Scattered Scribblings

When I was seventeen years old I went to Russia on a short-term missions trip. It was my first trip out of the country. Okay, not technically, but when you grow up as close to Canada as to the next town in the US, in a time when it’s still pretty easy to cross the border, you don’t count that. Anyway, it was my first big trip out of the country. 

We were a group of about thirty five people from around the US. Before boarding our plane at JFK for a direct flight to Moscow, we spent a week together in a camp setting training for the trip. The entire trip was a learning experience. It required me to step out of my comfort zone in many ways. That’s not really what I want to tell you about though.

I was an introverted teen, traveling abroad to a country where I didn’t speak the language, with a group of people that I had just met. In my life I’ve often felt like I was more on the outside edges of groups that I was a part of, and feelings like that tend to be magnified when you’re a teenager.

We were a week or two into our three week trip, and everyone was eating dinner. It had been a rough day for me. I was feeling homesick and lonely. As I sat at the table trying to eat my food, I was trying so hard not to cry. The tears welled in my eyes and I surreptitiously wiped them away.

Not being someone who likes the spotlight, I was torn between not wanting everyone to make a fuss, and wishing that someone would notice. That someone would care enough to take a moment and recognize my pain and try to comfort me. And then someone did.

It wasn’t one of my new friends who sat down to check on me. It wasn’t even one of the counselors or other adults in our group. The kind soul who noticed that I wasn’t okay and took the time to do something about it was one of our interpreters.

Oksana was probably in her late twenties or early thirties. She dressed professionally, with makeup always in place and a smile on her face. Prior to this day, we hadn’t really had anything much by way of personal interaction.

It was such a small thing, but at the same time it was huge to me. She sat with me, asked me if I was okay, asked if I wanted to talk about it. She comforted me and talked to me until I felt better. She didn’t make a big deal out of it, but she made me feel seen.

That moment of kindness stuck with me. It happened over a meal some twenty eight years ago, but I still remember it, still think about it. It probably seemed like something small to her, but it was not at all small to me. The world could use more moments of kindness like that.