Well, here I am again.
Back across the Atlantic Ocean, sitting in a camper on a hot, humid day in Indiana. So far, we’ve had the chance to visit three different churches and share our work in Calais. They’ve been three beautiful, emotion-filled Sundays. We’ve met new people and renewed relationships with others we’ve seen before.
But my heart isn’t fully here.
I mean, I’ve really loved our time so far. We’ve gotten to gorge ourselves on all the fast food and junk food that we’ve missed during our first two years in France—to be honest, some of it isn’t as good as I remember. And, of course, we’ve gotten to spend time with our families, which is always important and refreshing. After all, we’ve spent a long time apart from people that we love, and our time here is relatively short by comparison.
But my heart is on the other side of the sea, in the seaside town of Calais.
I often think about how easy it is for me to travel between countries, compared to what other people I love must go through. I’ll never know their suffering. And the people here can’t possibly understand it either.
All I can do is walk beside them, hold their hands when they slip into states of depression and brokenness, and celebrate with them when they remember to fully embrace their humanity. This is what I’ve given my life to. And I’m in love with the people I serve.
In our upcoming newsletter I share a bit about how hard it is to help people understand what we’ve seen and experienced in our highly emotional work in France. I don’t want to rehash the same material here, but I will say that it’s frustrating that I can’t adequately put into words what I feel when I look in the eyes of a woman who has been oppressed her whole life and made her way to Europe, only to realize that she’s not wanted there either. Words can’t explain it.
And I recognize the importance of coming here, of taking a reprieve from a work that can be incredibly draining. Some mornings I truly just don’t want to go to the house. I also recognize the importance of sharing the stories of people who can’t come share their stories for themselves so that we can continue being supported in our work in Calais.
All of these things are important, but I’m also excited for the day I get to go back to the place that I love, to the place that has become my home. I know there are others in my place, guarding the work while my family is here. They are people that I trust and love, but it’s hard to be away for such a long time.
So I do the best I can, sharing what I can wherever I can. I live my life in this duality, both happy of the privileges I was born with and broken because I know that the only thing that makes me different from the people I serve is my birth certificate.
And people need to know. People need to be told that the faceless mass known as “migrants” have names, dreams, and hopes. When they vote for certain politicians or for certain policies, they’re voting to strip the hope away from their fellow humans.
I pray that my words don’t fall on deaf ears, that people understand and listen, that they think again about how their actions have real and devastating consequences for those that Jesus called “the least of these.”
I am here in North America. And while I’m here I’ll do the best I can to be present in this place. I’m happy to be here, and I’ll enjoy my time with family and friends I haven’t seen in a long time. But my presence here has a deeper purpose.
And I’ll be happy to go home.
Please consider joining us in our ministry. We need your financial and prayer support to continue our work in Calais. If you would like to contribute financially, please go here. Otherwise, please consider coming to join us in this work as a volunteer. Send us a message if you’re interested. I promise you’ll fall in love and that you will never be the same.
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