Falls in New Mexico were always pretty dreamy. I remember being immersed in a golden grove of Aspens on a mountain somewhere near Santa Fe thinking, “I wish everyone could experience this right now.” There were never words to attach to those moments, but something about those hikes stilled my soul. It was a vibrant beauty that none of my photos could capture, it was encapsulating of the whole self. As sunlight streamed through the quaking leaves, my heart burst with an unchained melody. Thin spaces – where heaven and earth seem to merge into one, for only a brief moment in time.
For the seven falls that I lived there, escaping into the green-turned-yellow mountains was always a priority. Some years were better than others, but there was always that same feeling: everyone should get to bear witness to how beautiful this is.
Up until last weekend, I hadn’t felt like that in a long while. Not with the same intensity, the same earnestness. This time, however, my surroundings had nothing to do with beautiful mountain scenes, or changing leaves, or the brisk fall breeze.
Instead, I was seated between a woman from Ethiopia and a woman from Rwanda. Across from several men and women from Burma – representing their tribes: Karen, Karenni, Chin, Rawang. A pastor from the Democratic Republic of the Congo was also there. We had gathered a handful of refugees and former refugees that we know in Columbia so we could begin to directly hear from them about their needs and needs of their communities.
I mostly listened as they introduced themselves in English, all with thick, rich accents. Some have only lived in Columbia a few years, while one has been resettled and helping others who continue to come for the last 28 years. And while, for many of them, their native tongue isn’t the same, they have found ways to communicate with their second or third language. Many from Africa can speak Swahili, even if their first language is different. Many from Burma can speak Burmese, even though every tribe has a different language. And, for this particular meeting, they all spoke English.
I saw nods of agreement as they shared some of their similar, but very different experiences. Living in refugee camps, acclimating to life in America, taking care of each other as they navigated this new world. One gentleman shared about moving here from a jungle and how learning to drive had been a challenge. There was a lot of laughter in their shared journeys. Their joy was powerfully contagious.
“It doesn’t take a language to help someone. It takes a heart”. One woman insisted on this, remembering the connection she had shared with one of our staff when language wasn’t something they could yet share. Beyond the ability to audibly understand each other, there was an alternative language being communicated: compassion, love, a desire to know the other, a longing to help.
I marveled at the beauty I was seeing in my new friends – a soul-level, no words for it, type of gratitude. Again thinking, “I wish everyone could be here, I wish everyone could hear what I’m hearing, see what I’m seeing, know the people I am getting to know.” I felt deeply honored to be sitting there, among men and women who have known loss in ways I can’t begin to fathom and who are choosing every single day to not only put one foot forward, but who are actively working to help others. Many who are still aiding their families and friends who stayed behind. Many of them work hard to help those like themselves who have resettled in America. One man from Burma, readily opens up his home to more families who have no place to immediately reside.
Among this culturally diverse group there was another common thread that stuck out to me: faith. The communities they spoke of were rooted in their churches, in a common belief system. God is real, alive, and moving deeply in their hearts and in their communities. He is who they find hope in.
I could hear the echoes of my seminary classes on missions – to listen to my fellow believers from across the world. That they most likely have more to teach me about following Jesus than I have to teach them.
My new friends laughed about their long church services, knowing full well the contradiction between American churches and theirs. Many of us Americans likely don’t have the time, or the patience, or the desire to be in church all day. But for them, it’s different. A man from the DRC told me recently about how his church service the previous weekend had felt a lot like “home” (Africa). These church services start in the early evening and go long into a Saturday night/early Sunday AM – every single week.
The more this group chatted, the more I longed to hear more. I could have sat there for hours, honestly. My heart was swelling, longing for everyone to know. To know that within miles of their homes there may be people from Africa, Asia, Central America, South America, Europe … people who had to come here because staying wasn’t safe for their families. People who often don’t speak English, not because they haven’t tried or because they don’t want to… but because it’s hard or they are too busy trying to work so their families have enough to eat. People who possess a type of joy that is contagious and authentic. People who know a simplicity of life without all the distractions.
People who have a lot to teach you and me.
If only we listen. If only we desire to learn.
Everyone should get to bear witness to the type of beauty that only comes about in the bringing together of many tribes, tongues, and nations. It’s where we will find ourselves together in the end (Rev 7)… and when you get the chance to experience a little bit of heaven on earth, you can’t help but want others to have that same opportunity as well.
Thin spaces.
Right in the middle of Missouri.