Dear Friends and Family,

I posted another narrative from the trip (“Safe in the Ark”) this morning. We are indeed winging our way back to Atlanta. That, however, does not mean that the posts will stop. I will add probably three, maybe four, most entries to this blog, including one about yesterday’s church service in Kiev. So please keep checking with frequency to make sure you do not miss anything!

Tired but blessed,
Chris

Our home church, Mount Paran Church of God, supports a whole host of missionaries throughout the world – from the remotest reaches of Siberia to the islands of the Philippines; from the streets of Santa Cruz, Bolivia, to the crowded slums of Bangalore, India.

And we do so here in Ukraine, too.

Meet Jane Hyatt, a one-time Atlanta suburbanite and active member of Mount Paran. A decade and a half ago, the Lord began to deal with her heart, placing upon her a burden to serve the children of this country. And so she did. She left the United States, knowing no Russian and not really having an inkling of what would happen or how
she would fulfill her calling.

The whole story would take pages to recount, but the gist is this: shortly after arriving, she met Barbara Klaiber, a New York native, who had an equally strong calling. The two started a soup kitchen to feed the hungry orphaned, abandoned street children in Kiev. But God expanded their vision and, in turn, their territory.

In 2000 they established the Ark Rehab Center for Street Children and Children at Risk in Kiev. But they needed a place to house the center. Through a Spirit-filled sister in Christ, God sent a strange prophesy – their “place” would be found at the edge of a forest and in a disco.

They eventually found a property they liked and, sure enough, it was at a forest’s edge. But it belonged to the government and, true to form with almost any bureaucracy, it took time – a lot of time – to purchase the property. With each passing visit, the government would tease Jane and Barbara a bit more, showing them a few more rooms or a couple of other buildings. On the fifth visit, they happened to poke their head in an auditorium in one of the buildings. A cleaning lady mopped the floor. When asked why, she said simply, because the disco is held here on Saturday nights.

The dynamic duo had found their place. They still, though, had to navigate a system laden with corruption, bribe-seekers, and last minute changes before they eventually secured the financing and won the property at auction.

Thus, the Ark was born.

The Ark’s main mission was (and is) the restoration of the family, not simply to serve as an orphanage. Jane is Mount Paran’s missionary here in Ukraine, and we directly support the work she and Barbara do at the Ark. The children in their home may be orphaned, victims of abuse, substance abusers themselves, or come from any number of other situations. Their goal, though, is to rehabilitate these precious kids and place them, permanently, in restored or new homes within 24 months of their arrival at the Ark.

Counting the Ark, we visited seven orphanages/homes during our time in Ukraine. This one is different. And you can sense the difference immediately: the whole Ark experience is Christ-centered. Jane and Barbara teach introduce the children to Jesus and His love, compassion, mercy, and forgiveness remain at the core of a child’s
time there. They pray. They worship. They learn that God loves them, and that they, in turn, should love themselves (as a creation of the Almighty) and others as themselves.

And that approach shows. The kids, like the ones at the special needs orphanage, seem more adjusted and more confident, even more responsive to love and affection. The image of those children in collective prayer for us will remain an indelible snapshot of our journey. This visit gave us hope that, in the midst of such sorrow, where an
alarmingly high percentage of the children of this country either live in orphanages or on the street, there are places that make a difference.

We all left feeling proud that our home church, Mount Paran, sponsors the Ark and, in particular, Jane and her calling.

One day more,
Chris Y.

PS – While there we discovered that Jane and the Ark are in desperate need of a tractor to mow their lawn. (The complex is literally acres and acres.) We took up quite an impromptu collection but still remain short. If you would like to contribute, please contact the Mt. Paran choir office.

The Holy Spirit moves in ways and through means that, to us, may seem
unusual. If everyone reading this posted their own personal salvation
experience, I suspect we would find a wide array of stories – from the
person who gave her life to Him as a young girl in her home church all
the way to the man whom He rescued as he scraped the dregs of skid
row. We all enter the Christian journey from different points, some
routine and some dramatic… but all covered in this miracle of grace.

Yesterday, many young boys and girls added their conversion story to
this great tapestry of our faith… and theirs certainly merits an
honorable mention among the most unique, because it involved a bunch
of adults dressed as honeybees.

At each orphanage, while most of the MPC crew hurried off the bus to
set up stations for face painting or recreation, a small group of us
stayed on the bus to change into our bee costumes for a short, cute
play geared to the younger half of the children to whom we minister.
The plot is simple – Pasha (Paul in English) will not eat, smile,
laugh, or do anything that the bees do (use your imagination) because
he has lost his joy. The bees call on the Queen Bee to help Pasha
recover it.

Upon arrival, the Queen diagnoses the situation and prescribes the
cure – Pasha has lost his joy because he does not have Jesus in his
life as his savior. Through a series of songs, including “Jesus Loves
Me” in Russian, the Queen and the bees tell Pasha the plan for our
salvation. Using colors to explain the stages – black for our sin, red
for Christ’s blood, white for the purity it brings, etc. – the
children are interactively led through the only true way that our
iniquity may be cleansed.

Pasha wants to pray the sinner’s prayer and give his life to Jesus.
Then the Queen asks if any other children want to do the same.

Now, granted, with children that age and with the ephemeral nature of
our interaction with them, you never know if they fully understand
things or if they have even reached an age where they can comprehend
sin. However, you cannot doubt or question any child’s sincerity when
they want to pray. Just like the little kids that Jesus invited to
come to Him, the children at these orphanages did so after the
testimony of this short play.

And, yesterday, in an orphanage in Zaporozhie, when they did, it
framed one of the images that, for many of us, will define this trip.
When the Queen Bee asked if anyone else wanted to pray, little hands
rapidly flew in the air and little eyes sparkled. Before the Queen’s
helper bees could navigate their way into the audience, some of this
precious young souls stood up from their seats, fell on bended knees,
closed their eyes, and clasped their little hands in front of them.
Others waited on a prayer partner, either a bee or another choir
member, to join them. As we circulated among these children, you did
not need a PhD in childhood psychology to know that these children —
despite their lot in life and regardless of whether they fully
understood everything about Calvary — were sincere in their prayers
to Jesus.

Matthew 18:2-3 reminds us, “He called a little child and had him stand
among them. And he said: ‘I tell you the truth, unless you change and
become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of
heaven.'”

Yesterday we saw firsthand the faith of little children and how they,
unknowingly, were providing us a great example to follow.

Blessings,
Chris Y.

As we pulled up to the church last night, I could close my eyes and see and hear the church camp meetings of my youth:

Families parked hundreds of yards away in open fields and joined an army of others steadily walking toward a large framed tabernacle, which at one time had been open air but had given in to the modern convenience of an artificially cooled climate. Hand-woven shawls now covered older women, replacing the fans with Jesus knocking at door that had once been clutched in their time-worn hands.

Organ music wafted out of the open doors and windows – not in quiet solemnity but in an unapologetically upbeat call to worship with songs like “I’ll Fly Away,” “Just a Little Talk with Jesus,” and “He Set Me Free.” As you moved closer, the percussive rhythms of a snare and bass drum, coupled with the twangs of a small cadre of guitars, swirled around that organ and gave the melody some texture.

Once inside, you found your place but not before shaking more hands than a politician at an Independence Day parade. Younger people always called their elders “Mister” or “Miz,” and “Brother” and “Sister” were the preferred titles. Teenagers tended to congregate in the back or in the balcony. Older couples and widows moved to the front. Everyone else scattered in between. Little children laid at their mother’s feet on pallets lovingly constructed from homemade quilts.

The preacher, to be sure, had on a tie. But hardly any other man, except pastors from the area, sported that particular accessory. The men were clean, though, dressed as respectfully as they could given their wardrobe. These were working folks, so a man’s starched white shirt was liable to be speckled with motor oil or some other testament to his vocation. The women came in equal modesty, perhaps some in a dress, sometimes homemade, but often in a blouse and skirt, never in pants.

At some point in time, the pastor walked to the pulpit and said, “Let us pray.” The congregation needed no further cue… no prodding, no cheerleading. In one voice, everyone would start praying. The cavernous tabernacle seemingly shook with the prayers of the saints, streaming up toward the steeple and on to heaven as sweet incense. Old women, with more wrinkles in their face than shoes in their closet, lifted holy hands and prayed aloud with such conviction that you suspected they had a direct, high-speed line to the throne. Humble men lifted their eyes to the Lord and, often with lips barely moving, made their petitions known to Him. The preacher might bang on the pulpit or move around the stage, his microphone cord trailing close behind him like a sad puppy, but most people were too busy entering into worship, placing their minds in one accord, to listen to his words.

And then I snapped to reality. We were not in Tifton, Georgia, during my youth. We were at a Church of God in Nova Kakhovka, Ukraine – the first ever COG here. This is a church — an entire congregation — that proudly embraces its roots and its denomination. This church alone has planted 100 other COGs in Ukraine.

Yet what caused me make that connection between the church of my youth and this particular one was the amazingly transparent sincerity of their worship and faith.

Admittedly, at times, I can romanticize things, and, to be certain, I carry a rosy view of my spiritual upbringing. However, today many American churches run from anything that smacks of tradition. We segregate our congregations to the point where church is a specialized set of internal worship groups that never interact rather than a single corporate body united in purpose and praise. Think: when was the last time in your church that whole families actually sat together on the same pew, so that children and teens could observe and learn from older generations?

When we walked up the steps of this church in Ukraine, the whole congregation seemed to form a committee of welcome and escort. Old men, teenage girls, mothers with babies circling them, it did not matter. Smiles and laughter and fellowship and love abounded.

We hastily changed and went upstairs and the visions of that tabernacle from yesteryear came back to me. The congregation was plain in some respects, but the entire body exuded he richness of being heirs to the kingdom.

When we sang a song in Russian, they leaped to their feet and sang too… no need for a praise and worship team, no need for an invitation. Their minds and spirits were already there. These genuine people had a song in their heart, a reason to sing… a hope that is steadfast and sure, an anchor that endures.

When we sang a song in English, some joined in on the second or third chorus. But even if they did not know the exact words, they worshiped nevertheless, shouting a “Hallelujah” or an “Ahhh-meeeen” (Amen!) whenever we finished.

The pastor spoke. The deputy mayor came and spoke. A preacher delivered a sermon. Another delivered a mini-sermon when he took up the offering. (This was, of course, a Church of God service.)

But then, at the end of the night, the pastor exhorted his flock to pray for us. I have no idea the words that he or the 250 other Ukrainians prayed, but you could feel the power of the Holy Ghost descend upon that place. When I opened my eyes, I saw hundreds of hands pointed in intercession toward us… people whom we scarcely knew were standing before God on our behalf, praying for our ministry, our safety, our health, our lives… and praying that fervent, effectual prayer that avails much.

Their love and their genuine fellowship as our brothers and sisters in Christ touched us deeply and even overwhelmed some of us. Today it is easy to become caught up in church as a corporation rather than church as the corporate body of Jesus our Savior. I am not writing about any particular congregation but just church in general. We run the risk of programming things to the point where we are more similar to the cruise ship upon which we now sail rather than a place where liberty and freedom allow the Holy Spirit to flow and work.

But in the faces of our dear Ukraine brothers and sisters, many of us saw that first love, that first zeal, that first joy… that moment of salvation still etched upon them. And that was refreshing and uplifting.

Tradition, at times, can be and is a crutch, an albatross, an excuse, all of which can stunt our progress and growth. We like the way things used to be and balk at the idea of any disruption to that routine. Such impediments can threaten any organization’s livelihood, including the church.

But some things are timeless. The simple truth of the Gospel and the sincere style worship that was good enough for our mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, and our brothers and sisters in lands far away from home, can also be good enough for us.

Sailing along,
Chris

PS — a blog post for Thursday’s orphanage visits will be coming soon! 🙂

Yesterday provided more peaks and valleys than the craziest roller coaster at any amusement park… a day of spiritual and emotional vertigo… so much so that I think it better to separate the day’s blog into two separate posts. (The second may be posted later in the day.)

Our first stop came at an orphanage for children with special needs. Not many of us knew exactly what to expect or even how to prepare. More than a few of us pictured those awful sanitarium-type institutions in Romania exposed in the late 1980s on a series of 20/20 television specials.

What we found astounded many. The orphanage pulsed with energy, fueled by the smiles of these precious children. The staff genuinely seemed to care, doting attention on children, moving their wheelchairs to ensure they had a good view of the program, and sitting right beside them during the assembly. The facilities, though a bit worn and faded by time, appeared to be more the adequate. (For example, in the recreation room, we found excellent physical therapy equipment for children with specific disabilities.)

But obviously a difference existed between these children and the children at the first three orphanages. Some kids sat in wheelchairs, with a leg or both missing. Others scurried about on crutches. A few had misshapen arms, hands, fingers, feet or toes. A number of these kids could not speak.

We all processed this reality in different ways. Some rolled up their sleeves and plowed right into the work at hand. Others faced a more difficult time — perhaps a child’s face reminded them of a family member or friend… or perhaps, at the outset, they could not see beyond the physical differences to focus on the child’s heart. This morning many of us were still dealing with the emotions of this single two-hour block in our schedule.

But despite their disabilities, at the core, these kids were just kids. Love and joy abounded in that place. Hugs and smiles were the common currency. These children took care of each other, encouraged each other, loved each other. You could not help but catch their contagious spirit of happiness. You go to minister to them and, in the process, your spirit is humbled and touched.

In March, our choir, in conjunction with HopeHouse International, held a fundraiser that netted almost $100,000. That money is specifically targeted to build three HopeHouse homes so that Christian families can adopt special needs children from THIS orphanage. There were potential adoptive parents there with us yesterday. Please be in prayer that, if it is God’s will, these couples will listen to the calling and open their hearts to adopt these children and give them permanent, Christ-filled homes.

I try to capture a variety of viewpoints when writing this blog, although sometimes the words lack attribution simply because they reflect the ideas of so many. Today, though, I want to quote Vince Poole, an elder in our church and a spiritual leader in our choir: “Yesterday God spoke to me, and I know it was God. He spoke to me about my relationship to Him. He is my God, but He is also my Father. And that changed my perspective on relationships and my responsibilities. Being at the orphanage, I had this epiphany: these aren’t Ukrainian children. They are my children. It broadened my
perspective on how we should relate to one another.”

“While he was still speaking to the people, behold, his mother and his brothers stood outside, asking to speak to him. But he replied to the man who told him, ‘Who is my mother, and who are my brothers?’ ⁠And stretching out his hand toward his disciples, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! ⁠For whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother.'” Matthew 12:46-50.

More to come about the worship service last night…

Blessings,
Chris Y.

Whenever we park at the front gates of an orphanage and barrel out of the doors ready to do God’s work, the average Ukrainian observing this scene must be confused. We either look like the rejects from the latest round of circus auditions or a bunch of escapees from the local asylum.

Picture, if you will, emerging from a perfectly good bus the following: a ragtag troupe of clowns with painted faces, frizzy and colorful hair, and enough balloons to supply a political convention; about ten folks dressed as bees (yes, you read that correctly), complete with antennae, wings, and stingers, including the queen who sports a shimmering sequined number that could qualify for third place in a Mardi Gras parade; another half dozen wearing sunglasses, t-shirts, red neckties, and stern looks, resembling Secret Service agents who forgot the day’s dress code.

Add to that a street party now cluttered with balls and nets, suitcases full of relief supplies, boxes full of Bibles, musical instruments, sound equipment, face paint, beads and strings, and Polaroid cameras… I mean, if Monty Hall were still hosting “Let’s Make a Deal,” we would make a killing.

But all of this seeming silliness has a purpose — to engage, in a variety of ways, with these precious children at the orphanages. Yesterday, Tuesday, we visited two, one in the morning and another in the afternoon.

In an earlier post, I mentioned that I would talk more about the “stations” we have for these children, ranging in age from pre-kindergarten through the older teenagers. One such is photography.

Rarely, in today’s America, will you find someone without a digital camera or camera phone at arm’s reach. The technology is almost as ubiquitous as air. But this is an orphanage in a country that is barely post-Soviet. Modern conveniences and luxuries are relative. In short, some of these children may not have a photograph of themselves beaming that smile that can melt even the hardest heart.

So our photo team scouts a location that has some aesthetic beauty – a flower bed, for example. We want to avoid any background that smacks of an institution, like a stone wall or a foreboding fence. Once the site is selected, our MPC volunteers set up an assembly line of sorts, ready for the first wave of kids.

Excited children are hard to control. The task multiplies when they understand that they will receive a photograph of themselves. You have to see it to believe it. Trust me – very few, if any, have to be coaxed or coached into smiling. When the shutter button is pressed and a digital print emerges, for a brief moment, a look of despair creeps across their little faces … the photo is all white. Once they learn that the photo slowly emerges on the paper, they shake it — shake it like a Polaroid picture — with eyes as wide as a child bounding down the steps on Christmas morning. Once the picture magically materializes, we help the child fit it into a small frame.

The older, “cooler” teens are not immune from this phenomenon. Often they choose to have their picture made with a friend or a sibling. But the looks on their faces shine with equal exuberance, temporarily penetrating some of their harder facades.

Again, as the week progresses, I’ll share more about the other stations and activities.

You should know, though, that our work is not simply a “fly in, fly out” operation. True, we only stay at any given orphanage a few hours. Cynics may scoff and ask what good have we done when the child must still return to the same conditions as when we arrived. True, we cannot wave a magic wand and cure the ills that placed the child in this situation. However, we can do two things. First, we introduce them to the One who can work a change in their lives. Every stop we talk of Jesus Christ, share the good news, and pray with them. For instance, at the first orphanage we visited, around 25 children prayed the sinner’s prayer and sought forgiveness for their sins.

And this is where the second thing we do becomes mission critical. We are not alone when we visit these orphans. Local church pastors and laity may accompany us. In their names, we make a gift to the orphanage – for example, one of yesterday’s homes received a brand new, industrial sized refrigerator, a major need for them. In doing so, though, the pastor is now linked with the director and an inroad is constructed. Now that congregation has more access to return to that orphanage and continue sharing Christ’s compassion and, hopefully, continue discipleship of these children.

One final note about Tuesday – we once again delivered a concert during the evening. Do not set your sights on a church, though. We were back in the bar on the ship. Really. We were asked to perform for the other passengers as we cruised toward the mouth of the Dnieper River.

We could not have shoehorned another person into that place. Even the wait staff came and stood in the back of the room. I had no idea that many people were aboard the boat. I wanted to stop and count life jackets and available life boats. (If we had started singing “Nearer My God to Thee,” I believe I would have just eased on out the back door.)

Now to be perfectly honest, we should have charged at the door, had a raffle, sold autographed T-shirts and CDs, auctioned off a dinner serenade by Mark… something. How this oversight slipped by our marketing people, I simply don’t know! 🙂

The audience spoke multiple languages, and everything Mark said was then interpreted into Spanish and German with precision and then into some reasonable facsimile of what he said by a cheeky French interpreter who wanted to hit the road with us.

Our concert repertoire was as eclectic as we are. Picture Broadway ballads alongside soulful chart toppers interspersed with high energy funk. Somewhere Ed Sullivan had to be smiling.

We ended the night, though, with a traditional selection of numbers we have sung in church, albeit one in Russian. And nobody left. People seemed to want an encore. Most of us just wanted a shower.

But one of the most powerful parts of a trip like this – you never know when and where someone catches a glimpse of the light that shines through you.

Yours in Christ,
Chris Y.

I know everyone wants to see photographs of our journey, but uploading them is a bit difficult. We just don’t have the steady internet service to do so. You all may have to wait until we return home. But, I promise, there will be photos.

Thanks for your patience.

-Chris Y.

Every now and then, on this earthly path we trod, God pulls back the
curtain and gives us a fleeting glimpse of heaven. Tonight, in a
Baptist church in Yalta, the Mount Paran choir caught that glimpse.

More on that later in this post, though…

Today marked our first full-fledged day as missionaries, and we
started it at an orphanage about a ninety-minute drive out of
Sevastopol, our current port. We crammed a bus full of stuff that
would make us the envy of most elementary school teachers – art
supplies, balloons, face paint, balls from multiple sports, bags full
of pencils and markers and toys, and even Russian language Bibles.

Each orphanage visit during this week will follow a similar pattern.
Children will rotate among stations with opportunities for recreation,
photography, some arts and crafts, and face painting, all the while
being entertained by clowns. At each stop, we will stage an assembly
program complete with dramas that drive home the message of salvation.
And, of course, we will present gifts both to the orphanage as a whole
and to the children individually.

Throughout the week’s posts, I will try to detail these stations and
activities in depth to give you a better idea of the work we do.

For this post, though, I want to draw you directly to the nucleus of
our mission – the orphaned children of Ukraine. Imagine if, as a
child, all your worldly comforts and all of the safety and security
and stability you found in your family and home were suddenly stripped
away. Imagine being placed in a sterile, institutionalized setting,
devoid of color or imagination, sleeping, eating, and living without
the slightest inkling of privacy or personal property. Imagine being
told if you do ABC or if you do not do XYZ, you will no longer be
loved. Imagine turning eighteen and being turned out on the street
without nothing – no one, no direction, no guidance.

Now perhaps you can understand, at least in minute proportion, the
kind of despair that these children face. (And this is why Hope
House’s work is so vital and worthy of both your time and resources.)

Yet … somehow, some way … despite the mountain of odds against
them, these children smile. And not one of those polite “I’ve been
told to do this for camera, but I don’t have to like it” smiles, but
one of those “Plug this kid up to the grid and let him power Las Vegas
for a week” smiles. Ear to ear, full and bright, with usually a hug to
boot.

And when you step off the bus or round the corner for the first time,
and a smile from one of those sweet children hits you in the heart
like a laser beam, you really do understand why Jesus Himself was so
drawn to children and why those simple words – “red and yellow, black
and white; they are precious in His sight” – are so very true.

Later this week, I will write more about our specific work, but as our
partners in prayer, I wanted you to understand that as much as we
covet your prayers for us, think also upon these young children
starved for attention and love.

Now, as promised, the glimpse of heaven…

Tonight we sung at the Yalta Baptist Church. This city has seen its
fair share of headliners – Tsar Nicholas II and the last of the
Romanovs, Josef Stalin, Franklin Roosevelt, Winston Churchill, and,
now, of course, Mark Blankenship and the Mount Paran Choir. I feel
certain they will amend the next edition of the city’s history book.

We sang a full concert set list – praise and worship (mostly in
Russian), gospel songs, adaptations of scripture, and the like. Think
of a Mount Paran “Night of Worship” only in a Baptist church. And
traditional, this church was. So we did not clap or raise our hands or
even move our feet all that much. That, however, did nothing to dampen
the warmth exuded by the full audience, which clapped following
numbers and even did so with extra generosity to reward our attempts
at Russian!

But, as is so often the case, the moment of the night came when we
left the script. The pastor had prayed the closing prayer and then
invited the entire assembly of believers to sing “How Great Thou Art,”
a hymn that grew out of an 1885 poem by a Swedish poet and a song that
was translated first into Russian before it ever became popular in
English.

So we did. The Americans in the choir loft sang out it English. The
Ukrainians on the floor and in the balcony did likewise in Russian.
And then something surreal happened.

The voices meshed. We were not two voices clashing but one voice,
singing to God, in one accord. And such a sweet, sweet spirit
descended upon that church.

That last verse – “When Christ shall come, with shout of acclamation,
to take me home, what joy shall fill my heart. Then I shall bow in
humble adoration and there proclaim, My God How Great Thou Art!” – I
began to think, “This has to be a preview of heaven.”

Then Mark asked just the Ukraine locals to sing, and we stood there as
these dear people with every ounce of sincerity and conviction they
could muster, sang, “Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee.” We
had no need of an interpreter, not because we understood Russian and
not because we knew the words to the time-tested hymn that still
speaks to our soul… but because we were brothers and sisters united
in corporate worship of Christ in that one moment in that one place so
far from our home. All that separated us vanished in the blood of the
one who saved us.

A glimpse of heaven indeed.

Love,
Chris

PS – I know many of you have left comments for us. I just have not
been able to log on and approve them for posting. I hope to find a
reliable internet connection tomorrow to do just that. Thanks for
your patience. And please continue to post them.

Back in Atlanta, we are blessed with a rather nice rehearsal space
both for the choir and the orchestra. Today, a quarter of the way
around the globe, your Mount Paran Choir transformed the ship’s
largest bar into its own rehearsal room… and church, too!

Since leaving Vilkovo some 28 hours ago, our collective energies have
been placed toward a) readying ourselves spiritually and mentally for
the tasks ahead and b) rehearsing the selections, in Russian and
English, we will sing in a variety of venues throughout Ukraine.

To accomplish the first, we started this morning with small “family”
groups for devotion and prayer. We all used Acts 2:42-47 as a focal
point for framing our purpose in this country – that by acting
TOGETHER as a body united, we allow God to multiply and compound what
we do in His name and for His kingdom. (I hope you will take the time
to read that selection, too, and remember that even though you are
thousands of miles apart, you play an integral role in our journey
through your prayers of intercession.)

After family time, we started rehearsal #1 of the day (and rehearsal
#3 of this “captive” period on the ship). Of all the saloons and gin
joints in the world, we walked into this one! To be fair, I probably
should characterize the room as a multipurpose meeting space, because
it really is. But one look at its decor – deep red carpet and
furniture, chairs pulled four at a time to intimate tables, lights
with dimmers, a stage and microphone that practically scream “karaoke
tonight,” and that big bar at the room’s aft end – suggest the type of
lounge you often see coupled with a budget motel on a stretch of
lonely Texas highway.

Yet God can work anywhere. Rehearsing and worshiping in a room with a
panoramic view of the Black Sea reminds you truly of how big He is.

Of course rehearsing in such a room also has its challenges. Our
choir worships with a free spirit at home and abroad, but today, when
we swayed back and forth, the swells of the sea, not the meter of the
music, provided our metronome. No one had it worse than Rod Jeffords,
our amazingly talented arranger and, for this trip, pianist, who tried
valiantly to stand at post behind his keyboard when, in fact, he
needed a chair and a seatbelt.

Today is the Lord’s Day, so amid the music-meal-music-meal-music
monotony, we paused for our own church service, again, in the bar.
After a time of corporate worship, our own Paul Clayton, an elder back
at Mount Paran, shared a powerful devotion, an exhortation to think of
ourselves as more than just worship leaders but as warriors and to
prepare our minds and hearts for the work we begin in earnest tomorrow
when we visit our first orphanage. When we closed, Mark led us in the
doxology but asked us to turn and face the sea, which stretched to the
horizon and beyond, neither beach nor boat in sight. The lyrics –
especially “Praise Him all creatures here below” – take on an even
stronger air in the stillness and the seclusion of such a place.

One final note today – our Russian is progressing admirably, at least
according to our dear interpreter, Henrietta. We’ll test it out
tonight during our first concert in a park in Sevastopol. We land,
wobbly legs and all, in about two hours.

Thanks so much for your continued love and support,!
-Chris

Just past 11.00 local time last night, our ship, the Dnieper Princess,
pushed away from the dock and sailed into the brilliantly starry night
that hugged the Black Sea.

For some folks, this was their first experience on a cruise ship, so,
quite literally, they had to adjust to the swells that cause the ship
to lurch starboard to port and back, over and over again, all through
the night. Now, granted, these rocks and sways were relatively minor
but still required a bit of choreography on your part to keep your
balance and not fall down like a young foal first realizing it has
legs and can walk.

Americans live in a super-sized culture. Our rooms, well, they ain’t.
Now they are adequate but they waste no space. Most rooms are uniform
– about 15 feet long from door to window, probably six or seven feet
across, complete with two beds with a collapsible table mounted to the
window wall in between, a wardrobe divided into two sides, and a small
desktop with two drawers just inside the door. One great thing –
nooks and crannies abound so we all can store all the things we
brought.

A real estate agent would label the bathroom as *the* model of
efficiency – in all honesty, you could shower, brush your teeth, and
take care of any other necessary bathroom function all at the same
time. You walk in and the sink is immediately to one side, the toilet
is immediately to the other. The shower nozzle is attached to a hook
off to the door side of the sink. A drain is in the floor. You can
pull around a blue shower curtain to protect the toilet and towels
from water.

This morning we docked in Vilkovo, a little village near the
Ukrainian-Romanian border that seemed to be a junction where modernity
and the old world collided with the latter holding the scorecard
advantage. After strolling past an onion-domed Orthodox church, we
rambled onto the market street for tourists – here you saw name brands
in clothing and home goods that we would recognize and vendors who
were more likely to ply their bargaining skills in English than in
Russian. Just outside the gate, Audi A6s rumbled along the concrete
streets, chasing mongrel dogs and little children alike over bridges
that covered canals choked with algae, debris, and fetid water. Yet
homes tended with obvious care dotted these same paths – beautifully
tiled walkways, decorative stone fences, and an assortment of fragrant
irises, Shasta daisies, and knockout roses were commonplace.

One street to the south marked the entrance to the local market.
Babushkas selling strawberries from crates… shoes laid out on a
table for inspection… fish, and the odor that accompanies them,
being weighed, gutted, and dried under a covered pavilion. A man with
no legs balancing himself on crutches, asking for money not in words
but with plaintive looks. All signs in the Cyrillic of Russian. No
English to make you comfortable.

Yet that’s a huge ingredient in trips such as these – leaving your
comfort zone. I think of Peter during the storm when “he walked on
the water… to Jesus.” (Matthew 14:29)

Talk about leaving what is comfortable (a safe boat) and landing
squarely in discomfort (the stormy abyss). To walk on water Peter had
to discern between God’s voice and his own impulses. You must take an
ultimate leap of faith secure in the knowledge God has called you to
do such. I think all of us feel as if the Lord called us to be on
this trip.

But like Peter, our home is our boat, secure and comfortable. Yet God
intended for us to be more than people who just avoided failure. He
calls us to step out, in faith, and accomplish great things in His
name and for His kingdom.

Today, though, offered the first fleeting glimmer of the water upon
which we have been called to walk, the world we now enter, starting
tomorrow and Monday.

This afternoon we start rehearsals and sail onward.

Keep us in your prayers.

With love from Vilkovo, Ukraine,
Chris