Possibly Insightful Ramblings

"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...

Every time I see someone reach out to another, my heart is touched. My faith in humanity increases. And I smile--I who neither gave nor the received the service. My day is brightened because I watch other people serve. Like that one day that a young woman I'll probably never speak to shifted the way that I look at service. I can't count the number of times since coming to Moscow that I've watched someone give up their seat on the metro to another person. A young man letting the babushka take his place. A woman giving up her seat for a child. But the time I will always remember took place on a crowded metro car. Suddenly, a young woman stood from her seat at the end of the wagon and set her purse on the seat to reserve it until she returned. I thought to myself that she must be standing up to look at the map near me to figure out where to get off. But she didn't. She walked past the map. And approached an insignificant babushka concealed behind a host of other people...