come down, sweet reverence.

remember when our songs were just like prayers?

like gospel hymns that you called in thin air.

come down, come down, sweet reverence.

unto my simple house and ring.

ring like crazy, ring like hell.

turn me back into that wild haired gale.

ring like silver, ring like gold.

turn these diamonds straight back into coal.

song of the day: the stable song, gregory alan isakov

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

autumn always reminds me of ukraine.

perhaps because that's the one season i had twice--

watching autumn begin, thrive, then turn to winter.

there's something i love about this time of year,

to say nothing of all the beautiful people it reminds me of.

the time and place when our songs were just like prayers.

even the fear it strikes in me of the looming winter--

there's something about that too.

isn't it interesting, how autumn smells almost the same around the world?

because there's something special about the autumn.

(23 october 2015)

winter always reminds me of ukraine.

perhaps because that's the season that felt it lasted the greatest amount of time--

watching winter come, freeze, then melt eventually into the rains, mud, and green of spring.

snow and grey squeezing through the spaces between snugly hooked buildings,

snow-covered fields and snow-rimmed branches.

there's something about every phase of winter that gives unexpected flashbacks 

to ukrainian streets, stairwells, and homes.

the hills in the late afternoon darkness,

the whited grey of the morning commute, 

the deafening silence of late night snowfall.

each take me back to streets and apartments and doors i thought i had forgotten.

isn't it interesting, how winter looks almost the same around the world?

because there's something we can't quite be sure of in the winter.

i hate winter. 

i hate the grey that hangs low and infiltrates everything.

and yet.

some days, there's something soothing in that grey.

something beautiful in the very things i hate.

coal into diamonds, and diamonds back into coal.

there's something in that, eh?

the way a hate can never quite stay saturated.

i've more i could about this.

another day.

(24 january 2016)

Д В А. [T W O.]

уже два года прошли.

уже?

два года. же.

the truth is, there are still days i feel a whole lot like this, or a bit of this.

(i still have an obsession with the concept of home--did you know?) 

the truth is, i hardly ever look at these emails i wrote home, and as i wrote them i never edited or reread.

and most of them left out a grand majority of my experience.

because you just can't send those things home.

the truth is, everything was always just a stream of writing.

(the truth is, nearly all of the things i write are like that--with only minor edit or revision.)

the truth is, i should probably read my mission journal more--

because that's where the real truth of it all can be found, inasmuch as is possible to capture.

i should reflect and embrace the struggles and the miracles together.

but the truth is, sometimes i can't. 

because sometimes it is too much to go back there.

and because i'm starting to think i don't really believe in the validity of should's.

i remember vividly the process of writing my final email home. the dingy, but large, internet club in center donetsk that was infinitely nicer than nearly all the others i'd used each week throughout my mission. all the little boys and men playing games and other things on computers all around us, the scent of beer and breathe reeking of cigarette smoke wafting all around. the emails exchanged with my daughters still in-country. the beautiful emails i received from jillian and megs that made me nearly cry two tears. and most of all, starting the email i was trying to write over and over again. because what do you say at the end of so many months like that? what do you say, when you start to realize that it really does end and there really will be the juxtaposition of simultaneous relief and heartbreak at being pulled away from it? what do you say when dreams and nightmares become reality, and reality becomes dreams and nightmares?

sometimes i feel like God lets me to write, so that i have something to hold. so that i have some way to capture experiences or feelings that cross me, of course. but--perhaps more importantly--to hold the lessons He teaches me for later. i wish i could say i feel like this all the time, that i maintained a status quo of that perspective. i don't. sometimes that wintergrey still gets me.

i've found myself talking a lot about ukraine lately--more than i have in a long time. there's still so much from ukraine that defines so much of who i am, but time's a funny thing, you know? distance is a powerful informer of perspective. as are these 730 days. i'm still 93 million miles from the sun, though some days feel much closer to the warmth than others. it seems fitting that this two-year mark collide with the weekend of finals, the end of my first semester of grad school, jillian's wedding, among other things.

i wish i could say that i've progressed a lot in these two years, though i'm not so sure that i have. it looks like it, of course. objectively speaking. i graduated form college. applied, was accepted, and began graduate school. went to israel. met a million different people--some who have stayed, others who kept moving onward. but has my heart and soul really changed? i don't rightly know. or perhaps she didn't need to change. but i'd still like to hope i've learned a thing or two in these two years.

when i first came home, i wanted so badly to throw out every piece of my life that preceded ukraine. i didn't like the girl i saw there--the way she was or how she thought and lived. i wanted so badly to begin life anew, keeping only small and important pieces from anything before, and building mostly upon ukraine and the woman she made me.

i've started over a lot in the past two years--in every sense of the word--just as i did in ukraine. starting over and over again, here i am living in radical uncertainty. moving all around, often nothing quite staying.

and yet. it's all part of the path. how it ever ends? only God really knows. but you know what? all those things and people that don't seem to stay are a sifter for the things that truly do. because it's in that process that you come to find the things that truly matter--not only inside yourself in regards to where you're going, but also in discovering what matters most in building your life.

december the twentieth was an odd day this year, with a little piece of everything inside. one that ranged through a whole lot of different experiences. because apparently, just like last year, there's just something about these important days, you know? you know.

in the middle of the day, i purposefully chose to walk a ways through the snow to and from my churchings, and there was something so cathartic about that walk through the cold and snow, ukraine style. the chance to breathe and be. walking along and having a good talk with God about who i am and how i got to where i am. in addition to where i am striving to go.

and this twentieth day of december? a day that went from cold and icy to pure and sweet. i'd like to think that it was an odd sort of metaphor. a microcosm of life. i certainly hope. because two years later? in all this building and all this striving? here i am living and breathing. finding that perfect blend of selected pieces of past working with selected pieces of present, paving the way towards future.

two years already? now we've only just begun.

because everyone loves a good stream of consciousness.

i don't have an explanation for why i blackhole myself for days, weeks, or months sometimes. or why in the bloggitysphere, i do so and then post three times in one day. i couldn't tell you the last time i did that.

i do this thing where i think i've replied to someone, when in reality i forgot to do so, or sometimes it's just that i didn't hit send. it's sad how frequent this happens.

or i do the opposite, and i reply and text with whatyoudoingwhatyouthinkingthinkimprettywheredobabiescomefrom ad nauseum. like solnichka who would be silent for three days, and then talk for three days straight to make up for lost time. turns out we really are twins. my friennnzzzzz still love me, right? (uhhhhhhhhh.)

i'm really into the phrase ad nauseum lately.

speaking of solnichka. renae randomly called me in the middle of the day yesterday while i was on my way to a hearing screening training lab. and surprise calls are actually the best thing.

bean wrote me the most brilliant email today about islands, loneliness, and guilt. i must write more about it and expound sometime. it was so very insightful, though. i've learned much this week. about life and guilt and people and revelation and loneliness. and. most of all, about how much i don't know.

i chittered with kolya today in a middleoftheday call too. she is love and goodness and glittering joy. my sisters, you guys. i can't get over these sisters of mine. or the way they love me so purely and admire me so greatly, especially when i feel i hardly deserve it.

i've learned more about Jesus from my sisters than i ever could have imagined. i should write about that.

this morning i woke up to the alarm that's intended to tell me it's time to go. #greatday

growth feels like a loss. my grandmother said this. and i think it's genius. that grief, though.

i feel this gradschool lyfe has meant some new friends, but also the loss of many with whom i am no longer geographically connected. and that fact gives me heavy boots sometimes. i thought we were friends. oh wait.

my fatal flaw is the tendency to worry unnecessarily or prematurely. 

tomorrow i shall see meglet for the last time until christmas. i'm thrilled for her oxford masteringhogwarts adventure. but i'm also a little bit like.alltheweepingeyes.

to avoid this morning's rushed fiasco, i now bid you adieu.

because my words are all muddied these days. 

and so i leave you with, how's your heart?

always pertinent.

the words.

i have a russian dictionary app on my phone.

and until recently, it was easily and by far the most frequently used app.

it resides in that place at the bottom of the screen--

that place for the most-used of all.

phone, messages, gmail.

and my slovoed dictionary.

i can't bring myself to demote it to another location.

because doing so means i'm demoting russian in my life.

which.

turns out.

i am.

because.

#emsgoingtogradschool

my focus for most of the past year and a half has been russian.

for the past three years, really.

except for applying to grad school and a couple things here and there.

mostly it's been all russian.

especially in the past year.

russian has been all-consuming.

but for the next two years?

my shift is focusing, my focus is shifting.

and my focus will be all things speech-language pathology.

because.

#emsgoingtogradschool

a good grad school.

a good program.

really good, actually.

and i love speech pathology.

it's dandy and great and i get excited about it too.

and yet.

i still can't get myself to move the russian dictionary.

in the sea.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea 

ee cummings.

i saw the sea of galilee for the first time one month ago today.
in the evening after dinner we took a walk down the road along the shoreline.
i was most contented there and in jerusalem's city.
for whatever i may have lost--like a you or a me.
on this sea i was found.
- - - - - - -

on the first sabbath in israel, we ditched our group to do our own thing.  

and the first order of business, was going to the branch. 

shabbat shalom.

the galilean branch--that building that looks out over the sea of galilee. 

the branch. that alone.
there were around 20 people in sacrament meeting.

5 of whom were us. 

- - - - - - -
on the way there, i walked with mike and mindee. 

we might have gotten lostish. 

because the road wound up and up and up. 

the name kept changing, but not into the one we were looking for. 

as the road curved over and back towards the sea after going up for so long, 
we curved over.

mike knew the branch looked out onto galilee,

so we turned down a road that turned back towards the direction of galilee. 

- - - - - - -
across the street on this little road, going the way opposite was a couple. 
in their 60s or 70s. 

a couple with that lilt in their speech,

the lilt in the way they walked,
the way their hands moved as they talked. 

and i just knew. 

my finely honed sense was right. 

миша and his wife. 

a ded and baba from ukraine. 

odessa, to be exact. 

ukraine. 
i just knew.

- - - - - - -
missions never truly end. 

i said the road name and as they tried to respond something in hebrew,

he said something to her in russian.

and at first i wasn't conscious. 

i just knew i understood what he was saying to her.

and we found the common language of us all.
this is their seventeenth year here. 

these two beautiful humans from ukraine. 

leading us along.

these people. 

russian. 

speaking russian as i walked down the street with them. 
as if i was still walking down the streets of ukraine.

they thought i was from ukraine. 

(the women from moscow the day before told me i looked it.)

- - - - - - -
we never would have found the branch without meeting this couple. 

maybe we would. 

but they were there for me. 

so that i may take the streets and be among the people. 

my russian.  

without that, i wouldn't be able to know them. 

what a privilege.  

and this. well, this is why missions never truly end. 

because of this ability to connect. 

because of the enlarged world i have been endowed with. 

missions perpetuate themselves. 
they teach us who we are.

- - - - - - -

whenever i am lost,
with russian 
(and russians by the sea of galilee)
i am always found.
- - - - - - -
count your many blessings, we sang in the branch that day. 

сочти благословения. 

сочту.

их много. 

because. 

jesus is everywhere. 

he is on the streets inside these people. 

inside of them, inside of me, inside of the connection we made. 

God is awake. 

what a woman.

of ukrainian and russian women.
of the moments i've shared with the russian woman's soul this week.

- - -

i wrote the following for my mother's birthday (8 september) while i was still away in ukraine:

my mother could be a ukrainian woman.

   the ways my mother could be a ukrainian woman? countless, really. people always tell me i look more like a ukrainian than anything else, disbelieving when i tell them there's not a drop of ukrainian blood that i'm aware of within me. but maybe i was wrong all along. maybe it's the product of my mother--a genuine ukrainian woman.
   what exactly is a ukrainian woman, then? who is she? she is one who gives everything away. her own dreams or desires are laid aside as she gives all that she is to holding together all that she holds dear in any way she knows how. she's the woman that rises early, marching through snow and ice to work. working all the day, because somehow they must live. she's the woman who turns with kindness to others, though always keeping a guard. the woman whose thoughts are forever preoccupied with everyone but herself. she's the woman who returns home late in the evening--feet, body, and mind exhausted from the long day that makes up every day--and yet on the path homeward she still stops at the store to pick up the things her family needs. she's the woman who frequently has little to no support and hardly anything for herself. her children love, but in childhood are oblivious to all that she does. and her husband? i suppose you could say there's a little variety in them--if he's present at all. though even then. rarely is he in between-usually hot or cold. a loving and soft-hearted family man or one who spends his time with a bottle of vodka--stumbling home eventually in the condition of a needy child, though claiming power still as the scientifically speaking man of the house. the woman, though. she carries everything on her back. it's the women that keep this country alive. any strength this country has is founded in the strong shoulders and weary legs of the babushkas that spot this land. they do the dirty work, they keep the faith alive. all the while, taking care of and dutifully defending all loved ones. these women epitomize strength: tough, and yet sensitive. the rock of a nation.
   who is my mother? she peacefully bears all burdens placed upon her. she gives every part of herself to the welfare of those she loves. rarely, if ever, does she have any moment that is her own--only in small, occasional pockets. despite exhaustion, she trudges forward. despite having nothing left to give, she gives a little bit more. just to see her children smile. to bring them peace and shelter them to whatever possible extent from the darkness or hardships that exist. my mother gives her whole heart--keeping faith and teaching by the means of love unfeigned.
   my mother could be a ukrainian woman: the strongest woman there is.

(written august 2013.)

- - -

in one of my russian literature classes, we're reading works from the 20th century. just recently we finished the revolutionary works and are moving into the works written during and about the great terror and purges of the 1930s. just this week, the first works in either this semester or last semester (19th or 20th century) written by a woman: anna akhmatova. and then. nadezhda mandelstam.

these women, though.

they suffered so profoundly and yet carried on.

i am in awe of them.

complete awe.

speechless with lack of words to describe them or my experience with them.

anna akhmatova.

she and i had a moment the other day. 

i was reading her requiem.

(i'll write even more on this soon, in honor of upcoming eastertime.)

and.

words don't exist to express the depth of soul within her words.

the raw emotion--depth of grief together with numbness of frozen feeling.

giving voice, no matter how hard they tried to hush her.

everything was taken from her, one by one loved ones arrested, sentenced, killed.

but she remained with her country, refusing to run away.

not only that, but maintained a certain hope--a hope in resurrection, a hope in new life.

and so she wrote of truth and wrote in rawness.

she wrote her story, and the story of so many women.

she wrote of the unintended friends--these women standing together.

standing in lines outside prisons, seeking any sort of news, though often being told nothing at all.

(like unto what is described also by lidia chukovskaya in sofia petrovna.)

these women who held onto hope, because there was nothing else to hold.

she wrote the story of the grief of a nation, 

ripping through every family in some form or another.

and nadya. oh, nadya.

nadezhda mandelshtam.

she and i had a moment tonight.

this feisty, snarky, beautiful woman.

her husband, the poet osip mandelshtam, died in transit to the camps in 1938.

fearing putting pen to paper, she memorized his poems.

and she lived.

writing of hope, and hope abandoned.

it's only fitting, isn't it, that her name itself means hope? 

надежда. // nadezhda.

in her memoirs, she tells the story of a bull.

a bull being led to a slaughterhouse versus a man submissive to the inevitable.

it goes like this: 

When a bull is being lead to the slaughter, it still hopes to break loose and trample its butchers. Other bulls have not been able to pass on the knowledge that this never happens and that from the slaughterhouse there is no way back to the herd. But in human society there is a continuous exchange of experience. I have never heard of a man who broke away and fled while being led to his execution. It is even thought to be a special form of courage if a man about to be executed refuses to be blindfolded and dies with his eyes open. But I would rather have the bull with his blind rage, the stubborn beast who doesn't weigh his chances of survival with the prudent dull-wittedness of man, and doesn't know the despicable feeling of despair.

(the word in russian used here for despicable more directly means dirty, filthy, or grimy.

and the word for despair more directly translates to hopelessness.

the filthy feeling of hopelessness.) 

and so she wonders--is it needful to howl, when being beaten and stomped down?

or is it better to stiffen in pride?

she decides, it is better to scream.

because even if you don't know where that scream will go,

even from soundproof cells,

by that cry, a person leaves a trace and sends a message of how he/she lived and died.

even if nothing else remains, one must scream.

I decided it is better to scream. (...) Silence is the real crime against humanity.

and the translation of any of their words doesn't nearly do justice the depth of feeling.

but these works.

something different in these from what we have heretofore read--the works of the men.

don't get me wrong, we have read some stunning pieces. 

the men have talent as well and write stunning things.

but these women.

there's a certain spirit within them--a character that oozes from between each line.

these words written not only to declare the raw truth of what they have seen,

but for all those who suffered similarly across their innocent trampled nation.

for the women they represent.

for who they are.

i am in awe.

in awe of the soul of the russian/ukrainian woman.

(for they are of the same blood.)

something different in these women--the women of the last wagon.

women who are not praised enough.

these people--men and women alike--there's something different in them.

an indescribable something in their character, this special kind of strength.

as evgeni zamyatin said (rough translation),

the russian person has needed and must have especially strong ribs and thick skin

in order to not be crushed by the heaviness of that unprecedented load,

which history has thrown upon his/her shoulders.

there's something special in their souls.

something important and impenetrable.

these people who are not praised enough.

i for one, will be praising them forever.

not because they are perfect,

but because they are imperfect.

because of their tenacity.

because of the way they are never disingenuine,

but rather unabashedly sincere at all times.

a people to be praised.

- - -

for past additional thoughts on women//ukrainian women:

можно зайтй сюда.

this woman i love.

   there’s this woman i love named tomara. i wish i knew what relation to compare her to. perhaps an aunt, perhaps a grandmother, perhaps a cousin. but. no relationship seems to quite describe it, so i guess maybe i’ll just stick with her being this woman i love. labels are inadequate like that.

   this woman i love was waiting for me two years ago, though i think she’d been waiting without knowing much longer than that. when my heart has it’s yearnings for that which i can’t define or explain, for that which includes a world beyond this one, i think she’s one of the faces of that love. my ghița relationship and my tomara relationship are similar to me in that way—they don’t quite seem to fit in the pragmatics of this world. rather, they are in a world all their own. a world inside my eternity.

   this woman i love, i love. and i leave to god to order and provide. on stankovaya 4. did you know, the first time we went to her home, it took four busses and going in circles to get there? but in the end we got there. because nothing can separate us from tomara. nothing at all.

   tomara was baptized two years ago, the next day gifted the holy ghost. 17 and 18 november 2012. it’s been two years. those days were so fragile, so susceptible to falling apart. the things we care most about in life always are that way: on the brink of either falling apart or being one of the most wonderful aspects of our existence. but she did it. she made it. and. every piece of everything is baby steps since then.

   i’m not sure when i first fell in love with tomara. maybe when watching her light up with surprise when we gave her flowers the first time we met her. or maybe when watching her light up as she told us about the passage she’d read in alma 32. or maybe watching her light up with understanding of her divine nature and role as a daughter of god. or maybe watching her soul light up as it filled with peace after having the holy ghost conferred upon her.

   have you noticed the pattern? it’s a pattern of light.

   if i had ever been an investigator rather than born into the church, i am nearly convinced that i’d be just like tomara. obstinate and resistant, but all the same-sometimes secretly, sometimes openly-delighted. because. because deep down she really, really knows. and yet. it’s so hard sometimes for her to believe. so hard for her to understand based on the life she sees around her. because how can it all ever find harmony with the ideal amidst the reality? because all she wants is understanding. to gain knowledge.

   maybe my favorite moment of all was the surprise of seeing her one more time before leaving ukraine, almost a year after having first met her, 10 months after parting for what we expected to be forever. the way she looked at me and i looked at her. the way she noticed that i was taller. the way we sat in a surreal return to what had been. the way i saw so clearly in that night how much i had experienced and how i’d changed in those months. the way she went to the kitchen to peel potatoes and feed us food she couldn’t afford, but was dying to give as an expression of care. the way she asks her questions and i can see the way her thoughts process and come to resolution in the form of a new question. the sparkling blue of her eyes and the unmistakeable half smile that lights her face as she tilts her head slightly forward in a shy and unexpected delight.

   i don’t know where this woman i love is now. i have an unreliable address that i can attempt to send mail to, if that. but no real way to mutually communicate or contact her in the midst of her world. especially now. nevertheless, i know god is with her. he loves her, he wants her to have her answers. he sees her struggle and knows her intent.

and someday, in the end, all safe and blessed, we shall meet at last.

there just aren't any words that could describe a love like this, for words would be far too constraining.

the piece of my eternal kind of family i never knew i was missing.

the love i have for my toma.

huit. opt. восемь. 8.

and the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love.

great clouds roll over the hills bringing darkness from above.

but if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?

and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like you've been here before?

song of the day: pompeii, bastille.

sister pharis and me, just a couple days before leaving ukraine.
you can only a little bit see our nametags if you look closely.

eight.

today makes eight months since i returned home from ukraine.

i sort of kind of lost track of months after awhile after getting past four,

and i wouldn't want to be that obnoxious human that always seems to be counting something.

but recently i realized that in the past year, i've been in america longer than i've been in ukraine.

and something about that realization scares me a little bit.

eight is my favorite number, did you know?

well, it is.

when i'd been on a mission for eight months, i wrote a manifesto of sorts.

all the reasons i loved my mission, because i was a leeetle disenchanted at the time.

well. i'm not going to write a whole list of things to love about life in the past eight months.

but rather, i share that which is most important at this moment.

because in this month eight is when i'm now realizing.

anyone remember this?

(at the beginning of the year, when i'd just barely arrived from ukraine?)

i didn't know what to make of anything.

but resolved to make a place a home.

i knew a whole new year was before me, and i hadn't a clue what it may hold.

well. at the very least, this week i finally saw and realized:

i've made myself a home.

right here in this place and this life.

surrounded by some people i love, some people i like, some people i don't.

but all of everything carries with it a sense of calm and familiarity.

familiarity even with that which isn't routine.

i've found my skin, found my place in my little circle of the world.

and. i've built a home.

so here's to those eight months of construction.

here's to being home.

(and if you're wondering about the status of the ukrainian land at the moment.

well. that. i just can't even talk about. there's nothing good to be said.

so i'll say nothing at all.)

a free act of love.

"Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust,

a free act of love-but sometimes it was so hard to love."
yann martel, life of pi
  

i like to claim eastern europe as my own.

because there's something about her, that i just know.

about the way her heart seems to tick. her people living and breathing,

with so much goodness in their hearts, it almost seems impossible to believe.

there's something about her that is just so easily understood to me.

i'm not done. i don't know exactly what that means.

i just know: my work is not done there.

it neither began in romania nor ended in ukraine.

there is a reason for everything,

but also a time and season for everything.

he knows all the times.

i love eastern europeans with a fiery kind of love--

sometimes it burns, sometimes it flickers, but it still never goes out,

despite its opposing anger or joy, hurt or comfort.

and that burning and fire itself is a refining one.

a sanctification that makes any burns worth it.

a fire that gives scars and heals them simultaneously.

there's something special about different cultures.

the different humor, even the character found within the language itself.

« это наш. »

i don't talk about romania much anymore.

maybe because i got to know ukraine in a way so much more her own than i did romania.

and yet, romania is my love too.

they are alike, yet different.

i forget sometimes how much she means to me.

and then it comes back with waves and waves of memories.

my babies there. my experiences there.

the simplicity of sunshine and sweat.

the work of salvation in a different way.

both romania and ukraine taught me everything i know about faith.

everything i ever need to know about faith, can be pulled in some way from one or the other.

because that's what eastern europe teaches me above all: faith.

the kind of faith described by pi in life of pi.

that's what romania and ukraine are to me, if put into a phrase:

'an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love.'

including, almost most importantly, the end: 'but sometimes it [is] so hard to love.'

if you look to the right, there's a link to my blog from while i was in romania.

i went to romania and learned of love.

i learned there what love really means, though love never came hard in romania.

it came easily and processed from general love to personalized love. 

but then i went to ukraine.

i was all filled up with love and light,

ready to ignite every heart and soul with that love.

but as experience progressed,

that light of love flickered.

that fire either burnt towards ashes, or raged in violent fury.

violent and harmful flames, sparked by love.

and then.

sometimes it was so hard to love. a very real struggle to love.

however, by this means i learned of love again.

i learned what love means in a different way.

learned that there are many kinds of love.

learned that charity is meant to be so much more all-encompassing than we readily acknowledge.

faith is love. love builds faith.

by this means comes about that opening up, that letting go, that deep trust.

all of such lessons, which are best learned through interactions with people.

relationships with people of all kinds, both fleeting and lasting.

because that is how i learned when to open up, when to let go, and how to trust.

and that. that is what eastern europe taught me.

of people. of hearts. of souls.

to learn of people, is to learn of love.

therefore. above all. in the end.

romania and ukraine taught me this.

that which matters most is that which i knew from the beginning:

everybody wants to love, everybody wants to be loved, and everybody heals with love.

because it's about people. it's always about people.

the sun goes down, the stars come out.

together we glide through the blue-velvet dark and stars.

all it takes is a little faith, and a lot of heart, sweetheart.

stars, the weepies

звёзды. (zvyozdi.)
i guess i never really talk about it much, but stars. stars were my thing. in the darkness of a ukrainian night, especially in areas that were rarely well-lit. the stars would shine. on the noncloudy nights, i looked to the stars. walking along the streets, i'd take a moment sometimes to stop in wonder and say audibly to my companion, 'look at the stars.' always. but especially throughout my mission. especially in the wintertime when darkness spends more time with the day than light. because the stars shine around the world, and seemed even brighter in ukraine.

(ukrainian night snow stars. some nights in lieu of stars. it's a thing.)

orion. he's my favorite. the wintertime constellation. he puts everything into alignment. because at least there's orion. at least there's that consistency between all the homeland and the foreign. you could be anyone, anywhere. because nothing ever stops happening. that's the thing about stars: they're always there. sometimes hiding, yes. but always there in everlasting number. wherever you are in the world, the stars remain. so many nights i'd look to the stars. sometimes filled with hope, sometimes filled with despair. i always say that god is the sun. (because, he just is.) but the stars? i think they're angels. in all those darkest places (literally and figuratively), i could so clearly and vividly see the stars. the darker the night, the brighter the stars. i think there's something in that. sometimes life necessitates a little darkness in order to see the light.

so, despite my love and need for bigger cities that i've discovered in myself throughout the course of the past five years, there's something to be said for those little towns outside of the city. because from there, you see all the stars. in dense wonder they fill the night with light.

and the way i see it, every kind of night could always use more light.

so if you need me, i'll be basking beneath the stars.

(and probably listening to the weepies while i'm at it.)

my worried shoes.

this photo was taken one year ago today. my day of deliverance. 15 апреля 2013.
   if you could see my eyes in this moment, you'd know. if you could zoom into just them, you'd see. they were dead. no life, light, hope, or strength was left - only the smallest, faintest not-even glimmer. eyes cannot lie, for they always tell the truth. this road behind me--that's natasha's street.
   this was the last time i ever saw her. delivering photos with handwritten notes i wrote to every one of her daughters as i fell down from kharkov. because dangitall if nothing else, i have to be able to believe in them--in the hope of them. a year ago today, i was delivered. my kharkov days were done, at least for a time. that's all i knew at that point. the day i knew for sure and was allowed to be relieved in knowing, i was being sent down to collapse. the day i was struck with how green everything had become on the bus route to and from natasha's. somewhere there's a single streak of green inside it. there was life deep down. when a thing is wick, it will grow. but no sooner. only when it is ready. only then can life become new. and on that day god assured me, maybe i wasn't dead - maybe i just needed some water and some light like that silly tomato plant. to bring life back. that's why he sent me down. a summer to heal in the seasons of light and life.
   this was the day i kneeled at natasha's feet for the last time. talking and sitting in saturated silence--filled with the understanding that she and i shared, an understanding that didn't need to be said out loud. then i asked god: bless this house, bless those girls, bless that woman. never have i meant it so earnestly as i did in that moment. our final prayer. sometimes it's a shame when you have to use the only words you know for something that feels like it needs new and different words to adequately express. and yet the words you have are all you have. 'the spirit itself maketh intercession for us with groanings that cannot be uttered.' (romans 8:26) and then i walked away and my eyes were dead. they had nothing left to give.
three days shy of the day that claimed i was half-way through my mission.

i've been ninety-three million miles around the sun since then, figuratively speaking. and thankfully, only parts of the girl looking at you in that picture still remain. or rather, the emptiness of the girl in that picture is being slowly filled. wick portions growing. ninety-three million miles from the sun.

   there are a lot of things that could be said about ukraine right now. but that's not really what i'm trying to say. the hearts of so many that i love are hurting. breaking. aching. sinking. all those who have any remote tie to ukraine or russia. they are those who have hearts being currently tugged to varying levels of intensity. and to those with stronger ties? the intensity is all the greater.
   last week i found out that my mission would be closing, and a few days later the church released an official mini statement. the ukraine donetsk mission. at least for a time for the safety of the missionaries. this weekend, things became increasingly violent and increasingly widespread in the east. in all the cities where we resided. i can't really put in words how it feels--on a widespread, general level or on a personal one. missionaries being pulled from an area is never a good sign, but. what about our members? what about all those missionaries? what about the investigators? what about that person they talked to just the day before, oblivious to any change so radical on the horizon? and for so many reasons that don't have a description, i was paralyzed. filled with that ican'tbreatheican'tbreatheican'tbreathe feeling that i haven't felt since being in ukraine. a feeling that sounds ridiculous and can't be fully comprehended until you feel it. it's a real thing.
   but. why? i still haven't fully figured it out. what it is about it all that affected so many of us so deeply.
   maybe because ukraine is our everything. maybe because so much of how we define ourselves ties directly or indirectly back to our missions - to those people. a people you love so much you sometimes hate. a people that has been through suffering, oppression, and everything in between. and yet they live. but. here they are again. in the thick of uprisings. uproar. she (ukraine) is everything. she taught us who we are. she was the means god used to take from us what we thought we were and leave us with what we are. so this morning as i read accounts of leaving kharkov or donetsk for what could be forever, or sister andrade's account of their send off, i had to shed tears.

"As we were starting to carry all the luggage over to the train, we had the most amazing surprise: members from all over Kharkov came to say goodbye. It was one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. They carried the luggage over with us, they helped us on, they arranged our mountain of things into our cars. There were hugs and pictures and tears. But there were also smiles. These members are amazing. They are all alone now and yet we could feel their readiness and willingness to take on the missionary work here in our beautiful mission. The hardest thing probably was when the train started leaving. The platform was lined with members and investigators, our friends and family here. They were waving at us, smiling. Some ran alongside the train until they couldn't anymore. I don't have the words to describe how I felt. But it's an image I will never forget.

The train was crowded with all our things and all the missionaries. We just talked, about our past together and our uncertain future. We laughed, cried. No one slept. The next morning at about 8, we rolled into the station at Kyiv."

-sister renae louise andrade

   those are my members. those are the ones i spent the grand majority of my mission serving among. and so that is an image that moves me. and there my loves were gathered. in an exodus to the west. talking of their past together and their uncertain future. laughed, cried. no one slept. there's so much in those words.



so i don't have anything definitive to say. i'm just speaking from my soul. in a raw kind of way.
ukraine is my everything. interlaced somehow into every part of who i am to some extent or another, even though the influence is sometimes invisible. she's still there somewhere in every corner of my soul. without her, i would be incomplete. i wouldn't be me.
ukraine.
she means so much more than can ever be described.
and only those who have been in that place at that time can understand.
what it means to have dead eyes. then eyes that find life again. in a way so uniquely its own.
a process every. last. one. of. us. goes through--especially in the donetsk mission.
that is. ukraine.
i met my demons. i beat them.
but. that doesn't mean that demons don't still rage. that mobs don't still combine.
therefore. for now i still wear my worried shoes.

moments. days in the sun.

. hearing a story about a child's speech pathology successes and having those little taps on my heart saying, 'yeah, that really is what i want. to facilitate real growth. this really is the means through which i will do as i'm meant to do.'

. coming home to a sunny balcony when i know no one is home. because a balcony to read is better than harold.

. thriving. finally. almost. thriving.

. seeing how far i've come. seeing a difference. seeing the change. seeing perspective. this is a landmark. this is not the end. (something is coming.)

. god telling me to go to the stake easter musical fireside. and going and being richly rewarded. all the day long. lord, i would follow thee. blessings: a marvelous work and a wonder.

. the support and encouragement of members in ukraine for my missionary loves in this time of trial. the way they are stepping up. (more about ukraine and my heart will be coming, obviously.)

. teaching me to hope again. learning how to breathe.

. the stark contrast of new spring life to the still-mending browns and blues of nature. the week of blossoms.

. i listen to the wind on my soul. i sketched a kite on my russian paper that i was revising this weekend. probably symbolic.

gchat.

the closest doug, steve, and i come to being in the same 'room' ever since i got home from ukraine:

it's a modern life, yo.

do we actually chat with each other?

weellllllll.

sending (in my case, receiving) random emails with links counts as communication, right?

in other news:

i'm really into screenshots lately, apparently.

i'm so over this semester. like, please end.-

the history of the soviet union is fascinating. in a scarily creepy way.

especially that which happened in what was really not that long ago

in a country that in many ways has changed very little since that time.

the streets i walked, the people i know. many lived through part or all.

if you've never read sofia petrovna (which you probably haven't), then you probably should.

i feel the need to apologize to the universe for the fact that lately i have been as contrary as mary lennox.

"mary, mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?"

i told emily roommate this week that i'm kind of a music snob.

she laughed. and then she realized i was actually serious.

this song has been stuck in my head all day long.

rivers and roads.

where are you, punkin?

in ukraine's honor. ukrainian-flag cadbury eggs.

because after being together 24/7 for 13 weeks

in the winter hunger games death arena that is being a sister in ukraine,

we still don't hate each other.

the fire and the raven.

and if we're on a bus of other obligations and things to do,

somehow we still end up sitting together by the end.

metaphor.

"you'd think that living together would mean emily and i text and talk less. buuuut no." --jillian

#mostskill-balancedcompanionshipieverhad #marriedistheonlywordtocomeclosetodescribingourrelationship

(and if you were going to judge the hashtags. go ahead and stop it right there. i judge myself.)

a story that's never been told. stand up for your right.

to fight, to fight, to fight.

"it's the moment of truth, and the moment to lie,

the moment to live and the moment to die,

the moment to fight, the moment to fight,

to fight, to fight, to fight!

to the right, to the left

we will fight to the death!

to the edge of the earth

it's a brave new world

from the last to the first.

...

i do believe in the light, 

raise your hands into the sky.

the fight is done, the war is won.

lift your hands toward the sun."

'this is war.' 30 seconds to mars

my country is breaking. my people are breaking.

people keep asking me about ukraine. what i think of it all.

if they're asking, it means they're caring.

most effective way to get your country on the front cover

of every major news organization for months in a row? revolution.

the english translation for the title of the ukrainian national anthem is, 'ukraine has not yet died.' [the anthem that rang out every monday morning from the military compound across the street on cold mountain. music mondays.] only fitting, for a nation that has been beaten and thrashed from the right to the left and throughout its entire history. her glory has not yet died. слава украине. they've given everything.

in discussions of the casualties of world war two, it's often mentioned that the soviet union suffered losses of over twenty million lives. many fail to recognize, though, that nearly seven million of those lives came from a relatively small portion of that vast republic - ukraine.

ukraine has been beaten, abused, and yet they rise again. revolution. an unscripted revolution is what you could call current circumstances. war is a dirty business. particularly in the midst of what is threatening to be a simultaneous civil war and war with their former abusive father figure. i don't condone violence, but i also ardently oppose humans being treated as personified doormats by fellow humans. this is their moment of truth. this is where they reach their hands toward the sun - fighting against years of oppression, years of corruption, and years of suffering. fighting for something to change. fighting for a voice.

and.

i want them to fight.

to fight, to fight, to fight!

it's a brave new world.

i do believe in the light.

we'd lay in rooms unfamiliar.

i can't stop listening to this.

we'd lay in rooms unfamiliar.
will you say to me, when i'm gone.
because light strikes a deal with each coming night.

and also, the words of this are perfect.

i loved imagine dragons before anyone even knew who they were. 

like, three and a half years ago. okaayyyy.

look into my eyes, it's where my demons hide.

don't get too close, it's dark inside. 

it's woven in my soul.

i want to save that light.

i can't, unless you show me how. 

this ad was made for me.
stillness is what actually kills us. restlessness starts with an itch and ends in progress.
it is your ambition refusing to be bottled up, begging for a little blue-sky time.

ether 12 is always a good idea.

ye may also have hope, and be partakers of the gift,

if ye will but have faith.

he showed him all things.

grace, that they might have charity.

face to face, in plain humility.

seek this jesus.

this is a million kinds of funny.
#welcometoeasterneurope #firstworldproblems
pretty sure they're going to be fine.
'olympics are in two days, time to start building hotel.'-russians

i made grilled cheese tonight.

because i found pink tomatoes at the store.

and got avocados.

yes.

i miss sister andrade's grilled cheese. she is an artist.

and. someone dropped brownies off at my door for me.

so. i think i will stay.

i'm finally coming out of my, 'i hate people' phase.

like, kind of.

people are kind.

i wish i could talk all day to the people i run into on campus,

especially the ones i love (or at least like) from ukraine.
but there's no time for that.

sometimes i take a break from homework

(when i have time at work and things are slow)

by writing to ukraine.

to my loves. always a good idea.

arguably the most therapeutic thing in the world.

let's just talk about how my little harvard baby fin fin is killing it.

crushing the mountain.

the cold of the mountain.

or the fact that i'm in love with these humans.

people are good.

(most the time.)

the ed dept advisement center is still terrible.

and.

duty calls.

пока пока.