If Only Ukrainian Buses Were as Easy to Catch as Ukrainian Colds...

Most of this post was written on Wednesday, November 14th. I have since caught a couple more buses successfully. But I will keep this post in its Wednesday version...
Also, (as always) I love hearing from all of you! Thank you for your prayers, comments, messages, emails, and love.

In my last post, I think I mentioned that I was figuring out the buses here. I take it all back. Today was not my day for catching buses. Or yesterday, actually. My record for catching buses in the past two days is 2/5. Why am I failing so miserably in this subject? Let me start at the beginning...
This past Saturday I met up with Dr. Pal and three American staff members of The Luke Society, the organization that founded the Mukachevo clinic and helped arrange my visit to Ukraine. We traveled to the gypsy camps in Telek and Kisdobrony, so the Luke Society team could see some of the progress being made in the camps. Gitka also met us in the camps, as well as Sandor, a local pastor to the gypsies. We toured the preschools I've been working in as well as the churches, and with Dr. Pal translating were able to hear Sandor's perspective on change within the camps. The contrast between the gypsies of the past that he described and the gypsies that I know today was striking. For example, Sandor told us that when he was young someone would have to sleep in his family's greenhouse at night, to keep gypsies from stealing all of their produce. During our tour of one of the camps, Sandor brought us into one of the gypsy churches. There he showed us money given by the congregation, kept in an unlocked drawer, within the unlocked church. He assured us that everyone in the camp knew that the money was there, yet no one was worried about it being stolen. Things are also changing for the children of the camps. In the past these children either did not attend school at all, or attended for only a few years. Now, however, with the help of preschools, after-school programs, and many dedicated workers, they are almost completely integrated into Ukrainian public schools. Of course...there is still a lot of work to be done. The pregnancy rate of young teenagers in the camps is very high, and exacerbating the problem, the Ukrainian government pays families for each child within the home. But seeing and hearing about some of the changes in the past several years was encouraging.
What does this have to do with me being lousy at catching buses? Honestly, not much. But I thought it was very interesting. And I think I can tie it in...
While we were making these visits, Dr. Pal asked me when I'd like to visit the Mukachevo clinic this week. I really hadn't thought about it yet, but Tuesday sounded like a good day, and I'm not sure, but I think we came to some sort of agreement on it. Monday, when I next saw Gitka, I told her that I was going to try to take the bus to Mukachevo on Tuesday. As luck would have it, she said she was also going to Mukachevo on Tuesday morning at 8:40, and could take the bus with me. At first I wasn't sure how to respond to this. There is an earlier bus, at 7:40, that I had been planning to take. Here I should explain (maybe I have before?) that although my village and all the surrounding villages unofficially go by Hungarian time, Mukachevo and the clinic go by Ukrainian time, which is an hour later. So by taking the bus at 8:40 Hungarian time, allowing at least 45 minutes for the ride and walk from the bus stop to the clinic, I wouldn't arrive at the clinic until about 10:30 Ukrainian time. To me, this seemed kind of late. But then, I wasn't exactly sure which bus stop to get off at in Mukachevo or how to get to the clinic, and it would be nice to go with someone, even if it was a little later than I had hoped. So I agreed to go with Margit.
Tuesday morning I was just getting ready to go to breakfast with the girls at about 7:45 Hungarian time, when I got a phone call from Szabina, one of the preschool teachers who speaks a bit of English. "Cara?" Long pause. "I don't know how to say it...bus Cara." From these few words I understood all I needed to know. Gitka had meant Ukrainian time, the bus I had originally wanted to catch. I grabbed my things, threw on my jacket, and ran out of the building to the bus stop. No one was waiting at the stop. Not a good sign. Somehow Sabina had become the go-between phone person for Gitka and I, and I called her back: "Cara, you are behind the bus!" I was afraid of that. Choking back tears, I assured Sabina I would catch the next bus, and ran back to the ophanage.
Once in my room I broke down and cried, for what felt like so many reasons: frustration from living in a place with two time-zones and three languages, from feeling helpless and misunderstood, from feeling like I was letting down Gitka and Dr. Pal... But as I cried I realized I was also angry. Angry at God for putting me in this difficult place, and not making everything easy. No, easy isn't the right word. I wasn't expecting easy. But this reality of difficult felt like more than I could handle.
I dried my tears, once again grabbed my things, and headed for the bus stop. Somewhere in that sequence I also dropped my cellphone on ceramic tile, and scrambled to put it back together. It didn't improve my mood. This time I managed to catch the bus without problem and arrive safely at the right stop in Mukachevo, where Gitka was waiting to walk with me to the clinic. I spent a short morning at the clinic, then dashed back to the bus stop to catch the bus to the orphanage. I had heard different stories about the afternoon bus schedule, and in spite of wanting to stay longer at the clinic or explore Mukachevo, I decided to take the bus at 12:20 (Ukrainian time), the time Gitka had scribbled for me on a napkin. Catching that bus was no problem.
If you're keeping track, that makes my bus record 2/3. Since you know my current record is 2/5, you must be expecting to hear that Wednesday was a bad day. And for catching buses, it was. But in all other ways, it was a great day. So please don't quit reading yet. This post is not all whining.
I woke up Wednesday morning feeling much better. The sun was shining, and the sky was blue. I had taken a long nap on Tuesday afternoon, and spent the evening with the girls. The girls here have a way of grounding you, and making you reevaluate the things that you thought were important. I also spent some much-needed time in prayer and reflection. I realized that six months ago, I had hoped and prayed to be in Ukraine. God had given me the desire of my heart, and I had been reproaching him for it. My faith is sometimes so weak.
But back to Wednesday. I was supposed to help with the gypsy preschool in Telek. Ishtvan, my dear bus driver that I thought I knew so well, decided to leave 10 minutes earlier than usual, while I was about a block from the stop. Some of the locals that I usually ride the bus with assured me that it was indeed him, and we were in fact stranded.
Without any other options, I decided to walk. It's probably about three or four miles to Telek, but the weather was beautiful, and the scenery through the villages is nice. I made it to the preschool in just over an hour, and was surprised by how happy I was to be there and to see the children that I hadn't seen since the previous week. The kids mobbed me, asking for "Angolu!" songs and giving me plastic bowls of imaginary "levesh" (soup) to devour so I could tell them that it was "finom" (delicious).
After a good day with the kids I hiked out of the gypsy camp toward the Telek bus stop, and had just turned onto the road with a view of the stop when I saw the bus pulling around the the corner and away. Oh good. Apparently I had missed the announcement that this was National Early Bus Day in Ukraine. Or it could be that the announcement was in Ukrainian...same effect.
But the sun was still shining, and it was still a nice day for a walk...even a second walk. I retraced my steps. Maybe it was the effect of the sunshine, or maybe they're getting more used to my face, but on my walk back people were almost eager to talk with me. Usually I get nods or stares, but this walk was different. On one stretch of road an old man on a bicycle who apparently knew who I was stopped to say hello and ask why I was walking to Nagydobrony instead of taking the bus, pointing at a bus rumbling by that...wait a minute...looked suspiciously like my bus! Oops. But too late now. Up the road a gypsy woman and her daughter stopped and asked where I was from, if I was working at the preschool, and whether one of the regular preschool teachers was still sick. Next a couple with few teeth but many words hobbled to their front gate and introduced themselves as Latsi Bachi and Morica Neni (Uncle Latsi and Aunt Morica). Latsi Bachi told me about his three diplomas in teaching, football, and something else that I could not understand in any of the languages he tried. In Kisdobrony I met Gitka's son David, and some of the Gypsy kids who recognized me and practiced a few words of their English. About a mile or two from Nagydobrony I was picked up by Zsuzsa, the Hungarian/Ukrainian/English/Dutch -speaking wonderwoman I met with the team from Holland a few weeks ago. She was with two men from Holland who are
staying in the guesthouse at the orphanage this week, and they dropped me off directly at the orphanage.
In summary, I missed a few buses this week, but it was okay. I made it to the clinic. I made it to the preschool. I walked many miles, but I saw beautiful things, and met some characters. It was better than riding the bus. As I think about it now, it seems like my time in Ukraine could be something like my recent experiences with the buses. Things here might not always (usually) go as planned. I might be required to do things differently than I had imagined. It might be frustrating. It might take a lot of effort. But in the end, I think it will be okay. It might even be better than what I had hoped for.

"'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,' declares the LORD. 'As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.'"
-Isaiah 55:8-9