Scrunched into the backseat of our Russian chariot, we began our final tasks. Our driver, Igor, took us to the apartment home of Sasha and Natasha. We climbed into what looked like the elevator from the Shady Rest hotel and entered our home for the next 4 ½ days. We were exhausted and I wasn’t sure I wanted the added stress of being a house guest. However, Sasha and Natasha’s hospitality quieted my fears and I thanked God for his provision. Natasha had a delicious hot breakfast waiting for us. We ate quickly and then got ready for the children’s required doctor appointments.
We arrived at the American clinic in Moscow, where the Russian doctor spoke flawless English. Though he was kind, Masha wouldn’t speak to him. He gave us the appropriate medical clearance and with that, we had one more hurdle to jump-the INS.
Our last stop was the US Embassy to get the children’s visas. Weary parents holding crying children spilled from the waiting room onto floors and into hallways. After several hours, an agent began to circulate. “We typically process about three to four families a day,” she explained. “Today we have over eighty families. I’d suggest trying again tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? I wanted to be on a plane tomorrow!
Finally we heard our name. I held the kids while John spoke with the officials. His furrowed brows told me there was a problem. “We’re missing some paperwork,” John informed me.
“We need to call Ron and it’s one a.m. in California!” I snapped back.
“We’ll have to wake him.”
After a brief phone conversation, John reported, “He’s already sent one fax but he’ll fax another copy in the morning. I’ll have to come back tomorrow.” Back to our apartment we trudged; defeated and deflated.
The next morning, I prayed and paced until at last John returned, visas in hand. “It was looking pretty grim,” he explained. “They couldn’t find the faxes, so I pleaded with every supervisor until someone discovered our paperwork was filed under O! Apparently the W sound doesn’t translate into their alphabet. I’m telling you – God found those papers!”
It was Christmas Eve and we were headed home. After touching down in New York, we breezed through customs and immigration. My glee faded when I saw the wall of holiday travelers at our gate.
“Passenger Wallace, please come to the ticket counter.”
No! Lord, don’t let this flight be overbooked.
John returned with the news, “The flight’s overbooked.”
I knew it.
“They had to move us to business class.”
Forgive me Lord for always assuming the worst . . .
Both kids were asleep before the plane took off. I watched Masha, in her chocolate-stained shirt and wild brown hair, my tiny spitfire. Peaceful at last. What would I tell her? How could I explain it was our suffering that brought us each to this place of joy? I had no answers, but I wouldn’t trade places with anyone.
Assisted by changing time zones, Christmas Eve awaited our arrival to LAX. Joyful and exhausted, we plopped our luggage, our sleeping children and our aching bodies into our own car and drove home . . . . home for Christmas.
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