It was just luck that I spent my 38th birthday in the magical medieval Convent of the Intercession, founded in 1264, in the even more ancient Russian city of Suzdal, dating back to at least 1024. While we were in the former Soviet Union, our group took several excursions of various lengths to different places. It was sheer luck that on March 3, 1988 we happened to be visiting one of Russia's most beautiful cities. Suzdal is known for its magnificent religious architecture- monasteries and churches with medieval frescoes and icons. As far as I could tell, Suzdal escaped the ugly excesses of Soviet planning. There were no eyesore concrete high rise apartment buildings and no heavy industry whose smokestacks turned the air black with pollution.
As you might imagine, March 3 in Russia is still very much winter. The snow and the cold only enhanced the sense of peacefulness and serenity I felt as I walked around the grounds of that beautiful convent. Walking on the grounds, it was easy for me to understand what the psalmist meant when he wrote, "Be still and know that I am God." There is a spirituality in stillness. I have felt it before while walking at night in the snow, while walking through the woods, while hiking in the mountains and while visiting the vast Russian countryside.
It was our group's custom to celebrate all birthdays in a special way. Often, these celebrations took place at a Russian restaurant. Soviets did not eat out at the drop of a hat like Americans do. They went to restaurants to celebrate special occasions like birthdays and weddings. They always enjoyed a big feast with lots of wine, vodka and caviar on the table. There was always a dance floor where they danced well into the evening to somewhat less than cutting edge Soviet rock and roll.
I do not remember what we had for dinner that night in the refectory of the convent. I do remember that it was festive. There was no attempt at a surprise. It was my birthday dinner. Just as the Russians do, all through the meal, one after another in the group would clink on a glass with a knife, a fork or a spoon and propose a toast. We had all proposed toasts that year, hundreds of toasts both with our Soviet friends and on other special occasions. Typical toasts during the Soviet years were to peace, international understanding and friendship. This time all the toasts were to the Birthday Boy. It was very heartwarming.
After we finished dinner, I was asked to stand. Maybe there was one more toast. I do not remember. Nor do I remember whether there was a cake or whether I was serenaded with a rousing Happy Birthday, but there must have been both a cake, or at least the standard dessert fare- a rich vanilla ice cream- and the traditional birthday song. Those memories are overshadowed by a gesture so thoughtful and touching that I was moved to tears. Suddenly, one by one, each of the 16 members of the group, including Mrs. Baker, who inspired and orchestrated the event, got up, walked over to me and pinned a Soviet commemorative pin on my sweater. I collected these pins, and everybody in the group knew it. Mrs. Baker had suggested that each member give me a pin for my birthday. The pins commemorated anything and everything in Soviet society, history and culture. I must have had a couple hundred of them. They were cheap, often 50 cents or less, and they were a lot of fun to collect. By the time, the last person in the group pinned the last pin on my sweater, I was "in seventh heaven from happiness," «на седмом небе от счастья,» as the Russian saying goes.
After dinner, we continued the evening in one of the big rooms where we were staying. Furniture was pushed aside to create a dance floor. Mrs. Baker excused herself after a decent interval, but the rest of us stayed. I must say that things got pretty wild, especially when you consider that fact that we were in a medieval convent. A portable stereo blared rock music at top volume all night long. We danced and drank and danced and drank some more. We did our Russian friends proud. They know how to have a good time, but so did we that night. We partied into the wee small hours of the morning. Let's just say that I was not able to be still as night turned into morning and know that God is God.
If I live long enough to celebrate my 100th birthday, I will never forget my 38th birthday with Mrs. Baker and my other Middlebury friends in the very special place of the Convent of the Intercession!
As you might imagine, March 3 in Russia is still very much winter. The snow and the cold only enhanced the sense of peacefulness and serenity I felt as I walked around the grounds of that beautiful convent. Walking on the grounds, it was easy for me to understand what the psalmist meant when he wrote, "Be still and know that I am God." There is a spirituality in stillness. I have felt it before while walking at night in the snow, while walking through the woods, while hiking in the mountains and while visiting the vast Russian countryside.
It was our group's custom to celebrate all birthdays in a special way. Often, these celebrations took place at a Russian restaurant. Soviets did not eat out at the drop of a hat like Americans do. They went to restaurants to celebrate special occasions like birthdays and weddings. They always enjoyed a big feast with lots of wine, vodka and caviar on the table. There was always a dance floor where they danced well into the evening to somewhat less than cutting edge Soviet rock and roll.
I do not remember what we had for dinner that night in the refectory of the convent. I do remember that it was festive. There was no attempt at a surprise. It was my birthday dinner. Just as the Russians do, all through the meal, one after another in the group would clink on a glass with a knife, a fork or a spoon and propose a toast. We had all proposed toasts that year, hundreds of toasts both with our Soviet friends and on other special occasions. Typical toasts during the Soviet years were to peace, international understanding and friendship. This time all the toasts were to the Birthday Boy. It was very heartwarming.
After we finished dinner, I was asked to stand. Maybe there was one more toast. I do not remember. Nor do I remember whether there was a cake or whether I was serenaded with a rousing Happy Birthday, but there must have been both a cake, or at least the standard dessert fare- a rich vanilla ice cream- and the traditional birthday song. Those memories are overshadowed by a gesture so thoughtful and touching that I was moved to tears. Suddenly, one by one, each of the 16 members of the group, including Mrs. Baker, who inspired and orchestrated the event, got up, walked over to me and pinned a Soviet commemorative pin on my sweater. I collected these pins, and everybody in the group knew it. Mrs. Baker had suggested that each member give me a pin for my birthday. The pins commemorated anything and everything in Soviet society, history and culture. I must have had a couple hundred of them. They were cheap, often 50 cents or less, and they were a lot of fun to collect. By the time, the last person in the group pinned the last pin on my sweater, I was "in seventh heaven from happiness," «на седмом небе от счастья,» as the Russian saying goes.
After dinner, we continued the evening in one of the big rooms where we were staying. Furniture was pushed aside to create a dance floor. Mrs. Baker excused herself after a decent interval, but the rest of us stayed. I must say that things got pretty wild, especially when you consider that fact that we were in a medieval convent. A portable stereo blared rock music at top volume all night long. We danced and drank and danced and drank some more. We did our Russian friends proud. They know how to have a good time, but so did we that night. We partied into the wee small hours of the morning. Let's just say that I was not able to be still as night turned into morning and know that God is God.
If I live long enough to celebrate my 100th birthday, I will never forget my 38th birthday with Mrs. Baker and my other Middlebury friends in the very special place of the Convent of the Intercession!
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