I stumbled across a campsite. Black tarps lined the fields. “This is strange”, I thought. But the thought passed, and I walked on. I was blind, or blinded. A month later, I’m ready to go somewhere. I need to do something. My Spirit is restless. The campsite. We went, and we met them all. They are Muslim, but they wear Hindi clothes. Their faces are covered with mix-matched piercings, and their bodies in mix-matched clothing. Their hair is cut in wild fashions and adorned with colorful ribbons. They are barefoot and strong. They have weathered incredible storms.
I had so much anxiety. I was at such a loss. What could I do for these people: the children, young mothers, child-wives, and poor laborers eating water-rice? What could I do for the homes made out of garbage bags and sticks especially for when it storms, when monsoon season comes? What could I do for the dirt and infections, for the diseases and illness? What could I do for their uneducated minds and wild ways, for their nomadic hearts? They are gypsies. They are refugees. They are the outcasts, the lowly, the profoundly beautiful children of God. And what can I do? I would do anything, surrender anything, give my life, if I could save them. Anxiety, compassion, despair.
“God, don’t forget them”. I prayed for the names I learned. “Poppi, Aki, Ontara, Onaki, Shaki, Bapa, Ishti, Mouroni, Piya, Munkta, Chikuta, Lota, and who else?” Anxiety, despair. Who else?! Then, name after name flooded my mind.
I know. I know all of them. Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she would not have compassion on her own son? Even if a mother forgets, I will not forget them. Behold, I have engraved them on the palms of my hands….on these hands.
I looked up in shameful pain at his hands. Those hands were nailed to the cross. Even then he knew. He always knew. He loves them in ways I do not comprehend. He has seen every moment of their lives, and I cannot fathom the compassion he has for them, the tears he has shed. His heart is broken, and who will go out? The mysteries of God – that while on the cross in humility and sin, he bore the weight of every soul, memory, and pain. He was a man of sorrows; he was acquainted with the utmost depth of grief. He loves each of these refugees, and he is already there. His presence drowns that place. These are God’s people, and he will provide. I cast all my anxieties on him, because the burden is not mine, because he already carries it, because he is all powerful, all knowing, and all good, and because it is only by his power that these people from Bangladesh are saved.
