Sweeping Up Rocks

As we got off the bus on our 5^th day, our last day, I watched a woman sweeping the dirt road. She had a broom that had the bottom few inches of it worn away, and was sweeping into little piles, anything that might trip or cause pain. With sincere motions, but a delicate touch she swept and swept and swept.

Today was a hard day. No question about that. We said goodbye to children, little parts of our soul and significant portions of our hearts. The last day at the camps is something we talk about in training. It’s painful, it’s tearful, it’s uncomfortable, but you can’t have a beginning without an ending. S it logical that we long to make the trip to Russia, dread leaving, and then can’t wait to get home. All of us, last night, commented on wanting to board the airplane immediately. It ‘s like we are carrying some precious cargo, some invaluable commodity, some irreplaceable information that we must immediately begin caring for, nurturing and the returning to our homes to share. What an odd sensation as this.

The day has gone beautifully. Tears, laughter, games, the Gospel. One of the most difficult aspects of this trip is that we rarely see an fruit. Many kids listen intently and they ask great questions and at least let us believe that they are listening to what we are saying. But, we don’t know what is in their hearts. I do know what I experienced, however.

From one vantage point I saw Brad, sitting at a table with 5 older Russian boys, being their friend; a mentor, talking, sharing. I heard Tad, beautifully and gracefully driving home the Gospel message with great patience as the children acted their age. Listening while contorting into various positions of barely bridled boredom. I could see the shadows of the older girls in a building while having their Bible study and “slumber party.” I could hear Brandon’s voice (he apparently left his inside voice in Texas along with mine and Elaine’s!) talking to the older boys with his bandanna and sunglasses. A mystique he created by being himself with them. I could see Byron, a father of fathers to these children, one arm on a child, one on the table, teaching, showing, guiding, loving. I could see Hannah, being led around and used as a playmate with a small, beautiful, but reserved little girl. They would laugh, Hannah would look at me, and her smile somehow brightened the day.

But there was something else there. Something that caused our words to being to slur towards the end. Something hard, and painful, and heavy. It was those little rocks that loving caretaker had been sweeping. They were there. There were 19 piles of them, one for each team member. They were in neat little balls and they were heavy, and they were dirty, and they choked us with their dust. We tripped upon them and had I been Melville, then my chest would have been a cannon and I would have shot my heart upon them. Only, those rocks, those stony reminders of a glorious week and a difficult day seemed to gather upon our exit. Like the children, they followed us to the bus, they slowly dragged themselves into the road and there they discarded themselves into our hearts.

Our hearts are heavy now. With rocks that are pieces of love and memory that are difficult to capture and too elusive to explain completely. They form the most precious souvenir that we will bring back. Memories of a day, bathed in glory, formed before time, and beautifully difficult.