Mike escorted me up to the apartment, ensuring that I actually made it to my door before passing out. We said goodnight, and I entered my cheerless, marginally destroyed apartment. I locked the double doors behind me and started to take off my shoes, Ukrainian-style. I was pretty well exhausted, so it took me a minute to figure out what was wrong with my surroundings. On the bench inside the door, there was a bag of potato chips. This wouldn’t normally be strange…unless you’re me. I never have potato chips around because I’m allergic to potatoes. Hm. Maybe one of the workers left that.
When I put my boots on the floor, I noticed something else strange: a pair of men’s shoes. My fuzzy brain rationalized that maybe one of the workers left an extra pair of shoes. That didn’t really make sense, but that was the least scary thought I could come up with. Something started pricking at the back of my mind, sparking me into a more alert mindset.
I began working my way through the apartment, turning on all the lights, becoming more jumpy with each sound. I started registering what I was hearing: tv, the clinking of dishes, a radio (maybe?), someone talking on the phone. I got to the bathroom and saw that the toilet seat was up. I knew that I had not left the bathroom in that state. To the left of the bathroom, I noticed that there was a light coming from under the door to the room that was to remain locked at all times (the landlady’s family used the spare room in my apartment as a storage facility). I stealth-creeped over to the door and nearly died when I heard a man’s voice on the other side of the door.
I ran- Roadrunner-style- into my bedroom and closed the door. Maniacally, I pushed a chair and a trunk against the door and fumbled with my phone to call the Rays. I tried to remain calm, but I’m not sure how well I succeeded. Mike answered, and I said, in a fairly controlled voice, “Um, I’m pretty positive that there is a man in my apartment.” For a fleeting second, I felt like an actress in a horror movie, contemplating what could best be used as a weapon, if it came down to it. Mike said to stay in my room, and he’d be back in a flash.
I sat in my room, praying in fragmented thoughts, trying to breathe calmly. I realized that if the mystery man hadn’t tried to attack me yet, he probably wasn’t a serial killer. Still, I did not want to spend the night in the apartment with him. I shuddered at the very thought.
Mike called me when he was standing outside the door, and I crept back down the apartment hallway to let him in. He went down to the closed door and knocked. He had to knock a few times before the door yanked open. I took a few steps backward at the sight framed in the doorway: a 60-something-year-old man stood there, crazy gray hair, clearly drunk, clutching a bottle of vodka, staring blearily at Mike, and revealing a mouth full of gold teeth.
Mike started talking to the man in Russian, and I continued my fragmented prayers: keep safe, protect, Oh Lord, please, don’t want to live here with him, who? After a minute or two, Gold Tooth took a step toward Mike, gesticulating with his hands and raising his voice. My overactive imagination immediately raced forward, imagining that a fight was about to break out. Thankfully, it didn’t. After a few more minutes, Mike turned to me, almost imperceptibly, and told me to pack a bag for the night. I retreated into my room and shakily started throwing things into the smallest bag I could find. As I was zipping it up, Mike stepped into my room and told me that I was going to go back to the Christian Center to stay with him and Mrs. Linda that night. He also told me not to worry- he’d explain things back at the Center.
I held myself together pretty admirably for a while. I felt pale and shaky, but the tears stayed in, and I was able to talk about things calmly. Mrs. Linda gave me the world’s longest hug and prayed for me before I ducked into my room that night. Mike explained that the man was the landlady’s husband, who had come in from the village to help with the kitchen issues. He decided to stay the night rather than trying to return to the village.
Oh, ok. Well, of course. That made perfect sense…
I got in bed that night and opened my Bible to have a brief quiet time. I was reading 2 Corinthians and stopped at verses 5 and 6: “For when we came into Macedonia, this body of ours had no rest, but we were harassed at every turn- conflicts on the outside, fears within. But God, who comforts the downcast, comforted us.” For the second night in a row, I broke down and cried. And cried and cried. I pulled myself together and then cried some more. I did, indeed, feel extremely harassed, conflicted, downcast, and fearful. It took me a while to calm down enough to look for the comfort in my situation.
I found comfort in several things that night: the Rays were there to care for me. There was a place for me to stay at the Christian Center. The man had not been a stranger bent on killing me. Halfway around the world, my family and friends were praying for me- I just knew it. And, most importantly, I knew I was supposed to be in Poltava, even if it was to be my Macedonia for a while.
With those thoughts on Repeat in my brain, I fell asleep.
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