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A Volunteer's Tears

"Can you show us how to use these?" Mu Mu asked. Her bright round face looked at me hesitantly as she held up a fork and spoon. As the best English speaker of the group of nearly 20 Karen refugees who had recently settled in Albany, NY, she spoke for each of them, all of whom grew quiet and turned their attention to watch. "Sure", I said, and proceeded to take a few bites of my food while all 20 sets of eyes watched intently. I could feel myself blush. Thankfully, our three children sat down at the table and proceeded to shovel food into their mouths – hardly an example of model fork-and-spoon users! I tried to smile encouraging as I watched these grown men and women struggle with holding the spoon just as my three-year-old had done. Some of them caught on quickly, others struggled and still others just gave up and ate with their fingers as they were used to doing.

It was Christmas, 2007. With only my mother in town, our family decided to invite our adopted friends – Karen refugees who had recently arrived straight from the jungle refugee camps where many have lived for decades. Seventeen-year-old Apee, knew of no life beyond the barbed-wire, fenced enclosure of the refugee camps. Living in bamboo homes with no running water, no electricity and with only a few earthly possessions, they lived a life of fear and turmoil. Fear of attacks by the Burmese, fear of stepping on one of the thousands of landmines hiding at every turn and fear of disease. Turmoil from random attacks, having to move camps and living with the knowledge that there is no place to call home – the Burmese don't want the Karen people, nor do the surrounding countries. That's what makes them refugees.

Paw Moo and his wife, Jai Jai, didn't want to come to America with the six children. Paw Moo would much rather be farming. However with no land to farm, he realized that the only future for his five sons and one daughter lay in a country where they wouldn't be forced to carry weapons to protect themselves, wouldn't be enslaved by the rebel armies and where there wouldn't so many risks to a young man's life.

As we finished eating, the Karen children joined our three in hovering around the gifts under the tree. "Open", EhTaLer said with a smile. "No, not until Santa comes", I told him. Mu Mu was quick to respond, "Santa not real!!" Moments later, right on cue, my husband showed up at the door dressed in all his Santa-suite glory. The gasps were amazing!! I am positive that at that moment, every Karen refugee thought that perhaps Santa WAS real. As he jingled his bells and bellowed big "Ho Ho Ho's", every face looked as though it would burst with excitement. Our four-year-old couldn't resist. "Daddy, that's you!!"

What happened next, my husband says, took him completely by surprise. Perhaps it was the shear amazement or perhaps it was simply the delight of being fooled, but for whatever reason, they all applauded...to which my husband didn't quite know how to respond. Does Santa take a bow?

"When Santa gives you a gift, you must open it", I said, demonstrating on a gift given to me by my mother. "You must open", my husband further encouraged. They finally were able to make themselves go against their cultural custom of saving the gift until later, in private, at which time it would be opened. We loved it. We loved their expressions of happiness. We loved seeing Khan Du's face light up as he opened his package to find a brand new soccer ball. An avid soccer player in the refugee camps, I knew that 19-year-old Khan Du would fall in love with that beautiful ball. Today, five months later, the ball still sits, unopened, at the end of his bed in a prominent position on a shelf. "Why don't you open it and use it," I've asked. "It is beautiful. I don't want to get it dirty", he replies.

Perhaps what was the most fun of all was watching the kids. Some friends of ours had pitched in to help these families all have a gift for Christmas and had gone nuts over the kids. Initially, I was somewhat worried that our own 6-year-old would feel slighted that he only got a couple of Christmas gifts and these kids had several. My worries were put to rest, though, as two of the Karen children opened their last gift – a large lego set that I just knew our son would covet. Without missing a beat, he ran over to us and said, "mommy, daddy, guess what? Now I'll have toys to play with when we go visit our Karen friends!" He was truly so very, very happy for them. It had never dawned on me how boring it must be to visit these children and have so few toys to play with.

Perhaps one of the most touching moments of the evening was when one of the larger families presented my husband and I with our Christmas gift. I could just imagine them walking the mall, wondering what in the world to give a family who, in their eyes, surely has everything this world has to offer. They chose something that, I'm sure, was the most beautiful gift they could find. It's one of those moving pictures. It is one of those pictures that you plug into the wall and the waterfall looks like it is moving. There's a light in it. I had seen them before and wondered who in the world buys those things. Coming from anyone else I would consider it tacky. Coming from this dear family, my husband and I consider it more precious than gold.

As I am out shopping with these people or transporting them to doctor's appointments, I'm often asked how I met them. Initially I found it somewhat offensive since I wished that people would see us as simply friends just like anyone has friends. But another part of me knows that until they become more acclimated to our society, they will stand out as different by their miss-matched dress, their stained teeth and their shy, hesitant interpersonal ways. I always welcome the opportunity, though, to tell others of what a tremendous blessing it has been to me to be able to be a part of these people's lives at such a critical time when they are introduced to so many new experiences and when they are learning so much. The appreciation they have for even the small gestures of help they are given, are always met with such sincere gratitude. The tears in the eyes of a mother who is given clothing for her baby bring tears to my own that only another mother would understand. And there were the tears of happiness in the eyes of the young man to Wal-mart to purchase boots this winter because for the two weeks since he had arrived, he had been trudging through the snow wearing the only thing he had - his flip-flops with multiple pairs of socks. His teary eyes full of appreciation is one of the most sincere thank-you's I've ever gotten for an item that cost $7.00 on sale! As I drove away, I found myself in tears.

So when I'm asked how I met these people, I usually start from the beginning and describe how, as a suburban house-wife, I sought volunteering activities to supplement the everyday routines of being a stay-at-home mom. Like most mom's, the most apparent volunteering activities come from church and our kid's school. So, that's where I put my extra energy. I helped out in their classrooms and with our kid's annual school auction. I taught Sabbath-School at church and became one of the potluck coordinators. It was all fine however I constantly had a sense that I was doing what anyone could do – I wasn't being challenged. The day that another mom from my daughter's class got miffed that I had brought brownies in when she had wanted to, I said a prayer, "please Lord, don't you have something more for me to do than to compete over who can bring in brownies?"

Be careful what you ask for, because the Lord DID answer...quickly! It was only a few days later that I ran into a woman who worked for the U.S. Committee for Refugees and Immigrants. She told me how desperate they were for volunteers. Interested, I asked, "but how can I communicate with them if they don't speak any English?" I was told that they all would eventually speak English and that through sign language and simple broken English, we could get by. I signed up and was introduced to my first family. I was smitten. The desperate nature of their situation – of all they had to learn and adjust to, could only be compared to that of an infant. Everything we take for granted, they had to be taught: how to use the bank, get an ATM card, how to use a westernized toilet, how to clean and use cleaning agents, how to use an oven (most continue to simply use it to store their pots and pans), how to turn on the oven, how to make a bed and how to use a laundry mat to do the laundry. They had to be shown how to go to the store, how to take the bus (many had never ridden in anything other than to and from the airport to get here). They had to be taught about electricity, how to turn on the lights, how to change the light-bulbs and that the beeping of the smoke alarm means that it is time to change the battery. They had to be shown American food and encouraged to try new vegetables since most of the ones they are used to were not available. And I haven't even touched on the whole doctor/dentist issue! How to get to an appointment, make an appointment, and get medication is another whole story! The challenging thing for me is to teach them with dignity and respect. I don't want to impose a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich on a Karen any more than I want them to impose their pungent-smelling salty, fishy noodles on me. I want them to retain their sense of dignity and culture, yet at the same time, incorporate what we eat and use in America, into their own food. It's working! They are getting it! And the joy that comes from watching a family grow and acclimate before your eyes, is incredible! There is no other experience like it. At no other time in my life have I so often choked back tears and then, when alone, just sobbed.

Just over a week ago, our local hospital called me to come to the bedside of a Karen women who had been in labor for two days. Both parents murdered just a few years earlier, this woman had no one except her husband who had a weak stomach and whose nerves could hardly handle his wife's pain. As I sat by her bed, holding her sweaty hand, I fervently prayed, "Lord, help this dear woman, but also, please help me be strong for her and not cry". As her contractions brought on quiet pleas for her mother, I gripped her hand tightly. It was then that she looked into my eyes and in barely a whisper, asked me, "you pray for me please?". So I prayed. For several hours. Every time I paused, with a sense of great urgency, she'd plead, "no stop pray!" Her healthy, 7 lb. son was brought into the world to the sound of my fervent prayers. It was then that the tears of joy could flow freely – thanking the Lord for what a precious miracle He gave!

Officially our family is a volunteer to just one family, however this first family introduced us to others, and then to others, most all of whom do not have volunteers. For that reason, we are now volunteers to a community, which keeps us extremely busy but has provided so many wonderful experiences. We've laughed together, cried together, we've prayed together and have eaten together. But perhaps the most touching aspect of being a volunteer/mentor to these refugee families is witnessing their faith. We feel that God has placed in our hands this whole community of His children. He's given us the precious privilege of modeling His compassion and care at a time in their lives when they are in such desperate need of it. He has bestowed upon us the opportunity to bolster their faith, to strengthen their love for Him and to draw their hearts closer to the God that they need now more than ever!