Introducing Saint Nino

Part four, June 4, 2017 am

(Start with Part one.)

As Lia pointed to the ancient structure perched on the faraway, towering mountain top, she smiled at me, eyebrows raised, hinting that was to be our first stop of the morning. 

The Church of the Cross, or Jvari Monastery,  in the city of Mtskheta was a half-hour drive from our hotel. I was surprised to see only English as an alternate language on road signs and museum and church markers right under the undecipherable, rounded Georgian alphabet. I saw no Russian Cyrillic anywhere. Perhaps this former Soviet state had purged all remaining vestiges of that seven decade occupation of the Communists. This is a country who, in her long history, has known many occupiers. Today, Georgia is a free republic. 

Our guides mentioned Saint Nino often during our week together, and with such reverence and familiarity. It was as if they assumed we knew her too. I knew more research was required on the young woman credited to bringing Christianity in the early fourth century to pagan Georgia, then known as the Kingdom of Iberia. You need to learn a little about the history before you can understand Georgia's treasures. 

Saint Nino (296-338 or 340 AD) born in Cappadocia, a Roman province in present day Turkey. She was a niece of Saint George. When she was twelve, her devout parents left her in the care of a nun for her religious upbringing who taught her about Christ's life and his suffering. Nino learned how Christ's Robe, His Seamless Tunic had arrived in Iberia, a pagan nation. (I'll write more about this when we visit the church where it is believed to have been taken.) 

Later, while living in Rome, Nino was convicted to pray to  the Virgin Mary, asking to be allowed to travel to Iberia, over 1500 miles away, to venerate the Sacred Tunic removed from Christ before his crucifixion. It was a seamless garment, woven my Mary for her son. Matthew 27:35 modern translations speak of casting lots to divide up Jesus' garments, but Georgian tradition says it actually means they cast lots to see who received this one revered garment, because it was without seam and most unusual, and very valuable. The garment was sold to a Jew who eventually carried it to the Kingdom of Iberia. 

 Mary heard Nino's prayers, and appeared to her in a dream, telling her to go to that land to preach the Gospel of Jesus, and Mary would be her protector. The dream frightened Nino, who questioned if it were a real Visitation. In response, Mary presented her with a cross of grapevines and proclaimed, "Receive this cross as a shield against visible and invisible enemies." 

When Nino awoke, she was holding the cross in her hands. She dampened it with her tears of rejoicing and tied it securely with her own hair.  

Before she left Rome, Nino baptized almost forty virgins who consecrated their lives to Christ. The Roman Emperor at that time, Diocletian (284-305), a ruler infamous for persecuting Christians, took a liking to one of them, Rhipsimia, and wanted to marry her. The forty nuns escaped to Armenia. The furious emperor sent his soldiers to follow them, and sent a message to alert King Tiridates (286-344).

King Tiridates intercepted the women, but he, too, was charmed by Rhipsimia's beauty and resolved to marry her. When she spurned him, the king had her tortured to death, and almost forty other nuns beheaded. Saint Nino, being prepared for a greater task, was spared by hiding among some rose bushes. (Yeah, that got my attention too!) 

Nino finally arrived in Mtskheta alongside a group of  pilgrims coming to venerate a pagan god. Nino watched with great sadness the people tremble before a powerless idol. She prayed, "Oh Lord, send down Thy mercy upon this nation . . . that all nations may glorify Thee alone, the One True God, through Thy Son, Jesus Christ." 

Suddenly a violent wind blew and hail fell, smashing the pagan statues, scattering the worshippers. 

Saint Nino made her home beneath a bramble bush in the garden of the pagan King Mirian III. The gardener and his wife were childless, but through the prayers of Nino, God granted them a child. The couple rejoiced and declared that Christ was the True God. Wherever she went, those listening converted to the Christian Faith in great numbers. 

King Mirian was not pleased with the attention Nino was getting in his village with all the talk of this Jesus. His gardeners claimed Jesus, through this young woman, had cured their childlessness. Then his own wife, Queen Nana fell deathly ill, and Nino used her power to heal her too. Queen Nana also confessed that Jesus was Lord. 

While hunting, King Mirian determined to have all the Christians killed. But now his plot would also kill his wife for failing to renounce Jesus. During the hunt, the sun suddenly darkened. All alone, King Mirian was terrified, and he prayed in vain to his pagan gods, to no avail. Then he turned to Christ and prayed, "God of Nino, illumine this night for me and guide my footsteps, and I will declare Thy Holy Name. I will erect a cross and venerate it and I will construct for Thee a temple. I vow to be obedient to Nino and to the Faith of the Roman people!' 

Suddenly the night fell away, and the sun shone again. King Mirian gave thanks to the Creator and surrendered his life to God. He returned home to inform Saint Nino of his transformation, and declared the Kingdom of Iberia to be a Christian nation in 326 AD. He called Saint Nino the Enlightener, and Equal of the Apostles. 

Modern astronomers have attributed the miracle of King Mirian to a solar eclipse on May 6, 319. 

His Christian faith continued to grow. Saint Nino, who is credited to converting the country to Christianity, erected a large wooden cross on the site of a pagan temple. The cross is reported to have been the site of miracles, and therefore drew pilgrimages from all over the Caucasus. A small church was built over the remnants of the wooden cross in c. 545, named the "Small Church of Jvari." The present monastery, the "Great Church of Jvari" was built between 590 and 605. The octagonal base of the original cross is still preserved in the church. 

The importance of the monastery and grounds increased and attracted more pilgrimages during the late Middle Ages, when a stone wall and gate were added. During the Soviet era, the church was preserved as a national monument, but no visitors of congregants were allowed to the Holy site. When Georgia gain independence, the church was restored to active religious use. 

This photo came from the internet. 

The Church of the Cross, or Jvari Monastery, commissioned by the first Christian King of future Georgia was the first of two UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) protected sites that we visited on our first day in Georgia. 

You can see more photos here.

Continue with Part Five here

First a word to the cautious

Part Three

Start with Part One here

We slept a few, quick hours in our comfortable room at Lvovi Hotel on a quiet side street near downtown Tbilisi. (I just this moment notice the logo for the Lvovi Hotel is a rose.)

We woke at 8:30 to endulge ourselves in the Lvovi large breakfast spread. Lia had said they would pick us up at 10 to beging our first days's adventure. My internal clock, which of course had to be igmored, was trying to remind me that it was just after midnight, home-time. But the sun had risen over Tbilisi hours ago.

We walked out into the bright morning, and pink roses greeted us on both sides of the narrow street. I hadn't seen them when we arrived in the dark.  

A white van arrived and Lia and Elene jumped out, introducing us to our driver for the week, Misha. We had no idea where we were going each day. Our trip had been played out for us in advance. Thankfully. We simply needed to get in the oversized Toyota van each morning, with Misha behind the wheel, and off we'd speed on the next adventure. 

I'm going to pause right now for the benefit of anyone who might have admired my shared first photos and immediately booked a flight to the Republic of Georgia. I need to stop you right now and issue a warning. 

Yes, by all means, visit Georgia! It is a stunningly beautiful country, and her citizens are hospitable, funny, generous, and loving people. Before our trip, I read that Georgians consider visitors a "gift from God," and we were treated as such, as loved and treasured family members. 

My half-in-jest warning comes about the driving. Do NOT rent a car and drive yourself . I repeat, Do NOT attempt to drive yourself around Georgia. Do not rent a car and try to navigate the roads on your own. The roads in Georgia are filled with cars manned by drivers like Misha. I will write more about dear Misha, our driver and tour guide, in future posts. I even told him I would be writing about him and his remarkable driving.

Misha used to drive a sports car. I suspect Misha still has a little sports-car-driver left in him. Misha is a friend of the family, or related my marriage. He was not a blood relative of our Georgian family. As I wrote in the first post about our trip, Misha replaced our first tour guide four days before we left on June 2. His fee was $700, compared to our first tour guide's fee of $1300. Don't miss that little story here. 

Several of the eight days of our visit, Misha, Bruce, and I were on our own, exploring the ancient sites of Georgia, a country of 26,911 square miles, just over twice the size of my home state of Maryland, which is a relatively small state. 

Misha's speeding and whiplash stops, even in downtown, and passing when, in my humble opinion, wasn't safe seemed to alarm no one but the Americans in the van. Or at least one of the Americans. As we were darting in and out of traffic, I noticed Lia and Elene were not phased. Although seat belts are not required to be worn in the backseat in Georgia, I wore mine at all time, as we three girls rocked all over the back, hanging on to anything bolted down, trying not to land in each others' laps around curves.  Misha would think I was exaggerating. Maybe I am. 

At first I thought Misha was an anomaly. Then I noticed everyone drove like Misha. Other cars pulled out in front of us as often as Misha cut others off. And the truly amazing thing was , I witnessed not road rage. No one was offended when Misha almost ran them off the road. And he didn't get mad when others did the same to him. There were no angry horn blasts, no ugly faces, and no obscene hand gestures. Everyone seemed to respect that some drivers were more in need of getting to their destinations first. I wonder if stress-related heart disease and blood pressure ailments are less in Georgia. 

Our first stop of the morning was at the sixth century Jvari Monastery. We could see it long before we arrived, as it set atop a mountain, as so many fortresses and monasteries do along the Gerogian landscape.  I'll share those photos on my next post. First I needed to get this public service announcement out, in case friends are standing at Hertz Rent-a-Car counters somewhere in Georgia. 

Instead, you might want to hire Misha to do your driving for you while you are visiting Georgia. We are living (operative word here being living) testimonies that he safely drove us around for six of our eight days, and succeeded in bringing us back to Tbilisi alive and better for the journey. As we parted ways on our last night with Misha, I cried bitter tears. 

Continue to Part Four here. 

                                     *        *        *        *        *        *

Readers can start at the beginning of our story by reading But the Greatest of These is Love.

Blog post series while finding Roma's family members begin with Hope for Restoration. 

Many Roma and God Stories begin with The Hound of Heaven Winks. 

Writing through my grief begins here with The Agony. But don't stop there, or you'll miss the miracles! 

Getting There, Day One

Part two. 

Start with Part One here. 


As we sat on a jet awaiting departure from Dulles International Airport on June 2, 2017, I couldn't avoid thinking of a similar evening, fifteen years, one month, eleven days, and three hours earlier. So began, a decade and a half ago, my first book, But the Greatest of These is Love. Thankfully, I am not that same terrified, self-absorbed mother who was bound for Russia that April evening in 2002 to bring home a seven-year-old boy God would not let me forget. Back then, I struggled to trust God when He promised I could love His Hand-Picked boy who waited at the other end of our journey as much as my older bio children, and as much as my own life. Roma made God visible to me. God slipped in, with infectious Roma, and changed my life. 

With over twenty four hours of total travel time, from our door to the hotel in Tblilis, I had a long time to think about this journey. I'll be honest. I have been reluctant to begin this last part of my journey with Roma. It's like "wrapping it up," like bringing it to a final conclusion. And that is hard. What can I possibly write about after this last part that will excite readers like the draw of a new Roma Story? Perhaps I continue to write about Roma in an attempt to keep that dear boy alive. How long can I accomplish the impossible?

Roma always made God visible for me. I tell his stories hoping readers see God too. The comments and private messages from readers over the past few years, some who never knew Roma, or me, confirm the strange effect Roma has had on people. 

Everyone felt like they knew Roma, they loved him, and were always on the sideline, rooting for him. Many people joined in prayers for Roma when he rebelled, and praised God when God went after him. They learned of Roma's accident and death, on this blog, and they mourned for Roma with me. And they followed along and read about the miracles of the pink roses, and had hope, as Roma continued making God visible. Roma was always God's boy, on a mission from God to all of us. As I look back and see Roma's story as a whole, it is truly an amazing story. I am humbled, and thankful, in spite of the profound grief, that God chose me to be a part of His Story. 

Over the years God has been changing me. It is a process until Roma greets me with his big smile and open arms. I no longer have a faith that is a mile wide and an inch deep. And that dreadful suffering has indeed brought growth to my soul. God used that little boy from Russia for my transformation. For that surprise Gift, I will be eternally grateful until I reach eternity. Roma has made Heaven a brighter destination.

And speaking of destinations, there is this story about the Republic of Georgia. The dreaded conclusion of Roma's story, and yet, the place of healing and redemption I knew I would find. And I know I must tell . . . 

The first leg of our journey was heading into rush hour traffic, some of the worst in all the nation, on a Friday evening. We left just our home in suburban Maryland just before 5 p.m. to accommodate traffic, parking, security, and shuttling to get to Qatar Airways inside the enormous airport complex. The first flight of more than fourteen hours to Doha, Qatar, on a Boeing 777. Our very expensive return flight, due to my careless booking, (see last post) was flight 707,  I settled in, feeling like Angels were escourting our plane. Seven is Roma's signature number.  

I was thankful the screaming toddler was in the row in front of us, in the center isle away from my window seat,  instead of directly in front or beside us. We took off at 9:30pm, and they began serving our dinner at 10:30. Qatar Airlines serves ample food. I wrote a little in my journal, and then watched one movie, Hidden Figures which I highly recommend, and by 1a.m. by my internal clock, I was asleep. 

*FYI - Here is a link to Qatar Airlines to get a look at a similar plane. They mention "delectable dining options," and while I would agree, the photo, if you scroll down, is not representative of  any of the meals we were served. 

When I awoke, many hours later, the toddler was still screaming. I had slept through our early morning snack, a large turkey and cheese sub wrapped in plastic was still on my tray, and they were now offering bags of chips before breakfast was served. Bruce was on his fourth movie. Poor Bruce doesn't sleep on planes, and I could've slept wedged in the cramped luggage compartment with a leg hanging out. 

Perhaps sleep was an escape for me. There were moments when the magnitude of this journey smacked me full in the face and my tears flowed. We were actually going to see Roma's family for the first time, for eight days. And without Roma. Those moments of loss were just too much.

So after a good night's sleep and plenty to eat, I exited the plane rested and, remarkably, not even stiff from my sedentary hours, with only one trip down the aisle to the bathroom. The aisles were so narrow and often blocked, mostly from the attendants in their never-ending attempts to feed us.

Fourteen hours after they corralled us in to the giant crowded double-wide air bus, they corralled us out. The plane windows had been closed soon after takeoff, at 9:30 p.m., and again, upon landing, it was getting dark. 

After a three hour layover in Qatar where we tried to walk a lot for exercise, we boarded a smaller plane for a three hour flight, to Tbilisi. 

I spent the three hour flight allowing myself to ponder the possibilities. What if we didn't "hit it off." What if the language barrier turned out to truly be too much. My friends from North Carolina say I sounded like a Yankee, but my Maryland friends assure me this simply isn't true. I would have to remember to talk. Slowly. And. Deliberately. And. An-nun-ci-ate. Each. Word. (Out of habit, I continued that practice for several days upon returning home.)

I decided I couldn't worry about any of the what-ifs. God had led us to this journey. It would all be worth it. I knew I would have stories to tell.

At 12:20 a.m, on Sunday morning,our plane landed in Tbilisi, eight time zones from home. We completely missed Saturday. As I gathered my carry on, my heart doubled its pulse rate. I knew Lia, at least, would be waiting beyond the luggage claim for us.

When we went out, I could see her hands wildly waving beyond the barrier, and others with her, and hear them calling our names. When we got our luggage, which was, of course, the last to appear, we went out, tears streaming down our faces, as Lia, her twenty-year old daughter, Elene, and her husband hugged and kissed us. We chatted happily as Elene translated. They delivered us to our Tblisis hotel and left us around 1:45 a.m., with plans to pick us up at 10 in the morning.

And I felt God smiling about His itinerary for the week. It was easy to imagine Roma was right there beside God, because now, God makes Roma visible, and because Roma certainly wasn't going to miss a moment of the excitment! 

Continue with Part Three, A Caution partly in jest. 

                                     *        *        *        *        *        *

Readers can start at the beginning of our story by reading But the Greatest of These is Love.

Blog post series while finding Roma's family members begin with Hope for Restoration. 

Many Roma and God Stories begin with The Hound of Heaven Winks. 

Writing through my grief begins here with The Agony. But don't stop there, or you'll miss the miracles! 

Be blessed. Even in the pain, I feel like I have lived something Sacred. 

A Sacred Pilgrimage

Part One

I don't know what I was anticipating when Bruce and I left for the Republic of Georgia on the evening of June 2, 2017. We were finally going to meet Roma's birth family, two and a half tumultuous years after finding them. 

I had high expectations about this trip, but I can't define what they were. I can't explain. If Roma had approached me with his big Roma grin, arms wide open, on the steps of an ancient monastery on a snow capped mountain top, I doubt it would have shocked me. I went with an expectation, maybe not of seeing Roma, but of seeing God. 

One thing I was sure of, we were embarking on a Sacred Pilgrimage. One we had to take for redemption and healing. And for love, love for a family who shared the common bond of a boy who, aside from his sister, they would now never know on earth. A boy whose deceased father had been as dear to them as his son was to me. At least close. 

First photo faxed from orphanage

We found Roma's birth sister in the closing hours of 2014. We had known about Liana from court records, and Roma told us more. But an "aunt," his father's first cousin, Lia, began messaging me in early January, 2015, ecstatic of the discovery of her beloved cousin's lost son. She opened a door to a mystery of Roma's larger, close-knit, extended family in a country I couldn't have, at the time, found on a map. We rejoiced together, almost 6,000 miles apart. I knew finding this family was a missing puzzle piece of Roma's wholeness and identity. 

Then, less than a year later, we grieved the unthinkable, as a fatal work accident took the life of beautiful, vivacious Roma, the young man who represented so much love and hope to two families who reached across a vast, impossible chasm for comfort. A strange thing happened during that year of highest highs imaginable and lowest lows possible. We became family. 

At Christmas, 2016, as we rounded that first year of grieving Roma, Bruce printed out photos of landmarks in Georgia, put them in a gift box with  note. For Christmas, he was giving me my heart's desire-- to go to Roma's ancestral home and finally meet Roma's birth family in person. 

Some people ask why we are traveling to Georgia instead of Russia, where Roma was born and lived. He never crossed the mountains into Georgia. It is political, as so many issues in the world are today. Georgians cannot freely travel across the Russian border to the north, over the formidable Caucasus Mountain range. But Russians can travel unimpeded into the Republic of Georgia. Liana, Roma's sister, and her family, still residing in Russia, can travel to Georgia to meet us. 

I bought our plane tickets two months ahead, the time suggested for optimum pricing. A week before we traveled, Bruce was looking over our itinerary. 

He calmly said (because Bruce is always calm), "You have us booked us to return in July instead of June." 

Hoping he was kidding, I swung around and checked his face. A panic rush had me on my feet and looking over his shoulder to read from his computer in disbelief. Sure enough, our return flight was on the second Monday in July instead of June. I scanned the email for an emergency number for Qatar Airways.

I dialed and explained my error. On speaker phone, we listened while I prayed there would be two seats available for June 12. There was a pause, and my contact eased my fears. Yes, no problem, the same flight number, 707, had seats available for June 12.

"There is a change fee," the polite, accented gentleman continued. "Let me calculate that for you."

"Oh don't bother yourself with that little unpleasant detail," I wanted to say, but instead "Oh Lord, please don't let it be a lot" was all I had time to pray before the gentleman continued, "That will be an additional $485 per ticket," I gasped as he calculated, "for a total of $970. Can I book that flight for you now?" 

I couldn't make eye contact with my husband who had just heard the whole conversation. 

"Yes." I answered quietly. Lord help me make up that money that I so carelessly wasted.

"Well, the gentleman returned, "This flight is actually a cheaper flight. You will save $110 per ticket for a total of $220 discount." 

Oh Joy, only $750 to recoup. "Great. Thank you." I'm not sure Bruce understands my accounting system, but he didn't get mad at me, because Bruce never gets mad. We have learned that a problem that can be solved by money alone, even money we can't afford to waste, isn't a real problem.

On May 29, four days before we left, I got a message from Lia saying they had another option for our driver/tour guide. The one they had recommended originally, and we had accepted, was charging $1300 for five days. Two of the nights, not consecutive, would be spent at guest houses hours from Tbilisi. So we accepted the fee. Lia was apologetic about the high price, but we assured her we wanted to see all we could of Georgia, and we had been saving our money. (I didn't  mention that I had carelessly lost much of it by my careless mistake in booking.) Now, four days before our departure, they had an alternate driver, another friend of the family, and his fee was $700. Seven hundred, which should have alerted me to God's involvement right away. I tacked  that saved $600 in my "recouped money" column, with a remaining balance of $150, which I was willing to write off, as a fair penalty for my mistake.  

Then the countdown began in earnest. We left our house in suburban Maryland, an hour drive to Dulles International Airport, just before 5 pm, heading into some of the nation's worst traffic. We allowed plenty of time for our 9:30 flight. It seemed like such an ordinary beginning for a Sacred Pilgrimage. 

The many calls and messages I received revealed that others also had mysterious expectations about this trip. "Post pictures when you can," and "I can't wait to hear more," and "I'll be praying for you." dinged my phone all day. Friends who had joined the Story and wanted more of it, more of God. It was as if they were expecting the same thing I was--for God to accomplish only what He could in Georgia. 

So I went with expectations of the miraculous. Nothing less. I have grown accustomed to miracles. I have become acquainted with a Loving God who is always present and active. And often He has a sense of humor. 

God heard the prayers of my many prayer warriors, and He was not going to disappoint any of us. 

Continue with Part Two, Getting There. 

                                                  *        *        *        *        *        *

             

Dont miss the exciting and heart breaking stories about finding this lovely family. Begin with Hope for Restoration. 

Many Roma and God Stories begin with The Hound of Heaven Winks. 

Writing through my grief begins here with The Agony. But don't stop there, or you'll miss the miracles! 

Readers can start at the beginning of our story by reading But the Greatest of These is Love.

Be blessed. Even in the pain, I feel like I have lived something Sacred. 

Welcome Little One

There will come a time when I no longer write about Roma in my blog posts, but today is not it. Not when it is clear Roma's life goes on in an enhanced manner. More often than we recognize, Heaven comes ever so close to earth in a cosmic connection. I am thankful when I'm aware of these sacred moments.

On Monday, May 1, my youngest grandchild was born. The previous evening, my daughter Kellie, texted to alert us that they were leaving for the hospital. She was still hopeful for an April baby, and several hours remained in April for that to happen. With baby number six, we all assumed a quick and easy delivery.

She texted us through the night with updates, stating that he was "a stubborn little guy!" They finally administered Pitocin to speed up the delivery.

As I awaited news of a new family member arrival, I was checking my Facebook account on Monday morning when the memories of "On this Day" popped up. Roman Sudzhashvili Michael's passport photo came up with the reminder that Roma had arrived on this day in the United States as a new citizen fifteen years ago. As I was remembering that special day and was about to copy recently found photographs documenting that Homecoming, Kellie finally called to give us the news about their own hours-old new arrival.


I grabbed a pen and paper to record the details to share.

With a crack in her voice, Kellie announced, "His name is Joel Roman."


My tears came so suddenly, I couldn't breathe or speak. They ran down my cheeks as I studied my own little new arrival from fifteen years earlier. For several silent moments, I trusted that Kellie understood my speechlessness. Finally I could force out a labored whisper, "Kellie, that is beautiful."

"And," she continued with a new enthusiasm. "He was born at 7:07." I gasped, knowing Kellie understood the significance of that number. Seven. That was Roma's signature number. 

Upon hanging up with Kellie, I immediately messaged Lia, Roma's aunt from the Republic of Georgia. I wanted to shared Kellie's loving tribute to the nephew she had been denied the privilege of knowing. Lia's immediate response was obviously the same as mine, and she instantly responded with the crying emoji with long tears. Then her messages of congratulations and well wishes and love came joyfully. We understand the paradox of grief and love all wrapped up in the same package.

God is so good. Just last month, God intersected my life with a new, dear friend. Irina is originally from Russia and shares my heart for Russian orphans. She has joined my story of Roma. She shared her wisdom on our Facebook announcement of my new grandson.

"I am so glad that Roma's name will continue in the newest addition of the family. Russians believe that every name has a very special unique power and quality. Every person who carries the name adds something of this own to it. Joel Roman will continue Roma's story. Have a wonderful and blessed beautiful life, sweet Joel Roman." 

Something remarkable happens to the memory of loved ones when they die too young. Any challenge or struggle they ever manifested is forgotten. In fact, they start to

Roma, May 1, 2002 arriving as a new citizen

resemble superheroes. It isn't realistic but it happens. Sweet Roma was by no stretch of the imagination what I would call an "easy" boy to raise. But it was impossible not to adore that beautiful child. Roma was the bravest little person I have ever encountered. He had a heart the size of Russia, and he was fearless. Nothing from his tragic early life could make him a victim. He enthusiastically devoured every delicious morsel of life. He recognized God, who was always up-close and personal with Roma. In life, Roma was a legand. In death, he has become a superhero.

Roma fulfilled an important mission in his short, full life. He changed me, and countless other who aren't the same because Roma lived. And died. Roma makes God visible.

Welcome brand new Joel Roman Ryan! Proudly embrace your strong name, and make it uniquely your own as you hear the legends of your uncle, Roma. No matter how outlandish the stories sound, they are mostly true!

We are blessed.

Start at the beginning of our story,
But the Greatest of These is Love


Join us as we go visit Roma's family in the Republic of Georgia. 

God wrote the end from the beginning

I recently came across this photo from my high school yearbook. I was immediately snatched back to 1974.  The Annual Staff had come into my art class with a mission, to fill pages of the year book. I was  listening attentively to my friend, Candy, to my right, telling her typical funny stories, as Jim Croce broke my tender heart from the radio behind us. I was absent mindedly scraping clay with a tool. The photographer watched me for a moment, then asked to take my picture. I felt  flattered, but awkward. I've never loved the camera aimed at me, so I diverted my eyes, lost in my self-consciousness, for a moment captured forever, a message in a bottle to be discovered years later, when roses, pink roses, would flood my broken heart with healing balm.  

So much during this past year of grief and God's Presence in the midst of it, reminds me that God wrote the end from the beginning. He did it with His story in the Bible. Why am I surprised that He did the same with mine? It is a mystery, one whose revealing brings me surprise joy in the midst of pain.

God wrote the end from the beginning. He loved me before I was born. He knit me together in my mother's womb. (Jeremiah 1:5) He numbered the hairs on my head (Luke 12:7). All my days are written in His book. (Psalms 139:16) God knows me intimately. There's nothing that's hidden that won't be revealed. (Luke 8:17)  

God loved me when I was that young 18-year-old, molding my beloved roses, not knowing then I would go from 18 to 60 years old at warp speed. But when I look back, as we all do, I see His fingerprints all over my life.  

Just before Christmas, I came across a box of letters my mother had saved. I was ecstatic to find THE letter I had forgotten existed. Written on vintage stationery from 1975, I told my biggest fan,  my mother, about an exciting development in my love life. (I put that cherished letter aside until after the busy holidays , and, sadly,  I've not yet been able to find it again.  I'll keep looking.)

In my innocence at nineteen, I told my mother about that beautiful boy who had captured my heart. He didn't know in his own 21-year-old innocence that I had chosen him for my life's partner. In one of our playful conversations when we were "just friends" he unknowingly encouraged my fantasy by saying if we ever got married, we would adopt. It was definitely not my plan to adopt, but I was giddy at the thought that he would  even imagine that we might one day marry.  

Over the next fast 25 years to 2000, 23 years married to that beautiful young man, and three children, the topic of adoption never surfaced again. Not until God utterly stunned me with the foreign thought in March,  2000.

But before that shocking revelation in 2000, other foreshadowing had gone unnoticed, or suppressed.

                                               

                                                            *      *      *      *

In the mid 1980s  I remember a moment as clear as a movie clip. I was walking from the kitchen into the living room of the first home we purchased. The radio was background music, all but silenced by my loud imagination.  My ears were suddenly opened to the words as if the volume had been turned up. Tears ran unchecked down my cheeks as I listened to the lyrics for the first time.   

Former member of the band The Police, Sting, was singing a haunting song. Russians. We were still in the throes of the Cold War, and the Russians were the enemy, so I had grown up believing. But now I had tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks, moved by Sting's words, "What might save us, me and you, is If theRussians love their children too." I had my two adored young daughters, Kellie, one and Heather, three, napping safely in their rooms. I was  overcome with tears, with crushing compassion for the children. Innocent children. In this case, Russian children.

                                                            *      *      *      *

I  worked for National Geographic on the magazine's supplement maps for most of the 1980s. I recall a day when we were cleaning out offices  and there was a massive book give away. People were grabbing copies of new releases. The only books that captured my imagination were two discarded mid-century books written in Russian, from a researcher's shelf. I couldn't read the words, of course. But I was drawn to the mysterious Cyrillic alphabet and the photos from an unfamiliar world.

                                                            *      *      *      *

More hints came several years later, in the early 1990s. My dear grandmother-in-law handed me a catalog to choose some puzzles as gifts from her to  my children. The one I chose without hesitation held no special memory for me. I might not have been able to tell you much about the building in the puzzle's image, only that I remembered it from a dark auditorium during Art History classes. It was Saint Basil's Cathedral, in Moscow, the capital of the recently dismantled Soviet Union, once again named "Russia." (I chose the image of Saint Basil's Cathedral, with a view the crosses on the spires for the cover of my book, Butthe Greatest of These is Love.)

                                                            *      *      *      *

In the Spring of 1992, Heather, then in the fifth grade, was chosen to be a part of the All County Chorus. She and a friend met at our house to practice their songs. When they agreed to practice for me, I couldn't hold back tears with one of the selections,  Song for a Russian Child. I challenge you, as I mop tears now, to listen with dry eyes. (This is not Heather's chorus singing it, although I'm sure Bruce  recorded it and we've hidden it from ourselves in a safe place. Like my lost letter.)

The night of the performance, I was thankful for the dark auditorium. While I dug deep in my purse for wadded tissues, I noticed no one else in the audience was moved like I was. How could everyone sit quietly and clap stoically, while I was almost out of control with emotion? Where did that sadness come from, I asked myself, as the song ended and lights were bright again.

On that evening of overwhelming compassion, the boy God had chosen for me wouldn't be born for another two and a half years.

                                                            *      *      *      *

God doesn't wind us up and let us go on our own power. Surely that is how I must have thought it worked. I recognized none of His foreshadowing until weeks after He came to me on a March evening in 2000 with a mission I so desperately wanted to decline, when He came to harvest the seeds He had planted throughout my life. 

When I invariably go AWOL. He comes after me. "Remember, Debbie," He whispers, "Remember how perfect MY PLAN is?" I do! His plan brought me Roma. And a sure knowledge of God.  Although we know His plan is always best, we fear what His Plan will ultimately cost us. But the conscious AWARENESS of God is worth the cost. His revelation of Himself is stunning. 

A wise young friend, Megan, gave me this verse yesterday, and as so often happens, it came up mysteriously in my reading this morning.

"The secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things that are revealed belong to us and to our children forever, that we may do all the words of this law." Deuteronomy 29:29

I am eternally grateful.