Posted by: Bonnie | September 24, 2007

First Morning in Ukraine

In our mid-lives–the time when most begin to think about retiring someday–God called us to the mission field. We had a lovely home, and Wayne had a fulfilling job. He served as an elder at Shady Grove Church for nearly a decade. We had led many short-term missions trips. We especially loved visiting Eastern Europe, and we felt that God had someting for us to do concerning the Jewish people someday.

Well things came together. In case you haven’t read our humble beginnings, please check the Beginnings section of the blog.

We tearfully said good bye to family and friends and boarded a plane for Ukraine. After flying and connecting and flying and connecting, we arrived in the former Soviet Union about 24 hours later.  

We had rented a small village house that had a well and a grape arbor. That first night we fell into bed exhausted and feeling strange in a new place. The phone didn’t work, the electricity was out. We couldn’t speak a word of Russian, and we didn’t know our neighbors. 

The airline had left our luggage in the rain, so our clothes and suitcases were soaked. They also left our two cats’ pet carriers in the rain, and they arrived in Ukraine wet, cold, and totally freaked out. Well, they weren’t alone.

Our first morning we awoke in the village house–with friends, family, and memories behind us, and new adventures and new friends before us. The house was very rustic. And I was already thinking of ways to “fix it up.”

Wayne and Julia still slept.

I fixed a cup of coffee and opened my journal. I looked at the sweet, morning light coming through the window. My heart settled into the kind of peace that only God can give when there is lack of human understanding, when there is lack of comfort. I didn’t know what would happen next. I just knew God had prepared us and would take care of us.

I wrote this poem in those very first moments of our new beginning.

 Quiet Morning 

Puzzle pieces of morning light

gleam through thin kitchen curtains. 

Outside plump ruby grapes dangle

from twisted vines, and

vibrant  grape leaves

hang motionless

in the still of first light. 

My soul is as peaceful

as the Ukrainian morning. 

I read and drink coffee

in the humble kitchen of 

stout-hearty Soviet friends.

Their rickety kitchen table jiggles as I journal.

A half-eaten grape cluster  

leans against a chunk of

yesterday’s crusty brown bread. 

My heart sings and swells for simplicity,

for quiet. Distant jagged patterns and

neon colors of home emerge:

grasping for Donna Karan,

clawing for Vera Wang,

force feeding the fat,

rescuing the apathetic,

competing, running in the

left lane winded, jaded,

gathering with both fists full. 

This home-scene memory

rushes before my eyes vivid, 

but I can’t hear it.

The morning is too quiet.


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