Nuclear Bonds Experience

CHAPTER 11 – Rhubarb and Russia

“…what he opens no one can shut.” Isaiah 22:22 NIV

Now I needed a job. A friend from my church, Vineyard Christian Fellowship of Burbank, referred me to his employer because they were looking for a manager for a renovated thrift store. The job would not propel me forward in the entertainment industry, but it had its own unique appeal as a way to help others; profits from the shop supported a children’s home. The organization had been the brainchild of two Christian friends in the late 1800’s who went with horse-drawn wagon through the streets of Los Angeles picking up homeless orphans. They gave the children food, a roof over their heads and motherly love. The home grew and in time changed its focus from orphans to foster children.

I had worked in retail before and liked it, but this little store in the heart of Hollywood, though it was retail, would challenge me in lots of new ways. I would have to set prices on all kinds of donated items, lead a cross-cultural staff, negotiate prices in Spanish with many Latino customers and deal with the homeless who begged for free merchandise. An unforeseen job benefit was being the first to go through peoples’ cast-offs. It was like opening Christmas presents, except of course, when the boxes and bags yielded only worthless junk. Despite receiving a certain amount of things we had to trash, we were soon up and running with a store full of very nice merchandise.

Being in the center of Hollywood I was in close proximity to movie theaters, studios and production companies. I kept telling myself that I needed to pursue my filmmaking career. But I had gotten a good look at the studio system, had learned a lot about the business side of the film industry, and I was ready to move on. It was just not clear yet what my next professional step should be. Maybe negotiation would be the perfect skill to add to my entertainment industry toolkit.

I gave good deals on shirts and lamps to Mexicans and African Americans, to Romanians and Filipinos; I held out for higher prices on Italian-made shoes and trendy furniture; and I bargained with a successful business woman and a want-to-be actress who slept in her car. I asked a mom not to let her little boy pee on our front porch, insisted a transvestite close the curtain while changing in the fitting room, demanded a homeless man at least pay something, even if only a few coins for the clothes he selected, and ran down the street after the thief who stole our radio.

Haggling over the price of a nicked coffee table is not communication that develops lasting friendships, but it does bring strangers together. Two Afghani sisters came to the shop regularly to survey new merchandise. We always had interesting conversations, and I was pleasantly surprised when they invited me to their nearby home for lunch. They lived in a cramped upstairs apartment together with one of the sister’s husbands and two sons. Over a platter of fresh fruit, which included raw rhubarb, we conversed.

During the Soviet-Afghan War the sisters and their families had left everything behind, joining millions of refugees in their flight from the violence. They had lived for awhile in an enclosed camp just across the border in Pakistan. The war raged on with seemingly no end in sight, so they finally decided to try and make a new life for themselves by coming to the US. They now ardently hoped their mother, still living in a camp in Pakistan, would one day be able to join them. The rhubarb was tart, the little boys rowdy and our visit short, but evidently our blossoming friendship was as sweet to the sisters as it was to me, because they invited me back again.

That winter a missionary couple visited our church and told us about their work in Russia. After the Iron Curtain had fallen, the American couple had gone to Russia and found that the people were now eager to learn about a world from which they had been literally cut off for 70 years. It was an unprecedented time in history for foreigners to visit. The missionaries said that many of the Russians they had met were skeptical about the past and their communist ideals had been shaken to the core, but they were open to outsiders and to new friendships. If enough people would go with the love of Jesus, they would certainly make an impact.

This was right up my alley. I could be a missionary if it meant making friends with someone of a different culture. I had done that each day at the thrift shop. Now all I needed was a specific mission. Several weeks later my pastor told me about a team being formed north of Los Angeles. I subsequently made a visit to the Vineyard Christian Fellowship in the hot, high desert city of Lancaster, California and signed up for a three month outreach to the opposite side of the world in vast, frozen Siberia.