Citizens of No Land

I’ve been quiet through this whole thing. I haven’t really spoken my two cents yet. Maybe out of fear. Maybe because the words haven’t been there. Maybe I’ve been in denial this issue has really anything to do with me. But it does. Because it really it has everything to do with all of us.

Refugee. The dictionary defines the word as “a person who has been forced to leave their country in order to escape war, persecution, or natural disaster.”

Where we live, where we work, refugees constantly surround us. Refugees from Nepal and Burma, Rwanda and Liberia, even Syria and Afghanistan. We’ve come to love the people who we call neighbors. We can’t see ourselves living anywhere else. They have become home.

As our country decides whether to let any more refugees enter the USA, I can’t help but be thankful that they allowed the refugees in who currently reside in our neighborhood. What if we hadn’t met Moo, Mooku and Daykulay, Sui and Esther, Anisha and Sabina, Shalena and Hari? And then there is Mary, our daughter’s best friend. They play everyday, being so sweet with one another without ever knowing any different. Anna doesn’t know Mary’s family is from the mountains between Burma and Thailand. She doesn’t know what Mary’s parents and siblings had to endure to get here, to safety. She doesn’t know that Mary’s family lived in a refugee camp before flying on a big plane to welcome arms in the city of Charlotte. All she knows is that Mary is her best friend and that’s all that matters at this point. Friendship.

Daughters of the King

We wanted to provide a place for the girls to feel beautiful. Beautiful in their skin, beautiful in their hearts. We wanted them to see who they really are. Not defined by the world’s standards but defined by their Heavenly Father’s. He says his daughters are beautiful, he delights over his daughters with singing, he brings purpose to his daughters’ lives. We wanted them to really see it, really feel it.

Emily transformed Laura, Susan, and Jackie’s back patio into boho chic with sari’s she acquired from her travels around the world draped over twinkling lights, lit candles set in mason jars, and flowers delicately placed in tiny vases. We thought it be appropriate to provide hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookies—because, duh, what girl doesn’t love chocolate? And because we were going to share with the girls how they are daughters of a great high King, we planned to make crowns from ribbon and flowers.

Dear Anna,

Hey there, my sweetheart, my joy. It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and you’re supposed to be napping like your brother in the crib next to you. How he hasn’t come to yet bewilders me. I only say this because the clunking from your baby dolls hitting their mini cradle beside your bed is enough to wake even the deepest sleeper. But alas, his slumber hasn’t been interrupted. The noise must be a familiar occurrence to him as you avoiding sleep in the afternoon has become the norm and the phrase please read quietly has fallen on deaf ears.

You missed me peaking in at you a few minutes ago. My displeasure of you still awake left quickly as I took you in. You are breathtaking. I can’t believe you are mine, flesh of my flesh. I watched you ever so gently hug your baby and with the utmost care lay her down to sleep.

Then it struck me, why did you do it all so gracefully, so carefully, so lovingly?

And it’s because of me. Me.

Unqualified

Often I wonder why God placed us where we are. I get bogged down counting all the people I know who would be "better" suited to be missionaries in a refugee neighborhood compared to us. People who could love better, have more compassion, better pray-ers, people who actually speak the same language as their neighbors, who are more selfless and are willing to give all their time to building up this community. I'm discouraged after I sit and think about all those more "qualified".

And then I hear a voice that says, "But I called you, and you said 'Yes!".

But why?

Why were we called? Why was I called?