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The church building was crowded and in the July heat of the Asian steppes, it was also stifling. In front of my husband and me, a group of worshippers crossed themselves and bowed. From an unseen balcony, a choir sang in Russian while the incense-misted air flickered with the light of a hundred candles. After years of religious oppression, the people in the former Soviet republic of Kazakhstan seemed eager to find the Lord again.
This visit to the Russian Orthodox church on the outskirts of Karagonda, Kazakhstan was but one poignant moment for my husband and me since arriving here a few days before. Another was seeing for the first time our new three-year-old daughter whom we would soon adopt from one of the city's orphanages situated not far from the church in which we now stood.
I thought of her as I studied the faces crowded around us. We'd been told that during the years of the Soviet Union, whole populations of people had been exiled to Kazakhstan. Now, a virtual kaleidoscope of people called the independent republic home, among them Russians and Ukrainians, Greeks, Tatars and Germans.
Our own daughter had the beautiful olive skin and almond-shaped eyes of her Kazakh ancestors. Already I felt in her the warmth and strength of generations of her people. In my own mind I imagined her at home with us in the United States, blending with our three other children to form a kaleidoscope of our own.
The church service ended and we moved toward a small glass counter where church souveneirs were sold. Among the various items for sale was a simple, silver band engraven around with words written in Russian. As the service ended I showed the ring to our interpreter and asked her what the words said.
"It is a short and simple prayer," she said softly. "The ring reads, 'Jesus Save Us'."
Jesus save us. I bought the ring and slipped it on a finger. The church emptied as people shuffled out and I wondered what life held for them for the remainder of the day. I knew many went home to humble apartments to fix simple dinners over leaky gas stoves. Others would return to work, earning meager wages sweeping sidewalks or selling produce on noisy street corners. I thought of the street children with dirty faces and tattered clothes, living on the remnants of other people's meals. I remembered the beggers in the market place, riddled with sores and lacking an arm or a leg.
I remembered them all as I turned my new ring around on my finger, studying the words I could not read. I thought of the people of Karagonda and the millions like them who for whatever reason, had been prevented from knowing the Savior and understanding what his life truly meant for them. I also thought of our new daughter who would soon return with us to our Latter-day Saint home to discover the truths of the restored gospel.
And I felt hopeful. For
here in Kazakhstan, the people were once again allowed to find the Lord. And
given that chance, I knew they would find him and the Savior would save them,
just as the prayer on my ring implored.
