Off the Beaten Path: Moscow, Russia

Moscow, Russia

It was 1993, just after Perestroika. Russia was very unsettled and the Ruble was at, or above 5,000% inflation. The Russian people were wondering what to do with a post-Communist, open market, capitalistic, economy after 70 years of a government ruling everything. The Christian Church had been isolated, shunned, and even persecuted under a Communist government attempting to dictate there was no God.

My sister lived in Virginia at the time. She called and said that her church was going to take a group to Russia, Romania, and Hungary on a mission trip. Knowing that I loved to travel, and that I loved to meet new people, she asked if I would like to tag along. Of course I jumped at the opportunity.

We met and flew out of Atlanta, making our way through Heathrow in London, on to Amsterdam, only to board yet another plane headed to Moscow. As we made our way into the terminal in Moscow I realized that the only other people that were there were armed soldiers escorting us from the last gate, down the terminal, to baggage claim. Yes, I did say armed guards.

The ghost-like terminal served as a reminder as to just how oppressed the Russian people had been. We had come to their turf to tell a story of a man named Jesus, who He was, and why He came. It is a simple story of Redemption for all, but not a concept to be grasped. Godless for over 70 years, the Russian people had long since given up on any kind of hope. Hope for any kind of capitalist economy, hope for the Christian Church, who had long since gone underground due to persecution, and hope that tomorrow could be a better day.

We stayed in a hotel, which we found out was one of the nicest hotels in Moscow. An interesting fact: Every room had a vent hole in the floor to allow the methane gases from each bathroom to have an outlet. The beds were twin size with a simple cotton covering. The room was stark, as I recall, undefined space. It was cold and unremarkable. It was as though there was no time, place or space that was definable. It was a representation of the Russian people and their lack of freedom for so many years.

Once settled, we were on our Mission to preach the gospel, in any place someone would listen. We were told that the Russian people were put off by the bright colors of clothes worn by those from Western countries, such as the United States. We were told to wear clothes that were understated in style and dull in color. We were told to blend in. While attempting to be compliant, I still managed to find a bit of trouble.

One night we were to go to the Olympic village, where the games had been played in 1980. Once again, we were told that the Russian people did not like loud music such as was listened to in the Western world. Accompanying us, was a gospel group, Truth, out of Mobile, Alabama.. They were a group who sang contemporary Christian music. They also did not dress like the rest of us had been told to dress. They looked extremely in style and very much like the Western cultures.

Once at the Olympic village, we were in a somewhat small venue. The group known as “Truth,” was going to sing to some of Russian people. Our crew was to be available if any of the people needed to talk to someone after the service. We were sitting at the top of the venue when Truth did their warm up. It was loud, very loud. It was not what we were told the Russian people would be receptive to hear.

Of course, there always must be someone who tells the truth, no pun intended. No one in our group was willing to tell the leader of Truth just how loud the music really was. I took it upon my not-so-shy self to go to the stage and let the leader know. As I stood at the edge of the stage waiting on the leader, I didn’t think that what I was going to say would cause such a stir.

The leader finally made his way to me, and I proceeded to tell him the consensus in regard to the volume of the music. Let’s just say I was not well received. Let’s just say that the next morning at breakfast, I was accused of being in the garb of Satan himself. It tore my heart out, as all I was attempting to do was the correct thing. Sometimes I wish I were more afraid of telling the truth.

At some point in our 5-day stay in Moscow, we went about an hour and a half outside of the city to a small village and an even smaller church that met in a very small house. Upon arriving we were all shocked at just how time-warped the living conditions had been for the Russian people. When we got there several of us had to go to the bathroom. It was a 3-seater outhouse with the men’s side directly attached by a thin wall to the women’s bathroom. As we exited the outhouse there was a very small aluminum water holder and a clean cotton towel for washing and drying our hands.

Entering through the back door, it took my eyes a minute or two to adjust to the lack of light in the very tiny kitchen. There were probably ten or twelve of us in our group. We were told to sit at the table in the kitchen, although it wasn’t very big. As we squeezed ourselves onto the bench against the wall and on the outside side of the table, the Russian women began to bring us something to eat.

Through our interpreters we learned that the women had prepared Blini bread. As they served it to us with great pride, with their very dirty fingernails quite visible, the interpretors went on to say that this was a “thank you” from the people of this church because we represented America. Also, the interpreters told us the Blini was made of American flour, sugar and butter.

If I had been anywhere else I would have refused to eat because of the lack of cleanliness. But, these women just stood there grinning, not eating, as though they were presenting food to kings. As I did eat, I was most humbled by their humility. It was in my spoiled ignorance that I had come to a country filled with hurting people in so many ways. No freedom to go to church, the school of their choosing, or have opportunity for improving themselves. All incentive had been removed.

This would not be the last of humbling experiences while I was in Eastern Europe.

To be continued…

Coloring the Delta

Born with a crayon in my hand and the world at my feet, I am well acquainted with opportunity and privilege that comes as a result of hard work. My parents told me there was nothing I could not do; they simply told me to figure out how I was going to do it, equipping me with every tool in order to do just the same. That mentality was of a direct result of their parents, and their parents before them, understanding that the only path that would be cut would be the path they would cut for themselves. Hard work, and the grace of God, would always be the constant that would allow for food to be placed on the table.

I am familiar with the blue-collar work force on the Mississippi Gulf Coast and the agrarian laborers of the Mississippi Delta. Wherever it may be, it is the daily grind of any job, regardless of geographical location, or type of position, that allows for a paycheck. However, it is not usual and customary in the above two locations for daily, monthly or yearly business plans to include a large margin for creativity, especially when it comes to that of a farmer. It is in repetition, one row after another, one field after another, one year after another, that America and the world, is fed or clothed, by the US farmer.

Although Daddy brought home a paycheck from Ingalls Shipbuilding Company in Pascagoula, Mississippi, he came from a long line of men who farmed the water including fishermen, shrimpers, and oystermen, some even knitters of nets. His great-great-grandfather, Stanislaus Beaugez, had come from Paris through New Orleans in 1819, only to directly settle in Ocean Springs. My maternal great-grandfather, John Christopher Willis, farmed in a small community called Tybie, located in East Central Mississippi. He had a medium, self-sustaining family and community farm. Though harvesting on land and sea are vastly different, the lifestyle of any farming community is similar. From my observation, they have the following in common: Hard work and the need to find beauty in and around their simplistic way of living. 

It sometimes seems that simplistic beauty gets lost when privilege, and/or opportunity are complicated with busyness. I now realize, I was one of those people who lost my ability to absorb and inhale the color that surrounded me. I have learned that everyone has a price tag, even me. My investment of time and hard work, in conjunction with a marriage, equated to money. And that money had indeed been able to purchase an abundance of goods and services. 

But, I discovered, greater than goods and services purchased, was time spent by me that I could not say, and still cannot say, was necessarily profitable. In retrospect, I reflect on whether or not I was smiling on the inside, which would have enabled me the ability to genuinely smile on the outside. My genuine smiles were few. That is not to say that there is anything inherently bad about what results from hard work, i.e., money, goods or services. It’s only when those became such a distraction that I failed to enjoy simplistic beauty.

With over a half a century life experience, there are many stories that I could tell and I do love to tell stories. One of those stories is told my memoir Outer Edge of Grace. It is a story of pain, loss and the search for redemption, written about my personal experience on being a caregiver for my son. In the process of writing that story, I found myself, and continue to find myself, in a quest for the discovery or, rediscovery, of simplistic beauty in everyday things such as the colors of a sunset, the scent of wisteria after a rain, or the feel of new holly leaves in spring.

I have a hard time just sitting still, or staying focused on a single task at a time. One thing that helps me to center is to just rest in one place. Or, take a photograph of something that I think is interesting. The more I look at the big picture, the more intricate the parts of that big picture become. Recently I took a photograph of a very old flatbed railway car, rotting on rails no longer used. As I stood in the waning daylight, my eyes began to focus on the color imbedded in the rusting iron and the rotting wood. Among all of the things my eyes were able to capture one was a fresh green sprig of grass growing out of the middle of the old timbers. It seemed to me it was there, if for no other reason, than to let me know that beauty can be found in anything if I truly look long enough.

Taking the time to stop and be attentive of the color surrounding any of us is the gift of awareness. But honing the skill of “absorption and inhalation of color” is what I hope to pass down to my children and their children. That kind of awareness translates into being aware of my surroundings, using as many senses as I can. My mother used to take us to the beach. As we went over the last hill and got to where we could see the water in the Ocean Springs/Biloxi Bay, she would say, “Look at those diamonds bouncing off of the water.” The light jumped around on the Bay and looked like millions of diamonds. That’s appreciating simplistic beauty.

I’ve stood on beaches from Kawai to St Bart’s to Sicily, and mountaintops from Maui to Switzerland, the Great Smokey Mountains and The Rockies. What difference would it make if I had never really stopped to soak in the colors? I would have missed the entire point.

I’ve also learned that money is able to afford some opportunities such as traveling, formal education and beautiful things. But, money cannot buy the salt-of-the-earth kind of roots that I have been given. When I was six years old, my sister, mom and dad put the tent, sleeping bags and whatever else we needed for a week on top of our green VW bug and headed to the Smokey Mountains. While we were there, Daddy took me into the middle of a mountain stream one afternoon, where we just sat for a while, mostly in silence. Just as mama had pointed out “diamonds on the water,” daddy showed me the beauty of a blue mountain sky and the sound of clear water trickling downstream. 

I made the Mississippi Delta my home for the best three years of my life. Age and time have a way of being able to give a bit of perspective and have taught me to be a little more appreciative for the richness of that which colors the world around me. Everyday God chooses to give me a new sunrise and a new sunset. It only takes moments for the sun to slip above or below the horizon. I am not always able to capture the moment, with my eye or my camera. But when I am able, I am trying to take in as much as I can, aware that God is coloring the Delta.

The pictures on the following pages are reflective of colors absorbed and inhaled through my lens when I was able to stop long enough to breathe. I hope they give you reason to pause, as well.

Making the laundry room

When we decided to buy this property, it needed more than a little bit of "sprucing up." One of the things Freddy decided to do was to move the washer and dryer. We've been living in a condo with a closet for out washer and dryer and desired to have a mud room where he could come in from the farm, take off his boots and muddy clothes and drop them in the washer. We also needed some kind of folding table. 


So, when we found this particular house, we spent a lot of time planning how to change from another closet to an area that would have the washer, dryer, shelves, a sink and a folding table and, in addition, give us access to what will eventually be a deck where we can cook out and hang out.


We decided to take the back section of what is a closed-in garage and make it into a laundry/mud room. It will not be walled-off, but sectioned off with book shelves and maybe an old door. We also have an extra refrigerator that needed a nook, as well. Instead of running a hot water line all the way through the attic, Freddy decided to put in 20 gallon hot water heater in a cabinet with a sink we already had.


He had someone else do the plumbing but he did the electrical and last night did the sheet-rock and mud. It will be ready to be sanded and painted today. His ability to problem-sovle and think of everything amazes me. He thought to pull a wire for a light above the sink. Now there is a practical and creative man for you. 

We've started moving our things and I guess will be asking all our friends if they might help us with the heavy stuff by the end of the week. It's really coming along and I love my cabinets!

That terrible thing called moving

Yesterday I was able to get some prints done for some last-minute shoppers, including myself. Freddy and I have a deal that he can do the electrical, plumbing, sheetrock, etc that still needs doing and I will be the one to pack. There's nothing I hate worse than packing. Although I moved about 25 times in the last 30 years, I still hate it.


The first thing I decided to take on over to the house was all the framed photography. It's amazing how good the colors works, even the salmon in the kitchen. It actually got me excited thinking about making a nest. So while Freddy pulled 220 wire for the drying and thought about a light above the laundry room sink without me, I just kept on plugging with loading and unloading my little car. When I put one particular picture over the sink, I knew this is going to be a happy kitchen and a happy house. 

So today it will be more of the same, except it will be the crystal and the Christmas china, old linens and the remaining artwork, which is still a substantial amount. I used to buy street art wherever I traveled and I bought from good artists who just hadn't made it yet. It will be fun to see how it all fits together.

When you tell the paint store to mix the wrong Color

I had a hard time picking out the paint to begin with. But once I made the decision on Tansy Green by Sherwin Williams I knew the kitchen cabinets had to be red. I tried three different reds and decided upon one of them which I thought was originally by Pratt and Lambert called Faded Rose. So at $60+ per gallon, I called and told them to mix what the painters needed. There were several patches of red paint all over the wall and even on a cabinet door. I was confident I had it correct and didn't go back and check myself. Tuesday afternoon the painters had not even started to prime and told me they would only have one coat on the cabinets by yesterday morning.


We got a call about lunch time that the painting was finished and were ready to be paid. When I walked into the house and saw the cabinets, my heart sank but I didn't panic. I stood there and just looked at how good it looked with the green, thought about the fact that we're going to paint the outside brick in the same family and knew that re-painting would mean more time and money.


Then I looked at the breakfast room fixture and realized it had that color and red and teal and amber in the stained glass. I can work with anything, but especially trying to make the best out of an un-solicited situation. Freddy said, "Awww it will be fine. If it's not you can re-paint it later."

Now, I'm kind of really excited about it. I've got photography and other art work I'll use to pull it all together. Keep watching and reading. It's gonna be great!

Picking out the essentials for a 16-year-olds room

Mary Clay decided she wanted her room to be pink. So it is pink. Yesterday, I had the opportunity and privilege of taking her to Belk's to pick out her linens for her bed. She's not my child but she could be Hannah. Always having an opinion, always wanting to please, always thinking about how much things cost. 


She had in her mind celery green for a bedspread. I told her that was a good choice and that I ordered her 600 thread count sheets, which meant nothing to her (I'm a sheet snob). Then we found a really soft blanket that really didn't match but had puppy dogs on it and she liked it. Lastly, there was a fuzzy pillow. All were on sale and reasonable and all were purchased. She is her daddy's child: aware of everything, sensitive and as sweet as any sixteen-year-old you'd ever encounter.


We than made the infamous trip to Lowe's that I wrote about yesterday. I learned all kinds of things about her. She helped me pick out everything. I miss my daughters but she is so very refreshing it's overwhelming. We got home and watched "The Piano" and "Legally Blonde." She spent the night and let me hug on her this morning. We're bonding over the house that will be part of her home.


This afternoon we went to lunch and ran errands and talked and talked. It's all about relationships even in the process.

Trip to Lowe's

It's always exciting when the paint is almost dry and it's time to start working to build on that beautiful blank canvas. Since this house is eight-plus years old, we are having to replace many things, especially starting with the details. Some of those details include: brushed nickel door hinges and door knobs, light fixtures and kitchen cabinet knobs. It's always in the details if you want the finished product to be what you want.


So, along with Mary Clay, who is 16 and a good sport with good taste, we headed to Lowe's in Greenville. We are changing the front door from solid to an older, multi-paned door we picked up on the side of the road. But when I found just the right hardware, I am told I that they are out of that style, it has been discontinued and that they will not take it off of the display. I suppose I'll be surfing ebay tonight. But, we were able to find brushed nickel door knobs, kitchen drawer pulls and cabinet knobs. We were also able to find a colorful, somewhat funky fixture to go over the black bar-height table we have for the nook/dining room. It's multi-colored and reminds of something that could be from the Deco period. Taking the place of an ugly and very old fluorescent overhead kitchen fixture, we found a long, multi-light fixture. We also found some pretty cool bathroom lights for over the mirror.


Now I start getting excited about the fact that I do have a blank palette (almost) and then I can start building one layer at a time. Freddy finished the very large planter he made from barn wood today so I'll go find some pansies tomorrow. 

Sarah: Remember it's one step at a time.