“Well that went one hundred percent NOT like I thought it would.”
These are the words I said to Brad as we pulled out of the airport parking lot last Thursday. We had just met the Yazidi family whose arrival we’d been preparing for and anticipating over the last six weeks. During that time we’d acquired hundreds of donated items; filled our garage, basement, and living room with pots and pans, bedding, kitchen utensils, furniture, clothes, and food; shopped for them with the monetary donations we’d received; and thought about and prayed for this family of six daily.
Brad had even researched Yazidi recipes so we would know the culturally appropriate foods to purchase. I had exchanged dozens of emails and texts with the friends and strangers who were helping to furnish the apartment. We’d checked and rechecked our Google doc, worried we’d forgotten something important, fretted over whether the kids needed another set of pajamas.
The night before our family’s arrival I tossed and turned in bed, trying to imagine what it would be like to finally meet them. The day of their arrival, I was so nervous/excited, I couldn’t work. I paced around the house and checked Facebook 4,900 times instead.
Turns out, the much-anticipated meeting was, in a word, anti-climatic. [And let me stop right here and stay this had nothing to do with the family or the organization responsible for their arrival; it was all me and my own baggage. Read on.]
Lincoln is home to a close-knit and vibrant Yazidi community – the largest in the nation, in fact. This is good. It means our family has a ready-made support network – people who have been in America for a while now and will help our family make the transition. In fact, about 20 Yazidis were at the airport to welcome our family and another who arrived on the same plane. It was clear, when they walked into the terminal, that our family knew a lot of the people who had shown up at the airport to welcome them.
At the United gate, Brad and I were briefly introduced to Azzat, the dad, and I quickly snapped a photo of the family. Then, in a matter of minutes and in a jumble of confusion and chaos, both refugee families and all the Yazidi people who had arrived to welcome them disappeared, presumably to have a warm meal together and connect after such a long and painful separation.
I was quiet for a few minutes as Brad and I drove from the airport to our house, where we would meet up with the rest of our sponsorship team and begin the process of moving and setting up our family’s apartment. During the short drive I wrestled with feelings of disappointment and disillusionment.
“This is a surprise to me,” I said to Brad, laughing sheepishly. “I never knew I had a hero complex.”
The truth is, I had written the whole story before our family had even stepped foot in America. I had it all worked out in my own mind: the poignant meeting at the airport; the excitement of the kids when they saw their bedrooms, their new backpacks, the cute stuffed animals propped just so on brand-new sheets; the friendship we would forge…dinners together, laughter, conversation, pass the lamb stew!
I had written a beautiful story in my head, a perfect story, really – a fairy tale, complete with a knight(ess) in shining armor and the quintessential happy ending.
The problem was, I had forgotten one critical detail:
I’m not the author of this story. In fact, I’m not even a main character.
God is the author of this story, and long before I even knew a single detail about the Yazidi people, long before “sponsorship” and “refugee” and “resettlement” were part of my daily vocabulary, long before I was even born, in fact, he had already begun to write it.
He knew how this family of six would flee persecution in Iraq; he knew that they would land in Lincoln, Nebraska; he knew what my role would be in their lives. He had plans for each one of us in this story, plans for hope and a future.
The problem was, my plans didn’t match his. The truth is, they rarely do.
I had forgotten, again, that God is the Planner and the Author of all good stories. I had forgotten that he had already written this story and had already written a storyline for me – a storyline that was much different, and honestly, a lot less limelighty, from the one I’d written for myself.
An hour after Brad and I left the airport, our friend Nathan backed a moving truck into our driveway. Our friends showed up, and together we all emptied the garage, basement and living room. Then we all drove to Kristen’s house to pack more into the truck, and then to Deidra’s house to carry her sofa down her front steps, up the ramp, and into the back of the truck. Then Nathan drove the truck across town to the apartment, where we all unloaded it box by box by box.
We spread sheets and comforters over mattresses; assembled bunk beds and end tables; screwed lightbulbs into lamps; stocked the fridge, pantry, cabinets and drawers; arranged fruit in a bowl; set placemats on the kitchen table; stacked extra blankets in the linen closet; laid toothbrushes on the bathroom counter, propped stuffed animals just so on freshly made beds.
When we shut off the lights and closed the door behind us four hours later that night, the apartment was a home.
This was the role God had for me in his story – to welcome this refugee family to America not by being their hero or savior or even their friend (God himself has all that covered), but to slip in like an elf behind the scenes on a cold winter night and make them a home — a home that would say, “Welcome.” A home that would say, “We’re glad you’re here.”
God writes the most beautiful stories. Our job is to help bring those stories to fruition – to be his hands and feet and heart on the ground. He is the Author, we are the “characters,” and sometimes, our role, our storyline, is small, hardly noticeable, a bit part. But that doesn’t make the story less perfect or less beautiful.
I’m over my initial disappointment, have my head back on straight, and have handed the pen back to its rightful Owner. No one but God himself knows the rest of this story. Perhaps this is merely the first chapter. Or maybe, when Brad and I left the keys on the kitchen table and closed the door behind us last Friday morning after putting the last touches on the apartment, we turned the final page.
Regardless of whether it’s the beginning or the end of our role in this particular story, I’m really grateful God wrote a part in it for me. Helping to create a home for a family I might not ever even know is one of the best experiences I’ve ever had.
I so love your honesty and had to smile as I’m sure we all could see ourselves in you to one degree or another in this story. Thank you for your transparency, and more importantly, for doing what you did when many of us feel paralyzed as to what to do to help those in need.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Laura. I admit, I asked myself before I hit “publish,” “Do you really want to admit this?” But I thought, well, it’s the truth…and maybe if it’s the truth for me, it might also be the truth for someone else. So there we go, right? 🙂
I second Laura’s comment – isn’t this what we ALL do – write a beautiful story, a perfect story in our heads?
Maybe our own propensity for doing so is aided by all the shows (i.e. Extreme Home Makeover) that portray just such a thing.
The house looks welcoming (especially with the coloring supplies and stuffed animals) – can just imagine the shrieks of delight and smiles they will bring to the children’s faces, and probably tears to the parents’.
Know God has blessed you and your group by this ministry and He will continue to do so.
Yeah, I think you are right, Katie – the media is definitely an influencer here. Thank you for your kind words, friend!
I’m a word person, and I am often struck by how the words we choose reveal something about how we think. Not always, but…
The first time you wrote “our family,” I froze for a moment, trying to decide if you meant you, Brad & the kids, or the refugee family. And then as I read, I thought that perhaps that phrase (“our family”) was an indicator of the mental/emotional position you found yourself in.
For those of us who want to serve and help others, there’s a really tricky spot–when is it about me, and when is it about God working through me. You’re right–it’s ALWAYS about God working through me. I am only ever a tool for God to use, a conduit for His love and His care and His help. His hands, and His voice, in this world.
It feels so good to help, it’s easy to try to take the credit. But it’s important to set ourselves aside, and to focus onl the person we’re helping, and the Lord who sends us there.
Thanks for this post, and this reminder.
It’s interesting that you mention that wording, Talley. I thought about that specifically as I have written about this experience. I tried, “the refugees” and “the refugee family,” but that felt too impersonal and too “other” to me (even though the truth is, they are “other,” in that we don’t know each other, and we are very different). I settled on “our famiily,” because it felt more personal, but you are right, there is also implied ownership there, which on one hand is okay, because it signals I am personally invested in them, but on the other hand is not okay, because it signals somethign that is not rightfully mine, but God’s alone. It’s been really interesting and revealing to step back and analyze my expectations and how I saw myself in this whole experience. And in the end, it’s good and important to be reminded of who is in charge, and who is merely carrying out the details of God’s plan.
You’re right–the “our” is a powerful word of inclusion and belonging. And in certain places it’s absolutely right.
It seems that nearly everything has its positive and its negative side–our greatest strengths are often also our greatest weaknesses; our greatest gifts can become our greatest downfalls.
My church has an orphanage for Haitian refugees in the hills of the Dominican Republic, and we send a barrel of food and supplies three or four times a year. I’m the Underwear Lady–and I sometimes get a little proud of what I’m doing. Your post was a good reminder for me to focus on Whom (and whom) I am serving—God, and those little kids, but not me.
Such great insights–thanks, sister in Christ.
Thanks for a truthful sharing on this. I sure understand the hero thing, being of the male species, of course I picture riding in on the majestic white stallion as well, saving the day!! My wife and I both agree that the old horse should retire to the stables. We have a savior already. What the world needs is love and compassion. My eyes teared up as this story hit me, it’s the service, done in love. Love is the answer. Peace and grace
So true, Roy – we ALL need to retire the white stallion to the stables, right? But I do love your point here – the bottom line is love, that is true. I may have lost sight of who is in charge and who the real savior is in this story for a little bit, but the bottom line has always been to live out Jesus’s charge to love Him and love our neighbors as ourselves. But it gets trick when our flawed, fallible, self-centered selves get involved too! 🙂
God is the ultimate author and perfecter of our lives, Michelle. Your role here may seem small, but we all know there are no bit parts in God’s grand play. Thank you for sharing this touching story and reminding us all that nothing we do is small when we are serving the Lord.
Blessings!
(Oh, and I love your blog’s new look!)
Well I kinda love that a lot, Martha: “There are no bit parts in God’s grand play.” That’s a nuance I hadn’t considered – thank you for that!
This was really helpful to me at this moment. Thank you for sharing this. My daughter just adopted a baby and we see the need and lack of help for the birthmom and her children. It’s truly heart breaking and you don’t always know what to do or how to help without hurting. We are not the author of their story and we need to play the role he asks of us but let Him be the author. ❤️
As usual I love your honesty, Michelle and willingness to share it so we all can learn. I think we all have been there. This reminded me of the Laotian families we helped settle in the 70s. I was so excited. They stayed at the house we lovingly prepared for about 3 weeks, then disappeared in the middle of the night. We found out later they joined family in Minneapolis. Understandable but so disappointing. But like you said, it wasn’t about us any way. He, not me, as the saying goes….
This sounds so like something I would do. Thanks for your honesty. And also for all the hard work you did in preparing for the family. What a wonderful welcome they must feel having a home already.
I love this story, Michelle! I can understand the type of greeting you expected. I would have wanted the hugs and thank yous too. I guess we each have a part to play in the story. Maybe you can visit them and check to see that they like the apartment and just sit and visit a bit. You played a big part, getting their new home set up for them. I think they may want to meet you again, when they are not so shellshocked from their trip and culture shock. You did good. You did what God needed you to do. Thank you for stepping in and doing what I couldn’t. The closest city that takes in refugees is over 2 hours away, so I have to just donate money to charities that help refugees. I wish I could do more, but that is the part God has asked me to do. Thanks for sharing your story with us.
Thank you for being painfully honest and sharing your part in His story. You’ve inspired me both to do more and share more. You’ve blessed that family, possibly in more ways than you’ll ever know.
Oh how human-like we humans are. Your honest words made me smile through my tears, Michelle. (side note-I like the new, clean look of your blog very much!)
oh go&72#8230;Is1h;m going to cry after Chosen At Nightfall. I love these books so much. I really hope it’s Lucas she ends up with. Them being able to overcome the obstacles with having a relationship would be a great victory, but I don’t want Derek to get heart broken . Either way I’m going to be upset, but I’m so curious as to how all this ends. Whispers at Moonrise left me crying. Waiting until April is going to be hard. Such a long time from now