Chapter 45

I’ve mentioned Misha, our driver and tour guide often. He replaced our original driver right before we departed for Georgia in such a way that made me believe he was going to be a significant character in the story of our trip.

We first noticed similarities between Roma and Misha’s driving. The excessive speed, the impulsive passing, the quiet advice to other drivers in his path, both treating a Toyota van as a sports car. (I had a Toyota van in which Roma learned to drive, while beside him, my white knuckles braced the passenger side dash board and my foot pressed down hard on an invisible brake.) We observed a similar big heart. During our week together, we noticed that Misha seemed to know people wherever we traveled, a trait that mystified us about Roma. Both would be chatting with strangers, introducing themselves, making themselves known. And Misha, like Roma, was “spiritual.” He had dreams before real events happened, and Misha displayed true reverence whenever entering a church, and kissing the images of Jesus and Mary. One day Misha excitedly bought a new icon of a Saint to add to his collection for his home wall reserved for icons of faith.

On the third day, I looked up from my vantage point in the back seat and suddenly I saw it. Everything became clear, and my mouth dropped open in disbelief. I almost laughed out loud from the sheer JOY of recognizing God at work. God surely has a sense of humor. I secretly snapped a few photos to document what I saw from my week-long position in the back seat, giddy about what I saw. But before I tell you what it was, you have to read a little further.

While at Liana’s pink cottage in the village officially named Stepantsminda, but still commonly known as Kazbegi, Misha learned more of Roma’s story from Liana. Misha was often moved to tears hearing Liana’s stories of her little brother being ripped from his family, a beloved little brother who she repeated was NOT an orphan, who, she insisted through tears, had a mother and a father.

Liana might not have recognized like Bruce and I did that Roma’s best advocate and fiercest protector was this loving sister standing in our midst, who, in 2002, was a month away from being an adult when he vanished from her life. A month later she could have applied for and been granted custodial rights and financial help to keep her minor brother. Her pain and resentment to the calculated manipulation of the enemy to hurry up the adoption before she had rights were understandable.

We shared all we knew with them while we had a capable translator. We answered all their questions. The new knowledge of the exorbitant costs of adoption ($22,000) seemed to have confirmed the corruption they had suspected. Liana poured herself out again remembering her days before and after Roma disappeared. She had been told she could visit him to say goodbye, but when she arrived, he was gone. The adoption staff told her his new parents had come unexpectedly and insisted they take him then. We confirmed again, it was not true. Lia put her hand to her throat in a slicing motion, as if showing her disdain for the Russian orphanage officials who had done unfathomable damage to her family. We told them by the time we had met him in 2001, we loved him, and had not qualms about spending the money to keep him from going to another family, which was sure to happen.

Misha’s red-rimmed eyes met my own, and I whispered while wiping away fresh tears, “Tragic, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he wiped his own leaky eyes, reflecting, “yes, tragic.”

Liana shared that she could not think of her little brother as dead. She often thought of him as still living, enjoying life, over there. I told her that I didn’t think of Roma as dead (Oh how I still hate that word) but always thought of him on another adventure, the grandest one on his long list of big adventures. 

Then everyone scattered to tend to other needs, or take a breath from the outpouring of grief, Misha and I found ourselves alone, overlooking the vast, stunning panorama from the back yard of Liana’s pink cottage, talking about our pilgrimage, these family members who until five days ago, I did not know in person, the brokenness of the world, and the celebrity of Roma, the beloved boy behind our trip.

Sweet Misha looked at me again with tears brimming. “I never knew Roma, but I “lahve” (love) him.”

“Yes, you would have certainly loved Roma, Misha. Everyone did,” I answered, retrieving my phone from my pocket. I found the photo and eagerly showed it to Misha, knowing it was time.

Misha looked at the image on my phone, then quickly at me, his eyebrows knitted with obvious confusion.

“You’re like Roma!” I said excitedly as my voice cracked with a new round of emotions.

Animated Misha grabbed me suddenly and hugged me tight, as the tears of understanding ran down his cheeks.  And mine.

How good is God to change our driver so late, and replace him with someone so like Roma, to drive us all over our Sacred Pilgrimage in Roma’s ancestral home. I had gone to Georgia with high expectations, but God had accomplished so much more than I could have ever dreamed. Oh, how He loves me.

So, on this late afternoon of long shadows, in a place I could never have imagined I would be, with a story only God could write, in the yard of a family with whom I was surprisingly and everlastingly linked, I was overcome by pure joy. I have lived the most beautiful story, even with the devastating grief. I felt Roma’s warmth and smile and could sense God say, “It’s all okay. See how much I love you?”

Yes, gratefully, I’m starting to understand.

This photo is not Roma, with his buzz cut from his school days, but Misha, who from the front, has no resemblance at all to Roma. But from my vantage point all week, this was very much like Roma. What a comfort to feel God and Roma everywhere on this Sacred Pilgrimage. It was more than I expected! And I had come with unreasonably high expectations

Continue with Chapter 46