The Law of Kindness

It didn’t seem strange, at first, to see this young family ahead of me in line when I went to drop my son off at camp for the week. They stood huddled together, quietly waiting, but then when they reached the front of the line, they quietly requested a place to take a shower. While other children excitedly checked in and called out greetings to long lost friends, the silence of these children and their parents suddenly spoke volumes to me and in their beautiful, brown faces I read an unwritten story and it broke me a little more. What does it feel like to live life on the run, with no home, no place of safety to tuck your little ones into at night, no place to wash the dust of your journey off your weary body? How devastating it must be to have your adopted home become unsafe, unfamiliar and possibly dangerous.

By the time I got my son settled in to his cabin, the family was gone. I realized I had gone on through the line, expecting someone else to do the right thing, the kind thing, thinking up all the reasons why I couldn’t, why I didn’t just offer my home to them to freshen up in. I needed to get my son settled in. I didn’t have enough seat belts in my car. I lived a distance away and they probably wanted to stay in the area. I desperately needed some down time. As I went over my list of “reasons” on the long, quiet ride home, I only felt regret. I felt as if the Christ-child had knocked on my door and I had shut it in his face.

Whenever you did one of these things to someone overlooked or ignored, that was me—you did it to me.

So I am writing to myself, as much or more than to anyone else. Something in my bones is grieving, like some ancient DNA that remembers the loss of home, of children, of family. 300 years ago it was not uncommon for Mennonite parents to have their children taken away from them, while they were put into prison for refusing to change their faith. It was next to impossible for them to own land. They were heavily taxed based upon their faith and often hunted down like animals. They were deported, branded (literally) and sometimes sold as slaves,  yet they illegally returned again and again to the places they called home. My ancestors became wandering immigrants, leaving Switzerland and living wherever it seemed safer – France, Germany and eventually finally finding passage to the United States of America.

Recent events have made me keenly aware that I am the descendant of immigrants and that awareness has helped me to step into their stories. And when you are on the inside of someone’s story, well, things just feel a whole lot different.

So today I’m asking all those other descendants of immigrants, especially  those who came here because home was no longer safe, I’m asking you to please stop looking into this story as if you were an outsider, because you are not. Anabaptists, this story especially  belongs to you. You would not be alive today if your ancestors had not broken laws and run away with your great-great-great-great-great-great grandma in their arms. They broke laws so that you could be here today, so how can we be so hard on those who are breaking laws so that their children have a chance of growing up in safety? I’m not talking about criminals who are trying to come in, but the thousands of ordinary, hard-working folks who are running from unsafe situations in their home countries. We have become experts at justifying our existence while denying others theirs. When does it become right for the descendants of immigrants to decide no other immigrants can come here and experience what we have? When did it become right to uphold man-made laws that break the ancient and holy laws of kindness? Our ancestors broke all kinds of laws so that we can be here today but let me tell you what law they did not break – the law of kindness. They fed their enemies. Literally. And remember the iconic story of the guy escaping who heard his oppressor fall into the icy water? He went back, helped him out and saved his life, even though he was caught and put to death anyway. This is our heritage, to love God first with every bit of our being, and then to love our neighbors so much that we are willing to take risks for them.

Remember our heritage, search out our roots. What would our life be like today if unjust laws had never been broken on our behalf?

 

 

 

9/11 – Moving Beyond Fear

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I’ll never forget 9/11 for reasons of my own. Halfway around the world, in a Muslim country, Austin and I watched the towers fall. We sat in the living room of our neighbors, who had become dear friends of ours, and together we watched the events unfold, each of us wrapped in a cloak of horror and disbelief. I will never forget how they turned to us with genuine sorrow and apologized for the events that were unfolding, assuring us that this was not real Islam. As the night rolled on, knowing we had lived in New York, they made sure that our families and those we knew were okay. They cautioned us that this could stir up local extremists but, if it did, we would be safe with them. I had no doubt that they would have given their lives to protect us, if need be. That need never arose but their love and concern for our family was mirrored by many others in our circle of friends. Everywhere we went, they would ask us if our family was okay. Sorrow and compassion were everywhere.
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For nearly a decade, I was not “Marita”. I was “Bhabi” (sister-in-law) or “Sister” to pretty much everyone I met. “Auntie” to the little ones. My boys had hundreds of aunties and uncles. My husband had thousands of brothers. We were family within a much larger family.

We shared countless meals in Muslim homes, and I became chagrined to realize how paltry the best American hospitality is when held up to Muslim hospitality. The food. The love. The laughter. The respect in spite of our differences. And the food – did I already say that?!

Muslim hands held my babies when they were little and washed their dirty diapers without complaining. Muslim hands washed the filth off my son when he fell in the sewer even going so far as to recover his shoes with  bare hands. They pinched my boys’ cheeks and doted on them. They served us tea and showed us where to go. In countless ways, Muslims in Bangladesh loved us, served us and bent over backwards to ensure that we felt at home in their country. If Americans would show half of the hospitality and respect that the Muslims we met showed to us, our land would be a much better place.

And now, “Inshallah” (If God wills it) we may have the privilege to show love and hospitality to 10,000 of them or more. If that happens and you are given the opportunity to cross paths with one of them, don’t be afraid to love them, show hospitality, to serve them, to help them settle into this land, to become family. Don’t be afraid to wield the most powerful force on earth. Love.