Chapter 49

"Anyone who has lost a loved one knows that you don’t recover. Instead, you learn to incorporate their absence and memories into your life and channel your emotional energy toward others and eventually your grief will walk beside you instead of consuming you." ~ Rashida Rowe

After another magnificent feast of fruit and homemade Georgia favorites and warm conversation with loved ones, many of us headed out for one last walk in Tbilisi. The sun gradually set on our June evening. Tbilisi became sparkly at nighttime.

Lia, Elene, Gia (Lia’s brother), Katerina, (his wife), Bruce, and I piled into one car. Liana and Kirim and their boys drove separately in case they needed to go home earlier.

We strolled through busy shopping and restaurant districts arm in arm and did a lot of pointing when Elene was not close for a translation. We visited the Holy Trinity Cathedral, the largest church in Georgia, the third tallest church in the world. Built over almost a decade from 1995-2004, the new cathedral was built in response to new independence from communism and to commemorate 1,500 years of the Georgian Orthodox Church and 2,000 years from the birth of Jesus.

Bruce and I were conscious of the time, and didn’t want to be late and miss our midnight flight and overstay our welcome. In America, we are advised to arrive at the airport at least an hour and a half ahead of flight time. Our hosts never seemed aware or worried about the time. They assured us that twenty minutes ahead of our flight was plenty of time. Even so, we walked so far, we needed to catch a taxi back to our car in order to get back to Lia’s home on time.

Half of our companions left to get the tired, young boys home. The remainder of us, Lia, Elene, Katherina, Bruce and I crammed into the taxi, Bruce in the front, and we four women in the backseat without possibility of seat-belts. The other three chatted with the driver, perhaps telling him a little snippet of our grand story. As he drove, he began tuning his radio past stations with a staccato-static sound, stopping occasionally to listen. Then he paused and we heard English words. Elena turned to me and asked if we knew this American music. Everyone in the car was silent as we leaned in to listen to a few bars. “No” this modern, popular artist was unfamiliar to us. Our burley driver continued to search his radio for American words, as everyone quieted and listened intently. “Ah” we all said in unison, smiling at each other knowingly. He found our station. The Beatles! And how appropriate, Back in the USSR was just beginning. Everyone sang the English words together, although half the occupants packed into that compact car knew hardly a word of English. As cousin Zaur, who knew only “leetle English,” had sang a cappella the Beatle’s Girl on our first night, likewise, this group sang the words in perfect English. Lia was urgently pulling on Elene to translate something for us. Patient Elene leaned close to her mother to hear over the loud music, then turned to Bruce and me. “She says we like that part, ‘That Georgia’s always on my mind.'”

Funny, it had never occurred to me that the Beatles weren’t singing about American Georgia. But then I had obviously not paid any attention to the words that followed, “Oh, show me ’round your snow-peaked mountains way down south . . .”

I suddenly felt that I was in on the Divine Secret. I had seen those snow-peaked mountains days earlier in this former Soviet state. I had looked beyond them to the north, in the direction where, fifteen years earlier we claimed a little smiley boy named Roma who was more valuable than a billion dollar jackpot! Because of Roma, I am now keenly aware of the Almighty Ancient Giver of that precious gift. I’ve use the word “ancient” too often in this story. I had not understood “ancient” until now. The dust on my shoes was ancient, as old as time with a thread all the way to this moment, in the presence of our modern heroes who now surrounded us, singing a foreign-to-them language with reckless joy. What reasons did we have for such joy? Apparently much, but it was indefinable.

Roma should be here. How he would love this family and this camaraderie. He would be singing, loud and off key. He would meld effortlessly with the warmth and personalities of his people he had never known.

But that sweet boy had somehow been with us the whole time. God makes it possible that Roma never leaves me. From pink roses that greeted us our first sunny morning just steps from our hotel door, in church yards, draping altars and icons, and in the cemetery above Roma’s stone face, I recognized Roma. The spirit of Roma was everywhere. He hung over my shoulder as I proudly scrolled through pictures of him from my phone on our first night for two adoring sisters of his long-dead grandfather, who were captivated by the happy, handsome son of their beloved late nephew, Igor. In the telling of our Roma Stories to the eager translators, who in turn shared the translated stories with expectant listeners. To the stripy clouds, and Misha. Roma’s spirit comforted me in the backseat of a speeding and reckless white van on hairpin turns. (God would not bring us to Georgia to let us die, I assured myself!) I was comforted by these lovely people, knowing that Roma didn’t fall far from his DNA tree. Roma was there by an extravagant Gift from a personal God who knows my broken heart intimately.

To have Misha, our substituted-at-the-last-minute driver who spent more hours with us than any of the others, who was so like our Roma in startling ways, our guide in the breathtaking country of his ancestors, only God could have orchestrated that.

Roma was there! God made sure we were comforted and grateful and joyful for His extravagant gift of the opportunity of loving Roma. Only God, bringing Glory to Himself, could have accomplished this sacred pilgrimage of healing, love, joy, and redemption out of the ashes of unspeakable grief. There were so many “signs.” I wonder how many I have missed over the years. I guess it will be the talk of Heaven.

The next song on our taxi’s radio was the iconic Let it Be. Our collective mood shifted to a solemn reverence. Fat tears ran down my cheeks as I sang with everyone else in the holy taxi, “And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me, Shine until tomorrow, let it be.” My tears did not in any way hamper my happiness during this unexpected scene on this last night in Georgia.

Could God have written me a more beautiful Story? Roma will always be an extravagant Gift from the Giver of the best Gifts. God did not ripped Roma from us, God has begun storing our treasures safely in Heaven, where Roma and my Mother await. There is more of my life behind me than ahead of me now. I know my time on earth is winding down, just as God intended all life to do. I don’t cling so tightly anymore.

I know God could have saved Roma from his fall from that ladder on a late December afternoon in 2015. But God had mercifully warned me, and He gave me peace that Roma’s mission on broken planet earth was complete and successful.

I’ve read volumes about Heaven. Maybe God will allow my boy to greet me with a big ole Roma hug when I arrive. Maybe he’ll be allowed to escort me to our Friend Jesus! I know assertive Roma will accept that honor eagerly.

The final song before we arrived at our parked car was appropriately upbeat, Ob-la di Oblada.  We all joined in the chorus with gusto while Lia and I smiled at each other with wet, shiny faces, and held hands. I wish I had videos from our reckless abandonment in the taxi, or maybe not. Some things are better written indelibly on my heart, tucked away for eternity.

I could hardly believe what Bruce and I had done. We were on the other side of the world with a family who delights us, with whom we are forever connected, all because of the common love of a special boy. We have endured unthinkable pain together, and now we had unreasonable JOY.
I told Elene, and she told the others, that in Heaven we will all speak the same language. Forevermore.

Ob-la di,ob-la-da, life goes on, bra
La-la, how the life goes on.
Ob-la di, ob-la-da, life goes on, bra
La-la, how the life goes on.

At the airport, just before boarding our plane, at the last minute. Overwhelming love and gratitude!

Life goes on. On Earth and in Heaven. For us who still inhabit beautiful yet flawed planet earth, and for our Roma, safe and sealed on the other side of the thin veil, waiting . . .

We are blessed. All praise and honor and glory to our Loving God, who makes Himself known!

Thanks for reading!