Birthday Wishes and Really Big Bears

Today, after I packed up a good portion of the upstairs - while my kids played at a friend's house for the afternoon - I sat down to read the mail and drink a much-needed cup of coffee. Amidst the bills and newspaper (whose articles I have neglected to participate in as of late) was a card addressed to me from my pal, the Orthodox priest.

"Happy Birthday, Tiffani. May God bless you and your wonderful family for years to come."

Fr. N

Really? Priests do that? It was such a nice gesture, I decided to carry the card around with me all day in my pocket. A neat little reminder that we matter to people.

And then I had this thought...How do the Russians always seem to know when my birthday is, how to reach me nearly 20 years after our last conversation, when to encourage me? It is like they save their words for the most important moments. Like they get information whether I offer it or not.

"You survived Siberia. You can survive this."

Yes, and I thought you had forgotten who I was completely, because you rarely speak even when spoken to. And you never reply to emails or letters. I exist still in your world?

"Happy Birthday."

Did I ever mention my birthday? How nice of you to know it and to care. Truly. It makes me feel more like I belong somewhere in this world.

It was a wonderful and unexpected surprise. But still surprising. The Russians are like that. They are everywhere and nowhere at the same time. They appear and then disappear and then reappear again when you think they had finally disappeared for good.

"We are watching you, friend. Just know that you are still one of us."

And on my birthday, this gigantic black bear crossed through my yard and looked up into my window. I laughingly said, "Look now, kids! One of the Russians is coming!"

Can I use the big 900 lb bear as a representative at any foreclosure hearings? Cause that might make this whole thing quite enjoyable. I can put a hat on him and call him Uncle Volodja - just like my fictional horse in Siberia. I wonder if I might be able to train him to hold a briefcase and lie like an attorney?

The Russians have come, and they are wishing me a happy birthday and reminding me that I am stronger than I think I am. I am happy today not to be French. I would probably not appreciate a Baguette as much as a reminder that I had once survived Siberia under the forceful guidance of my quirky Russian friends who insist they are family. And I would much rather be reminded, by a card with an Orthodox cross on the outside, that birthdays are supposed to be happy occasions no matter the circumstances that surround it.