Possibly Insightful Ramblings

I’ve grown up hearing the stories of Mormon pioneers crossing the Great Plains to find refuge in the Rocky Mountains. These accounts of great men and women who were willing to give everything in order to worship God as conscience dictated have moved me to tears, inspired me, and motivated me to carry on the legacy they left behind. From them I’ve learned eternal principles to help guide my own life. Such happened again today when a sister in my Relief Society shared a story about one of her pioneer ancestors. Ann Walmsley Greenhalgh Openshaw was a member of the Martin handcart company. The difficulties of the arduous journey became more than this 50-year-old mother of five could handle, and she one day fell behind the rest of the company. The day wore on, the company continued their westward journey, but Ann remained behind, collapsed in a weary heap on the ground. Toward evening, this weary woman heard a voice telling her to stand up and continue her journey. Her weakened body, h...

Before the foundation of the world, God made a promise to mankind that would allow them to live, to change, to find comfort and purpose in suffering, and to ultimately return to God: He promised to send His Son. Prophets and sages spent millennia prophesying of Him, rejoicing in the far-off day of His coming. They believed God when He told them a baby would be born in some future day—a baby that would save them. These prophets and saints clung to that promise, even though they could not see the fulfillment of that hope. They trusted God’s promises. And trusting God’s promises is something I’ve been thinking a lot about recently. A couple months ago, a chilly fall morning found me walking to work, reflecting on my life. Things were not going as I’d planned. A recent break-up had left me a bit disenchanted with life, and I felt that I was powerless to stop my dreams and plans from falling through.  In particular, those worries that so often consume the thoughts of single wom...

                I peered through the glass in the dim room, into the makeshift headquarters from which Winston Churchill had conducted the affairs of his nation during WWII. The tables and chairs and maps, virtually untouched since they had been abandoned immediately after the war, looked as if at any minute Churchill and his advisors would return to discuss the latest movements of enemy troops. I continued down the hall, gazing somberly into makeshift bedrooms, allowing officials and military leaders and secretaries to remain on-call 24/7. The low ceilings and dimly lit rooms still exuded fear and tension. Stepping through them now, I suddenly felt the gut-wrenching fear and uncertainty that had gripped London decades before I was born. Each pin on the map signaled thousands of lives—thousands of mothers’ prayers, thousands of sleepless nights as young men dreamed of home. The uncertainty these soldiers and leaders felt weighed on my soul....

“Okay, I need you to take two steps back to your left.” I glanced over my shoulder. My already-pounding heart began a consistent presto beat inside my chest . The only way to go left was to move closer to the edge of the 100-foot cliff. And I sure did not want to lessen the distance between me and certain death. I reluctantly took two small steps. “Is that okay?” “Good. Now cinch up the rope. Now take another step to the left.” Cue cardiac prestissimo. Everything in my body was screaming at me to step away from the edge—to clamber back up to safety, back to my little perch on the rocks above me where I could enjoy the beautiful scenery and the gentle breeze through the canyon. I was safe there. Close enough to see the beauties of nature, but far enough away to not take a 100-foot tumble. If I’d learned anything in my 24 years of life, I knew that cliffs were to be avoided, not approached. And yet I was approaching this cliff, slowly backing up to a sheer drop into...

Remember this? And this? And who could ever forget this?  Or this?  Yep. Sometimes in life you just have to be a little bit nostalgic. Just for a moment. I think today is one of those days. One year ago today, I took my last look out across the Dnepr river and boarded a plane that would take me away from my beloved second homeland. As I watched my river and city slip underneath the plane's wing out of my reach, I sensed that I had likewise left my heart down there--the heart I had given to the Lord and to the people of Ukraine. Those 18 months changed me. They changed the course of my life. They changed eternity. And I will forever be grateful to God for giving them to me. There is no way I can adequately describe my mission in a few paragraphs here on my blog without seeming trite. But suffice it to say that my mission--the Russian language, Ukrainian culture, my companions and other missionaries, the church members, my friends, the people I ...

Anybody who knows me is well aware of how much I love Ukraine. Ukraine will always be my second home. She will forever have my heart and my loyalty. So I guess, given that love and the current political situation in Eastern Europe, I shouldn't be too surprised when people ask me how I could've gone to Russia this summer--isn't that somehow betraying my loyalty to Ukraine? And yet, that question does surprise me. Because I see in it the implication of the entire Russian nation in causing the unrest in Ukraine--the entire population as being somehow antagonistic to Ukraine. And, having now lived in Russia, that is a concept completely foreign and unfathomable to me. Because Russians are wonderful people! I know them. I have seen their hearts. My coworkers in Moscow are not responsible for my Crimean friends now claiming citizenship in the Russian Federation. My Russian friends didn't kindle unrest in cities in eastern Ukraine. The Russia I know is kind. It is peaceful. It...

In the heart of St. Petersburg you will find one of my favorite buildings in the entire world--the Church of the Savior on Spilled blood. The architecture and design of the building itself is stunning, with its spires and high ceilings and mosaics. And the history of the church is also inspiring. It was commissioned by Tsar Alexander III in memory of his father, Tsar Alexander II who had been killed on that location by a terrorist organization subsequent to his freeing of the serfs. After 24 years of construction, the church was completed in 1907. And now, after a troubled history during the Soviet era, the cathedral has been restored and is open to the public. Pictures of the inside can't nearly do justice to the beauty and elegance of the temple. But the walls and ceilings are completely covered in beautiful mosaics portraying Bible stories, saints, and other images from the Orthodox tradition. It's breathtaking.  As I stood in this vast cathedral that mor...

This past Monday--just two weeks shy of a year from when I finished my mission--I once again flew from Eastern Europe to America. I'd never really seen that coming. I'd never expected in my life to go to Eastern Europe. Let alone twice. But our God has a perfect plan for us. He knows exactly what we need even when we can scarcely begin to fathom it. And when He called me to serve a mission in Dnepropetrovsk, Ukraine, He changed my life forever. And He changed it again when He told me that I needed to study abroad in Moscow this summer. And because of that I once again found myself on a Utah-bound airplane, feeling my heart break a little as I left behind the Russian-speaking world. I left my heart there in Russia, with the orphans to whom I taught English. I left it there with the youth in my stake who became my dear friends. I left it on Red Square and in the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. I left it along the banks of the Moscow River where I watched the sun set. I left it ...

Once upon a time I was in Russia. And was doing a lot of really cool things. And thus didn't write about the really cool things on my blog. So for anybody who's interested, here is a crash-course summary of my past three or four weeks. Went camping in New Jerusalem (I kid you not--that is what the village is called). . .  . . . with some awesome friends from my stake. Went to St. Petersburg. And Vyborg. And Veliky Novgorod. And learned a lot at all those places. Went to a YSA conference with youth from Moscow, St. Petersburg, and Rostov. Went on a Russian river boat cruise with Tierre and the orphans we teach.  That was about as atypical as my posts get--all travel-log and no philosophizing. But you know. It happens sometimes when one gets busy. These events were just too awesome to be excluded from documentation by the means of blog. And the task of writing up the novel of thoughts that could be gleaned from each event was a little too time-consuming...

"If you were in my place, what would you ask from the genie?" I smiled as I watched little Andrei (all names have been changed) earnestly converse with one of the orphanage employees. He had just been reading about genies on the internet and was convinced that he had learned how to call one up. In preparation for this grand event, he was exploring the various options for his three wishes. "Well, first of all, that all of the sick children will get better," Olya replied, glancing around at some of the other orphans surrounding us. Andrei nodded soberly. "That's important." I thought with tenderness about these sick children I've come to love. What would it mean for them to be healed? What would it be like if Kostya could feed himself, instead of relying on one of his buddies to help him? What would it mean to Vanya if he could finally be the height of a normal ten-year-old? And for little Mitya and Nina to not have holes in their necks anymo...

"Half of the leadership of my church was part of the secret police. How can you trust your church leaders?" I started slightly and looked at my coworker, somewhat surprised by his abrupt and seemingly mocking question. His assessment of his own church leaders seemed very harsh. And having interacted with many people of his faith, as well as some of his church leaders, I felt that I had some right to have an opinion on the matter. No, they're not perfect. And yes, sometimes you hear stories of people in leadership positions not living up to the doctrine they preach. But we are mortal and make mistakes, no matter how fervently we may believe. So I was saddened that he had such a low view of his own church leaders. And I was also sad that his own poor view of religious leadership caused him to doubt the goodness of any priest, teacher, or bishop anywhere. Because I am a firm believer in the goodness of man's heart. And there is so much that is noble in the officiator...

The other day at work, while translating a document related to Dostoevsky, my coworker Inga took the time to explain some aspects of Russian history to me so that I could understand what exactly I was translating. As she explained to me some of the facets of the Great Schism, she made the comment, "Sharisa, you're going to know Russian history so well." And she and I laughed a bit. I thought about the conversations we'd already had about history and culture, but simultaneously pondered how much history Russia has. Inga is a wonderful teacher and mentor for me. And I don't know if I'll ever be able to claim that I know Russian history well, with all of its complexity and beauty and challenges. But, with the help of some wonderful Russian friends and the monuments and museums that surround me, I'm working in that direction. And I've realized that there is no better place for me to be studying it than right here--right in Moscow where so much of this hi...

"It doesn't matter what you look like. You just have to have a good heart to work here." I looked over at the man in the driver's seat. I'll admit, the first time (or perhaps even two or three) that I saw him, I was slightly intimidated by this burly, tattooed, bearded Russian man, with his earring and a full pound of silver jewelry on his hands and wrists. But I quickly came to understand that this Harley-Davidson lover has the biggest heart of anyone I know. He has a caliber of love and humility I want to emulate. He continued his philosophizing to me as we made our way back to Moscow from the orphanage. "Bad people can't work here. The children know. They can see who you are. And if you are a good person, they will come to you. They will feel it." I vocalized my consent, reflecting on the incredible people I've met here the past few weeks and how much the children are drawn to them. The employees at this orphanage for sick children are s...

The other day I went with a couple friends to a museum in Moscow dedicated to Andrei Sakharov. For those of you who don't know who he is (don't worry--I'd never heard of him before I took a Russian culture class at BYU) Sakharov  was a Soviet physicist turned human rights activist. He fought against political repression during the Soviet Era. He was sent into internal exile and lived there under Soviet surveillance for several years. He was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1975. Basically, he is an incredible man, someone who wore out his days in the service of his fellow beings. Someone who was not afraid to stand up for what he felt was right. Someone who was ready and willing to give everything he had for the good of humanity. As I walked through the exhibits dedicated not only to this great man, but to the other political dissidents of the time, I was deeply humbled. A somber reverence prevailed in that exhibition room as I stared at the walls and pages with photos an...

There are some experiences in life that you just don't quite know how to explain. The emotions are so deep and poignant that words don't quite capture them. The stirrings of the soul are sometimes far beyond the meager capacity of words to communicate. I had one of those moments Wednesday afternoon. But despite the fact that words can't convey to any of you what I felt, I want to try. Because it was humbling. Because it put my life into better perspective. Because I think everybody needs to try to feel what I felt in that moment. I sat next to Nikita (name has been changed) in the classroom of the orphanage. We'd spent the last little while practicing the alphabet and various English words. Now, with a globe on my lap, we were talking about his home and my home. I pointed to Russia. "This is where we are. You are from Moscow." He started spinning the globe. "Мои родители бросили меня." (I don't really know how to translate this. The essen...

I entered the vast hall and a feeling of awe and reverence suddenly washed over me. The expanse of the enormous dome towered over me. Murals and pictures of Christ and various saints surrounded me. Slowly, I approached a pedestal with several lit candles situated in front of an icon of Christ. I gazed up at the icon, painted in a style so familiar to me after all the months I've spent in Eastern Europe. The smell of melting wax followed me as I wandered around that hall of worship, silently observing my brothers and sisters engaged in communication with God. I almost felt to be an intruder, as if I'd stumbled into something sacred and private as they lit and placed candles in front of their icons, as they bowed and crossed themselves, as they stood in reverence. I almost felt the need to apologize to them for being there, and yet I was deeply honored that they let me, in my own way, take part in their worship. I wandered downstairs, silently hoping that I was allowed to d...

The other day I went with some of my friends to the Tretyakov Gallery in Russia. Now, I'll be the first to admit that a year ago, if someone told me they'd gone to the Tretyakov Gallery, I would have had no idea what they were talking about. But after studying Russian history and culture at BYU this past year, my exposure to great Russian works of are has increased. My professor--a native Russian--introduced us to the wonders of Ivanov, Rublov, Kramskoy, Rapin, and others. And I grew to love Russian art. Thus, I was excited to see for myself the wonders of  this, the most prominent of all Russian art galleries which contained most of the art I had studied. But I still didn't quite grasp what the gallery was. What the paintings were. Who the artists were. I didn't understand, that is, until I turned the corners in the gallery for myself and suddenly saw the entire wall covered by the paintings I had studied. In my mind, they had not been that big. They had not been tha...