No really. It isn’t a fancy metaphor. They’re painted.
And that cross? It replaced a statue of Lenin. Is anything
more powerful?
I’ve never really told my story of my trip to Ukraine. It
was back in 2005, and other than posting a few photos on MySpace (*gasp*) and
filling some journal pages, that’s as far as my story made it. So today I’d
like to share a little of my story. Just… a little.
 |
| The boys in my activity group when we visited a nearby village. |
We worked all morning decorating the camp for their arrival.
Every sidewalk was chalked, every door entrance taped with balloons, and every
Nazi ward transformed into child like camp cabins. The gates opened, and the children flooded in, children from the ages of five to seventeen. Oddly
enough, they looked past the bright colors of the streets and balloons and
instead, focused on us, the Americans. They were enthralled with us, grabbing
at our nametags in an attempt to read and pronounce the scribbled Russian under
our English names. One particular little girl, dressed in a holey t-shirt, pink
skirt, and dirty yellow crocs, looked up at me with a large smile spread across
her face and said to me, “Melody.” I knew then that this week was going to
change my life more than it was going to change theirs. I replied with what
little Russian I knew- “Da! Minya zavoot Melody. Kak vas zavoot?” and had
wished I could carry on a full conversation with this adorable girl so full of
joy, so full of life.
The entire week consisted of games, plays, crafts, and walks
to the Black Sea. I got to know so many of the children well, but I really
connected with the orphans who all arrived on a bus mid week. My favorite part
of the entire time I was there was going into their ward at night and reading
them bedtime stories. I had to take turns with each of the girls, sitting in a
different bed every night. I knew they couldn’t understand a single thing I was
reading, but they didn’t care much for the book that was in my hands. The
majority of the time their gaze was fixated on my face rather than the pages
anyway.
I developed such a love for these kids. I look back on my
trip regretting not taking more pictures of each child and writing down their
names. There is one name, though, that I’ll never forget. Yulya.
Yulya deserves her own blog post. I’ll get to that sometime
later this week.
If you ever have an opportunity to go on a mission trip, do
it. Granted, wherever you’re headed may take you on a 24 hour journey full of
long flights, smelly communist trains, and crazy driven vans- and once you’re
there, you’re most likely not going to have a single hot shower, your luggage may end up lost, and the types of bugs you
find in your bed will redefine your previous fear of them- but you know? All
that stuff that matters so much in the states has no relevance when your sole
purpose for being there is to serve others, serve children, serve orphans who
have no one in their lives to love them. And through that service, they get a
small glimpse of the love that God has for them and the hope that is offered to
them.
I want to go back. I will go back- someday. And while I know
I won’t get an opportunity to see those same faces, I’ll get an opportunity to
bring smiles to new ones.
Looking through these photos, these photos from seven years
ago, brings back so many feelings and so many questions (like why did I do my
hair like that and what was with the purple eyeliner?). I still pray for these
kids, when I think of it, and wonder where they are now and if they would
remember me like I remember them. I guess it doesn’t matter if they remember me
though; it matters more that they remember the love and hope they experienced one summer
at an ex-communist camp with brightly painted streets.
мелодй
