It started with a phone call. Katya needed me. She was getting married in a month (Russians will do that kind of thing) and needed help with the decorations. She had no one to turn to but me. Would I help?

Of course, I agreed. No missionary can turn down such a plea. My savior complex kicked into high gear, and I had visions of glory. I should have heard the loud cry of warning, but my pride was already taking over.

Katya lives in Voronezh, which is a 10-hour train ride from my home in Moscow, Russia. As much as I enjoy parts of Russian life, I no longer love the overnight train. It is always too cold or too hot, smells bad, and seems filled with every snorer in Russia. I was willing to deal with these minor discomforts in order to save Katya and decorate her wedding.

On my way to Voronezh, I managed to finagle a kypei-type sleeping bunk. In Russian trains, there are several types of cars. The cheapest (and smelliest) is the plaats kart, with rows of sleeping bunks open at the end. Each section sleeps six, with four in a small area and two at the foot of the others. The kypei car, my preferred means of train travel, sleeps four with a closed door. These cars are a bit higher class and don’t smell as bad. The most luxurious cars only have two sleeping bunks in the room and resemble a small hotel room. However, the toilets in all cars are swaying holes in the floor that provide a wonderful chance to learn balance.

After the train left the station, I graciously offered to switch bunks so two friends could room together. I patted myself on the back for being such a compassionate and kind person. Of course, my real reason for switching was so I could get an upper bunk and sleep better! It was not a selfless sacrifice.

Later, roaming policemen checked my documents. They informed me that the train was almost always robbed and said I shouldn’t be surprised by loud noises in the night! The idea of being robbed was not encouraging. My heart of trust was fading as I determined how best to attack any robbers if they chose to come into our car that night. I thought about it most of the night. I was already beginning to wonder, had Katya required too much of a sacrifice from me?

Upon arriving without incident, Katya’s smiling face welcomed me. Her father had gotten up early, after a week of long, hard hours at work and wedding errands, to meet my train and take us to her house. My heart was full of joy to help my friend with her wedding. My pride was leading me to believe I was indispensable to this wedding.

At her apartment, I realized that she had invited other friends to decorate and help her as well. My heart sank as my expectations of being hailed as the wedding savior plummeted. Her small, three-room apartment, which she shared with her parents, would now also house me, one friend and her capricious, active, three-year-old son, Katya’s maid of honor, and two more welcomed friends.

After I arrived, we decided to enjoy some time together before decorating the church. Due to Katya’s nerves, she had almost stopped eating. As a result, none of us ate either. I might be a rather forward American, but was not comfortable raiding kitchens without being invited. So we went hungry much of the weekend. Being hungry brings out the worst in me, which was already showing too much.

Once we were at the church, I found out that Katya had hired a wedding decorator. We were all to be helpers, servants, ironers of fabric, and movers of pews—nothing glamorous.

That evening, I decided that I should do something to help. After all, I am a missionary, and she had asked me to help her! Dirty dishes were piled up (since we had eventually made our own dinner), and while everyone else was busy, I decided to wash them. Often older apartments in Russia have individual gas hot water heaters. I have never seen one in America, and I don’t know what it is called. But I did know that without turning the appropriate knobs and levers it is possible to blow up the heater and much around it. I have lived in Russia for 11 years and felt confident, so without asking for instructions I turned on the water and began my service of doing dishes. After a few minutes, a loud noise, a bursting, and spewing smoke from the heater startled me. I had broken it by turning the wrong knobs and turning on the gas but not the hot water. There was no water in the apartment for the rest of that day and the next. We had water only for brushing teeth. After this, I stopped pretending to be a nice, great servant. I just wanted to go home. At the wedding, there was not enough room in the hall for everyone and no seats at the tables. We were running about an hour behind, and I was stuck babysitting the three-year-old. My face must have mirrored my feelings because Katya asked me if everything was all right. I hugged her and assured her everything was fine. I had not yet realized that my heart of service was merely driven by a prideful desire for recognition and fame, and that my burst expectations were visible.

When I climbed aboard the train later that night, I was tired, hungry, and a bit cold. I was ready to say goodbye to Voronezh, sleep, and wake up in Moscow. While waiting to depart, an older lady, obviously very sick, entered my four-person sleeping car. She was coughing deeply and walking painfully. Just as we began to leave the station, she vomited on our floor. I would like to say that I was full of compassion for her, but instead I was repulsed, overwhelmed with self-pity, and wondering how to get rid of this old lady. I did not want to get sick! I wanted to sleep. I jumped up and went to stand in the hallway.

As I looked at her in all her sickness, I realized that a true servant is one that does not receive fame. A true servant serves out of obedience and gratitude and does all things for the glory of the master. I decided to get her a wet rag to clean up. Then, I forced myself to make up her bed and to pray for her. While listening to that sick woman’s deep coughs that night, I wondered where I had gone wrong. Why was this trip to Voronezh not a happy event but a nightmare? How had my pride turned me from being a servant to a self-seeker?

Then it hit me. Hadn’t I gone there to help? Wasn’t I to be a servant? I thought a servant was the one who got praise and glory. I assumed the helper would be given the place of honor. My heart had been full of pride and selfishness. Instead of seeing every opportunity as a time to serve unseen, I had wanted to be the star.

I will always remember my trip to Voronezh as a reminder of why I am in Russia—to serve the One who called me.