My parents were visiting from America--two adventuresome pensioners, who trekked halfway across the globe to see yours truly and my three exuberant offspring. They had braved multiple flights on multiple continents, overcome merciless jet lag, and endured hours of intense Lego playing on the floor. But when I informed them of my imminent trip to the villages and my plan to leave them alone in this foreign city for 3 days, their eyes widened in disbelief and maybe a little horror. My attempts to assuage the situation by informing them that my 3 year-old would stay and keep them company seemed to no purpose.
Before we set out I left detailed instructions on all the essentials: how to use the dishwasher, how to answer the doorbell, how to use the oven, how to use my cell phone, how to turn on Luntik (a Russian cartoon.) To my dismay I forgot to write down the phonetic pronunciations for "milk," "bread," and "water" in case an emergency trip to the store would become necessary.
We set off in the wee hours of the morning (which in Russia in the summer are as bright as mid-day.) Roughly two hours into our trip my husband's cell rang. Through a weak connection I heard my mother's voice say, "I pressed something on your phone and now it appears to be blocked and is asking for a code or something. What do I do?" This call did nothing to allay my fears at leaving them behind in my apartment in the city.
Setting my concerns aside we bounced onward. Arriving in the northern villages, we dove right into our kids' program. We unpacked outside in a park. Curious children played nearby, watching us. We got out our puppets, baseball bat, Frisbee, and balloons. Soon all the kids who had been hesitant a few minutes ago were learning to throw Frisbees and chase fly balls. We talked to the owner of the little house next to the park, and he allowed us to plug our speaker into one of his electrical outlets.
Into the 2nd skit and we had forgotten that we needed all staff to perform, and there was no one to hold up the informal puppet stage aka blue-flowered bed sheet. We quickly recruited my two sons, aged 6 and 8. My dear Sam, the 6 year old, could not understand the delicacies of this task, and constantly lowered and raised the sheet. I overcompensated with my puppet and the children giggled and snickered at my puppet bobbing up and down. Our 2nd microphone stopped working and so the 1st one was passed back and forth between the huddled and squatting puppeteers. The mike was hurriedly shoved to my mouth for my line and my lip received a jolting shock of 220 Russian volts.
Our puppets sang and danced as the tree roots ground into my knees and the mosquitoes and gnats called their 3rd and 4th cousins to come and eat at the feeding bonanza. We found another willing volunteer to hold up our sheet after Sam ran off to play and left it flapping in the wind. After we finished our program I stiffly stood up, willing the blood to return to my extremities below the knee. The team began to pack up our equipment, looking in vain for the baseball bat that had been carried off when we were occupied with the program. My right eyelid had been bitten by gnats and was already starting to swell (it stayed swollen for 3 days.)
I smiled weakly to the kids and was ready to go home and lick my wounds...but then one girl after another came up to me to talk...to take pictures. They hugged me and joyfully took children's Bibles. They asked if we would return the next day. Other team members were also talking to thrilled kids. They had loved the show. Teenagers had even stuck around through the puppets' songs, and wanted to talk to us now afterwards. It was a success. Even though I'd had my worries and concerns, and the program had not gone very smoothly in my opinion, I loved it too. From the moment I slid my hand into the green-skinned puppet and began to tell silly jokes into the microphone, I knew I was right where I belonged, doing exactly what I was created to do--to share stories with children--to tell them The Greatest Story Ever Told.
