Mom (Maka*) and Dad (Abshir*) strode confidently & wearily through the ticket barrier of MSP airport, mom with a 10-month-old strapped to her torso and an 8-year-old clinging to the long black folds of her hijab, and dad negotiating handshakes around the 2-year-old wrapped around his neck. They were gentle, regal, kind, beautiful, shockingly adjusted and remarkably poised after a 17-hour flight from South Africa. As we greeted them, I could see the weariness that clouded their eyes and draped itself across their shoulders. These first precious minutes of their lives in Minnesota were also some of their final staggering steps on a long journey from home to temporary settlement to permanent resettlement. Joyous though this moment may have been, this was not yet their sigh of relief-- this was a continuation of bated breath as they wound their way across the earth, stitching together half the globe in their longing to land somewhere that was safe and warm and permanently home. Somewhere that was refuge.
Handshakes and introductions were passed around, including the "unveiling" of the infant (the literal cutest baby I've ever seen) from beneath Maka's hijab. Joy and Ellene pulled out the winter coats and hats we'd packed for them, like colorful peace offerings, and began an awkward trial and error process of sizing the infant's head-- slipping on one pink polka-dotted hat, then another violet and grey, then another bright blue. We made small talk about the plane ride and asked the 8-year-old, Samiira*, how she was feeling. She looked abashedly from us to her mother and hid her face in Maka's side, overwhelmed by the attention and affection of strangers.
We made our way together across the airport to baggage claim, cleaving into two groups so that the family could ride together down the elevator. As the five of them hurried off to gather their twelve duffel bags of earthly belongings, discussion about lodging broke out among us. Due to some unforeseen problems, we'd decided it would be unwise for the family to stay at the apartment that had been arranged for them. Several hours earlier, we'd arrived at their soon-to-be housing in St. Paul with boxes full of diapers and silverware and bath towels, ready to set up a comfortable space for them to come home to that evening. And then we'd discovered the backed up drains in the bathroom. Which were completely unconnected to the other plumbing problems in the kitchen. And the carpet was so freshly shampooed that it had seeped up through the bottoms of our shoes and made sponges of our socks. Not worst case scenario by any means. And not anyone's fault. But not ideal.
So we stood around the baggage carousel, and new plans were made, changed, amended, miscommunicated, and finally solidified for the family's temporary resting place for their first night in America: Libby, David, and Minh offered up their home unquestioningly-- and entirely-- so that Abshir, Maka, and their three daughters would have hot showers, warm beds, and safe quarters upon their arrival.
THIS is why I am committed to this particular limb of the Body of Christ.
As soon as the decision had been made to move the family for the night (and as soon as group pictures had been taken), Joy and Libby and I rushed home so we could CLEAN LIKE NOBODY'S BUSINESS. This was just one of several dozen unexpected changes throughout the night-- phone calls overlapping phone calls, last minute carpool swaps, broken dishes and friends in need... It was a remarkably beautiful kind of chaos. Especially when the van arrived at the house to drop five Somali guests, six more of our church people, and twelve bags the size and color of newborn baby elephants directly into Libby's living room. It was busy and noisy and not at all as put together as we probably would have hoped. There were children climbing over each other and bags being pushed aside and meals being delivered...
What an honor and a gift to share that space with them.
Truthfully, though, I didn't know what to do with myself. I felt like I had too many arms and not enough words. I'd only rehearsed my "part" up to their arrival, where my script ended after "Soh-da-woh, welcome to America!" The work of building relationships, especially across cultures, is anything but linear. I wish I could say that my ability and desire to love these people outweighed all of my inadequacies, but admittedly, I felt out of place. There were no more scripted lines or stage directions, and I recognized the anxiety in myself at having to love in ways that were unrehearsed, uncalculated, and even a little (or a lot) broken and weak.
That's what love looks like when it's unscripted. And that's what love looks like when it's authentic. It's a hot frickin mess.
To witness this kind of love being offered by my church with GLADNESS, even in the unexpected, poked several thousand holes in my heart that Thursday. The experience of meeting and receiving and gathering a family as they arrived to the first country they'd been fully welcomed into since their displacement was a much more raw and confusing and uncertain scenario than I had anticipated. It did not fit neatly into the expectations I had of movie-like simplicity, complete with eloquent monologues and violin music and slow motion hug-handshakes. It wasn't the air-brushed celebration I'd expected. But love which is honest does not often fit our romanticized expectations. It looks like everyday grit and grind, and then magically, it multiplies far beyond the limits of our expectations. It is not movie-worthy because it is gradual, and because it erodes and cultivates and wiggles around in our hearts almost imperceptibly, until it breaks open things inside us that we didn't even know needed breaking open. This is how it felt to watch everything unfolding-- like crumbling stone, eroding soil, melting wax, breaking heart. Love will do these things, and in much more powerful ways than cinema.
As our Somali family finally settled in at the Lay & Tran household, Libby, David, Minh, and I bunked at James and Joy's home around the corner. We ordered what must have been the very last pizza made in Minneapolis that night and gathered around the kitchen table to decompress. As I was climbing into bed in the guest bedroom at 1:30am, my arteries humming with adrenaline and pizza grease, I was reminded of how much we actually all need refuge. We all need a place to land, a place that is safe and warm and home-- physically and spiritually. We all need a God who will stand and advocate for us, speak to us in our language, and welcome us in with pink polka-dotted hats and carts to carry our 30 pound bags. Jesus has rushed home to prepare a place for us and is so glad to call us his own.
What a beautiful picture of Gospel love.
I don't think I'll soon forget the anticipation that led up to meeting our Somali family for the first time. Upon arriving and parking at the airport, Libby and I realized we had no freaking CLUE how to get from the parking ramp to the ticket barrier. We were only just on time because a kind-hearted airport security guard happened upon us as we were spinning in circles under clouds of our own breath and trying not to panic. And yet somehow, even as we were sprinting through automatic doors, down stark white corridors and up escalators, past harrowed flight attendants and weary travelers who stared as we dashed by, I felt more alive than I'd felt in a long time. We picked up more of our church family on our way and it seemed like our collective cache of excitement snowballed with each additional person. As we leapt onto an escalator, David shouted back to the stragglers, "Come on, people, RUN WITH HORSES!"
Run with horses. Jeremiah 12:5. The scripture that began this church and the tattoo that our 60-year-old pastor felt so connected to that he inked it on his arm for the rest of his years on this earth. Jesus, help us to run with horses as we love this family and walk (or run) alongside them in this new life you've offered them.
We are not enough... but you are more than enough.
* Names of the Somali family members have been changed for privacy and security purposes. But if you want to join us in praying for this sweet family, feel free to pray the pseudonyms. I'm certain God can figure it out :)
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