Remembering . . . . .

For miles and miles, the crowds of Russian people walked in the same direction on both sides of the highway and country roads, their arms full of flowers and hands carrying bags of food and drink. This is the scene etched in my mind, Memorial Day in Russia, a national holiday of mega proportions. They were traveling (a long bus trip, then walking the rest of the way) to the cemetery to honor the dead by laying flowers on the grave, and by taking time to remember the good qualities of their departed relative. While there they shared food and drink. Well, the living ones partook of the food and drink, and the departed simply were . . . . . well departed. Thus the food and drink set out for them just sat there as a point of remembrance.

I was impressed by the elaborate plots at the cemeteries, fenced in by lovely iron arches and arrow topped borders, all with some sort of fancy bench or seat inside. I was curious about those seats. Why would a seat be necessary? They anticipated many visits and would need rest, since likely they'd stay all day thinking, remembering the person and the past. This was not a time for prayer. They saved their prayers for church, the Russian Orthodox Church, where candles were lit to signify each prayer.

My first impression upon landing at the airport in Saint Petersburg, Russia on that first trip in 1993 was that World War II had just occurred. It soon became apparent that not only was this my visual impression, but also what I would find as reality in the minds of the people. They talked about World War II like it had taken place the month or the week before. How had that war affected the people so deeply? The effects of trauma carried to a new generation, as if inherited in a will.

While living in Russia, I think I wore my interpreters out asking question upon question in order to gain a deeper understanding of the people and culture. Wars had taken their toll on the Russian people, and become a prime element of the culture, from the War with the Tartars to World War I and World War II. The reality of war was much more real to my new friends, as if they had experienced it themselves, even though the last war had been fought over 60 years ago by their grandparents and great-grandparents. War for them, seemed to be a prized possession handed down from generation to generation. It was not a difficult thing for them to embrace a past that had not been experienced in their lifetime. Perhaps because some of World War II took place on their own soil, and with building and church remnants scattered around waiting to be restored, they saw these scenes daily. It took its toll on them.

This people and culture had been formed through much adversity. Honoring those who had passed on before them had become a practiced art. Certainly more than anything I had experienced as an American. Their love for people is hard to describe here, simply they are incredibly loving people. They take time to relish the moment, and to enjoy people and life. They don’t scurry around in busyness, the reverse of life in the western world. We are always busy and most often quickly moving to the next project, the next task, the next phone call, the next person, the next anything. We have learned well how to keep moving, but have we learned how to be quiet, or how to think? Have we learned how to embrace life, to be content with joy or pain? Memorial Day spent in Russia changed me, and made me more conscious of slowing down, of living in the moment, and on this day to honor those who went before me.

Today, Memorial Day 2009, I choose to remember my Dad, an army veteran, whose life was a model of excellence for me every day. As a first generation American, his family had come from Sweden to Northern Minnesota. He spoke two languages while his own parents spoke only one. His father passed away when he was five years old, in 1915, causing an incredible hardship on the family. His father had built the family a nice home, and of course it was paid for. My Dad left school after the sixth grade to work and support his mother. He apprenticed as a carpenter, becoming a master class carpenter and builder of incredible excellence. I remember being so proud of my Dad when I was in the first grade. He had crafted my teacher’s bedroom furniture out of cherry, which was his favorite wood. He was a good man, doing good to others, and living the lessons he had learned as a child in bible classes. Thank you to my Dad for going before me and pointing the way so clearly. Each day my desire is to be worthy of being his daughter. Not a day passes that I don’t think of my Dad with many of my personal decisions influenced directly by his life. Thank you for my father who was a picture of my heavenly Father. I am so grateful for this gift.

“I was very glad to find some of your children walking in truth, just as we have received commandment to do from the Father.” II John 4, NASB