Exactly one year ago, I was traveling back from a small Island off the coast of beautiful Krabi in Southern Thailand, about to go on another adventure to a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas where I would learn about the Karen. A beautiful indigenous people group in Northern Thailand and several other Southeast Asian countries, known for their ever-present smiles, unmatched hospitality, and bold colored weavings. A few weeks into my ethnographic research visit, I learned about the persecution of Karen people from Burma and the refugee camps that dot the Thai-Burma border, home to thousands of Karen, Chin, and Burmese people, among other ethnic minority groups, who are fleeing from the military regime. Conversations, prayers, and weeks later, I had the unique opportunity to visit one of the refugee camps and heard heartbreaking story after miraculous story and tried desperately to see purpose and hope in what was seemingly irredeemable. I returned to the United States with fewer belongings, a lot more questions, and a newfound desire to seek out refugees here.
A few minutes ago, I returned from church with some of my new Burmese friends who happen to be refugees from a camp adjacent the one I visited. There are several Burmese refugee families in Harrisburg and I’ve begun to know them, mostly from my recent experience with helping to resettle a family that arrived a month ago and also from the food pantry at my church. I’m starting to understand who is related to whom and am having less of a challenging time remember names. I often feel like I am back in Thailand or in some other foreign land where I stick out as the foreigner who can’t speak the language, but I am okay with being lost in translation and am drawn to these beautiful people who are starting their lives over in a new place and a new culture. Perhaps it’s because I know where they’ve come from. Or perhaps it’s something else. But, readers, I would like to say that Jesus hangs in refugee camps and he also spends a lot of time in the slums of Harrisburg.
Two weeks ago, Myint Mu, a good friend who speaks both Burmese and English, told me that Che Paw, a lady that frequents the food pantry, was a Christian. I told her I could take her to church if she wanted to go. She wanted to go. And the eight others in her family.
We sat in church together and the boys were rowdy and the three year old was restless. Che Paw speaks little English, so there was no conversation and I was pretty confident she didn’t understand the sermon or any of the words to the songs. Her husband, Podah, also sat quietly and showed no signs of comprehension. They will probably never want to come here again, I thought to myself.
We took communion. And we sang Nothing but the Blood, which is a song I remember hearing at the church in the refugee camp. Instantly, Podah’s face lit up and he started singing meaningful syllables to the tune. He was in the right place, and he knew it.
“I want come every Sunday,” he told me afterwards, surprising me with English I didn’t know he could speak. He had been praying for a church for the last sixth months that they had been in the United States. God answers prayers and Jesus hangs out on Derry Street. Nothing surprises me, some things wow me, most things excite me these days.
So, this is going to be a space, from now on, for me to record my continued experiences with refugees in Harrisburg, to tell you about where I’m finding Jesus these days, to honor the refugees experiencing transition and challenges we will never know overseas, in camps, in the news, and in our neighborhoods. I'm going to tell a new story.
