Most Americans come from several lines of immigrants, those who looked across the sea and envisioned something better—either safety or freedom or money. They rode for weeks on tiny, crowded ships. They indentured themselves for years. They loaded up all their belongings in a wagon and walked, further and further west, over mountains and down valleys, building entire communities from scratch. Over the generations, they built me a comfortable home, a place where I feel like a belong. My family’s past echoes through the settled mountains and streets and cemeteries with familiar names. Their bones are in the ground I walk on, and I’m glad to have them as a foundation.
But it is because of that, that I have trouble
relating to these ancestors. Their blood is in my veins; their decisions led to
my life, and yet I do not know them. I know several (Brethren/Huguenot) came
seeking religious freedom from the political troubles of the times. Others were
undoubtedly seeking freedom from personal troubles. Others simply wanted the
chance of their own land and wealth and took the chance. How many really wanted
to leave? How hard was this decision made? Where their arguments between
spouses or parents and children? Did the whole community come together, or were
they venturing out alone? How did they decide those essential few items to
bring?
What happened to reach the moment of decision
to go—go out into a new, unknown land, to leave all that you’ve known, the land
of your ancestors, and start anew? It is an expensive and permanent decision.
Few ever turned back. What must life have been like for a totally new beginning
to be the best option? I can’t imagine what it would take for me to give it all
up. Extreme poverty or violent persecution or a personal series of disasters maybe.
But I can’t imagine the pain enduring any of that very long and then accepting
that it’s time to go.
Today is the World Day of Migrants and
Refugees. There are so many negative stereotypes of immigrants/refugees, as
opportunists or criminals or people who will bring their nation’s problems with
them. But so many are leaving for a reason. They want to be safe. They want
their children to not feel the pain they feel. They’ve reached the point of
leaving behind their home—many don’t want to go. I wouldn’t. Circumstance has
uprooted them. They’re committed to making this decision work, but they will
carry the pains that led to that decision alongside their pared-down belongings.
How can we not look at immigrants and refugees (especially the refugees who are
displaced by violence) and not want to help them? Wouldn’t I want to be welcomed
and assured that all will be well?
I hope someone welcomed my ancestors—showed them
around and helped them settle and introduced them to new neighbors and friends.
A kind gesture can go a long way when you’re tired and weary. We are commanded
to welcome the stranger and love your neighbor.
I can offer a hello. I can offer a smile. I can
offer rides and basic supplies and directions. I can understand that someone is
in the middle of a big and vulnerable decision, even if that drive to move seems
so foreign to my own feelings. But for a few generations, I was those people. The
drive pushed my people—keep moving: further out, better land, newer and safer
and ours. But then the crisis stilled and they stayed. And here I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment