5. пять. Five.

I know it's been awhile since I've posted. And I have a lot to post about! (The wedding, some weekend trips, summer in general, etc.) But I've needed some time to organize (and my summer French course is eating up a lot of my time), so the blog has gone on the backburner. I hope to change that soon. 

But I knew I had to post today, because today marks 5 years since I returned home from my mission to Donetsk, Ukraine. 

[Less than 24 hours before I left Ukraine.] 

I know I talk about my mission a lot. Like. A lot, a lot. But it truly was one of the most defining, transformative experiences of my life. The people I met, the lessons I learned, the way I learned to love dill and potatoes, the sticky summer heat, the frigid December temperatures, the way people let me into their homes and their hearts--how they shared their stories with me--how they taught me more about Heavenly Father and Jesus than I probably ever did . . . Ukraine has stuck to me. It's impossible to give her up, and I never could, even if I wanted to. 

Looking through these pictures, I realize that I don't have enough. There would never be enough to capture all of the experiences--good and bad--that I have. How can you capture the human condition? And how can you describe a mission? It seems almost impossible to try. 

But I do know that I never understood opposition as much as I did as when I was on my mission: I never felt more tired, I never felt more rejuvenated; I never felt more ugly, I never felt more beautiful; I never felt more full of compassion, I never felt more cynicism; I never felt closer to hell, I never felt closer to God. 

It's been five years, and Ukraine still haunts me, calls to me, reminds me of who I was and what I became, and of work still to do. 

And I have a feeling it will be the same fifty-five years from now. 

Five.

"Behold, and lo, I have much people in this place, in the regions round about; and an effectual door shall be opened in the regions round about in this eastern land. Therefore, I, the Lord, have suffered you to come unto this place; for thus it was expedient in me for the salvation of souls." 

--Doctrine and Covenants 100:3-4 

Five years ago I walked in Ukraine for the first time. Breathed it in. Spoke Russian with people who had never met an American in their lives. Saw grey doms and a great, blue Ukrainian sky. 

Ukraine changed my life. Forever. That mission to eastern Ukraine changed my life. Forever. Some experiences change your heart and make you deeper and braver than you could have ever imagined. My time in Ukraine was one of those experiences for me. A marker. "Pre-Ukraine," and "After-Ukraine." 

I will always feel like Ukraine gave me more than I could ever give back to her. In some ways, especially as a young idealist, it is disappointing. But perhaps that is the lesson. That people and places will always have more to give than you could ever give them. So you thank them for their goodness with love. All you can give is your heart and your love. Let everyone know that you love them, or that you are at least trying to. 

I truly believe that Ukraine gets some of the finest souls in the world to love her. I'm not saying that I'm one of the "finest souls in the world," as there are much finer souls that I know who have come to Ukraine and given more than I ever could. But I am grateful to have worked shoulder to shoulder with those people, and even more honored to have been allowed a glimpse into the lives and hearts of the incredible Ukrainian people. Five years later, and they will never leave my heart. And I refuse to throw that love--or this land--away. 

Five.

Five years ago exactly, on a Wednesday in late November--the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, in fact--my life changed forever.

I received a mission call to serve an LDS mission in Donetsk, Ukraine. I made the decision to serve after careful thought, consideration, and prayer. It was one of the hardest decisions I have ever made in my life. And serving that mission is still probably the hardest thing I've done in my life so far.

But it's also one of the most important. It set the trajectory for my future. That mission is holy to me, for it is one of those sacred spots of earth and time where I came to know Jesus.

I have written a lot about my mission on this blog and elsewhere. I guess it's true what they say. You can take the girl out of the mission, but you can't take the mission out of the girl.

But today, five years after receiving that call, I simply want to say that I am deeply humbled and deeply grateful.

Thanks be to God for knowing the faithscape of a nation and the landscape of the heart.

For knowing that I needed Ukraine. And that Ukraine--in some small way--needed me.

For allowing me to clumsily try to deliver His message of love to His children there.

For giving me more than I ever deserved.

For allowing me to love so much it hurt.

For showing me the beauty of the Russian language, the resiliance of the Ukrainian spirit, and the strength of Ukrainian women.

For giving me a bit of that resiliance and strength to carry home.

And thanks be to God that He is the healer of nations and of souls.

I haven't forgotten.

And I never will.

Learning to Let Go (A Tribute to My Messenger Bag)

09 August 2016 

Dear Pavel (my messanger bag from Ukraine), 

Well, it's been a good run. Four years, three months, two weeks, and three days of a good run, to be exact. 

I remember the first time I saw you. I was a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, naive young missionary, just a week into Ukraine. 

In my naivety, I thought that I could "get by" with my hands and a small, simple beaded bag I had brought with me. My trainer soon helped me see the error of my ways. 

[Young missionary and my wise trainer.]

She took a look at my beaded bag and then a long look at me as I tried to stuff pamphlets in it. 

"You're going to need a lot more space," she said. 

And she was right. 

So on a warm Monday in late April, we went inside a nondescript shop on Lenin Prospekt in the city we lived in. Inside was dingy, dark, and smoke- and body-odor filled, but the shop was semi-organized. Shoes, belts, and bags filled the store. 

My trainer handled the talking while I looked around for a bag I wanted. I saw you out of the corner of my eye and I knew. So when Sister Hudson asked me which one I wanted, I pointed to you. 

"That one. That one up high." 

To be honest, you initally caught my eye because you were an attractive messenger bag. 

But what won my heart was your character, which was branded boldly on your side: 

"Polo Qisi," I read. "Valued. Simple. Decent. Fashional. Classical. Humanistic." 

[No one is as humanistic as you.]

I still haven't a clue what you meant by those words.

But you had me at humanistic.

[Doing humanistic service with my humanistic bag.]

You were an excellent mission bag. You carried pamphlets, copies of the Book of Mormon, a Russian Bible, photos from home, my "Masha and the Bear" wallet, and often an apple or two without complaining. 

You saw me through thick and thin. You came with me from city to city--Donetsk, Kharkov, Mariupol. You experienced bitter winds and balmy summers. You saw despair, anger, hope, and love in the faces of people I met. you heard stories of faith, of doubt, of miracles. Oh, the stories you could tell! 

You came with me from Ukraine. I was a sadder and wiser woman; you were a worn bag. But, like the land you came from, you were resilient and had a lot of life in you still. 

And me? Well, I am simultaneously lazy and resourceful. Which means I decided to keep you with me--from BYU and beyond that, to Oxford. 

Again, you've experienced a lot with me--running to catch trains and planes, scores of dates, trips to Kansas, Massachusetts, London, Croatia, St. Petersburg, Red Square, the Baltics--you are a world-class traveller. 

But all good things come to an end. 

I noticed it a couple of months ago--back in January, I think. Your inside zipper broke off. 

Then you started peeling. 

That classical, decent, humanistic faux leather started coming off in bits, and then chunks. It looked like you had some kind of bag leprosy. 

More recently, you've exhibited signs of aging as you've grown holes inside yourself, making it easy for me to misplace things--usually Chapstick--in the very bottom of the bag. You've also started molting more than usual. It's normal with age; don't be embarrassed. 

I thought I had lost you in St. Petersburg. I was searching for something when I felt a bit of cardboard. I was afraid that I had destroyed you somehow. Instead, I found what makes you sturdy at the bottom--some sort of old Spanish cardboard box for Chicken Soup Mix. (How that ended up in a Ukrainian bag, I'll never know . . . perhpas you're really a Spanish emigree?) 

But you weren't dead yet. Just roughened up a bit. 

Being the good, tough bag you are, you kept fighting until I realized today that it might be better to give you a final resting spot here in Oxford. 

You won't be coming back to America with me. It makes me sad, too. But we both know your time is at hand. You're on your last legs, and I'd rather leave you here in "England's green and pleasant land" than to risk that journey across the pond. 

I think it is a fitting send off: leaving a piece of my Ukrainian heart with my British love. There's something symbolic about the two of you coming together in life and death. 

What I'm trying to say is, thank you. For everything. I'm a better--and more organized--woman since you fell into my life four years ago. 

With love, 

Megan