Part I
I rise to bathe, dress and pack a lunch before I walk to the train station to meet Natasha. It's Friday the day on which, every week, she goes to the village of Nikolaivka, an hour's journey by train from the city of Khabarovsk in the Far East of Russia. Rev. Natasha (which we fondly call her because she seems to carry all her people in her heart and ministers to so many) has spoken of Nikolaivka on so many occasions. It is clearly close to her heart.
I have accepted her invitation to accompany her to her beloved village, mostly because I've finally realized how much she must carry to this village and how difficult it can be. I jest with her that I must do this because I've never understood why she loves me so much and at least I can do something to justify such devotion on her part. She is one of many whom I've either experienced or observed pouring their love on us within our first meeting, maintaining its fervor for a lifetime. We had laughed loudly together a few days earlier when I expressed my intentions to earn her love, something we both understand to be impossible and needless, causing a Babushka in front of us on the bus we were riding to turn and scold us thoroughly. Unlike many of her compatriots, Natasha laughs readily and loudly in any environment and for any occasion. Hence, she and I get along well together. I asked Natasha what the Babushka had said. She just shook her head and smiled, commenting that it was a good thing to sometimes not be able to understand what people say to one. I could only agree as Natasha reminisced about an occasion in New Zealand where she was thankful her English was not so well developed as to allow her to understand a man with whom she nearly tangled in an auto accident. There are times when ignorance can be a blessing.
This morning I walk to the train station to meet Natasha as agreed. The morning is cloudy, unusual for this part of the world, which boasts piercingly clear blue skies most days. It will rain sometime today, no doubt. Clouds here rarely tease and usually fulfill their promise of precipitation. Natasha arrives lugging a large bag containing three flannel boards and various story-telling supplies, a little fold-up cart carrying a huge bag of Bibles for children and adults, and a smaller parcel of miscellaneous items whose identity I would discover later. I really couldn't imagine anyone carrying all of it by herself � anyone, that is, except Rev. Natasha who I've come to believe is almost super-human. I tease her saying I now understand her enthusiasm over my accompanying her. Here I thought she was looking forward to my good company � what she really needed was a pack-mule!
