St. Cecilia of the Potato Jesus

I think that someday they will make Cecilia Jimenez a saint.  Not now.  Certainly not any time soon.  Right now, she is scorned by all of those around her.  Her depression is so severe that she can't even leave her home.  But someday, centuries from now, she will be remembered for her faith, devotion, and sincerity.  

Who is Cecilia Jimenez?  She is the woman who is now infamous for this "renovation" project on an icon at her local parish.   

It has become known as "Potato Jesus" and has spawned hundreds of internet memes.  The original was painted by a critical and commercially unsuccessful Spanish painter who most of the world has forgotten about.  It was restored by Cecilia Jimenez who will one day be made a saint.  

I love this woman, because I have spent my life around people just like her.  The painting had been severely damaged by humidity, and there were no funds to have it professionally repaired - so she took up paint and brush and did it herself.  

The church universal is held together by the glue of men and women like Cecilia.  Having spent a lifetime praying in this church, she felt great sorrow that the beloved icon had been ruined by moisture, and she did what she could.  

Of course, the priest says he had no idea she was doing it, but she had been painting for days in plain sight of everyone.  Either her priest hadn't shown up to the church in over a week, or he is lying.  It's a pity.  Her priest should embrace her.  What a moment for the church to show grace.  The priest should be leading a large party and celebration in recognition of the new masterpiece of human devotion to God.  

Because, what better represents all of our efforts of faithfulness; the perfect production of a static Christ by an acclaimed artist or the wrecked, tattered devotion-driven failed attempt of an older, faithful woman.  

One of my favorite songs, when I was a new Christian, was called Dandelions.  It compared our attempts at devotion to a child picking dandelions for his mother.  Compared to what God has done for us, all of our efforts are childishly laughable, and tenderly embraced by God.

I recently preached my first sermon in Ukrainian.  It was about Simeon and Anna.  I focused primarily on Anna, because I had never really thought about her role in the story before.  How laughable was my attempt at preaching in Ukrainian you might ask?  At one point I mixed up the Ukrainian word for promise (OBitsyanka) and the Russian word for monkey (obiZYAnka) - stating that Simeon had a "monkey" from God that he would see the Messiah before his death.  No one laughed, but everyone smiled.  

It was my first attempt, and it wasn't an utter failure.  It was pretty good, and everyone was very encouraging.  But, it wasn't much better than dandelions or this botched painting.  It was done in faithfulness to a calling, and it brought great joy.  It was a blessed and holy time - for me if for no one else.  

And, here is what I wanted to include in that sermon, but couldn't get the words right.  Cecilia Jimenez is Anna.  

Anna was an old woman who had lived at the temple praying and worshipping for years.  She was a woman, old, a widow, and childless.  Her culture had no value for her.  She was the crazy church lady.  She wasn't even allowed into the main part of the temple because of her gender, but still she stayed.  And she prayed.  She prayed that the Savior would come - and God heard her prayer and answered her prayer.  

I wonder what Cecilia Jimenez has spent her life praying for?  Has God answered her prayers without her knowledge?  

In the end, I believe with all of my heart, that she will be rewarded for her faithfulness - regardless of the outcome of this one failed attempt.  In the future, people will read about her work and be inspired by the simple fact that our terrible, failed attempts at proper devotion to the God we love are truly loved by the God who loves us.  

Potato Jesus has brought hundreds of people into that little church to see the new tourist attraction.  Maybe just one of them will be inspired to spend some time in prayer or contemplation.  It will be worth it.  Even our sad attempts to live out our devotion to Christ can help show the way to the Savior.  

          

My first sermon in Ukrainian

When Hans, the previous Bishop of Eurasia, first invited me to Kyiv for a breakfast conversation some winters ago - I was all kinds of nervous.  I could have taken the overnight train to Kyiv and made it to the hotel he was staying at for breakfast in the morning.  But, the problem with the overnight train is that you can't brush your teeth on the train.  The water isn't potable, and it's not safe for brushing.  It seems that the entire trainfull of people waits in line for the bathroom at McDonald's.  I usually skip this step and just chew some minty gum - but that didn't seem appropriate for having a meeting with the Bishop.

In the end, I arrived in Kyiv the night before and stayed with friends.  I know a group of artist who live in a commune - and somehow, spending the night in a commune seemed more appropriate than chewing minty gum before meeting with the Bishop.  I nervously brushed my teeth for about twenty minutes.

Bishop Vaxby immediately calmed my nerves.  He asked me to call him Hans, introduced me to the group he was visiting as one would introduce an old friend, and excused us to a second dining room.

His news was all good.  He shared that he would be asking the General Board of Global Ministries to invite me to work in Lviv.  It was really a dream come true.

Hans said that he had heard me speaking Russian and Ukrainian, and this was one of the reasons he wanted to invite me.  He said, "You are young, and within a year of language study you will be preaching in Ukrainian and Russian."  I was shocked to hear that my Bishop had more faith in me than I did.

I'm not quite there yet.  I've had to sacrifice my Russian skills to make true progress in Ukrainian.  At preaching club, I preach impromptu sermons in Ukrainian.  They are all 3-4 minutes long, and the small group is very encouraging.

Tomorrow, I will preach my first full sermon in front of a congregation in Ukrainian.  At the student center, the sermons will likely always be in English - as students feel very comfortable with that, and many people enjoy the practice of interpreting.  At the United Methodist church here, however,  we wanted sermons to all be in Ukrainian.  This will be the first time I preach at the church since the accident, and it will be my first sermon in Ukrainian.

I wrote a rough guide of what I wanted to say, sad down with my Ukrainian teacher and went line by line of how I would say it in Ukrainian.  She showed me in each line, how the grammar should fit better and which words might make more sense.  It really could almost be a children's sermon - and it certainly isn't my most impressive theological treatise - but it makes my heart happy to know that tomorrow I will push and stretch myself a little bit more - and to know that maybe I should have as much confidence in myself as my bishop does!

Below is the Ukrainian and following that is the English. From the text Luke 2:21-38.
 
Це історія чекання.

В давнину єврейський народ вмів довго чекати. Сорок років вони чекали в пустелі. Століттями вони чекали на відбудову стіни. Тисячоліттями вони чекали на Месію.

У мене нема терпіння. Я не вмію чекати. Коли я жив в Росії десять років назад, був тільки один магазин, який продавав екзотичні фрукти взимку. Там завжди була неймовірно довга черга. І коли приходила чиясь черга, він довго і нудно роздумував що він хоче купити.  Перший раз щоб купити мандаринки я прочекав пів години.

Пізніше мені потрібно було зареєструватись і я прочекав в черзі два дні в держустановах на різних кінцях міста. Я написав своїм батькам листа, (який йшов до них десять днів, і ще десять днів я чекав їхню відповідь), отож я написав їм в листі про ідею чекання. Я не знав як пояснити їм цю ідею, бо я ніколи до цього не чекав довше ніж п'ятнадцять хвилин. Ми жили в маленькому місті і там не було достатньо людей щоб утворилась черга. Я думав що вони не зможуть зрозуміти як довго я чекав на свою реєстрацію і мандарини.

----

Мої батьки ніколи нам не розповідали як довго вони чекали на мій і моєї сестри народження. вони ніколи не розповідали про бажання, надію, молитву і очікування дітей. Моїй мамі було тридцять два роки коли я народився. Я ніколи не зауважував що моя мама старша ніж мами моїх однокласників. Після мого народження моїй мамі було потрібне переливання крові. А в цей час це було дуже небезпечно через часті випадки зараження ВІЛ-СНІДом.  Мама ніколи не розповідала про те як боялась переливання крові і як потім чекала на негативні результати тесту.

Сьогодні ми читали історію про чекання і я думаю, що навіть для нас ця ідея чекання є не зовсім зрозумілою. Єврейський народ тисячоліттями чекав на Месію. Симеон - старий  віруючий чоловік. Йому було обіцяно, що він побачить Месію. Коли він тримав це дитя на руках, він знав що його час вже прийшов.

Але мене найбільше цікавить Анна, стара жінка, яка не отримала обіцянки побачити Месію перед своєю смертю. Коли я вперше прочитав цю притчу, я не зрозумів чому Анна така важлива в цій історії. Отож , чому вона така важлива в цій історії? Вона така важлива в цій історії, тому що вона провела весь свій час в храмі, в молитві. Про що вона молилася? Вона молилася про прихід Месії, обіцяний в Святому Писанні.

Найцікавіше про Анну є те, що її вважали нічого не вартою.Вона була старою жінкою, вдовою, і бездітною.Вона була нічого не вартою в своїй культурі , але  в очах Бога вона була безцінною. Господь послав їй свого сина. Бого почув її молитву і відповів на неї.

Ми не зовсім розуміємо поняття молитви. Багато з нас не вміють молитися як слід. Ми не знаємо як діє молитва. Але ми знаємо, що Бог відповідає на наші молитви. Хіба це не цікава думка, що Бог почув молитву Анни і відповів їй?!

Бог слухає нас.

Бог відповідає на наші молитви.

І навіть в час тяжкого горя і болю, Бог чує наші молитви і Бог чекає нас.  
 
------

І на завершення, пастор Адам Гемільтон написав: "Різдвяна історія закінчується на хресті і в пустому гробі. Господь зазнає найбільшого зла, на яке спроможні люди. Його  бичували  і розіпяли на хресті, він помирає в агонії. Але це не кінець історії. На третій день  гріб спустів і Христос воскрес. Воскресіння показує нам, що ні смерть, ні ненависть, ані зло ніколи не візьмуть верх."

Наші молитви можуть мати різні відповіді - не тільки ті, на які ми хочемо, але в цей самий час ми розуміємо, о Господні шляхи це вищі.Чекаючи на Різдво, нехай Господь нагадає нам, що Він чує наші молитви і відповідає на них.

Амінь

Story Saturday

a series of posts in which I try to write a humorous account of my harrowing life

It was Voloday who invited me to the evangelism conference.  I like evangelism.  I life conferences.  I like meeting other Christians.  But the idea of listening to people prattle on in Ukrainian for several hours wasn't so appealing.  But, I couldn't think of anything better to do with my weekend than be judged by Baptists who might have seen me drink wine at a restaurant - so, of course I said, "Yes!"

The opening worship brought me to every poorly planned chapel at my Christian college.  There was off-kilter dancing, out of rhythm clapping, the theme song from Rocky, and older men trying to look like teenagers while using out-dated black slang.  It was delightful.

It was during the first session that we broke into groups to discuss the topic of barriers to evangelism.  When I was pressed to answer, I honestly stated that my biggest barrier was that I simply didn't have a lot of non-Christian friends.  I work at a church and I'm surrounded by Christians all day.

The entire group stared blankly at me.  I went through my answer in my mind and checked my cases.  I had used the proper endings all around.  Their blank stares began searching to find each other.  Reinforced by herd mentality, they all resumed the stare down.  Their stares spoke volumes, presciently, "Why would you have non-Christian friends?"  Mercifully, someone else in the group spoke up with a more agreeable opinion and everyone enthusiastically agreed.

From time to time, someone in the group would look back at me.  Our eyes would meet - and their faces would flash recognition.  Clearly I was a socialist.  Clearly I was a backslider.  Clearly I hadn't read my Bible.

And maybe all of those things are true, at least on different days.  I called my mother later in the day to complain about this.  She had about as much sympathy as Scrooge might.  "Well, that's what you get for being a liberal."  I told her that I was joking about bringing my flask and taking a swig during the session, but she was clearly not convinced.

Wordless Wednesdays

Annual Christmas Letter

This will be the first year I write a first-person Christmas letter.  It is my habit to write a third-person, humorous account of my year in review.  To be honest, this was the hardest year of my life.  I am thankful for this year, for the growth it caused in my life, and for the people that surrounded me in it - but it was hard.

I moved full time to Lviv, Ukraine.  It was wonderful to finally have a full time placement.  For the previous 3 years, I hadn't slept in the same bed or room for more than three months at any time.  This had been exhausting, and I was thankful for the permanency of home.

Moving is stressful.  Upon arrival, I plunged head first into full time language study.  Nazar lived with me, and we would have lessons, lunch, lessons, dinner, some fun or friends over in the evening, and then more language study before bed.  Usually we would still be having lessons at 1 in the morning.  I loved this exhausting time of cramming cases and rules into my head.  In my spare time I took up painting and found I have a real knack for it.

My brain was so tired from language lessons, that I really couldn't function enough to do anything else.  The entire winter was consumed with language lessons and cultural adaptation.  Nazar's grandmother took me into her home for the holidays and made me feel part of the family.

In the spring, I began working more and more with our church planting efforts in Stryi.  Vitya, an older teenager from the church, traveled with me back and forth to work with us in the effort.  It was good to get to know Vitya.  Although he doesn't speak a word of English, and isn't my translator, it is still nice to have a native speaker to help me out from time to time.  In the mornings, or in the evenings when I am tired; I am completely incapable of speaking Ukrainian.  There were many times when Vitya did a good job helping me navigate difficult situations.  Sadly, we had to close down our efforts in that town.

I also had a chance to have breakfast with Illya's mom and worship with them at their Greek Catholic church.  I took a vacation in Romania and had a wonderful time with some European friends in their final days as exchange students.  It was perfect and relaxing.

I came home early so that I could see Nazar off to the airport.  He is a mission intern - and I am incredibly proud of his service in South Korea.  It was on my way to the airport with him and his grandmother that I got the call that there had been an accident at the student center.  The day was filled with confusion and sadness.  By the evening, all of our faces were plastered on all of the news outlets and we understood that our dear friend Illya had died, as well as an American from the team, David Nevotti.  David Goran was in the hospital without anti-biotics or painkillers and it was clear that he would need to be airlifted to Germany to have his pelvis operated on.

Our Bishop, Hans, and his wife Kaika came to be with us and it was wonderful to have their wise presence at the time.  The criminal investigation opened up and put our pastor and community at risk.  The weeks and months that follow are somewhat of a blur.  If asked to recreate a time-line, I don't know if I could.  All I remember is how wonderful the Ukrainians in our community were throughout the entire ordeal.  The constant meetings, being stopped by a friend on the street and ducking into an alleyway for prayer, the Bible-verse sharing, the 3 AM phone calls with my pastor.

Pastor Lyubomir watched a video on surviving in a Ukrainian prison.  One of the hints was to have lots of cigarettes on you when you were arrested so that you could trade for things you needed.  Lyubomir and I both bought packs of cigarettes and started carrying them, just in case.  When we would greet one another, we would silently tap our hidden packs of cigarettes.  Thankfully, the legal fears were nothing but fear.  We faced each day, and the two of us shared the burden of dealing with the legal situation.

My colleague and friend from New York, Vladimir Shaporenko came for a visit.  It was good to spend time with him, and for him to see this incredible ministry.  He was blown away by how wonderful the students were.  He promises to return again and spend more time with us.

My dear friend Maks, the first of the students to embrace me as a brother, passed away under unknown and mysterious circumstances.  His funeral was unexplainably hard.

After Nazar left, the guest room was empty.  Nazar and I had talked with Vitya about furthering his education - and I had encouraged him to apply to a technical college.  He excitedly called to let me know that he had been accepted to one.  The next day he showed up with his bags.  I slowly put everything together - that of course he had understood that our encouragement and my excitement had been an invitation of a place to live.  I was tired of living alone, understood that his family could never afford to pay for him to live in the city, and gladly accepted the company.

After a few months, it was obvious that his reading skills weren't strong enough for the technical college and he was put in a remedial program.  Although he is 19, he was put with 15 year olds in a high school.  Rather than a roommate, I ended up with an accidental teenage son.  My evenings are filled with homework help, remedial reading, and other parenting things.  My house is filled with his teenage friends, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Everyone at church teases me about having a teenage son and still no wife, but it's a good-natured joke and I enjoy it.

Following the accident I also found a few new friends, who have been wonderful companions and truly compassionate to me.  I don't know if I would have survived without Den and Olya in addition to all of my friends from the student center.  I also found out that I really enjoy translating Ukrainian poetry into English.  I've been told that I have a knack for it, and will hopefully publish some poems next year.

This year has been long, hard, and challenging.  But, I have grown, matured, and changed.  I hope that all of you will have a wonderful Christmas.  Thank you for keeping me in your prayers this year.  I pray that next year will be a blessed one for all of us.

Love, Michael Airgood.

  

Story Saturday

I'm almost never afraid anymore.  For the longest time it seemed that any task could instill fear in me when needed to be performed in Ukrainain.  I was always afraid I wouldn't know the right word, or I would mix up my cases and embarrass myself.

I still do all of those things, they just don't scare me anymore.

I get most of the way through a rather long paragraph of information and realize that I have no clue how to say suffocate in Ukrainian, and so I prattle on for a bit longer and finally mime out the rest.  Everyone shares a good laugh at my expensive and we move on with our lives.

I was visiting a friend's village - and his mother recommended that I go visit the school and speak to all of the students.  Now, in America we would never do this.  I can just imagine a Mexican immigrant coming to our school and insisting on speaking to all of the Spanish students.  I do, however, have some experience and a few titles behind my English Teacher desk; and I distinctly remember Nazar sharing story after story of the loons they invited to come and speak to his class - so I knew I would fit in.

One loon explained to Nazar's class why they should never add sugar to tea.  They should taste the actual herbs and spices of the blend of tea.  Apparently this was shared during an all-school assembly time, and apparently he used 45 minutes to convey this point.  And to whit, Nazar still refuses sugar in his tea.

And, so, it felt quite natural to march into the school and ask to speak to the director.  Of course I was well received and invited to speak to all of the classes.  The students cleaned each classroom before I entered, and were all wonderfully polite.  The oldest students were absolutely terrified to practice their English, and together we mostly spoke Ukrainian.

It was the younger students, the eighth class and younger who spoke fluently and confidently in English.  They asked me all kinds of questions that would be much to personal to ask a stranger in America - but fit right in here.

In Ukrainian school's it's altogether miraculous to find an intelligent boy.  All of the girls are regarded as bright students, but the entire male population is fitted with dunce caps in Elementary school and they wear them straight through their second doctoral degree.  Of course, in the village the boys miss a tremendous amount of school because they are needed in the fields - so girls do get much more classroom time.  There are other reasons, too.  Classroom time is neatly planned around rote-memorization and recitals.  Girls excel in these tasks, and girls are rewarded for excelling.

It doesn't seem to matter how naturally intelligent a boy is, the second he is put in a room of female students and female teachers he becomes an idiot.

Each classroom has an icon at the head of the room.  This fascinates me.  I remember my third grade teacher kept a Bible on his desk and reminding us occasionally that it was his right to do so.  When I began teaching at the University, I was given a small book of prayers of the saints to read at the beginning of lessons.  But, I was most fascinated most by the icons.  There really isn't any rhyme or reason for which icon to hang.  I guess it would make more sense to me if each room had Jesus, or even Mary - but some rooms had random saints, Ukrainian nationalist saints, or others I didn't know of.

It was the 11th form classroom whose icon fascinated me the most.  The icon was larger than life - it filled half of a wall, really.  The icon of Mother Mary breastfeeding baby Jesus.  Her ample bosom seemed to spill out into the room of pubescent students.  I can't imagine who was so inspired to buy this and hang it in a room filled with young men.  It was just so incredibly distracting.  The entire time I tried to talk about grammar and such, my eyes just kept going back to that icon.  The way it seemed that the eyes of both Mary and suckling Jesus followed you no matter where you went in the room.

And standing in front of a room full of students who wouldn't speak English to me, and being chased by more than the eyes of a couple of saints, I immediately remembered what it was like to be afraid again.

Wordless Wednesdays

This is a tank.  The sign is also ironicly funny. 

Story Saturday

I had to wait until the next day to get my results.  I asked Pastor Volodya to go with me to the next appointment.  His vocabulary is a bit larger than mine between our two languages - but he wouldn't be my interpreter - just another friend.

We were given the MRI scans in a large brown envelope and sent upstairs to the doctors office.  We were early, so I pulled out my scans.

It was like a branch of broccoli sticking out between two teeth.  Tiny, yet completely undeniable in every way - with no medical training I could see the herniated disc popping out.  This was not good.

When the doctor pulled out the scan, I just watched his eyes.  They winced when they came to the slide I had noticed.  He tried to play it cool, but I knew it was bad.  He drew a picture of the scoliosis in my spine, and explained that the combination of my crooked spine and my incredible weight problem had caused this.

Valodya believes innately that all Christians should have rockin'-bods.  He doesn't believe that a Christian should be on the heavy side, and he always shares a look of disgust when I eat anything sweet or anything at all really.  As soon as the doctor began discussing a diet plan, I immediately regretted bringing Valodya.  I wished that Den or Olya had been with me - they at least could have playfully teased rather than judgmentally reproved.
 
I knew my life would be a living hell after this.  Long after the pain in my back had faded, Volodya would be pressing and pushing me about my girth.  What upsets me most, is that I am not even large by American standards.  Compared to most of Minnesota I'm trim and petite.

As we left, Valodya said, "Do you think that Doctor is a Jew?"  I wish that the written word could fully capture the intonation of disgust registering in his voice, - that you could draw a crooked nose above words to symbolize a genocidal tone -  but, sadly - that's all up to your imagination.  I weakly responded, "Yes, I think so."  And he volleyed, "Good.  That's very good ... Let's go for a run."

Tonight at Pilgrims, we are having a fun night.  We've had so many challenges and setbacks this year, and we hope to end on a lighter note.  We will do a scavenger hunt and end with pizza.  It should be delightful.

The one catch is that the groups will be tied together for the scavenger hunt.  It should be delightful.

"My best friend growing up was my next door neighbor.  We did everything together.  Alex was two years older than me, and our older siblings were the oldest kids in the neighborhood, so they were in charge.  We always played wonderful group games together and had a great time.

One day, Alex and I began a conversation about our religious understandings.  Specifically, we began arguing about which of our families was more religious.  I had never seen Alex in church before, and because at this point in my life I assumed that there was only one church in the universe, I assumed that meant that Alex didn't go to church.

He explained that he went to the other big Protestant church down the road from the one I went to.  I explained that my mother was the organist at my church.  He explained that his mother was also an organist and played the organ at his church.  We continued discussing the involvement of each of our family members to try and decide which of us was from the more religious family.

It was an odd game for children to play, but it is an even odder game for adults to play.

History has recorded many wars fought throughout the centuries between different groups and factions within the church.  There has been much division.  This is the reason that Pilgrims is proudly inter-confessional.  We believe in Unity of the body.  We believe that we are better together than we are apart.

Certainly we have disagreements, and arguments, and occasionally we raise our voices.  It doesn't happen often, but sometimes it does.  We choose to live together in community and to figure these things out.  It would be easier to just all stay separated, but we choose to take the much harder path of being together.

Alex and I were opposites in every way.  He runs ultra-marathons today, just as an example of how different we are!  But, our families lived side by side and we were together through good times and bad times.

God has brought us together as a community, and whether we always agree or not, we understand that God has brought us together for a reason.  The Bible talks about friendship, and says that a cord of three strands is not easily broken.

Can I have two volunteers?

God calls us together.  We are here for each other.  When times are tough, we hold each other up.  I can't tell you how many times a phone call, message, or prayer from someone in this community has lifted me up and made me stronger.  God binds us together as one people, and we leave this place to face the world bound together as one people.

Amen.

Wordless Wednesdays

Story Saturday

Some weeks later, my back is still not feeling much better.  While we have tried most of the folk remedies not involving "eye of toad and tail of newt", my friend Lyubomir finally called a doctor for me.  I thought about taking a translator with me, but decided against it.  It seemed like a doctor's visit would be more exotic without a translator.

Somewhere in the middle of my appointment when I was explaining my "slipped capital femural epyphysis" operation - I really wish I had brought one.  Thankfully, the clinic had the internet and google translate knows all.

My doctor was a short, hairy fellow.  He certainly could have been middle-eastern, but his name was pure Ukrainian nationalist.  I wondered if he was perhaps ersatz - like the Chinese-American doctor named Chris(tmas) Carol.  But, he was very pleasant to talk to - and we talked for over 40 minutes.  My friend had recommended a private, Catholic clinic.  It was miles above the state-owned hospitals.  It was modern, clean, and inexpensive by my standards.  The doctor gladly repeated himself three times whenever it was needed.  He asked a lot of questions, and when he found out that my mom had undergone back surgery, he immediately sent me down to get an MRI.

As I walked down the bright, clean hallway - it morphed into the most hideous, Soviet prison my mind could imagine.  It suddenly dawned on me that I had never really gone to the doctor alone for anything serious before.  Then it dawned on me that perhaps something was seriously wrong - and I felt so incredibly alone.

I texted Olya, one of my closest friends, and asked her to come and sit with me.  She texted back that she was in Poland.  It was cavalier, one of those, "Olya can't come to the phone right now because she's in Poland" messages.  I didn't want to call any of the students from the student center and get the gossip cart rolling - and I nervously clicked through my contact list to think of someone outside the community who might be free and willing to come sit at the clinic with me.
 
My friend Den's name popped up.  We met through my friend Valya who is fashionable and hip and who know's everyone who is anyone in this city.  Den works for a film festival, and looks like that's about right.  Den looks a little bit like Johnny Depp, but not so very masculine; and when he talks he sounds a bit like a self-conscious Truman Capote.  He's a new friend, but very fun to be around. I enjoy spending time with Den because we both get to practice language - but it is never forced.  We will talk in Ukrainian and I forget and start into English until he forgets and we switch back and forth this way.  It never feels like I am giving an English lesson or taking a Ukrainian lesson.
 
He promised he would be waiting for me when I finished the MRI.  And immediately my fears subsided a bit - which is good because it was at this point that they pulled me into the room.

They put me into a small closet and the attendant mumbled something.  Thankfully, I've had enough screening and examinations to know the drill and quickly changed out of my clothes into the paper poncho.

Boy, does being being squeezed into a paper-thin, plexi-clear, paper poncho designed for a tiny Ukrainian make me forget that I actually speak Ukrainian.  The nurse came and asked me a series of very serious, ominous questions.  His tone imbued each one with a sense of life or death, and yet it was as if I had just landed in this country that morning.  The only thought running through my head was, "I need an adult!" - and finally he switched into English and asked me if I had ever had an MRI before.  I said yes and we proceeded to the room.

My last MRI had cost 300 times more than this one would - and the only difference was I had listed to Bach during it.  This room was filled with odd techno-music.  I thought this was bizarre - but when the machine startled it's rattles and poundings, it seemed to fit the music nicely.

I fell asleep instantly and was relieved forty minutes later to get to put my clothes back on.  Den was waiting out in the lobby as promised.  I sat down next to him and we talked a little bit about what might be wrong.  I looked up and noticed that the woman working in the coat room was staring at us.  We must have looked an odd pair, because her expression read, "Don't you know this is a Catholic clinic?"  Den noticed what I was noticing and began to laugh.  "Yes, the woman at reception had the same look when I said that I was not your translator, but just a friend."  We both laughed, which made Scowly McCoatroom very nervous.
 
We sat for a while longer as the sounds of techno music left my ears and coat-room woman's scowl melted away.  And we got up and began the long, slow, walk home.

(to be continued ...)