From Cave to Rainforest

I keep it a secret. At most, I’ve only shared it with a select few under special circumstances. 

Well-seasoned travelers hate this fact about me, and people who don’t fly overseas won’t understand the implications of what I’m about to confess:

Jet lag has never affected me.

And to my knowledge, it never has. I cannot offer a satisfactory or scientifically appropriate explanation for this. When I go to bed after a long trans-ocean flight, I wake up the next morning at the same time as usual and go through my day normally. When I lie down, I don’t wake up at odd times and crave dinner at 3 in the morning. I’m not sleepless at 5 a.m., and I don’t drift off at one in the afternoon. My sleep cycle has never unraveled after traveling across the world.

Knock on wood.

On the flip side, though, some things do wake me up whether I fly or not. Normal things like light and loud noises and dogs.

Barking ones. 

I landed in St. Petersburg at midnight on Saturday, August 10^th. A concrete menagerie, the city shimmered in the darkness, streetlights glimmering off the windows of high-rise buildings. I went to bed and woke up the following morning full of fight for adjusting to another culture. I slept and rose according to normal patterns for the next two days until Tuesday morning when I heard a dog, seven stories below, barking his heart out at a dear 5:56 AM.

My plans for sleeping ‘til 7:30 were shot.

Refusing to start my day early, I lay awake with my eyes closed, stubbornly trying to put myself back to sleep against the din reverberating up the asphalt and through my closed window. I tried doing what I usually do to fall asleep: I started weaving a line of thought that eventually takes off on its own, seeping back into dreams. And the first thing that came to my mind was to imagine that I was constructing a butterfly garden.

I don’t have a philosophical reason for this; it was six in the morning. I just imagined constructing a butterfly garden, okay?

Okay.

I pictured a dome-shaped building. The “ceiling,” as it were, was letting light in—at first. But I realized that the scope of my big-ceilinged plan would require mass amounts of glass (and money), so I cut it down. I knew I wanted a glass-lined, flower-covered paradise, but I didn’t think that I could actualize my spacious and elaborate goals, so I reduced and modified everything. After all, I’m no architect. My thoughts waxed dream-like, and I could see my butterfly garden taking shape. And I didn’t like it.

(I’ll pause here before the following description and concede that in my between-sleep-and-waking state, things don’t always add up.)

It was confined to one room. The walls, instead of glass or netting, were concrete, and pale-green paint was being slathered from bottom to top. The colors mimicked the nature outside, as if speaking to great hopes, but the interior was cramped and unnatural. There were a few butterflies and creeping vines, but the impression I got from my handiwork was that the structure which was supposed to be filled with life actually seemed to be threatening the life inside. It looked more like a cave than a garden.

Then a voice spoke behind of me.

That’s yours, I heard God say. But here’s Mine.

And I turned around to face thin clouds misting my view. As they cleared, I saw that I was standing on the edge of a cliff, in front of a mountain chain that encircled a valley. It was a bowl of earth, miles across, and I peered down into it to find that it that swelled with motion—butterflies. It looked like a temperate rainforest—trees formed the canopy that tinted the mountainside deep green. A waterfall flowed from the highest peak into the valley, and this earth-bowl overwhelmed me with joy. So much for my plans for making some ceiling-ed structure measuring a few square feet across; God gave me a chunk of a continent.

This is what I have in mind, He said.

By this point I was fully awake. I opened my eyes and sat up, light pouring into my bedroom window. The dog had stopped barking.

“God,” I whispered aloud, dream-images fresh in my mind, “why do I sell myself short?”

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I think it’s safe to say that you were expecting a blog about my first weeks in Russia, not about my dreaming habits.

But that’s exactly what this is. The theme of my past twenty-nine days in Russia has been expectations. From the cave to the rainforest, from my pre-conceptions to His, I’ve filled myself with expectations. Expectations which have been exceeded.

I debated on choosing a less-catchy, more-cliché title for this entry, and had I done so, it would have been “Great Expectations.” Or maybe “Low Expectations.” Because during my almost-a-month I’ve spent here, God has consistently surpassed my expectations.

And in the three arenas which occupy my time most here in Russia, God has severely and profoundly challenged my expectations of Him: in the city, in the school, and in the church.

In the City.

My second day in Russia was a Sunday, and I accompanied my roommate from the island on which we live to the mainland via metro for church. Saint Petersburg has the deepest metro system in the world, and any escalator going into or out of a metro station can give you a ride for up to three minutes. It’s so deep because certain lines cross under rivers and most go under canals. Growing up in Montana, I never took public transportation, so every chance I’ve had to use it (mainly on missions trips) thrills me. I was always with a group of people, and I didn’t have to worry about where I was going; quite literally, I was along for the ride. But that Sunday when my roommate needed to leave church before I did, I was responsible for getting myself home. I racked my brain to recall every street name and intersection we passed on the way to church and tried reversing them so I could navigate my way home. As church waned on, reality settled over me: I knew no one at church, I had a faint grasp on the language, I was not wearing a watch, my visa wasn’t registered, and my phone was not working. I realized that I was the most alone I had ever been in my life. I had no backup plan and no way of reaching anyone. The Raatzes hadn’t arrived in Russia yet, and all I had were metro coins, an apartment key, and a shaky sense of direction. Growing up in a mountain-rimmed town, I’ve always been able to navigate by looking up to where earth meets sky. Now, in the heart of a city of 5 million people where skyscrapers block the sky above and stamp out my sense of the cardinal directions, I am disoriented. At the end of the service, the worship team played “Lead Me To the Cross.” Can’t we sing about something a little more tangible, a little more earthly? My thoughts raced. God, before the cross, can You just lead me to my apartment?! As my sense of isolation peaked, I felt the Lord speak to my heart: What do you expect Me to do? Will I leave you? I poured out my love for you at the cross. I stood and sang with a new abandon: Rid me of myself; I belong to You. God, You are all I have. Yes, lead me literally home, but more importantly, lead me to You.

In the School.

The smell of old books rose to my nostrils as I picked up the pile of paperbacks that spilled out of my arms—again. Stacking as many as I could, I was carrying load after load of middle school-age novels from the 2^nd to the 3^rd floor of the renovated Estonian monastery, now the International Academy of St. Petersburg, in preparation for the first day of school. The staff of missionaries and Russian nationals had been unbelievably friendly, and in-service training had actually been fun; now the real work began. Crafting curriculum with little more than the books I hauled up the stairs for 6^th grade English and Geography students, the majority of whom are English Language Learners, I thought back to my practicum experience in college and wondered if I was really cut out for managing two of the four core classes for middle school. I had syllabi to write, class rules to procure, and course schedules to create. I could tell from the first day I entered the school that I was given a task that demanded more than my experience had exacted from me. Without a blueprint to follow, I was given leeway to create coursework for this academic year in any manner I pleased. And the multiplicity of opportunities overwhelmed me. I thought of a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt: “With great freedom comes great responsibility.” Thanks, Ellie, I chaffed. The freedom was stultifying; I expected to come to the school to fill someone else’s shoes, not to create my own. And God said, “Look at the opportunities I’ve given you to gain teaching experience. You don’t get to parrot someone else’s lesson plans; you get to start from square one and take part in the school’s new era as it takes a step forward.” I picked up my book pile and set it on the table in front of me. God, You’re giving me a teaching position that demands everything. Thank You for promising to be with me in more than I bargained for.

In the Church.

Nancy Valnes, Nancy Raatz, and I (all members of the AGWM team here in Russia) after being welcomed to Nehemiah Church in St. Petersburg.

“And now I’m going to let Renée introduce herself,” he said, and pointed the microphone in my direction. After finishing his welcome address to the Russian Church, Andy Raatz beckoned me out of my seat and to the front of the room. So much for forewarning, I thought. I stood and walked forward, my head was still swimming with the Russian words I tried to decipher on the PowerPoint slides during worship. Small but power-packed, Nehemiah Church is vibrant. All three Sundays I’d attended at that point had been teeming with passionate worshipers, and now it was my turn to tell the congregation who I am and why I’m in Russia. I came here with hopes of being involved on a worship team or in a Bible study or with a young adult group. Now I had to stand and choose whether I was going to spout my expectations for service or bestow a benediction. God said, Get ready, because being involved in church in Russia isn’t what you think it will be. I opened my mouth to say that I missed Russia since visiting in April and wanted to be a blessing to the local church. What came out was choppy, punctuated with my own laughter, and I wondered if it was any indication of what to expect in the coming months. God, I want this time at Nehemiah Church to be marked by Your blessing, not my forcing of my plans into a mold that doesn’t fit.

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In case you didn’t notice, I left all three scenarios with hanging endings. Intentionally.

Why? Because the physical outcome of our trust isn’t nearly as important as the One in whom we place it. 

Through whatever would have happened in each scenario, I would have been okay because of the One in whom my expectations were placed. Each time I despaired in my outlook, the Lord reminded me of who He is. And I trust in God, so why should I be afraid? What can mere mortals do to me (Psalm 56:11)?

But I’ll have you know that yes, I maneuvered my way home from the metro the first time without a hitch. And since then, I’ve been navigating all over the city, with many first-times and no I-got-losts. I cross paths with people who give me directions, I run into people I know who are also traveling in my direction, and I sharpen my map-reading skills weekly.

And school is moving along swimmingly as Lord affirms my giftings and helps me coordinate lesson minutiae between long-term plans and short-term goals. My un-morning self revives as eager sixth graders shuffle into the classroom, telling me about the landscape of Korea, begging for no homework, and rapping about biblical heroes.  I’m summiting mountains of papers to be graded and walking through valleys with students who struggle with language and only want to be back in their home country. The freedom I have at school is no longer a deadening vastness but a bright-rimmed opportunity to live the message of Jesus out loud before ten shining pairs of eyes.

And with church, the week after I gave my self-introduction at church, I was in the basement of an old Lutheran church for Nehemiah Church’s young adult service, trying to sing along to Russian worship songs I didn’t know, issuing from an acoustic guitar. Later that night found me standing on Nevsky Prospect, the main thoroughfare in St. Petersburg, handing out evangelistic newspapers late into the evening.

Having started this blog entry three weeks ago, I’ve been struggling to finish it because each day contains something I want to add to it. The tension between wanting to share all that God is teaching me by recounting miraculous experiences and wanting to eke out some type of update, regardless of how incomplete, about my first days in Russia has simmered within me to the boiling point. I’ve decided to share something now instead of waiting any longer. I can’t hold it in anymore; I feel like I’m standing at the edge of the rainforest and shouting, “He has been good to me!” (Psalm 13:6) “He is good and He does good!” (Psalm 119:68)

God is showing me that truly justified expectations are more qualitative than quantitative. Our trust and peace can be settled before we see the outcome of events because of the One in whom we place our trust.

William Carey, the father of modern missions and missionary to India, had the following motto which echoes in my head when I look out over the Russian horizon from my apartment window each daybreak: “Expect great things from God; attempt great things for God!”

Carey sheds light on a spiritual insight: our expectations can be big because they are focused on God, not on ourselves.

You can never have too high of expectations when it comes to God. And when you start putting your expectations in God, your expectations and outlook become centered on God and not on your circumstances. It’s not about whether or not a situation “goes well;” it’s about whether or not God is reigning in your heart through all stages of that situation.

When I say my expectations have been exceeded, I’m not saying that everything has gone perfectly. I’m saying that God has come through in ways that have broadened my knowledge of Him and strengthened my trust in His providence in undeniable and unshakeable ways.

Sometimes, though, we create low expectations—with good intentions, mind you, but we’re just trying to be realistic. Sin has long invaded the world. And we settle.

Why do we do that?

Why do we pray for greatness and plan for meagerness? Why do we say we hope that things go well and then grit our teeth for the pain or mediocrity we actually expect to be the reality of our situations?

In my dream, why did I want a biome and then construct a cave? It was sealed off from reality, and it was afraid of expanding, afraid to be too big and let too much life in— because with an influx of life comes an influx of responsibility, and how could one tiny garden sustain all of that? Or rather, how could one person sustain all that?

I’m not issuing a call to discount any possibility of things going awry, and I’m not encouraging people to hope for sunny days or easy roads to the point of being unprepared if anything less than ideal should happen.

I’m issuing a call to probe the depths of our trust. May our plans and our outlook be based more on an understanding of Him than on “the odds.” May we look beyond our situations to the God who knows we’re in them.

This is a season of newness not only for me but for many in our world. The autumnal equinox is approaching, and a new school year is beginning (both in the U.S. and in Eastern Europe at large). Renewals, seasonal, academic, and otherwise, call for fresh vision.

What do you see when you think of God intersecting your life in the coming days and weeks? What are you expecting? Are you expecting too…little?

Turns out that while I was busy measuring dimensions for my butterfly garden, my cave-sized expectations, God was waiting for me to accept the dimensions He had in mind for those who love Him. These dimensions are mentioned by the Apostle Paul in Ephesians 3—and his prayer is mine, for you and for me: “I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you’ll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ’s love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.

“God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us” (Ephesians 3:19-21).

Get out of your cave and into God’s rainforest. You’re putting up walls that don’t need to be there.

Exploring the rainforest,

Renée