In 1985, my father, a Russian Orthodox priest in Canada, had a parish visit from the Metropolitan, his boss. I’m sure my mother dutifully served tea, donning her babushka and her best floor length skirt. As the story goes, he called up my eldest brother, Nicholas, “Tell me, Nicky! What do you want to be when you grow up?” Beaming forward his dutiful answer as he received his blessing, “Vladika, I would like to be a priest!” The hierarch nodded and smiled. He then questioned Christopher, the middle child, “And, you?” Not to be outdone, he quickly rejoined, “I hope to be bishop!”  Nearly overcome with joy, the bearded bishop turned his shining eyes to me, a wiry 4 year old, “Melanya, you must want to be a nun!” As family lore reports, I looked at him squarely and retorted, “No, I want to be rich.”  My eldest brother is, in fact, a priest. My middle brother just retired after 20 years in the AirForce and works on something that he “can’t talk about or I’d have to kill you.” And, I? I am far from rich. As fate would have it, I did not seek after money, but rather after truth. I took up one of family trades, teaching in the humanities.