Welcome to America, Part 3

This is the third in a series of posts that I shared here on my blog. Please read the first and second parts of the story for better understanding.

A tiny population of immigrants can hardly afford a church, or even to share space with an existing church. They meet in two bedroom apartment not much bigger than Suan and Sing's. Zomi people prefer to sit on the floor or on low stools, and so the central room of the apartment is completely emptied of its daily furniture, and thirty or so Zomi sit on the floor. The children meet in an adjacent bedroom, where several mothers teach them Bible stories, songs, and verses. In the main room, we sing hymns and praise songs. The tunes are familiar, but the words are in Zolai. Then prayer requests are shared, followed by a period of congregational prayer. After that comes the sermon, and then more singing and prayer.

One of the young women in the church -- a high schooler who has been in the country for several years -- was assigned to be our interpreter. She translated prayer requests, updates on church members, song lyrics, prayers, and even the sermon. On that day, Suan was asked to deliver the sermon. She translated Suan's heart-melting story as he told the small congregation how his family had rebounded from the brink of despair in Malaysia, and how they looked with optimism toward their future here. 

The next few words from his lips caught me off guard. They needed no translation, for they were my name and Angie's. Our translator leaned over and told us that he was citing Matthew 5, "You are the salt of the earth." He used Angie and I, and the efforts of Willow Creek and Exodus, as an example of how the church can "season" the world, can bring zest and flavor. I looked over at Angie and could see tears in her eyes. We didn't know we were going to be salt. We didn't know we could be salt.

Salt is a funny thing. During certain periods of history salt was so valuable that it was used as currency (giving rise to the saying "worth his salt"). It is used as a seasoning and a preservative. That is, it has both aesthetic value and utility. Humans require salt in our diet. It's necessary for life. And yet nobody sits down to a nice big bowl of salt. We sprinkle it. We mix it. It only performs its function when it is blended with other things. 

Why did Jesus call us the salt of the world?

Suan and Sing are beginning their fourth month in Chicago. In only a few months, they have learned a surprising amount of English, and they have ventured out into the city on buses and trains. Pancakes, it turns out, have become a typical breakfast for their two children. 

Suan worked with his refugee case worker to find his first job. Hearing the other children in the building fluidly switching from the Zolai language of their parents to their newly acquired English reminds me once again how quickly children can learn, and how much hope their parents bestow upon them. 

But more than anything, being invited into this small village of refugees tucked away in an urban neighborhood on Chicago's north side, I have become acutely aware --  through their faith -- that the church, the whole church, really is the salt of the earth. Like the Zomi, spread from their home in the mountains of Burma, salt is sprinkled out, mixed into other things. 

The church can only be the hope of the world when we allow ourselves to be mixed, to be spread. Only then do we bring both the utility and the beauty of God's work to the world.

This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

Welcome to America, Part 2

This is the second of 3 parts of this story that I will be sharing here on my blog. Please read the first part of the story for better understanding.

It has been a few months since we first met Suan and his wife. Our first visit, the day they arrived from Malaysia, was the day we delivered the welcome pack. With several other Zomi refugees in attendance, as well as a staff member from Exodus World Services (EWS), we opened boxes, made beds, stocked the kitchen, and furnished the small studio apartment. Suan struggled to understand what was happening. Our daughters, while anxious to help, also struggled to understand. At four, eight, and ten, our girls had never before spent a moment of their lives in an environment where English was not the dominant language. Their exposure to non-Americans was scant. And here we stood in a cramped apartment with a dozen other people, struggling to communicate what shaving cream was for or inquiring where they would like their toolset to be.

I would like to say that that first day was an amazing, spirit-filling experience. But I would be remiss if I did not state how difficult those first hours were. Had our EWS friend not taken the initiative to schedule our next visit, I sometimes wonder if I would have just let things go.

But our second trip went better. It was on that trip that we made pancakes. And the third was even better. As we met other Zomi refugees and they became part of our lives, we realized that we had become something like an extension to their urban village. We were, in many ways, the outsiders hoping to be accepted, hoping to understand what was happening.

Suan, it turns out, has a gift for music. He was known in the Malaysian refugee community for his singing, and he is now the worship leader in the small Zomi church that meets in Rogers Park. Our first visit to that church marks a moment in my life that I will never forget.


Follow along with Part 3.

This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the second of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

Welcome to America, Part 1

"Do you have any questions for us?" Angie asked Suan and his wife through our interpreter, another Zomi refugee who has picked up a fair amount of English in his few years in the United States.

Angie's question set off a series of back-and-forth exchanges in Zolai, the language of the Zomi people. The Zomi are from the Chin territory in Burma. As a minority (strike one), largely Christian (strike two) nation in Myanmar's Eastern border, the Zomi have suffered under the military junta that still controls the Burmese government. Many have fled as refugees, and some of those refugees have been given a home in the Chicago area.

As the chatter died down, the interpreter, Pau, turned back to Angie and said with an embarrassed laugh, "Um, yes… my wife would like to know what the bag of white powder is for." Answering our uncomprehending stares, Sing, mother of two daughters, gesticulated toward the kitchen.

"White powder?" mumbled Angie. Then again addressing Pau, she asked, "Can Sing show us?"

Who would have thought a simple little exchange like this would lead to the fulfillment of one of Angie's childhood dreams?

Angie grew up a stone's throw from Phoenix, Arizona. Having only one sibling, a brother four years her senior, she tended to rely upon her active imagination to fill those scorching childhood summers in the desert. Envisioning herself as Julia Childs, little ten-year-old Angie would stand before her bedroom mirror and host a cooking show. In a matter-of-fact tone, she would walk through the process of beating an egg, mixing dough, or baking a pizza. She was always careful to explain the details to her imaginary studio audience.

As Angie grew up, the practical concerns of everyday life replaced her childhood fantasy. She had all but given up her aspiration to host a cooking show until that very moment when Sing pulled the paper back out from under her sink: All Purpose Flour.

The Zomi people are an agrarian society. In a climate conducive to farming, they grow corn, rice, fruit, and vegetables. Apparently, they do not grow wheat. They had never seen wheat flour, and hadn't any idea how it should be used. And as Angie realized this, a light rekindled in her eyes as she enthusiastically offered to show them how to cook with it.

When Pau translated this to Zolai, Suan and Sing nodded their assent. Someone, I'm not sure who, ducked out the front door of the small studio apartment provided to the refugee family, and called down the hall. The Rogers Park apartment building into which Suan and Sing were placed houses several other Zomi families, and in some ways they act like a tiny village inside of the large urban Chicago building. As Angie was busy finding the necessary kitchen utensils, other Zomi families streamed into the apartment, removing their shoes (as is the custom in Burma) and making a beeline for the tiny five-by-five kitchen nook.

Glowing with the enthusiasm of Rachel Ray, Angie began demonstrating how to make pancakes. Explaining the function of each utensil as she went, she scooped, leveled, mixed, poured, and cooked. Her audience stood rapt, interrupted only rarely by the exclamations of an inquisitive Zomi child.

Fifteen minutes later, the plate of pancakes passed from hand to hand. I'm not sure that our American cuisine immediately won over the hearts and stomachs of the Zomi refugees, but all of the pancakes were consumed. Everyone expressed their thanks to Angie, "lung dam mahmah." Thank you very much. Angie glowed.


Follow along with part 2 and part 3.


This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the first of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)