I believe I was literally made to write, and I can't think of anything I love more. Ever since I moved into a refugee community in August, there has been plenty to write about. The only problem is that I've been so busy living that there has been no time to write about living.
As you may recall, I had reservations about moving into a low-income apartment in a bad part of town, not the least of which was leaving my big, beloved kitchen. In truth, I didn't know the half of the indignities and inconveniences that I would endure here. None of that matters, though. After about eight months in this community, I have to say that I am living my best life. In fact, when Jesus promised to give us abundant life if we follow him, surely this is the kind of life he must have been talking about.
I don't have time to write all my stories, nor do you have time to read them all. So I've decided to try to paint a few word pictures of the everyday beauty of this precious community, of moments that I will always treasure.
Daily Rhythms
Each night, I fall asleep to muted traffic sounds and the sounds of people right outside my window: shouting children running and playing on the playground and adults laughing and talking in languages I can't understand. At first those sounds made it hard to fall asleep, but now it all reminds me that I am not alone and that this city teems with life.
In the mornings I hear other people's plumbing and cars starting and babies crying. As I open the vertical blinds in my living room to let in the light, I'm sometimes greeted with waves from neighbors climbing into their cars. Often, when I'm racing to the car, carrying my breakfast, Ariana* and Safya's* father and their toddler sister greet me warmly as they exit their car, returning from dropping Ariana at school. Little Fawzia* smiles and waves proudly. "Hi! Hi! Hi!" she repeats as they climb the stairs to their house.
Every morning, I watch for a short, bald African man who looks like he could be in his late sixties. He might be sitting at a picnic table in the covered area right outside my kitchen window, or he might be walking through the complex, or he might be on the sidewalk, returning from a walk down the road I take to the interstate. He doesn't always see me since I'm inside the car, but if he does, I can always count on the same response to my smile and wave: a wide grin and a raised fist pumping the air with the thumbs-up sign.
I've spoken to him before, but he doesn't speak English. All he ever says to me when he gives that thumbs-up is, "Hello! Good?"
I raise my own fist and point my thumb to the sky several times. "Good!" I shout.
A very special morning will include a sighting of Tall Girl with Curly Hair. I think she's about 16. She wears mostly black and carries a backpack. Her shoulders are hunched as if she's trying to make herself look smaller, and her eyes are downcast. Her skin is pale, and her hair is magnificent, tall and very curly, almost an Afro, with a blue streak on one side. I have a feeling she doesn't realize she is beautiful, perhaps because she doesn't fit the mold of what we tend to prize in female features.
Whenever the timing was just right, I used to see her once in a week or two, passing by as I fumbled to get all my things into my car. I would smile and wave if I had a free hand, but she never looked up to see. One morning shortly before Christmas break, I was thrilled to see her because it had been several weeks and I'd been afraid that she might have moved away. I absolutely could not resist stepping out of the car to call out, "Good morning! Have a great day!"
She started at the sound of my voice, and her eyes widened in surprise. I think her eyes rolled just a little, not as a cruel gesture, but more like an involuntary revelation of what she must have been thinking: "What's with this middle-aged lady, and why is she talking to me?"
She didn't speak, but she nodded and smiled grudgingly, the way teenagers often do. My cheeks flooded with heat, and I remembered how years ago, whenever I would greet strangers, Ethan would hiss, "Mama! Don't do that. It's weird."
That was the very last morning that I saw Tall Girl passing down my sidewalk, but sometimes I still see her walking through the playground behind my apartment or walking through the parking lot toward the front gate, which is the only exit for both cars and foot traffic. I realize she probably changed her route to avoid me, but I still grin when I spot her. I resist the urge to roll down the window and wish her a good morning, but I always say out loud, "Have a wonderful day." And then I pray that she will, and that someone will make her feel loved and seen that day.
As I wind my way through the complex, trying to dodge the ridiculously high speed bumps, I sometimes see some of my students from English class clustered together, walking back from dropping their children at the elementary across the street. Some are dressed all in black, and others wear long, bright, flowing dresses in every hue. Their head coverings are often embroidered with sequins, gems, or tiny mirrors that glint in the morning sun. Many push strollers or clutch their younger children's tiny hands.
I can't say exactly how I recognize them since most of them wear surgical masks, so that only their warm, brown eyes are visible. For them, I often do roll down my window and shout a good morning, and they reward me with delighted smiles that crinkle their eyes. If my car is close enough, I can hear their heavily accented "good mornings" in reply.
