One of my favorite memories as a mom was the January winter I spent in Moscow with my three youngest daughters delivering food, clothing and the gospel to children in orphanages and schools for over two weeks. Our team of other moms and dads, kids and teens, grandmas and grandpas, spent hours together every day riding through the streets of the frozen city. We admired miles of beautiful architecture, country roads lined with frosting coated trees and of course the iconic onion domes of churches grandly embellished with paint or simply standing in weathered wood. An older gentleman on our team had come alone. His wife remained behind in Boston. He was rather quiet, enjoyed talking to our kids but came alive when he walked into the schools and orphanages. All the children, American and Russian, responded to his gentle grandfatherly kindness and affection. His name has long been forgotten but what I have never forgotten is the day near the end of our time in Russia when he stood up in our bus, shyly took the microphone and began to sing to us. His rich deep baritone voice filled the bus with the words to “The Love of God,” a song I’m not sure I’d ever heard before. As he sang all three stanzas he became less aware of us and more aware of His audience of One. Emotion choked the last refrain,
An Ocean of Ink
An Ocean of Ink
An Ocean of Ink
One of my favorite memories as a mom was the January winter I spent in Moscow with my three youngest daughters delivering food, clothing and the gospel to children in orphanages and schools for over two weeks. Our team of other moms and dads, kids and teens, grandmas and grandpas, spent hours together every day riding through the streets of the frozen city. We admired miles of beautiful architecture, country roads lined with frosting coated trees and of course the iconic onion domes of churches grandly embellished with paint or simply standing in weathered wood. An older gentleman on our team had come alone. His wife remained behind in Boston. He was rather quiet, enjoyed talking to our kids but came alive when he walked into the schools and orphanages. All the children, American and Russian, responded to his gentle grandfatherly kindness and affection. His name has long been forgotten but what I have never forgotten is the day near the end of our time in Russia when he stood up in our bus, shyly took the microphone and began to sing to us. His rich deep baritone voice filled the bus with the words to “The Love of God,” a song I’m not sure I’d ever heard before. As he sang all three stanzas he became less aware of us and more aware of His audience of One. Emotion choked the last refrain,