Russia remembers

On stage in the public square, black clad

ballerinas, swaying, flesh out the moans

of Russia, mourn the loss of her sons

and daughters all those years ago. Bowing

to grief they push up against the brokenness,

move toward an uncertain mending,

as the old men and women look on,

knowing what they know. The crowd

around me, at once solemn and festive,

moves slightly with the dance. Above

us a grey sky hints of sun, but makes

no promises.

(Elektrastol, Victory Day, May 9, 2012)

Morning watch

William Stafford, that kind poet,

once told me how he got up

at 4:00 every morning

to sit in the quiet and wait for a poem.

It always came. Stafford filled notebooks

with the fruit of his attention and freely

shared it with the world. I'm grateful

to have been included in that world.

So here am I, sitting in my own

quiet spot by a window. The morning

grows light before me. Trees emerge

and the far hills. Like Stafford,

I’m waiting. Waiting.

Getting ready for Russia

How does one “get ready for Russia”? A country so vast, so extreme; a culture so different from ours, so mysterious; a history so tortured. Going as a tourist—the identity my passport assigns me—seems casually inappropriate. Russia demands to be taken seriously, even if the visit is only for 11 days.

Let me backtrack. The Board of Global Outreach of Northwest Yearly Meeting has invited Hal and me to go to Russia to visit Johan and Judy Maurer. They are not only “Friends Serving Abroad” (the board’s new term), they are our good friends. We look forward to spending time with them and getting to know their fascinating context. Russia.

I’ve been fascinated by Russia ever since I discovered Tolstoy’s War and Peace in high school. It’s probably my all-time favorite novel, one I still come back to every few years. To Tolstoy I’ve added Dostoyevsky, Pasternak, Solzhenitsyn and others. With all their differences, similar threads—usually in the darker colors—run through their works, weaving a tapestry that portrays a vast panorama, as well as an array of the details of human life, suffering, joys and dreams.

My vision of Russia may be overly romantic, so I’m trying to get ready by reading some books recommended by Johan.

A Long Walk to Church: A Contemporary History of Russian Orthodoxy (Nathaniel Davis) focuses on the years following World War II, detailing the persecution and survival of the church. Adding to that perspective, last night Hal and I watched the Russian film, “Repentance,” that also portrays the persecution of the church (among other dark themes). The ending scene is classic. An old woman walking through a town stops and asks another woman if the road she’s on leads to a church. On learning that it doesn’t, she scowls and replies, “What good is a road if it doesn’t lead to a church?” The old woman then turns and continues walking down the road alone. The film ends.

How Russia Really Works: The Informal Practices that Shaped Post-Soviet Politics and Business (Alena V. Ledeneva) has given me the sense that my many years living in Latin America provide part of my preparation for Russia. The author argues that “informal practices constitute generic responses to structural pressures in all societies,” and then goes on to flesh this out in contemporary Russia. When I read that the trust in personalized networks weakens “forms of generalized trust and trust in impersonal institutions, necessary for effective workings of politics, business, and civil society,” I see more similarities. One of my favorite lines is the author’s translation of a popular Russian saying: “the rigidity of our laws is compensated for by their nonobservance.”

Finally, Echoes of a Native Land: Two Centuries of a Russian Village (Serge Schmemann) chronicles how the traumatic upheavals in Russia’s history have affected one village and the individual lives of her people. That’s a lot of reading, and I admit that I skimmed many of the details, trying to get a feel for the writers’ main points.

I’m also re-reading two old favorites. It’s been so long since I read Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov that, while the characters are familiar, much of the plot seems new. I’m also in the middle of one of my favorite books in Christian spirituality, Henri Nouwen’s The Return of the Prodigal Son. I’m re-reading this book because our trip plans include a day in The Hermitage museum in St. Petersburg where Rembrandt’s painting rests. Because of Nouwen’s reflections, this painting has already impacted me greatly. I’m hoping to be able to spend time with the Real Thing. While not Russian, it seems fitting that Rembrandt’s works, and this one in particular, find a home in this land. I sense similarities in depth and spiritual texture.

Or is my romantic imagination running amok again?

No, I don’t think it’s possible to get ready for Russia. I’m doing what I can. And I’m open for surprise.

Some simple thoughts on grace

In June the Pacific Northwest Quaker Women’s Theology Conference will gather women from Canadian, North Pacific and Northwest Yearly Meetings at a retreat center in Oregon. This will be my first time, and I’m looking forward to the experience.  This year’s theme centers on grace.  I find myself pondering grace a lot these days, asking, among other things, about the Quaker perspective on grace. 

As preparation for the conference, we were asked to write a short essay on grace and submit it to the conference web site.  Here’s my offering: 

Last Saturday we began an all-day elders retreat with an eclectic contemplative exercise.  I find the combination of traditions grace-filled. In this case we combined the medieval labyrinth walk with Ignatian prayers of examine and a dab of Quaker silence thrown in.  On the way in to the center of the labyrinth we meditated on the desolations in our lives (all that currently separates us from God), and on the way out we pondered our consolations.

The desolation that quickly came to mind was disappointment in my lack of vocational discipline—my inability these days to write or pray with any regularity. I’m disappointed in myself.  And I can’t help but feel that God is also disappointed in me. Instead of letting the deep joy of these callings energize me, I’ve become strangled by guilt at my lack of productivity. As I walked I confessed and lifted this up to God.

Even before I reached the center, I sensed the quiet voice of Jesus saying simply, “My grace is sufficient for you.”  I felt his smile and began to relax from the inside out.  He reminded me that it’s not what I do for him that gives me value.  He loves me.  As I am.  And his grace is all I need.

“My grace is sufficient for you, Nancy.  Follow me.”

And I was reminded that not only is God’s grace sufficient, but that “There are no limits to the grace of God, who will make sure you will always have enough of everything and even a surplus for good works.”

I know I will continue to struggle with feelings of inadequacy and the pressure to be productive. I’m a child of my culture. But on a deeper level, I’m a child of God, and I’m growing in grace and in the knowledge of Jesus.  That’s my hope as I walk the very real labyrinth of life.

In the next few weeks, I will continue to ponder and post thoughts on grace. I invite responses as I explore a Quaker theology of grace. Non-Quaker responses are, of course, welcomed.

On stupidity

“…the stupider one is, the closer one is to reality. The stupider one is, the clearer one is. Stupidity is brief and artless, while intelligence wriggles and hides itself. Intelligence is a knave, but stupidity is honest and straightforward.”

Spoken by Ivan in The Brothers Karamasov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

What a relief to know that.

My old face

One afternoon last week, as Hal was taking our bicycles out of the garage, a woman pushing a stroller stopped and asked for directions to the nearest park.  Two other kids ran around the stroller, while the baby eyed Hal suspiciously.  The woman was new in town, and the kids obviously needed somewhere to release their energy.  Inspired, Hal told her that he and I were just about to go bike riding, and why didn’t we all go together to the park.

I came out, met our new neighbor, and off we went.  It turns out that the woman had just moved in with her boyfriend, and that the kids were his grandchildren.  I expressed surprise; she looked young enough to be their mother. She actually had children and grandchildren of her own, living elsewhere.

I was glad we accompanied them, as one part of the route had us walking a narrow sidewalk down a busy avenue, and the kids were apparently glad to be out doors and on the loose.  We made it safely to the park and spent the rest of the afternoon together.  Hal and I bonded with the two older kids as we rode bikes together and played on the swings.  The baby, however, never stopped scowling at us.

Near the end of the afternoon, four-year-old Anabel, looked at me sweetly, head cocked to one side, and asked, “Why do you look so old?”

I wasn’t prepared for that. I don’t remember how I responded. I probably just laughed. But the question keeps circling in my mind. Actually, it makes me chuckle. But it’s also forcing me to examine my values, especially in light of a strong cultural pressure to look as good and as young as possible. I’ve been feeling that pressure ever since I was 13 years old, although for a while there I wanted to look older than my age.  As I grew up, married, and raised my children, my experience has mostly been that of my new neighbor. I’ve taken pride in all the times people have said things like, “That’s impossible! You look too young to have kids that old!” Or, “You? A grandmother? You certainly don’t look it.” For some reason this has always affirmed my value as a person.

People don’t say that so much anymore.  Wonder why.  But Anabel’s comment was a first. Well. Thanks be to God for a sense of humor. I guess I can see this as a good opportunity to realign my values with those of God’s Kingdom.

I hope I run into my young-looking neighbor again.  I probably will since they live close by.  I wonder what helpful thing Anabel will say to me next.

My friend's house

Last year my friend’s house slid down the hill.  Her name is Petrona and we’ve known each other for 40 years. Our toddlers fought together, later learned to be friends and tell each other secrets. We’ve laughed together, told our own secrets, prayed for each other, and kept up our friendship even when it had to be long distance.  I was able to spend some time with her again last month during our visit to La Paz.

Yes, her house slid down the hill and was completely destroyed, along with several hundred other homes in the hilly barrio of Kalapa on the outskirts of La Paz. Unseasonable rains moved the sandy soil and an entire zone was wiped out. Fortunately there were several weeks’ warning and people were able to move their belongings.

Petrona currently lives in a refugee camp, a temporary village of small wooden structures put together by World Vision. The Bolivian government has promised a small parcel of land to each family that lost their home. The “village” is clean and orderly, with a communal well, bathrooms and a meeting place. The neighbors have organized a small city council.  Petrona has built a tin lean-to kitchen behind her room and settled in for the duration.

Separated from her husband (also our good friend), Petrona lives alone but keeps in touch with her daughters by cell phone. She has managed to get a clerking job in a sporting goods store in the rich section of the city and spends several hours a day in city buses going to and from her work. She likes being busy.  It keeps her mind off her problems.

We embraced, laughed, even shed some joyful tears at our meeting. The hour went by all too quickly. We prayed together before I left, knowing much time would pass before our next meeting.

I’m home again, and it’s Holy Week.  I’m thinking a lot about Petrona, about the differences in our situations. And about all the shared experiences that continue to bring us together. But I can’t get it out of my mind that my friend lives in a refugee camp and I in a condominium.  What a strange world.

Lord, have mercy on us all.

 Terraces where there used to be houses

The camp, bottom right

Friends

Her alley....