Tears stream down my face. It is becoming harder to breath. Legs are weak; I give into exhaustion and slide down the wall of an aged elevator sitting in the filth of pee, vomit, and vodka in my Eeyore pajamas with mac-n-cheese in my right hand for Kristina’s dinner and a Fernando Ortega c.d. in my left. “God, why did you have me come to this country as a missionary for Calvary Chapel Church Planting Missions? I can’t handle this!”
Thirty minutes earlier I didn’t have a care in the world as I leave my flat on the 10th floor in an apartment complex in the center of Perm, Russia. I walk out into the hall wearing my pj’s knowing it’s going to be a late night babysitting for my pastor in the next apartment building over. I push the elevator button. The laboriously slow elevator arrives and I walk into the small, stinky area. I think to myself I really hate how small this elevator is and I try to picture myself somewhere else. I hit the button for the first floor and the lift starts to descend.
The lift seems to stop early. “Can I have made it to the first floor yet?” I wonder. I wait for the doors to open. The delay seems longer than normal. I decide to push the button again, nothing happens. Like a well trained American I look for the emergency button or phone, THERE ISN’T ONE.
“O.k. Lord, what do I do now? Please help me think.”
At that moment I hear a door open in the hallway.
“How do I say help in Russian? Oh my, I don’t know that word. What words do I know? I know the word for come, “predee”, and I know the word for please, “pahzalsta”. Predee pahzalsta!,” I yell. I can hear someone come to push the button, NOTHING HAPPENS. They walk away. “Where did they go?” I wait for their return, which never comes.
I keep hearing doors opening and closing outside the elevator. Each time I yell, “Predee pahzalsta!” No one responds to my pleas.
“Why are they not coming?” With each lack of response I become more agitated. Tears stream down my face. It is becoming harder to breath. Legs are weak; I give into exhaustion and slide down the wall of an aged elevator sitting in the filth of pee, vomit, and vodka in my Eeyore pajamas with mac-n-cheese in my right hand for Kristina’s dinner and a Fernando Ortega c.d. in my left. “God, why did you have me come to this country as a missionary? I can’t handle this!”
Finally, I hear a door open and someone putting garbage in the chute above me. “God help me!” I yell, “Predee pahzalsta!” I hear the falling of feet on the stairs. The person hits the button. “Predee pahzalst,” I whimper. The person leaves. I feel like I am suffocating.
Boom! Boom! The lift shakes. “Lord, help me! I’m going to plummet to my death.” My palms are sweating, my heart is racing. Is this how Peter and Paul felt while in prison awaiting their fates? They sang songs of praise while in prison, praying for deliverance. I will lift up my fears to Him within my heart praising Him while in my prison waiting for the deliverance that must come. He is my hiding place!
Boom! Boom! “What are you doing? Can’t you see that the lift is shaking?” I blurt out in English with fear in my voice. The man who emptied his garbage says something in Russian I can’t understand through the closed doors of the elevator. (Now, I know that he was telling me he was trying to get air into the lift so I wouldn’t suffocate to death.) “Yani pani myu paRuski. Ya Amerikanka.” I say dejectedly. (This means,“I don’t speak Russian. I am an American.”)
Boom! Boom! The lift is shaking more violently with every bang. “Really God, this is how my life is going to end? Missionaries have more dramatic deaths! Missionaries’ get their heads chopped off or face a firing squad proclaiming Your grace and mercy. Not, simply falling to their death in Eeyore pjs on their way to babysit!” Suddenly, an end of a two by four is in the door.
I hear many more voices now; they are trying to tell me something I can’t understand. “Lord, please help me understand them.” I hear a voice of an old woman say, “You American?” “Yes!” I reply enthusiastically. I start speaking quickly in English. She doesn’t understand.
“Oh God, what do I do now?” In Russian I convey that my friends live on the 10th floor. “9?” the old lady questions in English. “No, 10.” came my muffled reply through the door. I tell her the apartment number then the old lady leaves.
“Tania?”
“MAX!” I scream. Not having cell reception in the old dilapidated building Max tells me that he is going outside to call the lift company because in Russia to get out of a stuck elevator you call them, not the fire department. Immediately, he leaves me alone again and the tears flood anew down my face.
“Where is Max? Why is this taking so long?” The walls continue to close in on me. I have no rational thoughts in my head “What floor am I on? Where is Max? Kristina’s dinner is getting cold. Shouldn’t he be back by now? Where is Max?”
As these thoughts race through my mind a hand appears in the crack of the doors. I hear my name again but this time it is Kristina, my roommate. The little old lady climbed all the way to the 10th floor to find her. Still in a panic I yell, “What floor am I on?” “What?” she replies, a bit confused. “How far off from the bottom floor am I?” emphasizing each word I ask. Stifling a laugh, Kristina squeaks out, “6 inches.”
The walls continue to close in on me as I hold her hand. She reminds me to breath and that I am okay. I remember I have her dinner sitting next to me on the floor. Time seems to move slowly as we wait for the lift people to come.
Five minutes later my prayers are answered! Miraculously the doors begin to gradually open. In anticipation, I spring to my feet waiting for the moment when I can squeeze my body through the crack like Peter walking out of prison on the arm of an angel. Emerging from the elevator I feel a cool rush of air and take a deep cleansing breath. Kristina’s arms are immediately around me. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” I hear my friend reassure me. “However Tania, we’re 50 minutes late and we have to go, now!”
