Weathered wood and white brick merged under a rusty tin roof to form the walls of a small building. The fact that it was a church was not immediately obvious. Not when all around Russia, even in the villages, onion domes rise above the trees to announce their holy presence. After years of abuse and destruction the proud Orthodox crosses once again touch the sky. Slowly, but with passion and dedication, they are regaining their lost honor. So this ordinary combination of brick, wood and tin could have been anything. Anything but a place of religious services. We lived just down the road from this small village on a farm, as the Russians call it. In America we call them ranches. My husband was hired to train operators, the Russian version of a cowboy. So here we were living between two villages in a country where everyone lives in a village, or a town, or a city. In a country where I didn’t speak the language. In a country where people are reserved until they get to know you. Where it is hard to reach out and loneliness is as prevalent as the birch trees in the forest. So when a hand reaches out to invite you along, you grasp it with fervor and thankfulness. That’s how I found myself stepping solemnly through the heavy wooden doors of that simple church before the sun even rose. On a crisp Easter morning we came bearing kulich bread and deep red eggs dyed with onion skins. Inside, intricately carved wooden alters line the yellow paneled walls. Each alter contains an icon of a saint with boxes of sand holding upright tall skinny beeswax candles lit in offering. With hundreds of delicate flames burning the scent of honey is still not strong. These icons are new, bright and bold, the ones of old having been destroyed or hidden away among the silent devout. The hidden ones like treasures of jewels, carefully guarded, not for fear of destruction now but fear of theft. Our food to be blessed was set aside for the moment on a rough table. We crossed the wood patterned linoleum floor to join a small group of people greeting each other with “Christ is Risen.” The faithful were dominated by babushkas with some younger women and two solitary men. I watch them interact before the service, moving freely about this church with no pews, only a dozen or so places to sit along limited wall space. Generations of women whom have worshipped together and experienced so much of the same hard, toiling life. Decades of being together and sharing. Sharing joys and pains, struggles and faith, secrets and dreams. Women with deep roots. Roots that entwine and overlap. I stand still and take it all in. I wonder what that would be like. What is it like to share so much with a group of women? What’s it like to have your life so connected to others that they are an extension of self? What is it like to stand shoulder to shoulder with someone to brave the same storm? To bend but not break? To open your eyes after the wind dies down and pick up hope and possibility with your neighbor, your friend? I am very conscious of being an outsider. Of never fully being able to fathom the depths of these mysterious women. Their words tickle my ears but understanding is not there. The service starts with the black clad priest sliding from the hallowed place at the far end of the room, for the church is really just one big room. He leads with reading and a chant that is echoed by all. The sound is lovely, harmonious. There is kneeling with heads kissing the floor and standing in reverence with the continuously flowing voices from the priest, from the congregation, from a sole babushka, her voice dusty from age. This is worship. A form so different from my western experiences yet with the same meaning. I breathe a heavy sigh as contentment settles deep in my soul like a quilt made by my grandma. The words flow, the smells blend, and the emotions all melt together as I realize it’s more than growing up together, more than sharing burdens and gossip. It’s more than sharing a common language that can bind you to a person. Its smiles and laughter and faith – in that person and the God you worship together that will tie your souls together. My friend stands beside me in her one teal dress and lace head scarf. She has pulled me out of shadowy loneliness into the boldness of the Russian colored world. I fell in love with her. Not as a lover whispering in the dark but as a woman who exposed her soul and asked for me to do the same. I sneak a glance at her serene face and I marvel at the length of the cord the binds us together. How quickly it is shortening. How this woman from half a world away is embracing me into her culture, her life. Our friendship is like a beautiful piece of music being written in the moment it is being played. The melody is released to the wind to dance and twirl and leave joy behind. And it does. And it will.