Mom's View: The Power of One

This week was tough.  Last week was an autumn break for the Russian students (the upper grades and international students keep dancing).  Even one week off of dancing takes a toll on such carefully trained muscles, so Monday meant getting the boys back in shape.  On Tuesday, well,

**since I don't have anything nice to say, I musn't say anything at all.**

I will never understand this method of teaching.  Love and respect produces far better work than fear of a thug.  I do not want to remove difficulty from my children's lives.  In fact, I want them to learn how to deal with conflict and impossible people.  What I don't want is for my children to learn to lean on cruelty to produce results.

About this time, I got the following note from my son:

I miss church. I miss trees. I miss Rednecks. I miss Super 1. I miss late night Mountain Dew trips. I miss my room. I miss that stupid trailer. I miss Patches. I miss Americans. I miss uncles screaming about politics and conspiracy theories. I miss taste sensations. I miss pleas for George of the Jungle. I miss Sunday afternoon dinner. I miss Everything!

Many of the things he misses will only make sense to family, but you get the idea.  He was homesick and second-guessing all of his decisions.  Kuznetsov had succeeded in squashing any ego Isaac may have developed about his dancing, so even that hope and desire seemed naive.

Class was a little better Thursday and Friday, but he was till pretty down in the dumps.  Friday afternoon, he met up with two Church Education Missionaries to discuss Seminary options.  He took the metro, following their instructions, and stepped off at the indicated stop.

"It was like coming home," he said.

There they stood, a senior missionary couple, smiling and speaking English.

Elder and Sister Millar used to live in our hometown.  Justin and I knew them pretty well, but both of our parents knew them much better.  The fact that they were called to serve in Russia and precisely the time Isaac was also going to be there, was nothing less than providence.  As Sister Millar filled Isaac's hands and pockets with pumpkin cookies ("I don't know HOW she found pumpkin in Russia, but they were so good!"), they talked about Isaac's grandparents and aunts and uncles.  They then worked out a system for seminary and discussed the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  So much familiarity, delicious cookies and talking freely about the gospel worked as the Balm of Gilead on Isaac's soul.

Because of many scheduling conflicts, Isaac and I hadn't been able to talk for several days; we'd only been able to chat on Facebook for short, interrupted stints.  I knew he was struggling and, since I couldn't visit with him or go beat up his teacher, I had to put all of my faith and trust in Heavenly Father.

By Saturday afternoon, when we were finally able to Skype, the crisis had passed.

I was reminded once again that Isaac is the son of His Father, first and foremost.

Isn't it something how the words of one can do so much damage and the words of another can heal and comfort?

~Emily

**I have been asked to amend my post for the protection of the innocent.  Isaac was very quick to add that no matter what we think of his teacher's style, he could definitely see improvement in their dancing.  I still don't agree with the method, but it is hard to argue with results.