Prayer in the sanctuary

August 18, 2005

The air is oppressively hot, no breeze filtering through the windows flung wide open, no relief from the humid closed air. Beads of sweat gather on our foreheads and upper lips as we gather in a circle to pray for the coming service. “Lord we leave all our worries behind us as we enter into your presence”. “May the songs we sing minister to those who come today, let them be blessed and refreshed”. “What a privilege it is to worship You”! As the prayers lift to the rafters in this ancient Lutheran church, I think of the generations who came before us. Did they pray for safety for their loved ones from the oppressive Communist regime? Did they ask for food to feed their starving children as the Nazi Blitzkrieg encircled their city cutting off all supply routs? Were the whispered prayers lifted quietly in secret, lest someone hear them and report? Suddenly the magnitude of the history, the tears and prayers that have been uttered in this place seem thick as the humid air around us. “Lord, I have no understanding of what the saints before us have suffered”, I pray quietly to myself “But may our praise and worship rise from hearts that long to do your will no matter the consequences.” Do I really understand what this means? I don’t know. In my life, I have never had the choice between clinging to my faith or clinging to my life. In truth, the latter means nothing without the former.

I gaze at her in wonder as she makes her slow way down the aisle. This was the girl who was never supposed to walk again?! Who lay in a coma for months, the doctors giving dire predictions of no recovery? I remember hearing about the horrible accident her taxi got in as she made her way home after her birthday party. She normally took the metro but wanted a quicker rout home to celebrate with her family. Natasha is a medical doctor who attends our church. In her late twenties, she is also a gifted musician who played with the worship team. When we heard of her accident, we immediately begin to pray as did hundreds and possibly thousands around the world. Emails were sent out, phone calls made and word passed on, a call for prayer. I rejoice in the miracle I saw today as Natasha came to church, her very presence a shout of joy for the wonders our God has performed!

We chat late into the night, sharing our life stories, catching up as only two sisters can. It has been such a blessing to have my sister Rachel here with me for the last few weeks. Sometimes I don’t realize how lonely it gets until I have someone here with me during the day, sharing my tasks, listening to me and sharing her thoughts and prayers with me. Timothy has loved the extra attention he gets as well as the outside play times he has with his aunt. My sister encourages me to reach out to other single missionaries, using my home as a place of ministry. There are several single missionaries I know who could use a dinner with a family in a home where love and the Holy Spirit dwell. “Lord, let me be an instrument of blessing to many weary workers in this field.” I look at my home in a different light now, as a place where healing and encouragement can touch the lives of others. Thank you Rachel for your words of wisdom! I have been struggling with the change in my life as I go from full time minister to full time mom. But God continues to work in my heart in showing me my home as being a place of ministry.

We continue to establish relationships with many wonderful missionary families around the city. One long - time relationship is with a couple and their three lovely daughters, Perry and Lynda Friesen and Sarah, Katelyn, and Rayanne. We have been so blessed by their relationship and hope to bless them as well. Please pray for their ministry as they church plant in an area with very few bodies of believers (if any) in the northern region of the city.

Our prayers and love go out to you all!!!

Aaron, Ramona, Timothy, and Abigail

New Joy

June 16, 2005

I gaze at the numerous pots gathering steam on my stove stop. A sigh escapes my lips as I think of the number of things needing washing; me, Abby, Tim, the pile of dishes from last night’s dinner and this morning’s hurried breakfast. Pot after pot goes on the blue flame to boil and then pour out into the bathtub basin as the morning ritual begins. I have a month of no hot water to look forward to. Thank goodness, the washing machine heats up its own water. As first a protesting Abby and then a giggling Tim gets soaped and scrubbed, I begin to smile at my pessimistic attitude. This may be inconvenient, but it is certainly not suffering. As I begin to pray for those who are truly suffering, my heart begins to rejoice in the blessings I treasure in this life. The laughter and smile of two beautiful healthy children, the love of a wonderful man, the lovely sunshine streaming through my kitchen windows, the Word of God written on my heart and open in my hands. How blessed I truly am!! “Thank you Lord for dishes to eat on and food to put on those dishes”, as I start the dishes, “Thank you for the clothes we wear and the ability to wash them in a machine” as I hang up the morning laundry. “For Your provision and blessings both spiritually and physically, for the love which sent You to the cross and raised You from the dead!” The complaining attitude disappears as does the dirt.

The skies rejoiced the morning she was born. I was up at dawn as the contractions came closer and closer together. When I left our tiny cabin in Porvoo, Finland I was greeted by one of the most beautiful sunrises I have ever seen. Rose tipped clouds were accented by a brilliant gold to mauve colored sky. We chose to name her Abigail Joy because joy was present from the day she was born.

Abigail “The Joy of the Lord” has brought a soft feminine touch to our family of rambunctious wrestling boys (Tim and Dad) and one tired mom. She is certainly different from Timothy even from the very beginning. Whereas Tim would finish feeding in 15 minutes max. leaving spit up all over mom and himself, she takes her time, gazing up at me, flirting with her eyes. 40 minutes later we wrap up with a polite burp, compliments to the chef. Tim at her age would scream with all the pent up passion in his little body at any excuse. She lets out small complaints only wailing when seriously scared or hurt. Tim woke the neighbors; she just wakes up papa who at the slightest whimper jumps to the side of her crib to make sure all is fine, nook in mouth, blanket keeping her warm. I think a father’s ears are particularly tuned to an infant’s cry, because I can sleep through her loudest wails until Aaron nudges me several times to remind me it’s my turn. Truth be told, she is a very easy baby, sleeping from 10pm to 6am (Go Baby Wise!) at two months of age, and is happy with a full tummy, good sleep, and clean diapers. We coo and awe at her, snuggle her close and smell the sweet baby smell of her. She has charmed us utterly, winning our hearts.

Tim as an older brother is doing splendidly well. He kisses and hugs her, gives her all manner of toys, and is even willing to share his “Blanky” with her. He watches mom and tries to comfort Abby by putting her nook in her mouth if she is crying. I have to watch him in his toddler eagerness as he gives her all manner of stuff to entertain her. He has never struck at her, or shown jealousy. I do my best to have “snuggle” and “story” time with him several times a day. Sometimes I have a child in each arm as we sing “Jesus Loves Me” with Tim hitting half the words in his sing song voice, Abby looking at us in wonder as we sing louder and louder, our voices clashing.

“Boat mama, Boat!!!”, Timothy yells from the bedroom window. I am used to the tourist boats traveling up and down our lovely canal so I glance with little interest out the window. A crowd has gathered on the opposite bank watching a dilapidated police boat as it trowels up and down the canal close to our home. I watch a little more closely and with some disbelief as the two officers on board frantically try to snag a body floating face down. With long hooked sticks they circle round their pray trying to get a lassoed rope around the corpse. As one officer takes a dunk by leaning too far over, Tim claps his hand excitedly at the action. Grabbing my delighted son from the wide windowsill, I try to get him interested in his toy box. “Let’s play with your cars, Tim” I encourage my loudly protesting toddler. Thirty minutes later, I notice they have successfully caught the body and it is now lying face up, its arms and legs reaching skyward on the stair landing just above the water in plain view of all passersby. There are no police to be seen. I can just imagine the tour guide on the passing boats as they explain that sight. I gaze at the poor lonely fellow, his outstretched arms a plea, forever caught in the grips of rigamortis. It is only a matter of time before two young men stop their car for a smoke and walk over to the landing. Sudden shock registers on their faces as they grab their cell phones and, I am sure, alert the police to their abandoned corpse. More time passes and an investigative team comes to dust him for fingerprints and remove all items from his pockets. Once their job is done, they also leave him alone. Two hours later, I gaze in wonder at my new neighbor lying in the warm sun, and decide we will not be taking a walk down the canal at this time. Several dogs and their walking companions have also discovered him and mayhem is breaking out across from our window. I can just imagine the switch board officer taking calls one after the other at each new discovery. “Did you know there is a dead man down here on the Fontanka?”, goes the question. “Yes sir, we are in the process of investigating his death, please do not touch the body.” Two and a half hours after his body is pulled out of our canal, the corpse is finally picked up by a city ambulance. That has to be a nice job. Life on the canal will never get boring!

Sometimes I forget I am living in a different country and different culture until I run across such instances as the above. Dignity in death is not part of the Russian culture. The only ones who care for you or about you after your spirit leaves your body is your family or friends. The police do not cover corpses and if you don’t get to the morgue by between 1 and 3 pm Monday through Friday you will not be able to claim your dead. We had one patient who died and her family had arranged a flight for the body back to the States. Unfortunately, the rude and very drunk morgue attendant refused to release the body as it was “after hours” on a Friday and it wouldn’t be till next Monday when they could pick up their relatives remains. The dignity for the living individual has never been a big part of this society as well. We see it in the policies set by this government. They are just beginning to get out from under the philosophy that the good of the one means nothing in comparison to the good of the many. Yet it was for the individual that Jesus died, and it is to the individual that we will minister.

With much Love in Him

Aaron, Ramona, Timothy, and Abigail

Abigail has arrived!

Dear Friends and Family,

On Sunday, April 3, 2005 at 10:22 am Finnish time Abigail Joy Bogott joined our family. Ramona began feeling contractions at 3:30 am and by 9:00 am they were frequent enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. The nurse examined and determined that she was 3 cm dilated. Soon the contractions got heavy and Ramona asked for an epidural. She also noticed that she wanted to push and the nursed looked and said that there was no time and that the baby's head was already visible. Then after three good pushes Abigail Joy entered the world.

Here are the details:

Name: Abigail Joy Bogott
Weight: 4.24 kgs (9 lbs 5 oz)
Length: 52 cm (20.47 in)
Place of birth: Porvoo, Finland
Date/time of birth: April 3, 2005, 10:22 am

Baby and mother are both doing fine. Ramona and baby arrived back to our cabin this afternoon. Enjoy the pictures of our little girl.

Thank you Lord for this miracle of life! We dedicate her to you and to your service.

Aaron