Missions in the Russian Winter

I write from Kursk, Russia, eight hours south of Moscow. Kursk is the city which gave its name to the doomed submarine.
Russia overwhelms before it swallows. It is a place of vast expanses, pitiless weather, and an interminable trudging populace. It is February in the Russian winter.
Last night I visited one of the two American families in residence. It was my first trip out of doors since arriving Monday morning. This couple and their two children are five years into the experiment. They do not call themselves missionaries,but they are. Missionaries are my heroes. Little wonder that I try to imitate them. The wife is a math teacher fluent in French. The husband is a practitioner of the Ignatian exercises. I promise to tell you what that means once I learn myself.
I am accompanied by the blind genius Oleg Shevkun. He makes me a force in Russian. He spins gold from straw. Oleg is the best interpreter in Russia.His humor lights up the church. His voice graces the radio. Sadly, today he lost that voice. Our quarters are close. We make an eccentric household. Eccentricity is not an unfamiliar charge for me. Oleg is not entirely centric himself.
Oleg's voice will return tomorrow and we will begin again.
We are training pastors, women's leaders and students.
They are ravenous for God's Word and we try to help.
Vladimir Putin notwithstanding, Jesus is King over Russia.
He reigns from heaven above.
In fact Jesus is Lord over the whole universe.
How I love telling it out.
I grow old, but I am grateful.
It's cold outside.
But I don't care.