Angels Among Us

A few months ago, when Sarah Gorrell, from BBC Southern Counties Radio, put out an appeal for a knitting instructor to come out to Moldova with me, not in my wildest dreams did I imagine how we were about to hit the Angel jackpot!

The knitting machine I carried to Moldova last Winter was as long as I am tall. To me, it looked to be such a mechanical monstrosity, I simply couldn’t imagine anyone ever grasping its technical aspects. So I was surprised when one of our sewing teachers asked me to find someone to teach her and the children how to use it. And I was shocked to discover several weeks later that a villager brought in another machine, as she too wanted to learn.

Enters Alison Casserly. Actually, it was her mum who phoned the BBC to volunteer Alison. (Aren’t mums great that way!) Alison lives way up north – so far away that she is not able to hear the radio show. We chatted on the phone a couple of times and Alison was ready to come.

I felt badly as my limited knowledge of anything relating to knitting and sewing left me simply acknowledging that we had a machine and that was all I could tell her about it. So on blind faith, Alison prepared to leave her husband and children and travel thousands of miles to a heretofore-unknown smattering of ink on a world map.

As we chatted on the phone, Alison rattled off names of ‘thingys’ and ‘widgetygrubs’ and ‘whatnots’ that she thought she’d bring. All I could do was say that this sounded great. I hadn’t a clue what she was talking about! Alison was much too polite to point out that even a slug knows more about knitting than I did, but I’m sure she was thinking it!

Our first rendezvous was quite out of the norm. Alison and I had never met before the morning we boarded the flight. Whatever age you might be, there has to be a degree of discomfort with the idea of a stranger picking you up at 3:30 in the morning, taking you to an international airport and carting you off to a country that few have even heard of!

Nevertheless, blind faith was the catalyst for Alison. The night before, Alison drove down south to where her mum and dad live. I was warmly greeted at the door by her father. I can't imagine many people being so hospitable at 3:30 in the morning. As I sipped a desperately needed cup of tea, surrounded by people in their jimjams and slippers, their small dog sniffed me with suspicion, no doubt trying to determine whether the scent of my Jack Russell, Mr. Piddles, branded me as friend or foe.

I sincerely felt nervous for Alison and as we headed up the M25, I found myself talking even more than usual about anything and everything. There were points when I felt I should just shut up, but in some ways, I was afraid she’d back out at the last minute and go back home.

During the flights, there were times when she was very quiet and I chose to let her reflect, uninterrupted, on the adventure that lay before her. As the tiny aircraft pulled up to the Chisinau airport building, I tried to read Alison’s face. What I felt I saw was a healthy balance of excitement and apprehension. Certainly an appropriate reaction to the experience, especially in light of some of the things she had heard.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget Alison’s words a full week later, when I asked her for her thoughts about what she had experienced. She was full of emotion about her profoundly powerful journey of self-awareness, and discovery.

I had to hold back my own tears as I listened to her. Alison had experienced what I find myself longing for each time I leave Moldova. She not only could see, hear, and feel the powerful sense of pride that exists in the hearts of Moldova’s children, but she was able to see hope in their eyes.

The children were perplexed that a perfect stranger would travel thousands of miles to come help them and ask for nothing in return.

Alison demonstrated a gentle admiration for them; for the fact that each and every child considered the education they are receiving as a gift; the fact they take pride in what they have, which by material standards is little or nothing. Instead, their measurements are in friends, the power of families, and community pride. And as Alison so poignantly pointed out to me, despite the fact the homes many of them live in would have been condemned in Britain, those homes are immaculate, the streets are clean, not a scintilla of trash, not a marking of graffiti, and not a single disrespectful young person.
We live in an addictive society where those who live their lives as sponges have the audacity to complain that the level of handouts they receive, their free homes, their free medical services and medicine, are simply not enough. When we offer money to Moldovan children, it’s like the Parable of the Talents. They’re humbled by the responsibility for which they’ve been entrusted. They want to find ways repay the trust you’ve invested in them.

I received an email from Alison this week. She was almost stumbling over herself with excitement, telling me about all the people she has shared her experience with, the plans she has for returning to Moldova and the creative ideas she’s developing to help the children achieve their goals.

Sarah Gorrell and the BBC helped me plant that small mustard seed of hope. Alison is becoming the Vine and Branch of hope for so many of our youth.

What a wonderful gift. Thank you Sarah. Thank you Alison. And thank you God for hearing my prayers.

When We Need a Little Help

You're No Good!

Perhaps All You Need is a Little DOG in Your Life?

Just A Stones Throw

‘You’re in big trouble buster!’ I suppose it could have been a multitude of people speaking to me, but in this case I uttered the words myself. Just as the plane backed off its stand at Heathrow I felt an uncomfortable but exasperatingly familiar ‘twang’ in my back. I had already been feeling cruddy for the past few days, but I struck it up to a raging cold. It was important for me to get to Moldova, particularly now as I had just been told that my dearest friend there had received an upsetting diagnosis and was due to enter hospital on Tuesday. ‘V1, Rotate;’ as the aircraft lifted from the ground I could already feel the cabin pressurisation pushing on my kidneys. But in addition to this I couldn’t get my ears to equalise. The lines from some old Bette Davis movie came to mind ‘Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night.’ I tried to focus on other things. I had a beautiful new industrial knitting machine sitting in the hold, which was destined for the village of Budesti, and a lovely family had sent me a blanket that had been hand knitted over generations by their family. Mrs Noel Preston had sent it to me, asking if I could offer it to a family who might need it. It was magnificent and the more I looked at it the more I felt that it would be more valuable displayed in the village community centre as an inspiration for others to make their own. (I’ll write more about this at a later time.) The cabin crew on Malev are always lovely to me. They brought me cups of ice to chew on. I have no idea why I was craving it, but for some reason it made me feel better. I wasn’t panicking or anything. It was just that gnawing realisation that I might be getting ready to give birth to a happy little kidney stone. I’m absolutely astounded by the number of people who read this boring little blog. And from every account there’s an amazing diversity reflected in its readership. And in that spirit I would like to share with you what it’s like for a man to pass a stone. Now, for women, all I have to say is ‘childbirth.’ Enough said. You ladies know the drill. There are some who say God’s female and kidney stones are Her way of evening things out for the male species. But for you guys out there, especially the ones who are either too insensitive or too thick to understand (or care) what women go through during childbirth, I’m going to try to give you my best possible portrayal of what passing a stone, or giving birth, is like. (Please ladies, I’m offering the concept of giving birth from my perspective. Please, please don’t be too judgemental if I fail to accurately capture some of the low points of this experience). All right gentlemen, now, brace yourselves. I want you to open your mouth as wide as possible. Come on now, you can do better than that. Stretch it wider. Let me see your tonsils. Wider! Wider! Can’t you open your mouth any wider than that? ‘No,’ you shake your head? Ok, fine, now, SHOVE A PIANO THROUGH IT! I really don’t remember most of the flight. But as the plane descended into Budapest the pressure on my kidney began to subside a bit. But the pressure in my ears remained. I couldn’t hear a thing. I thought it would pass and my ears would clear during my 4-hour wait between flights. I also found that my breathing was a bit shallow. I found a corner in Malev’s Duna Lounge and curled up on the sofa. Rummaging through my rucksack I found a couple of lint-encrusted tablets that were supposed to help the pain. They may as well have been Tic Tacs. Moldavian Airlines is consistently wonderful! In fact, they could send a powerful message to other airlines that you can actually operate an airline with reasonable prices, and good services, including treating staff and passengers with respect and still turn a profit. The little Saab 2000 airliner is indeed small. But it’s constantly full. On board, passengers are provided a range of amenities from towelettes and mints before take off, a fully cooked meal, and a choice of wines and champagnes. Champagne from Moldova’s Cricova vineyards can easily compete, and surpass in many instances, the finest French champagnes. (désolé France!) But this time I just don’t remember any of it. I vaguely recall the water cascading down the windows as we took off. It actually turned out to be water dripping off my own face. It was clear outside. And as the cabin pressurised my body was debating over which was in more misery – my kidney or my ears. ‘Do you have someone to come for you? A wife? A girlfriend to meet you? If it is no, then you can come to stay at my home till you feel better.’ I don’t think I realised that I looked as bad as I felt. And through my wet eyes I saw it was Valika, the same flight attendant that I’ve innocently flirted with so many times on flights from Budapest. There was nothing forward in her question – just sweet, kind, genuine concern; so typical of all Moldovans. But it did cross my mind….oh to have only been ten years younger. Ok, ok, twenty. I was last off the plane. This time it wasn’t cunning on my part. I just had trouble getting up. But it was better for me because it meant I was last on the bus that took us to customs arrivals, which meant I was first through. All that was in my mind at the moment was to see my dear friend. We needed to speak and I needed to listen to him – to what he would and would not say. I’ve grown to know him well and I can read his face. He wanted me to stay at his home, with his family. But as I told him, it was an important time for them to be together and for him to rest before he entered hospital. I would stay with my friend Marina tonight. He looked hurt, but I knew it was for the best. It was the Orthodox Easter weekend and we would celebrate together. For now, I needed to put my head down in bed. But over and over, those first words I muttered to myself at Heathrow kept coming back to me, ‘You’re in big trouble Buster!’ Indeed!

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Moldova Children Big World Small Boat

Child Suffering

Children In Crisis Exploited Children Death Of A Child

Anglican Prayers Anglicans Anglican Thoughts

Talk's Cheap!

There was a period last year when I listened to a gentleman go on and on about all the wonderful things he was going to do to help change the life of a small Moldovan community. The people in the community were mesmerised and you could see and feel their enthusiasm as they hung on to each word he said. But you could also see how much their adulation was fuelling the man.

Such behaviour, often called boasting, has long traditions in some western cultures and at times, over the years I’ve grown to perceive it as a method of personal encouragement used by some people to help them achieve their own goals.

I’m sure you can understand what I’m saying: it’s a bit like giving yourself a pep talk each morning: ‘I’m going to build a hospital right here.’ ‘I am going to cinch that account in the first meeting.’ ‘I’m not going to say one bad thing about my mother in law today.’

Big talk can be vaguely amusing in the short run, but anything more than small doses and it can fast become an embarrassment and certainly a bit of a bore. Even to Western ears, it can often sound like bragging.

But what happens when a culture that is not accustomed to hearing this type of super-charged ego stroking discovers that all they heard was nothing but bravado and wishful thinking? What happens when those fragile building blocks of hope, they’ve worked so hard to achieve, collapse like sand, simply because of an individual’ s egocentric behaviour?

Sure, it’s easy to just drop the big talk and do something. Quite so! But where do we find the energy and the will to act rather than just talk?

This year as needs become more intense and times become more challenging I’m working harder to find people who will provide actions first, then words. I’ve always remembered the Apostle James asking ‘What good is it to profess faith without practicing it?’

Talk’s cheap. Just do it!

Sweet Talkers!

Comforting Words For the Terminally ill

When A Crisis Must Take A Backseat To Need

My heart is breaking for the children in Moldova. We have such a crisis on our hands at present.

During my visit over the Orthodox Easter, I told Vasile Batcu that the children would need to be out of Aschiuta Home and in Summer Camp by the 10th of June, in anticipation of the arrival of volunteers, as well as the funds to renovate the children’s bathrooms.

If you read one of my other blogs, ‘Anglicans,’ you will be aware that not only did the volunteers not arrive, the funds to pay for the supplies and local labour failed to materialise as well. We did receive two contributions: one in the amount of USD$850.00 and a subsequent contribution of USD$250.00. There were never any volunteers organised, there was no fund drive at one of the churches. It was an awful situation that affected so many and I only had myself to blame for not following the most basic of due diligence.

With a budgeted cost of circa GBP£4000, or USD$6900.00, we are left in an absolutely dreadful situation. The bathrooms are simply unusable. And with up to thirty-four children in the home at any given time, plus house parents and volunteers, even the absence of one of the two toilets can create a crisis.

I received a joint telephone call this morning from Vasile and Inna, asking me to advise them what we should do. My best guess was that the funds we’ve received will have to go towards some of the camp costs, as the children are already there and utilising the services. However, it doesn’t address what we’re going to do when they return.

It has been an emotionally challenging week. The sadness of the child’s funeral at the end of the week overwhelmed many. Plus my friend Sarah slowly moves in and out of a coma now. I still talk to Sarah, as I know she can hear me, but the lines on her face deepen as the cancer spreads.

As I was leaving the ward yesterday another patient called out to me. Her name is Mrs Pearce. I had not met her before. She was wild eyed and frightened. I had heard her, as I sat with Sarah, calling out to no one in particular, that she wanted to go ‘home.’ Although the ward they're in is not generally for the terminally ill, it just happens that Mrs Pearce is suffering from cancer as well.

Mrs Pearce asked me to stay with her for a bit. She said she was afraid and she wanted to go home. I held her hand and stroked her forehead. I asked simple questions: how many children did she have, grandchildren, where she was born – all truthfully intended to help her mentally escape from her present surroundings.

I promised that I’d bring her some fresh strawberries tomorrow. I’ll need to purée them as she's unable to manage any solids. But I suspect she still may have difficulty in eating them.

It had been my hope that the children and I would escape for our own ‘Star Picnic,’ on Saturday night. I needed a bit of a diversion from the challenges of the week. It wasn’t to be.

As I stood at the nursing station, disinfecting my hands with Isopropyl, one of the ward nurses came up to me. I’ve known her for several years. In fact, I celebrated her mother’s funeral sometime last year. ‘Father, would you mind if we had a word?’ she asked with a sense of urgency in her eyes. ‘Of course,’ I smiled.

As I followed her into the small office I thought she was going to tell me that Sarah would most likely not live more than a day or two. I had already thought this myself, so my heart was prepared and I had imagined how nice it would be for her finally to be free of her pain.

The nurse sat down with me. I glanced over at her desk and saw the photos of her two children; Laura is three and Michael is five. ‘Father, I thought you should know, I’ve just been diagnosed with bowel cancer.’ She said it matter-of-factly.

‘I’m so saddened to hear this,’ I began. ‘Let’s take a break now and talk about it.’
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Children In Crisis Exploited Children Death Of A Child

Anglican Prayers Falling In Love At Clapham Junction