6 to 9 is Fine: The Care and Feeding of Orphans (who call you Dibilka)

It's me here, Dibilka. That's Russian slang for Dumb Ass. I know, I know. It hurt my pious ears too when I found out. This whole time I thought it was a term of endearment. Babushka is grandmother. Dedushka is grandfather. I just assumed Dibilka meant kind woman who takes me in and loves me as her own child even though I'm an ungrateful snot.

It's probably not hard to guess that the lack of writing tells it's own story. The last few days have taken my emotions on such a cruel trip that I decided to skip the travelog. I don't want to be overly dramatic here - it's just that some memories in our lives don't need to be relived through the written word. I call those days 'Once & Done', which I borrowed from the name of my favorite insect killer.

When we returned home from Utah, we met with a translator to firm up some of our house rules and explain that real life in the Collins house looks a tad different than what they had seen the previous weeks with vacations and time off work. Although we love to have fun, it takes some serious sacrifice and work from everyone to keep our busy lives afloat. Like, serious teamwork.

The kids had a long list of grievances to share with the translator. She graciously spared me most of the details. My favorite complaint was that we say "no" to everything they want and they felt they were living in a prison here. First I was shocked. Then I was angry. And then it dawned on me - these kids were absolutely right. It is like a prison here. There is a game room, team sports, a craft center, recreational activities within our gates, meals cooked regularly, TV, access to educational opportunities...all this with not much more than a bad record and beating heartbeat needed to participate.

I've decided to let them out of jail. No longer will they be passively entertained and served. No longer prisoners with no liberty. They choose to work, they earn the privilege of play. That's the difference between a prison and a family. Watch out free world, here we come.

Now back to my feelings. Another thing that pains me is my humanness. I am nothing more than a bad guy wearing a good guy facade because a true good guy wouldn't anger when their service wasn't met with gratitude. When I was in India I reflected on the story of the 10 Lepers and even wrote about it after serving in various colonies there. I could bore you with paragraphs detailing the many ways this pertains to me now, but I think I'll just share it with you and let you ponder (if you must).

In this story, the gift was not dependent on gratitude. 10 had leprosy, 10 were healed. As for the one who showed gratitude, the greater gift was possible. When someone truly possesses gratitude and appreciates his own limitations, his dependence on God increases, which in turn invites God into every aspect of his life. How tragic for the 9 who didn't fully partake of the gift.

Wow. That paragraph really makes me think.

Today is Sunday. The dreaded tserkov. I awoke before anyone in the house, suited up with my blind optimism armor, woke 7 children and a chaperone, wished Aaron good luck and drove across town to pick up our translator. I didn't get the message that she would be unable to attend church today until after I was there, but the disappointment didn't phase me. I turned around and drove happily to church, somehow believing it would all work out for the best. Already 20 minutes late, I tiptoed in to join my family on the overflowing pew, smiling as sarcastic and well meaning members of the congregation shrugged their shoulders and pointed to their watches. I mouthed the words, "I overslept."

I'm pretty sure Sasha is meditating.

As soon as I was seated at the end of the pew and properly settled, something at the far end of our row caught my eye. It was Ilona and she wanted me to come sit by her. Naturally. I stood up, hoisted my overfilled bag on my shoulder, and reversed my walk of shame past all those familiar nodding faces and took my place on the opposite side of the bench. I wasn't there 5 minutes when I realized I had forgotten something at home that I promised the children's song leader. I pretended to focus on the beautiful sermon but counted the minutes until it was time for a music break, so I could make a run home. By this time, Macoy had developed his familiar Sunday stomach ache so he accompanied me on my errand.

30 seconds. That's all it took for me to jam the car in park, run in the house, grab the music and get back outside. Somehow the dog, Ellie Mae, had wandered outside and decided she would like to sun herself on the sweltering driveway. Macoy was out of the car with full throttle tears, begging me not to take him back to church. I called to Ellie but she didn't budge. I called louder. Nothing. I started threatening that if I had to come over there she would be sorry because I'd drag her furry behind all the way inside...you can see where this is going. She had no intention of moving. Donning my 5 inch wedge heels and wiping sweat off my forehead, I started the drag as I listened to the symphony of wails coming from the little darling in the suit and tie standing beside me on the driveway.

10:02 am, Sunday July 21, 2013, it hit me. This is what my life has been reduced to. Coercing every living thing around me into doing things they simply don't want to do.

Back to church. The heavens aligned and another Russian speaking friend was there today. He offered to help us translate a special sunday school class we made up just for our kids. The missionaries taught a simple lesson about Jesus Christ. It went well until the object lesson containing an egg encountered some difficulties and elicited some fu's from Ilona. As I watched the yoke drip down, I had to agree with her. When the formal lesson was over, we had some time to kill so we took turns sharing our testimonies with the kids. I shared my belief in God and the knowledge that he helps each one of us through our trials. I finished speaking, but in my heart I knew I wasn't done. After the missionaries expressed their thoughts, I shared the following story with the kids (this is a very simplified version of the dream, but I only felt it was right to share these particular details).

One April night our family prayed for each of you. That was a usual occurrence for us. This particular night I asked that God would watch over and protect you and as I slept, I had an interesting dream. I dreamt that we were all talking together, but I paid particular attention to Sasha because I knew he needed help. He was crying (this made the kids laugh as Sasha pointed to himself and said "you"?! - no matter how many times we go over this with him he still thinks you means me). Then I woke up. Jill called me the next morning from Ukraine to tell me something was wrong. Sasha was on the soccer field crying. A strange babushka had come to pick up the girls (I asked if they remembered that day...of course they did). The next day I got on a plane to Ukraine, not even sure of why I was going. When I met you, I knew you were the same kids I saw in my dream. Now you're here, and I know it's for a special purpose. If you remember only one thing from your visit to America, I hope it's this: God knows you. God loves you. And God cares about everything that is going on in your life. You being here with us today is proof of that.

It was actually a good day. Yana (the chaperone from Ukraine who is staying with us this week) made us a delicious Borsch and somehow our wedding video made it to the DVD player. We all had a laugh and then the kids wanted to watch a few more videos of our kids growing up. On the surface it was lovely, but my heart hurt as I watched Sasha close his eyes and fall asleep while the pictures danced across the TV screen. It's all just too much to take in.

My feelings were similar to the other night as we talked with the translator. Opposite and extreme. As angry as I was at the inconsiderate and sometimes cruel way we've been treated, my heart could have burst wide open as I listened to them share details of their own tragic childhoods. I've never experienced such tandem madness and sadness before. Those kind of feelings are becoming more familiar to me, and I want to push them away like an unwelcome guest. But just when I do, they find a way to sneak in the back door or even crawl in through an open window. And too bad it's not only me they've come to see.