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e reach the village of Oglaine on a dirt road with clouds of dust billowing around us, fields of potatoes and cabbages on either side of the road. The children are waiting as we pull in, barefooted and curious. We women have come to offer a Vacation Bible School for a week while the men build a playground in the dusty yard of our sister church’s church plant in this impoverished village. Pastor Dmitri hopes that this will provide a door through which the village children and their families can eventually enter the church itself.
While the men are sweating outside in the unseasonable heat wave, sawing lumber and smoothing sand, the women sort out the materials for a Vacation Bible School unlike anything we’ve ever experienced before. Originally planned back in Oregon to run from 9:00 to 11:30 each morning, it ends up going from around 10:00 each morning to 5:00 in the evening. Our carefully planned lessons and crafts are wonderfully interrupted each day with late breakfasts for us and the children, trips down a dusty path to a quarry swimming hole where Anastasija brings me exquisite bouquets of wildflowers, and later lunch for us and the children. Accustomed to the drill-sergeant schedule of our American VBS, we enjoy this more leisurely pace that allows the children as long as two hours to devote to deeply imaginative, concentrated work on the craft projects we provide. The results are spectacular and treasured works of art.
In between craft projects the children sing passionately, learn and act out parables, memorize verses in English and Russian, and learn to play baseball, kickball, and Frisbee golf. And wrap themselves around our hearts with their shy attempts to reach out and show their love. With epidemics of alcoholism and unemployment in the village, many of the children come from broken homes with alcoholic parents. Our fellow workers from our sister church suggest that this may be one reason why the children in the village reach out with such hunger and affection to the Sunday school workers who come weekly to teach them about Jesus—and to us. At the end of the week, Lena, a gifted police captain who devotes all her free time to leading the Sunday school program at our sister church and in the village, leads the children in Russian through the salvation story of the Wordless Book. The children, many of whom have never heard the story of Jesus, are spellbound. When they stand to pray, several of the older boys ask Jesus to forgive their sins and come into their heart. Lena weeps, and so do we.
In the meantime, a giant sandbox has emerged outside the simple, rundown brick church building and a strange wooden structure is rising. The men are learning flexibility and creativity as they piece together a playground kit brought from the U.S. with lumber and materials purchased and scavenged in the village. And the children are seizing every opportunity to gawk and puzzle, wondering what these strange foreigners are up to. Even the sand is a big hit with the children, but the excitement mounts when the first solid structure goes up. Immediately it’s swarming with bodies, over, under, and around. The men bend to the inevitable and take a break in the shade while the children’s curiosity is satisfied . . . for the time being.
Gradually the simple playground takes shape: a tower with a brightly striped awning, two swings and a set of rings, a heavy knotted climbing rope, a rope ladder, a slide, and a tetherball. Even while the men are still staining and drilling, there’s not a moment when it’s not covered with children. Dima, Edgar, and Kolja—the big boys—immediately scout out the horizontal beam above the swings. Below, the swings are always in motion, with everyone from the youngest to the oldest taking turns. Little fireball Santa, a gypsy girl who lives in a one-bedroom apartment with 17 other members of her extended family, swings as if she will never stop, as if she could soar over and away beyond the boundaries of the churchyard and the village itself.
The last element to be finished is the stainless steel slide, carefully finished so no raw edges will catch chubby legs. It’s hot enough to cook an egg on the surface, but Pastor Dmitri insists on making the inaugural slide. He pronounces it good, and as we stand back and watch the swarming structure we have to agree.
This door that our sister church has dreamed of, this playground and VBS that we’ve been able to participate in, has been thrown wide open for the people of this village. Polina, a retired teacher who has moved to Oglaine to be our sister church’s missionary on site, tells us that the village people can speak of nothing else. They’ve inspected the playground at night and declared it solid. They’ve promised to keep watch so that no vandals will destroy what’s been built. And already they have a stake in the “door” to the church. With the continued love of our sister church and the joy of their children at play, our hope and prayer is that they will soon walk through and find the One who is patiently knocking at their own door.
As our dusty van pulls out of the village for the last time, Anastasija races through the village shortcuts with the younger children to wave a tearful goodbye from three different vantage points. We leave behind a playground and pounds and pounds of athletic gear—whiffle balls and baseball bats, playground balls, two table tennis tables and paraphernalia, and Frisbees—all for our sister church to use in their continuing outreach.
But we take with us vivid memories... of wildflowers and dusty feet, cows walking through our music room, barking dogs through the night, and roosters to wake us in the morning. Of many, many garden-fresh cucumbers and tomatoes and more food than we could possibly eat. And continued, deep, heartfelt Russian hospitality from Tamara and the men and women of our sister church who have ministered to us so sacrificially. And we realize again that this “door” that Pastor Dmitri has been dreaming of—it opens both ways.
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