Oh. Right. I have a blog.
Rather than lament my lack of activity here for the next few paragraphs, something I can surely do another time, I want to reflect on what’s happening in the world, a world away from me.
Ukraine. Russia. War.
Watching the news last night felt surreal. Akin to clips of 9/11. Seeing and hearing an invasion happen in realtime.
It’s easy to lose sight of the people amidst all the bigness: governments and militaries and nuclear weapons and international relations and world economies.
Those things matter, of course. Those things are indeed real and huge.
But this conflict is also quite small. It’s families. It’s jobs. It’s food. It’s shelter. It’s human life and human souls around dinner tables, homes along Black Sea beaches.
I’ve seen people tweeting in the last few days: “I know __ in Kyiv. If you need someone to pray for, pray for him and his family.”
I appreciate those tweets, along with images of Ukrainian citizens. The chaos humanized, made more approachable and real.
I don’t know anybody in Ukraine myself. But I do know someone — a few someones — you can be praying for stateside.
I’ve been reminded of Bob from my Running To adventure. Remember Bob? Sure you do. He’s the single dad from Maine, a university professor I found on Couchsurfing who asked if I was sure I’d had enough soup for dinner.
Oh Bob. So folksy with that thick Maine accent.
Bob never married but always wanted to be a dad. So, he adopted two sons: the older from Russia and the younger . . . from Ukraine. He wrote a book about adopting Alyosha, his first son.
When I visited Bob back in 2014, Russia had recently annexed the Ukrainian peninsula of Crimea, and Bob got emotional describing how his younger son had taken the Ukrainian flag into school that week, draping it over his shoulders in support of his homeland. His people.
As Russia invades Ukraine eight years later, I can’t help thinking about Bob and his two sons. Particularly the younger one born in Ukraine. The one draping the blue and yellow flag behind him in solidarity, with lament, and with love for his country.
I met him while he was still in high school, and I guess he’s well into his twenties now. I don’t remember his name, but I hope he’s doing okay. I don’t know if he ever knew his birth parents, or if he talks to them, or if he fears for their safety.
I hope Bob’s son can cry if he needs to cry. To be held if he needs being held. To encircle the dinner table by the railroad tracks on the Penobscot River with his brother and father, and enjoy hearty slurps of Bob’s soup.
A young man from Ukraine. A young man from Russia. And a father who loves them both dearly.
Christ be near.
Christ have mercy.
Christ come soon.
