TORONTO, CANADA
Vladimir had not yet traveled outside of Romania so often that one city looked much like another. Since arriving in Canada on Wednesday, he had sung vespers in Edmonton, baptized and confirmed babies and converts in Montreal, and celebrated the liturgy today in Toronto. He had met with clergy and laity in each city and from each church represented had gained a commitment to give a monthly contribution to the Fund for the Orphans of Romania. Tonight, he, Josef, and Nicolae had checked into a Toronto hotel preparatory to leaving for the airport in the morning. They would arrive in Detroit before noon.
After they checked in, they had discovered a labyrinth of small shops beneath the street and an underground marketplace with eateries. Incognito, they bought oranges and peaches to take back to their hotel rooms, then ate a Greek salad, Italian pizza with pepperoni, and an American favorite—crispy fried chicken. Stomachs full, they followed the exit signs, emerged on a quiet street near the hotel, and walked through the downtown business district for several blocks.
“There are no children,” Vladimir said. The one thing he thought of whenever he thought of Canada was that he never saw a child alone in the streets at night, at least not in the cities he visited. “No children trying to get warm with heat from the sewer grates. No children searching through refuse for supper.”
He had asked those he spoke with to be generous in giving to the children of Romania. Their faces told him how foreign the reality of so many orphans and so much need was.
“Does this do any good?” he asked aloud.
“Perhaps,” Josef said.
Vladimir clapped Josef on the back. Over the years Josef had become more than his aide. Josef was his trusted friend who never lied.
“They have never gone hungry,” Vladimir said. “They have never had to watch where they walk because they have no shoes. They have never stuffed newspaper under their shirt or their sweater because it was cold and they had no coat.”
“Those who have much do not necessarily give much, Vladimir,” Josef said. “They want to see what they give, or experience it. They want everyone to see their name on a plaque or a brick or even a program for a new play or a symphony orchestra so that everyone can see how much they gave. Money is tangible to them. They want something tangible in return.”
“And all I am promising is a child’s future. A child they may never see. That is not something they can see or take credit for now. They might never know the results of these gifts or be able to measure the outcomes.”
“For some that will be enough,” Josef said. “There are always those who listen for the voice of God and know when He speaks to their hearts.”
“We will see,” Vladimir said. “We will see.”
Many among the laity he had met with were young. Perhaps, because much of what he told them about their homeland had happened within their lifetimes they could identify with some of it. He had suggested that if they had any relatives in Romania, they speak with them about the orphans. And many of them had children, which could make providing for poor children in a place far away seem more urgent than—he shivered— a vacation in a place where it was warmer than fifty-nine degrees in May.
“You sow, Vladimir. Others have prepared the ground, others must gather the harvest.”
“And somehow, Josef, the children must eat, and be clothed, and given shelter.”
“The children must have families, Vladimir. You will give those in heaven no peace until then.”
“Thank you,” Vladimir said. Once again Josef had brought him back to the place where there was no beginning and no end, just his God.