7

The Heart of Russia

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a
mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these
are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat.
But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with,
marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors
or everlasting splendors.

—C.S. LEWIS, THE WEIGHT OF GLORY

When the heart of the Selfish Giant changed, he saw the children no longer as trespassers but as his garden’s most beautiful “flowers.” The more we grow to love people, the more we understand that our lives are the most beautiful when they are filled with people.

Not long after my conversation with Dmitry, I went for an evening walk on Red Square, the center of Moscow. I vividly recall that walk. It has since become one of my favorite memories.

I was meeting up with a friend of mine: Vladimir, a man I had served with on my mission in Nakhodka. To this day, it baffles me how in my zeal to hate my mission I had almost completely forgotten about Vladimir.

Born in Ukraine but raised in Russia, Vladimir was the first Russian to greet me after my plane landed in Vladivostok. Although he knew only a few English words and I knew even less Russian, that didn’t stop us from becoming friends. Despite the language barrier, we hit it off surprisingly quickly. It seems that Vladimir and I had the same sense of humor—a dangerous thing, to be sure.

To be perfectly honest, we played a lot of pranks and taught each other a lot of “helpful” words and phrases²² that would eventually get the other into trouble.

Two years later, we were on the opposite side of Russia and walking on the cobblestones of Moscow, reminiscing about our missions. As we talked, we laughed about how it seemed that he and I had mostly just played chess and eaten wafers. We talked about what we were doing now and the plans we had for the future. The conversation rapidly alternated between English and Russian—neither of us proficient in the other’s language but fully able to understand each other nonetheless.

After a while (and a couple of minor pranks²³), we reached Red Square. To say that Red Square is beautiful at night is an understatement. To know that you are walking through hundreds of years of history; to pass the graves of revolutionists, leaders, and martyrs; to stand in awe of the impressive bronze statues of Minin, Pozharsky, and Marshal Georgy Zhukov—these can move the soul into deep reflection.

And the sheer brilliance of Red Square! There is simply nothing to compare to it. To see the GUM department store lit up with thousands of white lights, to look upon a snow-glazed St. Basil’s Cathedral, or to walk in the shadow of the Kremlin’s great and ancient walls is, for me, beyond description. There are no words to describe just how stunningly beautiful Red Square is at night.

However, on that night, I was less interested in the history of the country and the architecture of its malls and walls, and more interested in the people who had gathered on the square.

I remember looking around at all the different people. They were smiling, laughing, and taking pictures. I’m sure there were Russians, Ukrainians, Armenians, Americans, and numerous other individuals whose nationalities I couldn’t identify. But I didn’t really register the differences. Once again, Erich’s words returned—but this time with a force that penetrated every feeling of my heart: “The only thing that matters is that you learn to love people. If you learn to love the people you are serving, then everything will just fall into place.”

For the first time, I started to regret my decision to leave Russia. But this feeling of regret wasn’t prompted by shame or guilt—it was prompted by the realization of what I had given up: the opportunity to love and serve people whom I would probably never meet. I never would have met Erich, Galena, or Vladimir had I never gone to Russia. What other people—what other added moments of life—had I denied myself because I decided to build a wall?

Somewhere on those cobblestones of Red Square, I stopped Vladimir and tried to apologize for leaving Russia. I tried to tell him how sorry I was for not being a better friend to him. He looked back at me and furrowed his eyebrows. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize. You my brother.”

Somewhere on those cobblestones, near the red walls of the Kremlin and the colorful towers of St. Basil’s Cathedral, my heart melted—winter had officially ended. Like the Giant, I felt the light and could finally see that the most beautiful flowers were the people around me.

Interestingly enough, the name Red Square does not refer to the red bricks of the surrounding buildings; the word red in the Russian language has several meanings. In its archaic form, the word (krasnaya) meant both “red” and “beautiful.” During the sixteenth century, the merchants that traded on the square nicknamed it “beautiful” because of the breathtaking presence of St. Basil’s Cathedral.

But there’s an even deeper meaning to the color red. In American culture, red has been associated with anger, horror, blood, and death—all very negative connotations. But in the Russian culture, the color red is almost the exact opposite. Red is the color of passion, of revolutionary growth, of the blood that keeps us alive, and is a symbolic color for the sun.

Red, therefore, means both light and life. In a poetic sense, as I was standing on Red Square, I was standing on the very heart of Russia.²⁴ And in the heart of Russia, my heart was changed.

Five years later, almost to the day, I was standing on Temple Square²⁵ in Salt Lake City, Utah. Despite the chill wind, the sun was rapidly melting the snow, and the brightly colored flowers of spring were pushing through the remaining patches of white.

It was the wedding day of Galena, my dear friend from Nakhodka. Several years into her studies, Galena had fallen in love with Jacob, a kindhearted American man, and they decided to get married. Their ceremony was first spoken in English and then in Russian, and as I sat there listening to it, I thought about how beautifully symbolic that moment was.

Here, at the altar of marriage, the very symbol of sacrifice and love, were two hearts that were dedicating their lives to one another. But their love would not have been possible had physical and metaphorical walls not been torn down. Present at the ceremony were men and women from several nations, come to celebrate the new life that was symbolically about to begin.

In that moment, the lives of hundreds of people—the family and friends of the bride and groom—had ceased to be about walls and boundaries, and were now about sacrifice and love. Two people had chosen to sacrifice the lives they once knew in favor of a more abundant life together.

About a year later, I held Jake and Galena’s newborn daughter in my arms. The tiny baby curled in and quickly fell asleep. “Look at that,” said Galena with a smile. “She loves her Cet.”

Fortunately, Galena didn’t notice the tears that welled up in my eyes when she called me “Uncle Seth” in Russian. After seven years of friendship, Galena had given voice to a previously unspoken understanding: she had become like a sister to me.

In thinking about my experiences with Vladimir and Galena, I can’t help but think about how these tender moments wouldn’t have been possible if walls hadn’t come down—if they hadn’t seen a brother in me.

I’m reminded of a powerful and true story shared by the American historian David McCullough. The story takes place during America’s War of Independence, shortly after General George Washington suffered a heavy defeat.

Standing with Vladimir on the cobblestones of Red Square, I felt like I had been reunited with a long-lost brother. But in this situation, I was the one who had been frozen in rags while he had always known we were brothers. And my friendship with Galena had taught me that an indescribable power comes to us when we choose to open a door instead of build a wall. It invites others to tear down their own walls and gives us the opportunity for friendship and unity.

Like the Selfish Giant, I had been blessed with an added measure of life because Vladimir and Galena had taught me how to recognize other people as the most beautiful flowers in the garden of my life. Vladimir once told me, “I believe that God makes us appear different so we can be surprised by joy when we discover that we are actually long-lost family.”