Refugee Hope

 I eat lunch with a group of refugees every week. I drive home elated, saddened and burdened. These are brave men facing difficult circumstances. Coming alongside, I feel inadequate.

I can’t know this; what it’s like to be alone in a place, not knowing the language or the cultural norms. Falling with no safe-place to land.  To be a professor in Venezuela but a nobody here. He formulates a plan. He knows somebody who sells him an old car for a couple thousand dollars. Been carrying his life with him in a back-pack, through-country. His identification, registrations, originals of his doctorates and degrees, his whole life. Driving back to his apartment he stops inside a gas station. Leaving backpack—and keys—inside the car. Perfect target in a big city.

There are worse things stolen than cars. Dark stories abound, as if you’d want to dwell on these. One of the men, Henry, having flown from the middle east was put into a hospital for some serious surgery. In the process, without consent they removed one of his testicles. Smaller infractions occur in living situations; with management companies randomly trying to raise rent-rates and evict tenants unfamiliar with the law. So much treading of water that it’s a delight when somebody splashes up onto land!

The agencies working with this population generally come alongside to transition the refugee to life in Dallas. They provide them with housing, bed, kitchen, healthcare and a case-worker to help them navigate. Most are efficient as any big government agency like the post office or DMV. So when we found our Rodger hadn’t had a bed for two months it was a thrill to see individuals team together to find a bed (and a microwave), rent a truck and deliver them. Beyond the basics; Rodger has been able to obtain his permits and drivers’ licenses and to obtain numerous jobs; Uber eats, doing clean-up at a local hospital, then leaving that to clean carpets for a local company. The refugees themselves keep looking forward to these successes seemingly not paralyzed by the failures. Resilient human hope keeps them going, helps them move forward.

Some amazing stories are shared over pizza. Heartbreaking losses too. On a macro scale the odds look overwhelming; from fleeing home to flying here. If there’s a secret to their perseverance it is this. Hope lives in each small moment. Woven through each shared meal, the laughter and the bread are life-giving.

Photo by Alan Hardman on Unsplash

The Wonder of Words

For the three years that we were in middle school, and even beyond that, my sister had a secret weapon. She would sing these words, “Ching chong, ching chong, boop scala vatske, gilly-gilly-gilly vitch on vo, vitch on vo.” That’s nonsense you might say. I was convinced the taunt had meaning. It was some sort of curse or an insult. What made it worse was when my sister sang it in unison with her friend Sylvia, the one who made it up or shared it.

My strength was no match for those words. Is the pen truly mightier than the sword? Perhaps not if the sword has insecurities or feels mocked. I still don’t know the meaning of that chant. It certainly says something for the power of words. “By our speech we can ruin the world, turn harmony to chaos, throw mud on a reputation, send the whole world up in smoke and go up in smoke with it, smoke right from the pit of hell.”

That same chaos can be turned to harmony. Even that ching-chung was a song sung by my sister. Who can not be flabbergasted at these words, “’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…” Or those deep lyrics of the Beatles, “I am the walrus, goo goo g’joob.” Image bearers are we and we can create complete new languages like the Quenya and Sindarin spoken in Middle Earth.

One wonders, if we’d had different songs sung over us as children if the taunts and blows we’d dealt each other would have happened. Certainly my sister understood that by flinging ching-chung boop-ska-la-vatski she was only making me feel more helpless and angry. I had no magic words. Only anger and force. It could have been worse.

Words and language are wonderful mystical things with great power. I wish our politicians understood that. And our bosses. And some parents. We could sing silly songs over each-other to make us laugh (There once was an old lady who swallowed a fly—perhaps she’ll die). We could sing spiritual songs, songs of blessing and peace. Romantic stories (No more Mr. Darcy please) about deep love and heroic tales. Legends that married the two together.

My sister called today to wish me well. The words we speak to each other now are to bless and encourage. We speak of wine and art and love and life. Life is short we realize. So we sing a different song.                                   

Photo by Glen Carrie on Unsplash