The refugee crisis, a book of displaced persons, and a granola bar

I turned on the television to catch the news while I was preparing supper.  Pictures of desperate refugees streamed across the screen. 

  

In the face of so much global and local need, an abyss looms in my heart. “What can I do?” I do not have medical training.  I cannot translate.  But this I know, in the words of Oswald Chambers, “Obey God in the thing He shows you, and instantly the next thing is opened up.”

I signed up as a volunteer at a medical clinic in town that cares for the underserved.  Every Monday morning, newly-placed refugees and immigrants arrive for medical examinations and documentation.  Eyesight is checked, blood pressure is taken, and health assessed.

As I crossed the threshold of the clinic that morning, small groups of people had already arrived, conversing around folding tables, their languages blending together like so many voices in a beautiful chorus.  And a grace prevailed in the large crowded room, so palpable I could feel it.

Quite suddenly as I scanned the room, the scene became profoundly familiar, like a series of black and white photographs that I had seen many times before.  I chuckled.

Is this what he saw every day?   Not strangers, but people coming to a new home?

For a minute or two, I saw this room through the eyes of my great grandfather Harvey Snider.  From 1900 until he retired 34 years later, Harvey worked as the night superintendent at Ellis Island, the incredible portal for 12 million people who entered America until it closed in 1954.  

I remembered his old photographs of newly-arriving immigrants in the Great Hall.  From the stories that my father told about him, Harvey knew operable words in 41 different languages.  He knew the power of familiar words in one’s native language to inform, guide and comfort.  

God reminded me that from cover to cover His Word is a book about displaced people.   “Love the sojourner” even before he becomes your neighbor (Leviticus 19.34).  Remember you were a stranger too, the LORD says.  

At the Monday clinic, nametags were already prepared, handed to each one as they came through the door.  Each person was known not by an impersonal government code, or a numbered place in queue like at the bakery, but by one’s own name. These people were not refugees being processed and documented, but individuals who were warmly welcomed and greeted and cared for. 

A different kind of party was going on.

The world sees hospitality as the entertaining of friends.  But the Bible defines it as the love of strangers.  God enables us to respond in a way that is unexpected by the world, not from a sense of obligation or necessity, but out of a gut-wrenching compassion for those around us.   These people before us were not strangers at all, but simply those whom we do not yet know. 

 I passed out white paper bags that morning, containing items like shampoo, toothpaste, soap and granola bars. “I have some gifts for you,” I told one beautiful young Iraqi woman, not realizing how to explain with hand motions the function of dental floss and stumbling over how to describe a Clif Bar to someone whose previous address was a refugee camp. 

I was not even able to engage in conversation with our new friends.  “Welcome,” I wanted to say.  “I’m glad you are here.” 

I do not have even the limited proficiency of my great grandfather in 41 different languages, but ironically enough, that morning we served exactly 41 individuals, and I learned that a smile translates perfectly into every language around me.  

How do I know?  Because they smiled back.

I thought it was over

Two years ago today, I thought my running was over.

I had trained for four months for that Chicago marathon in October 2013, through late spring rains and summer humidity, on long lonely stretches on suburban trails, darting along paths through the Lincoln Park Zoo, and the great delight of running for miles on the breezy shores of Lake Michigan.

One September morning just several weeks before the race, I felt a creaky place in my right foot.  I didn't think anything about it at first.  Aches are part of a runner's life. But as it persisted, I tried doing something different to hold off injury. "Just a few weeks more," I begged my foot.

I changed to a new pair of shoes.  I tried icing my foot after a run.  I took Ibruprophen to reduce inflammation.  I kept running, knowing full well that this could be my last marathon.  The last weeks of any training program involves a "taper," when a runner gradually decreases mileage to be fully charged for a physically challenging event.  About two weeks before the marathon, I didn't just taper, but I completely stopped running to give my now-injured foot every advantage to heal ...and in my mind, to save up anything that was left for the big run.

I knew that I didn't have to run the marathon.  I didn't have to go through with it.  But I decided to show up and run even a token amount.  If my foot hurt even in the first mile, that would be enough.  I would stop at the nearest coffee shop and call Bill to come and get me.

You can read about what happened in that race in Finishing the race set before me posted on October 14, 2013. 

The race was followed by months of rest and physical therapy.  And still, no matter what I did or didn't do, my foot still hurt.  I hobbled.  I hung up my running hat, thankful for that unexpected decade of running that God had given me.

"Time to take up a new hobby," one of our daughters recommended.  "Like knitting."

A lot of life has unfolded since that race two years ago -- new locations for every member of our family, new jobs for most of them, two new grandbabies, and a lot of driving miles.  No more running, but no regrets either.

And something happened along the way.  God healed my foot.

One morning last spring, as I walked in the city park near our house, I ran from one big tree along the path to the next.  The following morning, I tried a little bit further.  No pain, no cramping, no little cringes.  I went out and bought a new pair of running shoes, the absolutely most important first step in any running endeavor. I was not sure what was going to happen after eighteen months of not running.  I ran a bit.  I walked a bit.  Each day, a little further.  Just like I did when I first began running fifteen years ago.

And each day, God brought running back a step at a time.

I am not keeping time any more, or pace, or measuring distance, nor following any kind of training program.  I am just running, some days on the public greenway along the river, some days through the woods at the city park, some days not at all.  Will I ever race again?  I don't know about that.

There is just joy in being able to run again, praying outloud, meditating on Scripture, and thankful for every step God has given me.

As I found in all those years of running, God redeemed every mile with what I learned not about running or myself or life, but about Him.

I will close with what I had posted in this blog right before that last race:


First place or last.  God works something deeper than we can behold.  There are always bigger things to conquer than what appears on the surface.  I don't want to wear a bib number in this race.  I want to bear the name of Jesus.

And in whatever we do,
      in whatever "place" we are,
not just what we run
                   but in how we do it,
we can bring Him glory.


...but this one thing I do,
forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead,
I press on
    toward the goal
for the prize
of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

                              Philippians 3. 13-14

My favorite place to live

We moved a lot while our girls were growing up.  Our family was more like a nomadic tribe, transferring to a strange land for a few years and moving on to the next.  A friend once confided to me that I had totally messed up her address book with all our changes of residence.

My husband and I are now in our tenth location.  Many times I thought that surely this move or that would be the last. But God freed me from that myth a few moves ago.  My final destination is heaven. Anything in between, well, is just a rest area on the highway.

Often, people ask me where was my favorite place to dwell.

The center of God's will.

I have realized through many experiences and locations that the center of God's will is not restricted to a certain geographic place, but my relationship with Him.

Years ago and every year between, God has used a particular verse to change my heart and my mindset.

Not that I complain of want,
for I have learned,
in whatever state I am,
               to be content.

                 Philippians 4. 11

I chuckle, because written in the margin now some 32 years and nine moves ago, I had scribbled "even Tennessee."  At the time, I was a young lonely mom from Chicago with a two year old and a newborn in the Deep South in a house surrounded by cotton fields.  It was our first major move.  And I felt like a stranger in a foreign land.

But little did I know, not just the hardships yet to come, but the extreme joys, the deepening of our lives in Christ, over all those many moves and all those new places.  God taught me quite literally "in whatever state I am," to learn His secret of contentment.

Because whether it was Tennessee or Illinois or Ohio or Kansas or Iowa, I could dwell in Him.  He has strategically appointed me in that exact house, that particular block, that specific neighborhood, that city for deeper purposes than I will ever know for His glory.

And through the years with each bend in the road and huge changes, God brought me to observe that I have seen too much to question God in this.

The amusing part of "even Tennessee" is that is the state where we moved again last year.

Contentment is not a secret joy,
      nor dependent on circumstances.
It is a learned state of heart
    that not just prevails over circumstances
but flourishes in them.

God's deliverance may not be in plucking you out of a difficult spot in life, but engraving His joy into your heart in whatever state you are.

When I look back
on all those places now,
    there is not one
    that I would have wanted to miss.

Because the cookies won't last

When our oldest daughter went off to college, a long five and a half hours away, I felt a strong need to send her something more than an occasional care package.

Soon after she left, I read a particularly poignant verse while reading the Bible that morning, a verse that I wanted to share to encourage her as she began her college life.  Those were the ancient days before most people had cell phones.  Texting had not been invented.  And phone calls were limited to when she was actually in her room to answer the landline -- which was not very often.

But we had email.

And so, that morning, I sent her an encouraging verse of scripture. And in the subject line, I typed, "du jour."  A verse for the day!

The next morning, I did the same. And the next.  And the next. And the next.  She rarely responded, but occasionally, she would send me a note, "That was EXACTLY what I needed today."  God's Word encouraged and strengthened her in both quiet and mighty ways, supplementing her own pursuit in Scripture.  And sometimes in her busyness, it was the only Word that she carried with her into her day.

When our next daughter went off to college, I added her email address to "du jour."  And in turn, our next daughter.  And finally, our youngest.  Along the line, two son-in-laws were added to the list.  For a couple of years, two friends asked for the verses as they were going through tough seasons.

God's Word encourages, strengthens, guides us in the most intricate details of our lives.  God changes us through it.

To accomodate others who have desired this daily bit of Scripture, my other blog was born (www.worddujour.blogspot.com.). Click here to view today's verse or to subscribe yourself or a loved one to the daily email.

Because while I would love to send you -- or your college student -- some homemade cookies to encourage you, God's Word will last a lot longer in your life :)

Your Word is a lamp to my feet,
and a light to my path.

                       Psalm 119. 105

Designed that way

Not that things would fall in place, but that Your incredible purposes are seamlessly woven together. 

Not that You would,

     but You are

     and You already have.