Outsiders

I have often felt like I don’t really fit anywhere. Maybe everyone feels that way. I don’t know. I can only speak for myself. I don’t mean it like I am not happy or content. It’s more like I just feel different than everyone, like I don’t know where I belong. I haven’t found home. Not necessarily a bad thing. Just a thing. 

Sometimes I think it helps me relate to people more. Maybe it’s a feeling from God. It helps me be aware of others that probably feel like that too. I meet a lot of them at House of the Harvest. You know, outsiders. At least they feel like outsiders. They don’t know where to go to feel like a part. That’s probably what I love about House of the Harvest the most. It’s a place for outsiders to feel like insiders. At least, that is what I desire for it to be. 

It was the Saturday after Christmas that I saw her walking to the front door from the kitchen. Mother of three. She had brought all of them to eat breakfast that morning. In fact, they were wandering behind her still eating. All three of them. Maybe the best breakfast they had all week. I hope so. That would make me smile. They are definitely outsiders. Everywhere. Even at House of the Harvest. A language barrier will make you feel that way I imagine. 

No way, I can understand what it’s like. She is doing everything she can to provide for those three kids...living in a world where she can’t even communicate with people. A lot of times I see her wandering around somewhat unresponsive. Like she isn’t really present. What would it be like to live in a world where you can’t interact with anyone? 

Every single day she drops off the kids, her most sacred possession, to a building full of people she can’t communicate with. She has to trust with complete blindness. Most of the places she goes, she doesn’t have a name, a voice, an opinion. She can’t ask when she doesn’t understand. She can’t express what it is she needs. People probably feel that she can’t bring much value when they are unable to communicate with her. Yes, that is definitely an outsider. That breaks my heart. 

Here is the thing, it just doesn’t rest well with me. Life is hard enough for her. How could she even begin to learn a new language? The deck is already stacked against her. And, generally speaking, our “Bible belt” culture carries on, neglecting an entire community that needs us. Sometimes I wonder if the followers of Jesus are even aware that our King was a refugee. 

For so long now, the language barrier between us has been broken down with a smile and a nod. Every Saturday. It’s like she seeks me out before she leaves. She makes eye contact, smiles, and nods. I take it as a “thank you so much.” I smile back, nod in return, and hope that she receives it as “your family is  always welcome here.” 

But it’s never been good enough for me. Because in my heart, I know that Jesus would minister to her. I think He would speak to her in her language. He would find a way. Her soul is too valuable to Him. She means too much. Those children mean too much. His love transcends all their differences...cultural, language, religion, whatever else. 

I call the kids over. We have some left over toys. These are my favorite moments. I point to the table. The smallest one looks up at me. She may be five. She holds up her finger to say “1?” I hold up 3 fingers. The joy on her face was so sweet, so fulfilling. I have to keep reliving it. She picks out 3. And turns around. 

I hold up 1 more finger. She is so excited she can hardly stand it. She is eyeing two. It takes a moment. She can’t decide. She finally chooses. And turns to run back to her mother. I grab the one she didn’t choose with one hand, and place my other hand on top of her head. I kneel down and hand it to her. She jumps up and down and then scurries away, arms filled and a smile bright enough for both of us. It was beautiful. 

Mom walks by, gives her typical sweet smile and says, “Thank you.” She doesn’t know much English, but she does know that. It’s not her language, but it was important to her that I understood. Equally important to me, I respond, “De nada.” She raises her eyebrows as she turns and looks at me, as if to say, “Oh my goodness!” I smile. She starts to speak. I’m lost. I reply, “Just a little bit,” while motioning a pinch with my fingers. She laughs. It’s a start. 

Then she hugs me. The kids run off smiling. Those gifts will make their Christmas a little merrier.. As for mom, maybe she feels a little more accepted, a little more welcome, a little more part of the family. And for me, well, it’s enough to keep me going. I have a lot of Spanish to learn, but I would rather it be my burden. She has enough of her own. 

I’m motivated by this strange desire to create an environment where her family can be a part, feel a part, like they belong. I think it comes from God. I’ve read enough about Jesus to know it’s what His heart would desire for them.  It’s what He spent His time on earth doing. According to the people, He didn’t look the part, act the part, or answer the part. He was an outsider. And most of His ministry was to the ones that were like Him...the outsiders.

And maybe that is where it comes from. I don’t know. But I do know this, He would be with the outsiders, because with Him, there are no outsiders. He won’t let there be. He finds them and draws them in...no matter what it takes. I’m glad He drew me in. The least I can do is let Him use me to draw another, or more. That’s up to Him. Point is, fewer are on the outside...and the angels are rejoicing.