Crossing Language & Culture ... and Making Friends

I spent my Friday at Franklin & Marshall college, for a conference about refugee resettlement in Lancaster. We had a fairly large group of people who are serving refugees in a variety of ways, and we came together to learn how we can better serve and assist the people that we work with. 

I loved the wide variety of people we had - Nepali people, a Iraqi couple, a speaker from Burma, a family from the Congo; teachers like myself who work with non-English speakers, folks who help them find homes in the United States, people in the health field who assist refugees in the confusing maze of healthcare.  

What really inspired me was getting to share ideas, challenges and thoughts with so many other volunteers who are working with refugees also. In the last session, we broke into groups of seven, and discussed our city: how are we helping refugees? How are we failing? Are there some things we could do better? Strengths? Weaknesses? 

We came together again, and the staff at F&M put all the ideas into a powerpoint presentation. I was really inspired by the ideas and challenges! Here's a few of our thoughts:

- In Lancaster city alone, we have so many resources that could be utilized. There's many volunteers and several organizations dealing with refugee resettlement, and yet as we were interacting at the conference, we were meeting each other for the first time! (On a personal level, I met a teacher that is working with the same refugee family that I'm tutoring. Neither of us were aware of each other. Now that we've met, we can partner together, share ideas. ) If those of us who are working with refugees were aware of each other, we could better direct our people to the volunteers who would be able to help them. I'm a teacher; I can't help Didi with his taxes. But if I knew someone who could, I could direct him to that person. 

- What about a community center, where we would bring together the various specialties? We don't know where the community services are! If we had a center to direct the refugees to - whether the need be teaching, ESL, driving help, healthcare, etc. - there wouldn't be as many gaps and unfulfilled needs.

-Another thing that we talked about was the language problem. We need to be very sensitive and willing to speak slowly, listen carefully, and not to be afraid to repeat to make sure we got the point across. Possibly something we said could be misunderstood, or mean a totally different thing to our non-English friends. 

It was a exciting conference. I made numerous international friends from around the globe, who are now living in my city. I learned more about how to help my refugee friends. I can hardly wait to head into Lancaster city again this week - but wait, this time I have two families to visit, not just one! :) 

Strangers ... or my Neighbors?

Egypt. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Jordan. What do you feel when you hear of those places ... when you pick up a newspaper, and see a photo of a crowd of nameless Syrians holding signs scrawled with unreadable Arabic script? When your friend gets deployed overseas to some far-off land that is only a hard-to-pronounce name to you? What about when your new neighbor moves in next door, and you discover that they're refugees from Iraq, fleeing war and turmoil?

Maybe you have had a experience like I have. Maybe you were a typical American, living the typical American life, sitting in your far-removed living room watching bombs drop on some country that you never knew existed before.  Maybe you were like me - a 10 yr. old, watching the destruction on television. Maybe, like me, you thought the orange flashes that lit up the night sky over Baghdad were nothing more than that - pretty light in a dark night.

Until you realized that it was not a pretty light. It was no fireworks display. It was war. And war means death. It means lives, torn by loss. People who would never again see the sun rise. Fathers, taken from their wife and children. Suddenly, those streaks of light seemed so senseless.

I remember lying in bed at night, seeing those light flashes when I closed my eyes. Seeing the pleading eyes of the Iraqi children. Thinking of Iraqi fathers not unlike my own. I remember running into a Middle Eastern family at the local WalMart.  I remember distinctly the fear in their eyes as they interacted with my people - knowing that my people were at war with their people.

Yeah, I was really young. I didn't know much. But I prayed a prayer back then that I have never stopped praying - "Oh God, when I'm old enough, send me over there! I want to help those people!"

I think we too easily let distance, lack of knowledge or fear put a barrier between us and the nations ... and our international neighbors. Specifically our Middle Eastern neighbors.

Did you ever stop to think how it would feel to be in their shoes? To be dropped into a nation whose language you cannot understand, whose culture is shockingly different, whose clothing is scandalous compared to what you are accustomed to? What if you couldn't read the labels on the various food products? What if you weren't certain what kind of currency use, or what the monetary value was of each bill? What if riding the bus was the biggest hurdle you could imagine crossing?

That Middle Eastern family you just walked past on the street - they're living here because they were hunted like dogs in their own nation. They have very few friends in America. They've caught every flu and cold since they moved to the U.S., and so have missed alot of their English classes. They are ashamed of their inability to understand or to communicate in English. They would be delighted to have a friend who they know truly loves them - in spite of their poor English.

Those strange-looking ladies two blocks down - the ones with the headscarves - they're living in America, seeking higher education. One is married and has three little children who demand her attention. Recently their homeland was at war. All of the resources they had to their name were suddenly unavailable, as the leader of their nation froze all assets, and though they diligently worked two jobs at night, it was not enough to pay tuition. Nor to provide sufficient food for the family.  They were desperate. They had never experienced this sort of difficulty before. They didn't know where to turn. They felt very alone in this strange country.

Story after story after story, of people ... refugees, immigrants ... real people with real lives, with real pain, and real needs. I think we need to throw our lives into their lives - be willing to hurt with them, be willing to risk being misunderstood, be willing to give our time and our money. The world is at our doorstep - oh Lord, give us Your eyes, and let us see the world around us like You do! 

Glimpses of Syria

 Syria. It's been in the news constantly the past while. We all know that there's fighting. Killing. Death. Uprising. Protesting. Maybe we don't know all the why's of what's going on. Maybe we've taken a minute to read a news report, or to pray for the Syrians who are experiencing the horrors of civil war.

Do you feel like it's removed from your daily life? Like you just can't imagine it?

Dawn has come again. You're awake, though weary after another restless, cold night. The fear of yesterday plagued your night with dreams … full of terror. You're hungry, thirsty, weary and cold. Your brother was killed four days ago, brutally murdered as he attempted to flee to safety; there was no funeral. In shocked silence his body was buried quickly, unceremoniously, under the guard of loyal friends. It is necessary to remain watchful. Even while the burial took place, shots were heard nearby. The tension never ends. Syrians are calling it a genocide. 

Your normal routine is a thing of the past. Tears fill your eyes as you go out on the streets. Houses and buildings that were once beautiful are now reduced to shambles, pockmarked with huge holes. Bricks and broken shards of rock and metal litter the street. Blood stains. Used shells. The silence is deafening. Those who have not fled the violence are fearful to leave their houses, choosing to remain out of sight. Establishments are shut down. Busy streets are now empty, littered with the evidence of war.

Then you see a child, standing in the middle of the street. She is beautiful, so innocent, surrounded by destruction ill-fitting with her beauty. Her simplicity and happiness in the midst of death and pain tears at your heart – you wish to take her, protect her, keep her safe from the horrors of what your city is enduring. She is holding a metal pan, reaching her arms out to the sky. She is so thirsty that she is willing to risk her life to catch a few snowflakes, to melt and to quench this terrible thirst. 

Her mother and baby brother cower inside the basement of their house. Father was killed in the fighting last week. He went out to find food to feed his hungry family, and he never came back. She smiles, oblivious to any threats around her. Her smile seems to betray her inner strength; she has not given up hope. She is alive. She is Syrian.

A hour later, fighting breaks out on your street, and the dreaded shelling begins afresh. You turn to flee, only to be knocked unconscious and thrown to the ground by a bomb exploding nearby. You lie on the street until you regain consciousness. Pain wracks your body, and you know it is impossible to try to walk to safety. You are alive, but just barely. Involuntary tears run down your face as the pain becomes nearly unbearable. You must get medical help – but there is no such aid.

Would you be horrified if I told you that this story has been repeated over 7,500 times? That over 500 of the casualties were children? And over 64 of those killed were mothers?

It's true. And this story continues today … right now as you're reading this. Syrians are living out something that we Americans cannot fathom. They're hungry. Thirsty. There is snow on the ground, and they have no electricity. No heat. The wounded suffer without adequate medical assistance. They are being killed by the hundreds every day. Children are dying simply due to lack of food and water.

And they feel totally forgotten – or ignored – by the world. They feel alone. They are living this tragedy without anyone to encourage them. One citizen writes from Syria a day ago: “God is the only one who cares. We are alone.” Is that true? Can we let that be true?  

This story is compiled from numerous accounts from the front lines in Syria. It's fictional, in that it is not about a single, real person. Rather it has been compiled from the lives of many Syrians who are living this nightmare, and who survived – so far - to tell their story.

I write this so you can know in a personal way what so many people are experiencing daily. I write so that you will never again be able to read a news report without feeling the pain and agony of a people not so unlike our own - and that it would drive you to action. Above all, I write so that you will pray, and that you will pray from a heart that has felt the pain of Syria. I believe Jesus weeps over Syria. Do we?

Volunteering Day #1

Scanning the street, I located a parking spot and pulled next to the curb. Swallowing my fear, I double-checked the address I was given, and stepped onto the sidewalk. It smelled weird: a odd mix of curry and spices foreign to me. My arrival was obviously a object of curiosity, as numerous doors opened and several people stepped out to watch me walk by. I smiled, trying to look like I knew just what I was doing there - even though that was far from the truth!

I found the Nepali family's apartment without any trouble, and before I even knocked on the door, it flew open and a smiling, cheerful Nepali girl motioned for me to come in.  She shut the door behind me, and we proceed to greet one another - though she speaks very little English, and I speak absolutely no Nepali. Her sister, a older, much more traditional Nepali lady, stands and greets me in the traditional manner - hands together, slightly bowing,"namaste". She speaks no English, and is illiterate even in her own language.

So far, so good. I kept glancing at my cell phone, hoping that any minute now, my American contact (who knew this family) would arrive. She promised to be here! This is terrifying! These people speak no English, we cannot communicate, and worst yet, there is a continual stream of brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts, all coming to see the new English tutor - me. Terror fills my heart. Another round of greetings!

I finally gave up on the hope of having another American around, and just threw myself into the situation. "So ... do you like living in America?" My attempt at conversation was met with that all-too-familiar look. Okay, better try again.

Thankfully, after the initial feeling of fear of not being able to communicate, the three girls whom I was assigned to teach arrived home from school. The two youngest immediately climbed up on the couch next to me, and begin to whisper to each other, giggling.

The girls have obviously been very diligent at school. They can read fairly well. "e-l-e-p-h-a-n-t...says ephelant? Yes?" At my uncertain look, she scoots closer. "How you say?" She puts her dark hand on my arm, questioning. I notice for the first time the henna drawings on her hands and arms. Her trust and love for me, a perfect stranger, warms my heart. We sound out the word together, and she so painstakingly tries to imitate just how I pronounce it.

All too quickly, we're through all of their homework. These girls are incredible - they've adapted to their new culture so well, and so bravely! I find myself not wanting to leave. I love these girls; I love this family. I think ... well ... this cross-cultural thing isn't as scary as I thought!

Walking out their door and onto the sidewalk again, I suddenly feel like these people aren't just refugees anymore. They're friends.  And I can't wait to go back again!

Maybe you caught it already, but the above is my experience as a volunteer English/homework tutor. It's scary, and uncomfortable, and stretching - but the rewards are so worth the effort! And in case you wondered, I'm not working in a foreign country; the family I work with lives within 15 minutes of my home town. 

Encounter with Uncontacted Peruvian Tribe

First thing this morning, I heard about a tribe by the name of Mascho-Piro, living within the Manu National park in Peru. They are totally untouched - every time outsiders attempted to make contact with the tribe, they were either unsuccessful, or were killed. Of course there's the fascination of realizing that there's people out there who are totally removed from the life that I know; that there's people living without technology, and the basic things that I take for granted.
But worst than all of that ... they're living without Jesus.  And they don't know it.
One man, Nicolás "Shaco" Flores, was able to make meaningful contact with the tribe. He befriended them and learned to speak their language. Many others have attempted to communicate, but no one was able as this man was.
Nicolás "Shaco" Flores was shot by a arrow on the outskirts of the Manu National Park, in November, by the tribe he wanted to befriend.


So, I guess the purpose of my writing this is clear: I hope above hope that many of you who read this will pray for the Mascho-Piro tribe. They have very little hope of being reached by the Gospel. Due to their evident desire to be left alone by outsiders, the Peruvian government is trying very hard to keep others from invading into their territory. Their tribe fears outsiders, and outsiders fear them. And there is no one who speaks their language, who has made any meaningful contact with them.

It reminds me of the Auca tribe so many years ago, before Jim Elliot and his four fellow missionaries were willing to risk everything for their salvation.  I'm praying for this tribe ... that God would send someone who is fearless. And that someday, JESUS would shine from the Mascho-Piro!

day 14 of 365...

Wow, it's been awhile since I posted anything here! My apologies, people. Blogging doesn't have priority in my life. ;)

I've been loving life these first few weeks of 2012. That sounds trite, but I'm serious - God has been doing things in my heart that I never expected or dreamed He would do. And I'm absolutely thrilled. Crazy busy, dealing with health struggles, learning a 2nd language, sewing dresses for two weddings (and all 10 dresses need to be done in a month. On the same date. Go figure.), childrens' ministry - just life - and finding Jesus sweeter than I ever knew.

I've been thinking about life in general, about a new year ahead, about the shortness of my life, as I have been reading through 2 Cor. 4-5.  And a few verses shone out to my heart: "But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us. We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.."

And then the part that hit me the hardest. ".. always carring in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies."

And almost without a breath, it goes right into verse 16: "So we do not lose heart.." (Like, there's purpose in this pain! See past it!) "..Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.... as we look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen."

Yeah. Does that blow you away like it does me? I read it and just sat there, with overwhelming thankfulness to God. I thought of all the pain of the past months, all the challenges, the things that seemed so wrong; all of the health issues...the places I want to go, but can't, because of them.  And it was like God said, "Wait. I've got a purpose in it. See past it! There's something more here!"

So ... we don't have to loose heart. I'm not loosing heart. I'm thrilled that my life - one of millions of people on this earth - has a purpose. And I'm thrilled that God is always doing a thousand times more than we can see. And He can use the brokenness in my life for good.

God is so good!!

2012 and my one life to live ..

    Well,  it's the first day of 2012, and I thought that warranted a post here. Yesterday I thought about the tradition of making New-Year's-Resolutions-That-I-Never-Keep, and that seemed pretty lame to me. I don't believe in resolving to do something that I know I'll not do past next week.  :)
    But regardless, I was really challenged by the suggestion to pick one of Jonathan Edward's Resolutions (http://dailychristianquote.com/dcqresolve.html) as a goal for this coming year.  Having read much of Jonathan Edward's writings and sermons, I have a high regard for his life and testimony, and have been incredibly blessed by his humility and heart after God.
  So I picked one of his resolutions as something that I want to remember throughout this coming year, and the rest of my life: "Resolved, never, henceforth, till I die, to act as if I were any way my own, but entirely and altogether God's."  And also, right along with that, was the second resolution: "Resolved, to endeavor to obtain for myself as much happiness in the other world, as I possibly can, with all the might, power, vigor, and vehemence, yea violence, I am capable of, or can bring myself to exert, in any way ... "  
    That's what I want in this next year.  That's what I want in my life.  To live life with all I've got - I like that word violence in this context - for the glory of God, in a way that speaks of my owned-ness, with as much might and power and vigor and violence that I'm capable of. In Jonathan Edward's words, "to live with all my might while I do live." 
    I'd love to hear what God has put in your hearts, as you look towards another new year. What's your goals, visions, desires?