I grab a sweater from the hall closet and slip Juniper’s orange leash around her neck. She is excited to be outside in the crisp, fall air, and we walk briskly. She is sniffing for worms on the sidewalk, and I am taking in the last day of summer’s greenery. Already burgundy maple leaves cover the grass, their edges curling upward. Soon, the trees will dazzle us with their orange and gold, and I will take paths through our neighborhood that lead me under their golden canopies, avoiding the gaudy Halloween decor that is bound to pop up soon. Several stoops are already decorated for fall, even before it officially began, and wooden signs rest by the front doors. “Welcome!” reads one. “Hey y’all!” says another. “Gather,” commands a third. It’s an odd choice of decoration to me, because compared to many cultures, ours is a society that is distinctly unhospitable. (Yes, even here, in the land of sweet tea and church barbeques.)
My neighborhood is a nondescript subdivision—a handful of similar floor plans, crepe myrtles out front, wide sidewalks. (No pool, unfortunately.) My family of four lives in a three-bedroom house with large, open rooms. It’s spacious, with more square footage than we actually need, but it is also one of the smallest options available. During the pandemic, when many neighbors sold their homes, my husband and I were flabbergasted at both the prices and the size of the houses that surround us. Very few large families live in this neighborhood, but the average house boasts five or six bedrooms with plans exceeding 2,500 square feet. By city standards, they are extremely large, but in this area, with so much suburban sprawl, they are relatively normal.
For the majority of this year, I’ve driven an hour into the city every week or two, and parked in front of a house in a subdivision very similar to my own. I’m always greeted at the door by a woman a decade younger than me, whose dark hair is covered by a silk scarf, and I’m led up carpeted stairs to an empty bedroom. As soon as she shuts the door, the scarf comes off, and we sit cross-legged on the floor. For months, the room wasn’t furnished at all. Now, ornate rugs cover the gray carpet and beautiful cream and red and gold cushions line the walls. This house is a rental—three bedrooms over a small living space, and the family who lives there are refugees from Afghanistan. They are not a family of four, but a family of seven—soon to be a family of eight: a young couple with two children and a baby on the way, one set of in-laws, and a younger sibling.
Shortly after the news began showing footage of Afghans escaping their homeland, I linked up with a community organization that supports recently arrived refugees. They aren’t a resettlement agency, but they provide necessary community to newly arrived families—strangers God commands us to welcome, image-bearers whose lives have been upended by poverty or famine or war. In the year that I’ve been volunteering, I have taught my friend how to answer basic questions in English: What is your first name? What is your last name? How do you spell it? What is your address? What is your telephone number? We have practiced calling the pediatrician with information about toothaches and earaches, fevers and sprained wrists. We’ve learned the names of fruits and vegetables and how to ask for various quantities and cuts of meat. We’ve talked about our likes and dislikes, the days of the week, and the frequency of our daily activities—cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping, and washing laundry. We’ve even studied road signs in preparation for her upcoming driver’s test.
Every time I go, I am humbled by the kindness and hospitality I receive. We study for an hour, and then we break bread together. Flatbread or baklava, cakes or cookies, sometimes even leftovers from the family breakfast—eggs nestled in spicy tomato sauce, homemade pizza, a heaping plate of kabuli rice. Always, at a minimum, there’s a tray of nuts—cashews and walnuts, pistachios and almonds—and several mugs of steaming green tea poured from a large red carafe. Sometimes my children come with me, and they eat miniature chocolate bars and sip tea heavy with sugar. They share toys with my friend’s daughters while we trade words: English for Dari and Dari for English.
My husband often jokes that I have more compassion for strangers than for my family or friends. There’s some truth to that. I’m often less anxious when I’m volunteering, maybe because the power dynamic is always shifted in my favor. (This reality doesn’t escape me, even when I’m helping.) No matter how good or bad my English lesson is, the situation is expected to be awkward. The conversation will fall flat, silence will go unfilled, words will cause confusion, and we will use a lot of Google Translate. I love doing this work, but there is nothing special about me doing it. I’m really not very altruistic, even if I’d like to be. I’m cynical and anxious and, often, far too judgmental. I’m a decent teacher, but I don’t have extensive experience. Some days I come completely unprepared. The truth is that volunteering probably benefits me more than it benefits the family I work with. It has opened my eyes to their struggle, to the sacrifices they’ve made, to the hardships they continue to endure, long after arriving on a safe border. It has allowed me to see the beauty and richness of a culture that, in our country and on our news channels, only gets depicted as militant or impoverished.
I am entering into a season where I will no longer be able to volunteer on a regular basis, but if I’m lucky, I hope to count this woman and her family as friends for years to come. I hope that my children and hers grow up together, that they learn to live in shalom with one another. And even though we don’t have a wooden welcome sign by our door, I hope that my children learn how to be people of welcome wherever they go. And I hope that you do, too.
May we all have eyes wide open, looking for ways to bring peace and welcome into our world.
Jenica
Everyday Joy
Words of Jubilee
Many, many scriptures speak about the importance of being people of welcome. Below are just a few:
“When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33-34)
“If your brother becomes poor and cannot maintain himself with you, you shall support him as though he were a stranger and a sojourner, and he shall live with you. Take no interest from him or profit, but fear your God, that your brother may live beside you. You shall not lend him your money at interest, nor give him your food for profit. I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt to give you the land of Canaan, and to be your God.” (Leviticus 25:35-38)
“Thus says the Lord: Do justice and righteousness, and deliver from the hand of the oppressor him who has been robbed. And do no wrong or violence to the resident alien, the fatherless, and the widow, nor shed innocent blood in this place.” (Jeremiah 22:3)
A Few Good Things
To learn more about refugees and immigration I recommend checking out the work of World Relief, which is a national resettlement organization, as well as the Instagram account We Choose Welcome. You can also learn more about sponsoring a refugee here, and you can learn about the refugee experience by reading or listening to The Ungrateful Refugee by Dina Nayeri or the Kabul Falling podcast by Project Brazen.
A book I’m really enjoying right now is Every Season Sacred by Kayla Craig. It’s so beautiful, and I’m very excited about using it throughout the coming year. It’s part prayer book, part meditation, part seasonal devotional, and it starts its seasonal year with the fall so it’s a perfect time to get a copy!
Right now, my kids want this song on repeat, and there’s no complaints from me. Avett Nation, forever!
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Hi Jenica, I'm here via Mothering Spirit and looking forward to having a good rummage around! I love your Everyday Joy in each post, and I see a lot that resonates with me. I'm in Glasgow, Scotland with four wee ones and lots of pondering questions too ❤️