Memories of Ukraine

I left Ukraine in October 2004 after serving a mission there for a year and a half. I can hardly sum up the feeling of leaving, it was like abandoning a loved one and I ached daily to be back. I would walk the streets in my mind, recalling people and places I missed, feeling like I could get on a bus and within a couple hours I could see them again.

I wrote in my journal:

"I am sitting on the plane ride home. I can't believe this day has finally come. It's incredibly unreal. Kind of like the feeling that I had as I flew into Ukraine. I knew that there was an amazing experience waiting for me. I knew there it would be hard, but I had no idea exactly what would happen. I was nervous going into a country that had completely different customs and language. I suppose that America will feel like that when I get back there. I'm used to the Ukrainian people and I truly love them and the good things they do."

The feeling of leaving starkly contrasted the feeling I had as I entered the country. I hadn't yet gained the relationships that made the whole experience so wonderful. I wrote an essay a while back which highlights some half-remembered moments of my first impressions of Ukraine, needless to say, they were less than ideal:

"I came to a bumpy and less triumphant halt than I had expected in the Borispol International Airport and I exited the plane feeling nauseous. I was finally in the destination I’d dreamed about for three long months in the Missionary Training Center. With some sloppy Russian skills and an anxious smile I somehow got through customs and out to my awaiting mission president. It was a very humid day and I don’t remember much after the daredevil car chase that led back to the mission home, but one thing I do remember that day was something I had been wondering about the whole exhausting trip—I wanted to know where I would be serving. It was my dream to serve in Odessa after hearing about it from a fellow missionary I met in the MTC who was native to the town. Within five minutes of driving back to the mission office my mission president hastily notified me I would be serving there, and I was definitely pleased with the news.

Odessa is a beautiful, dilapidated port city on the Black Sea: over 200 years old and with crumbling buildings that prove that fact. It opened to my view from the grimy window of a Soviet passenger train. The train station itself was a remnant of grander times, and my focus was immediately distracted from its gray exterior to a glimpse of the nearest Orthodox church glowing yellow in the morning sun with dull silver onion-shaped domes. My companion lay on the top bunk in our compartment looking entirely drained of strength. I quickly snapped a picture of her, chuckling to myself nervously. My excitement manifested itself in the way most tourists express it—I took pictures.

After another death-defying taxi ride, I arrived at my new place of residence. I climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor in a century old apartment, wondering where the elevator was. But there wasn't one. My companion briefly paused to point out the broken window on the third floor and mention a drunken man had inopportunely fallen into it and left a large pool of blood on the floor only weeks prior to my arrival. Only a slight brownish tinge remained, but that was enough to bring me down to reality, if the endless stairs weren't enough to put a damper on my enthusiasm. I hefted my bag up one more flight of stained concrete steps and rang the doorbell to test it. It made a sound like an angry bird. I was suddenly in a completely different world. Gazing out the window, I optimistically thought that the view from our apartment reminded me of some tropical place with its colorful, crumbling plaster buildings capped with rusting tin roofs and crawling with rich green foliage--unlike the cold Siberian wilderness I’d pictured in my mind. It was warm and inviting. Reassured, I felt a surge of energy to go out and work with all the fire I had amassed in the MTC and I soon found myself searching for an outlet for my misguided fervor. My companion had collapsed onto the couch, in her familiar impression of a wet rag. Turning my energy to the rundown apartment that had seen the comings and goings of many other missionaries, I began sorting through the piles of forgotten junk that cluttered every corner of my new home. In my exploration I found hope. The ancient discussions with duct taped spines and bags of worn out nylons held the mark of a previous generation of hard working sisters. I wanted to be one of them. Soon the place was dusted, the sheets were changed, the dishes were washed, the curtains were straightened and I turned my attention to the cockroaches that lived in the dank shelter of the kitchen cupboards and the depths of our ancient washing machine. It was an eternal battle from then on, but that day I made considerable progress by sucking them up with the vacuum cleaner.

After my cleaning spree I imagined we would be back on schedule and get right to work. To my disappointment, however, we met with zero investigators that day and only made the effort to stop by a recently baptized family and teach them one of the discussions for new members. The fire I had felt inside fizzled out and I gladly laid my head down on the sticky table despite the dozens of curious ants crawling around my arms. My trainer opened the discussion and began reading. I’m not sure what she said, but after dozing for a good half hour she nudged me and said 'testify!' I found it slightly amusing and I said smugly, 'I know whatever she said is true.'

That was one of my only chances to do any kind of testifying that week. The next day we didn't even make it out of the house. I sat frustrated, said nothing, and listened while becoming angrier and angrier as my companion was trying to teach the first discussion to a row of sorry looking stuffed animals on the living room couch. It hadn't occurred to me before then that she was afraid to teach actual people. I lost control and blew up at her asking why we couldn't do the things that real missionaries do. My mind was flooding with the images of myself storming fearlessly through the streets of post-Soviet Ukraine; wielding my Book of Mormon in hand; preaching the word of God; and doing what other bold sisters had done. But reality was so different. I stared off to the balcony where dusty sunlight filtered in and I could hear packs of dogs scrapping and yelping while I pitied myself. "