my

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agreement with Naina from the very beginning, andI had to take my Dad’s criticism silently,anticipating my relationship with the First Ladygrow.

Randolph Nugent and Kenneth Lutgen came toMoscow in February 1994 to meet the First Lady ofRussia Naina Yeltsina and the first femaleMinister Ella Pamfilova. I arranged a series ofnegotiations, and the results of this meetingwent beyond the expectations. Ella Pamfilovaagreed to speak at the General Board of GlobalMinistries in New York and she also invited us tolisten to her presentation at the United Nations,where I never been before. Her assistants took usaround Moscow to visit local orphanages,children’s hospitals, and shelters. The level oftuberculosis and diphtheria was epidemic, andRussia needed vaccine and medicine. The deathrate among children was rising.

I was excited. I couldn’t believe that it wasI, who was chosen to work with these twoexecutives from the General Board of GlobalMinistries. It was pleasant to see Naina’ssurprised eyes when Kenneth Lutgen reported aboutthe possible injection of millions of dollarsinto Russian economy by the Federal Reserve Bankof the United States. That was so much more thanwhat we discussed three years ago when Nainaattempted risky connections with Dwight Ramseyfor the first time. Her name was at stake when

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she agreed to meet us secretly at the MoscowMetro station at first, and then in varioushotels, and even under the Bolshoi KammennyiBridge across from Kremlin one evening. Ofcourse, she didn’t come without her bodyguards,but she trusted us.

Our meeting with Naina Yeltsina and EllaPamfilova was more than successful. Naina invitedus to the Bolshoi Theater to see Yolanta. I wasnever able to get tickets this close to the stagein Bolshoi Theater! This time I sat between NainaYeltsina and Dwight. Ken Lutgen, Naina’s sisterRosa, and her daughter Tatyana sat to the leftfrom Naina on the fourth row. Dwight’s headstarted nodding way too soon, and I positioned mybody in a way that Naina wouldn’t see Dwight. Thejet lag took over in spite of Dwight’s efforts tostay awake.

I saw this opera performance before andremembered the story of Yolanta. The girl wasblind from birth, but everybody around her actedlike she was born normal. Yolanta didn’t knowabout her blindness, but somehow she had a sensethat she was missing something. Following theperformance, I couldn’t help noticing that thepart of Vaudémont was performed by a really shortsinger with a large nose and an enormous belly.Vaudémont supposed to be young and handsome.Usually, the female opera singers are big, butthis particular singer that night was a slenderyoung woman, fitting perfectly into Yolanda’s

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vulnerable and innocent image. The condition forYolanta to be cured was that she needed to becomeaware of her blindness. Yolanta can be cured, butthe physical healing will only work if she ispsychologically prepared by being made aware ofher own blindness. Usually, I don’t pay muchattention to the lyrics, but the aria ofYolanta’s physician hit home. The doctor sangabout the divinely ordained interdependence ofthe mind and the body.

Suddenly the view of the theater stage wasreplaced with the reminiscence of scenes from myrelationship with Dwight. I couldn’t helpthinking of Dwight’s weird behavior just a fewhours ago when we were on the way to the Ministryof Social Protection. We got out of Moscow metroon Lubianka Station and realized that we hadquite a walk to Slavianskaya Street. Soon, Inoticed that Dwight was nowhere to be seen. Hewas near just a minute ago. It was hard to spothim out in the crowd, but after a short moment ofpanic, I looked back and there he was. Dwight hadRussian ushanka on. xxv He acted like a beggarwith the ears of the hat down. I thought it was ajoke until I detected his tragic face.

I knew that Dwight didn’t like to walk, but Ididn’t expect an attack. “You act like youorganized all these negotiations! You don’t evenbother to check if I am near! I could be lost inthe underground Metro!”

Dwight left, and I looked at his back not

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comprehending what was his outburst about. Istood facing the ocean of a Moscow crowd. Thefirst wave broke right at my feet like I was arock. Another wave reached me, broke, and re-joined right behind me. I ran trying to findDwight. I was responsible for bringing all threemen to the Ministry of Social Protection of theRussian population.

“What do you mean by ‘I act like I organizedthese negotiations’? I did organize all thosenegotiations! Is anything wrong?”

“You walk everywhere ahead of me withconfidence like you know where you are goingwhile I am supposed to look like that! I amsupposed to know what door to open. I am expectedto recognize the people we meet, not you! Ishould be the guide. I am the Director of ChurchDevelopment in Russia! Ken Lutgen is my new bossand he needs to see that I know where we aregoing, but YOU open all doors, you introduce allthe officials. You should let me introduce them.”

“Then, why didn’t you do it? If I amKournikova, then I should play….”

Dwight didn’t think it was funny and steppedaway from me. He re-joined Ken and Randy, leavingme behind. In a minute, Dwight happily waved likenothing happened,

“Lydia, come, come! You need to hear this! ABaptist, a Methodist, and a Rabbi went into abar…” All three men laughed at the joke that Icould hardly hear.

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Yolanta began her aria, and it took me back tothe blind princess, who was inevitably falling inlove with Vaudémont after he helped her todiscover her blindness. I glanced at Dwight tocheck was he even seeing what I was seeing, butDwight was in a dream world: he was deeplyasleep. I carefully jabbed him with my elbow onemore time with no success. I got a sudden impulseof compassion over Yolanta. I wanted to stop herfrom falling in love with a man on his short legsand with a double chin. I almost screamed,“Remain blind! You will be disappointed!”

I looked at Dwight again and stumbled at athought that started making a nest in my head,“What if I am blind and one day I will regain mysight? I would rather remain blind. I don’t wantto be disappointed.”

Catalyst

As an electrochemical engineer by degree, Iknew that without a catalyst, a chemical reactioneither remains latent or can’t even start. Acatalyst is like a spark. It is like the ignitionthat sparks the engine. It is like yeast forbread making. When I heard for the first time,“Lydia, you are a catalyst!” it made me want todo even more and much faster until I gave morethoughts to it. A catalyst does nothing; it is apassive agent, but I am not passive. I simply dosomething positive, and, somehow, people get

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attracted to me like ions in a chemical solutionswim toward the positive electrode. Of course, myknowledge of electrochemistry could not serve mein theology and leadership theories, but thatexample worked.

Catalysts bring radical change, no wonder thatcommunists didn’t have any need for them.Catalysts were carefully selected back in theStalin’s time and exterminated. Communists didn’tleave much to change – everybody was healthy andwe had no social problems that required acatalyst to catch a fire of a new vision. JesusChrist would be an oxymoron in the Soviet Union.He would be crucified all over again. The dreamof democracy life led twenty million people togulags.

Luckily, my time fell between Gorbachev andYeltsin when the roads to Gulag were wellforgotten. But I was still worried. I was awoman, not a hero, and I was scared for mychildren. But my new American friends werecheering me up, and the thrill of being called acatalyst gradually numbed my instincts.

Then, the first vision came. A dazzling columnstarted somewhere on the top of my head andstretched up into the universe. I interpreted thevision as a communication channel with God. I hadno doubts about it. It was a tunnel that nurturedme though it didn’t look like a feeding tube. InRussia, we joke that a prayer is when you talk toGod, but if God talks to you, this is already

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schizophrenia. Visions are not something you talkabout with your friends. If it was not a directchannel with God, then how could I explain amiracle of my church’s boom when I had neitherexperience nor Bible knowledge? It was risinglike dough on yeast. Without yeast, there is nobread unless you’re making unleavened bread.Yeast is a catalyst.

I finally got the courage to ask Dwight, aboutmy visions, but he didn’t approve of them. “It isnot possible that the light starts from you. Thelight starts from God and comes down. Are yousure you got it right?”

“Of course, I did! The light was going up fromme, not down on me!”

“No, that is not possible theologically!Transcendence is when the Spirit descends fromabove.”

I am not theologically educated yet, so I amembarrassed, but, at the same time, I know thatmy pillar gives me not just inspiration andcomfort, but knowledge. It communicates God’swisdom to me. But people didn’t need wisdom; theyneeded a connection to America. Dwight had plansto help Russians to start a business withAmericans.

“Lydia, you are a catalyst. Act like one. Putall your energy, time and strength into one goal,and you will succeed. Visions are not popularnowadays. Be the leader that God called you tobe!”

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Americans counted the attendance during theirvisit and were impressed–the congregation grewfrom twenty people up to several hundred in justthree years. The number of boxes with food givento members was also growing, but the number ofworshippers on ordinary Sundays stayed the same.The attendance significantly improved on Sundayswhen we had American visitors or distributed thehumanitarian aid.

The doubt was intense: who was a catalyst?God, humanitarian aid, business opportunities?Some Americans and Russians cynically pointed atthe “typical case of Chinese Christianity,” but Irefused to believe it. Regardless of what broughtpeople to church, food or business, they had atleast a short encounter with the Divine.

Let the Children Come

Sergey, my husband, was strictly instructed byme not to stop and especially not to talk to anystrangers while he was out with our kids. Lorawas our neighbor and Sergey didn’t feel like itwas dangerous to chat with her when she stoppedhim on his way home.

“You have to pay six hundred bucks a month foryour daughter’s safety. Trust me, you do not wantthose people to talk to you or Lydia. I offeredthem to negotiate with you on their behalfbecause I am your friend. I want to save yourdaughter from being raped. These people know

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where she goes to school and her schedule.”“Six hundred dollars a month? We don’t have

such money! Lydia makes only $300 a year. A year!You can’t be serious!”

“S-u-u-u-u-re! It’s like I can trust you!” Lora leaned toward Sergey and chanted loudly

and slowly into his ear,

“MY FRIENDS KNOW ABOUT THE AIRPLANE AND ABOUTTHE SEA CONTAINERS. YOU HAVE THE MONEY! LYDIAJUST OPENED A CHURCH’S BANK ACCOUNT. DO NOTGIVE ME THIS CRAP! NOW, IULIA WILL BE RAPED IFYOU DO NOT COME UP WITH THE MONEY. I KNOWWHERE SHE GOES TO SCHOOL. YOU HAVE THREE DAYS.

I knew that nothing absolutely NOTHING couldstop this woman when she needed money. I knewthat too well. I sensed that this time Iulia wasin the midst of a real danger.

My husband and I didn’t have the luxury ofletting our children play outside anymore.Leaving the house, we had to hold their handstight.

One day Iulia rebelled, “I want my old lifeback! I do not want to be seen in a churchminivan with the driver. I want to walk like allmy friends do. I was always an Orthodox and Iwant to remain as such! I was baptized in theOrthodox Church! I do not like to be a Methodist!I want to be normal again!”

I told Dwight about the threat to my daughteras well as about multiple anonymous telephone

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calls that started after Sergey talked to Lora. “Lydia, you should leave right now… this is

too serious. I am concerned about you. You andJulia should both leave Ekaterinburg immediately!You go to the airport right now! Call me fromMoscow as soon as you get there!”

That same night, Iulia and I were already inMoscow. My little girl looked lost. She justturned seventeen three weeks ago. The new realitywas entering her life without her knowledge.

“Iulia here is your international passportand visa.” I was not sure should I celebrate itor cry–to get the passport that fast was a realmiracle, so I hoped that I would have more timewith Iulia in Moscow. But here it was in Iulia’shands. Dwight arranged tickets and they came byFedEx same day.

“No! I won’t go. You are not serious!”“You will go just for a few weeks. You have to

leave if you want to live.” “Why America? I could stay with grandma and

grandpa–we did it before. How about Pavlik? Ididn’t even say good-bye to him… to anybody! Whycan’t we just stay in Moscow for a few days? Youpromised to take me to the Bolshoi Theater,mama!”

Iulia and I held our hands until it came toher to go through the airport customs. I saw mygirl crossing the line painted on the floor ofthe Sheremetyevo airport that separates “here”from “there”. My daughter’s tearful eyes said,

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“Why are you doing this to me?!” My shivering fingers froze to the metal bar of

the customs inside of the warm internationalairport. My eyes tried to memorize every precioustiny detail on my daughter’s terrified face. Iknew she would be OK under Dwight’s care, and Istarted repeating something like a mantra,smiling to Iulia as long as she could see me.“She is alive, she is alive! She is finally onanother side.”

I got numb. I had no feelings, no thoughtsanymore. All I wanted was to close the door of myhotel room behind my back and be alone. I didn’tcry–I howled like a wounded wild animal. Fourmonths later we relocated my son to America awayfrom danger.

Life without my children in Russia lost itsessential meaning. Many women in leadership weremurdered in Russia–women like GalinaStarovoitova, who had much better security andsupport comparing with me. On the scale ofRussia, I was practically nobody, but I was stillscared.

One day I was sitting on a bench near myseminary when I stopped reading and lookedaround. The fresh air, the peace, the cleanlinessfilled me with elation. Scores of squirrels werefussing at my feet. I looked up and saw onlywhite clouds in the sky. Somehow that amazed me–it seemed to me that God was telling me that the

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light always wins. Then I got to think about my church and all I

had lived through. And when I looked up again, Isaw that the sky was now overcast with blackclouds. Is evil really stronger than good? Iasked myself. Is the dark stronger than the lightafter all? But God seemed to prompt my nextthought: White clouds are above the black ones;they are higher than the black clouds.

That truth came to me just when I needed it.It said to me that I must not try to proveanything, but I should accumulate patience. Ineeded to rise above the black clouds. There isspace there. There is fresh air. There is light.

It was with this Light that I returned home. Ihad only been away from the church for twomonths, but I was quite a different person. I washappy and joyful, and my sermons becameoptimistic again. I could see justice and love inthe world, and I thanked God for all the trials.I thanked God for my family, who took care of mychildren to let me complete the mission inRussia, for our church members, and for all thefriends who kept me from breaking down. And Ithanked God for all the gifts I'd received fromHim.

In these last five years, God has given meback my former self–fearless, trusting, ready-to-smile dreamer. Now I can enjoy the course ofevents around me. I have learned not to weep

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because of filth and corruption and hatred. Ihave learned to rise high above the black cloudsand see only the bottomless blue of the sky. Whenwe rise up, we rush through the black clouds atgreat speed; then we find ourselves in such alimitless blue that everything trivial andhurtful is so unessential we forget it.

That's where my strength and joy come from.That's why I know that after strife andresentment, after misunderstanding and hatred,the realization of something much bigger and morepermanent will suddenly come to me. And everyonewill be able to feel it.

Learning to live at high altitude is notfamiliar. Gravity holds us captive. Sometimesthere doesn't seem to be enough air, and we don'thave enough strength to keep our bodies going.But it's the only way for the human race, the wayshown to us by our Lord. If we want to be withGod, we must follow this way. It is a difficultway, but such a natural one.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lydia Istomina. After a short career inengineering, and nine years as Executive BranchManager of the Russian nonprofit associationZnanie (Knowledge), Lydia founded the firstUnited Methodist Church in Ekaterinburg, a city

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of 1.4 million people on the eastern side of theUral Mountain, a few miles from the Europe-Asiaborder. As the Director for Russia and the C.I.S. at theGeneral Board of Global Ministries, LydiaIstomina organized negotiations between theUnited Methodist Committee on Relief and theRussian government. She personally met with theFirst Lady of Russia Mrs. Naina Yeltsin. Lydiawas able to negotiate the largest militaryairplane AN-124 (Ruslan) to deliver humanitarianaid to Ekaterinburg, Russia during the mostcritical years. Lydia’s nonprofit organizationbecame a distribution, teaching, and publishingcenter. In America, Lydia Istomina is working on herdoctorate degree at St. Paul School of Theology.Her research topics are revitalizingorganizations, adaptive leadership, and aworkplace bullying.Lydia’s first book Bringing Hidden Things to Light(Abingdon Press) describes her personal journeyin the midst of the dramatic changes in Russia.Another book From Misery to Mystery is a collectionof short stories about the life of an immigrantwoman in Kansas City. Lydia Istomina holds the SOJOURNER OF TRUTH AWARDfor courage and justice and the ARLON O. EBRIGHTAWARD for leadership.

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ix Mikhail Gorbachev–first Soviet President, 1989– 1991. In 1991 Gorbachev was overthrown by a coup led by Boris Yeltsin and was forced to step down from the presidency. http://www.theguardian.com/world/2011/aug/16/gorbachev-guardian-interview

x Yeltsin was born in the Urals and managed a construction company in Sverdlovsk before he was appointed Sverdlovsk’s Communist Party’s First Secretary in 1976. In 1985 he was called to Moscow to supervise construction in the whole of the USSR for the Central Committee, and became a member of the Politburo. In 1987 he resigned fromthe Politburo in disgrace; but in 19189 he managed to get elected to the new Congress of People’s Deputies from Moscow with 89 percent of the vote! In May 1990 he was elected chairman of the new Russian Supreme Soviet

xi “Our cause is just. Victory will be ours!” With these words, Molotov addressed to the nationon the first day of the World War II http://histrf.ru/ru/lichnosti/speeches/card/nashie-dielo-pravoie-vragh-budiet-razbit-pobieda-budiet-za-nami

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http://histrf.ru/ru/lichnosti/speeches/card/nashie-dielo-pravoie-vragh-budiet-razbit-pobieda-budiet-za-nami



http://www.theguardian.com/world/2011/aug/16/gorbachev-guardian-interview

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2011/aug/16/gorbachev-guardian-interview


xii Alexander Men had not cooperated with the KGB under Brezhnev, but had taught secret Bible classes. For the two years or so before his deathhe had been preaching openly on radio and TV xiii http://www.alexandermen.com/Alexander_Men:_A_Modern_Martyr,_Free_in_the_Faith,_Open_to_the_World

xiv The Presidium is the administrative governmental committee that acts when the Soviet,the legislative council, is in recess

xv Land isn't bought in Russia. Land for any building project has to be granted by the city orstate government

xvi Roughly the equivalent of a campaign office orhome office of a senator or a member of Congress in the U.S.xvii Also known as Saint Isaac’s Cathedral

xviii Saint Isaak Cathedral is a unique Orthodox church that has stained-glass windows. The iconostasis is the screen, or doors, in front of the altar. The doors are usually closed to hide the altar from the view of the worshipers

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http://www.alexandermen.com/Alexander_Men:_A_Modern_Martyr,_Free_in_the_Faith,_Open_to_the_World

http://www.alexandermen.com/Alexander_Men:_A_Modern_Martyr,_Free_in_the_Faith,_Open_to_the_World

LYDIA P. ISTOMINA

xix A collection of 282 laws. This phrase, along with the idea of written laws, goes back to ancient Mesopotamian culture that prospered long before the Bible. http://www.ushistory.org/civ/4c.asp

xxi Bishop Dr. Rudiger Minor is a native of Germany and served as a leader of United Methodists in the former East Germany during the Cold War. He was elected a United Methodist bishop in 1986 and served as leader of the church's East German Central Conference. From 1993 until 2005 he was the bishop in residence inthe Euro-Asia Area and bishop to the Northern Europe Central Conference. http://shared.web.emory.edu/emory/news/releases/2008/07/new-emory-theology-faculty-honor-methodist-links.html#.VVvK-FLbKM9

xxii Veteran’s Certificate–very important document, which gave the owner the right to buy basic groceries at a discount in a local store xxiii Ilya Ilf, The Twelve Chairsxxiv Bishop Minor. Letter to Lydia Istomina,

copies to Bishop Oden and Bishop Vaxby. 1994.236

http://shared.web.emory.edu/emory/news/releases/2008/07/new-emory-theology-faculty-honor-methodist-links.html#.VVvK-FLbKM9



http://www.ushistory.org/civ/4c.asp


xxv

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Documents

Bringing Hidden Things to Light