Well, it’s that time of year again.
Over the last two weeks we’ve taken our annual trip to the United Kingdom to visit former guests from the Maria Skobtsova House (MSH) who have made their way to the UK to claim asylum. After having been in France for two years there are literally 100s of people that we know, many of whom ask us to visit while we’re here. Unfortunately, we don’t have time to visit every person we would like to see, so we choose to base ourselves in a couple of different places and visit people in those areas. This year, we chose to stay in London and Manchester.
We had the opportunity to visit a good number of people that we have maintained relationships with since they left MSH. Some were Iranian; some were Eritrean; some were from other countries. No matter what group of people we visited, the first moments were always the same:
Since most of them were women, Rachel would rush in with one of her famous hugs. I’d stand back and observe, heart full as I watched the women fall into Rachel’s embrace and hug her back. There were always tears. Tears of joy that held in them the memories of sorrow and pain, tempered by the feeling of sisterhood and family, remembering kindnesses shown to them when they were in their lowest moments of darkness. Then it was my turn. My hugs are not nearly as tight or long lasting, but the feeling is the same: joy and sorrow mixed in equal parts.
You see, there is more to these visits than just seeing friends that we’ve missed. These are people with whom we’ve shared some of their hopelessness and tragedy. These are people that we’ve sat up at night wondering whether we would ever hear from them again, wondering whether the news of another death in the English Channel would turn out to be this person that we loved. In some cases, we were there when they went through exceedingly traumatic moments, nearly drowning and yet being saved by the grace of God.
These people are all too happy to provide hospitality to us. They tell us in unspoken words that they feel grateful to have the ability to be welcoming to us, who were hospitable to them while they were waiting in Calais. Sometimes they do speak these words. A woman told us, “Everyone said that Calais was a terrible and difficult place, but my family has nothing but happy memories because of our time at the Maria House with you.”
Others speak the same sentiment in more philosophical terms. A man told me, “For you, the house is your work. It’s your everyday job, a small thing that you do. For us it was a big thing, more than I can even express to you in words.”
We would then either eat a home-cooked meal or go to a restaurant with them, depending on their circumstances. At the restaurants, we tried to contribute to the bill, but were always refused. It seems that a shared meal is a sacred thing, both in MSH and across the Channel in England. It’s a time to share memories and life updates. It’s a time to hear how much their English has improved and about how their daughter is the top student in her school, with a dream of attending Oxford one day.
And for Rachel and me, it’s a time of deep encouragement. We hear so many negative things about the life of the refugee in England that it’s easy to lose hope for those who leave us. But without exception, the people we visited are happy to be here. Even if their circumstances are far from ideal, they still realize that they can be free to dream about the future for themselves and for their children, a future that doesn’t include daily threats to their lives or an oppressive regime that keeps them in purposeful poverty.
I tried to encourage them a bit when they shared some of the difficulties of their new lives, pointing out that their children and grandchildren will be incredibly grateful for the journey that they took that allowed them to live and grow up in a free country. For many of them, this was their primary motivation for leaving their homes and traveling here in the first place.
And then, inevitably, it was time for us to go. The time was always too short; there were always words left unspoken. But without exception, we were left with a joyful feeling, knowing that our friends are thriving in their new home, near the end of their sometimes years long journey.
I’m not trying to sound conceited here; rather I’m humbled and grateful for the incredible opportunities that we’ve had the last two years to be present and provide hope and joy for those who are often at the lowest point in their lives. It’s encouraging because it means that despite the nearly infinitesimal number of people we’re able to help among the numberless people called “migrants,” our work does mean something. This is the legacy that we will leave. When these people tell the story of their travels to their grandchildren one day, we will be a happy, essential part of that story.
And I couldn’t ask for a greater legacy than that.
Comentarios