Everyday Treasures

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.

Homecomings

When I return after a long day at work, children stream toward my car from every direction. Even before I open the door, I can make out their jubilant shouts: "Sarah's here! It's Sarah!" I feel like a celebrity, or at least like a family member returning after an extended absence. 

They crowd around the driver's side door and hold out their hands for all of my belongings, fighting over who gets to carry my water bottle, my lunch bag, my breakfast bowl. The best privilege of all is carrying my keys and unlocking the apartment door. 

Although I'm usually longing for a bit of downtime, their warm welcome brightens my day, and I truly appreciate their help with carrying my things. As I exit the car, Bald African Man often calls out a greeting from one of the picnic tables, raising his thumbs-up sign. "Hello! Good?" 

"Hello!" I answer, raising my thumb, too. "Yes, good!" 

On the short walk to my door, the girls quiz me about my day, about where I've been and what my plans are for the evening. They tumble over each other through the door into my living room, begging to feed treats to my cats. If I relent, Ariana is usually the only one who actually takes a handful of cat treats from my refrigerator door (where they are kept to protect them from CiCi's pilfering). The rest of the girls huddle together on the couch, shrieking in delicious terror as both cats swirl around Ariana's legs. 

If it's Wednesday and I have to rush to prepare for my 6:00 English lesson, or if I have somewhere to go, I shoo them all out. Otherwise, I might let them stay a few minutes to listen to a book or draw pictures or write on the whiteboard. 

Sometimes little Hadya* squeezes onto the chair next to my sister Amy, who reads her a story. 

Evening Joys

If the weather is nice, up to a dozen women may gather after sundown in the fenced area a few feet from my bedroom window, in what used to be a couple of basketball courts. While their children run or ride bikes around the large enclosure, they sit cross-legged on the court, chattering and laughing in their language. Often, thermoses of tea, tiny cups, and saucers lie on the ground next to them. 

When they see me, they call out hellos and "how are yous." I lean against the chain-link fence and tell them, "I'm good. I'm good." If I'm not too tired, I might walk through the gap in the fence and sit down on the hard ground with them. With effort, they make as much small talk as they can with me, their children serving as translators when needed. Then, I simply sit and smile as the incomprehensible conversation wraps around me. 

Many evenings, Ariana's mother Sediqua* invites me up for tea as we all leave the basketball court. I duck into my apartment to get my bag of library books and decodable readers and then follow her and her three girls up the stairs. 

While she finishes the dishes and makes milk tea, her middle daughter Safya snuggles against me to listen to a book. Recently, Fawzia has started sitting on my other side, pointing excitedly at the pictures and repeating the words along with her older sister. "One-two-free!" she says, counting the monkeys in the book that is their current favorite. I marvel at the intelligence of this bilingual toddler who just turned three.

After two, three, or even four books, Safya colors in the book symbols in a slender booklet that we got from the library this summer: A Thousand Books Before Kindergarten. Safya should already be in kindergarten, but she cried so much when she first went that she got sent home every day, so her parents decided to keep her home for another year. Recently, she started going to preschool and just loves it. I think all of our reading has helped her get excited about school. We are up to 182 books. I don't know if we'll make it to 1000, but we will both enjoy trying. 

When the girls are done reading, Sediqua and I sit cross-legged on the floor with her latest decodable book between us, along with tiny cups and saucers of sweet, steaming tea. She laboriously sounds out stories about Goat and Toad and a mole named Joe. We've been working together for months, but neither of us has nearly enough time to devote to her studies. Nevertheless, her progress is steady, if slow. She recently moved to level 2 books, which include long-vowel sounds. She's learning to distinguish words like tap and tape, and hop and hope. 

Her hard work and tenacity inspire me. I cannot imagine how hard it must be to not only learn a foreign language well into adulthood, but also to learn 26 letters and the sounds they make--all without ever having gone to school and without having learned how to read or write in any language. 

Weekend Sights

On the weekends, I see laundry everywhere, with shirts and pants hanging from the staircase banisters and blankets clipped to the chain-link fence around the basketball court. Hanging laundry outside is forbidden, but even the fines for violations don't stop the women from running outside to take advantage of a sunny day.

I Think the Laundry Is Lovely

See the shoes upstairs? These are a constant fixture outside the doors. There can be dozens when men gather for morning prayers during Ramadan.

One of my favorite things to see on a weekend is the two tiny girls who live across the breezeway in a small apartment overflowing with adults and children. "¡Hola!" I call out. "Que tengan un buen día." (Hi! Have a good day.) 

Both of them smile broadly. The older one replies, "Hola," and the smallest one silently waves a chubby hand.

I've enjoyed the opportunity to practice my Spanish here. One of my favorite experiences was praying with a neighbor in her living room, along with my roommate, Moain. The neighbor and I prayed in Spanish, mine halting and hers fervent, while Moain prayed in English. It was fascinating and thrilling to hear many of the same words and phrases spoken simultaneously in two languages. Because Moain knows no Spanish, I had no doubt that the Holy Spirit was speaking through us as we prayed for relief from anxiety for my friend, and for provision for her family after she'd lost her job. God answered in beautiful ways, and she is now thriving and happy in a new job. 

Food for Body and Soul

Inevitably, on the days when I feel the most exhausted from my full-time job and all my ministry efforts, someone knocks on the door carrying generous portions of home-cooked meals. Then, Amy and I enjoy mounds of spicy rice with tender meat that melts in our mouth, sopped up with impossibly soft bread made hours or even minutes ago.

I was mesmerized by her deft, quick hands.

Perfection!

On any given day, a stack of reusable plastic leftover containers lie stacked next to the fridge, waiting to be returned to their owners. My students and other friends bring me this food because they see my fatigue, and they appreciate the effort it takes to teach a class at the end of a long day. I believe they feel the love of God which motivates me, and in turn, they are His hands that care for me.

One evening, I was exhausted after preparing some chili in the pressure cooker for Amy and our mom, who was staying with us that week. "If only I'd had time to make some cornbread," I lamented. "Chili is so much better with cornbread." Just then, a knock sounded at the door. When I opened it, one of my students stood smiling at me, extending a plate of something I now know is called rout. 

"Is cake," she said. "No sweet." 

"Thank you!" I exclaimed as I invited her in. "No," she said, shaking her head. "I my home." She gestured to me, Mom, and Amy. "You eat cake. Is good." 

After she'd gone, I broke off a bit of the rather dry cake covered in a thin layer of what looked like poppy seeds. It was a little rough in texture and only slightly sweet... the perfect substitute for cornbread! We crumbled it into our bowls and ate it in awe and gratitude. 

Because of the continuous kindness and generosity of friends like these, I feel seen and known and loved. 

I have so much more to tell you, but I will have to save those stories for another day. 

*Names changed to protect privacy