Katrina and Parwa
I traveled to Israel as an exchange student, expecting to gain knowledge and experience from the classes and professors I had, and I unexpectedly gained so much more from children and mothers whom I had never intended on meeting. But isn’t that how God often works—through the unanticipated, the unplanned, and unearned. As students, we were offered the opportunity to volunteer at local organizations, which ranged in purposes. I nearly did not sign up for any; in fact, I went in to sign up as a volunteer two days after the official end date for joining because I figured any volunteer work would look good on my resume. God took that selfish motivation and used it for His great purpose. And so I found myself before the arched doorway of Shevet Achim.
The occupants of Shevet Achim consisted of two groups: the families and the workers. And I learned so much from both groups of people that I could (and did) fill a journal’s worth. These are a few of the people who left footprints (and handprints) in the sands of my life:
Parwa, a young girl around the age of a first grader, wiggled her way into my heart with her huge, infectious smile and ever-ready hugs. Even on our very first day, when the other children were still hesitant to engage with these strange white foreigners, Parwa pointed to herself, said “Parwa,” and then pointed to me, lifting her eyebrows with a questioning expression. And from that moment on I was wrapped around her little finger. Parwa, a Kurdish child, was in Israel with her mother, waiting for heart surgery; while she seemed healthy enough, her heart condition if not treated while she was young would greatly diminish her quality of life while she was older. Parwa was a huge joy to my life. When I felt down, she lifted me up and when she was bored, tired, or worried I was there with a coloring book, a ball, or just me. I will never forget one of our outings where we took dozens of pictures together sitting on lion statues—you can tell from our pictures that we are both having a blast.
Dimon was a tiny girl for her age with hands and lips a permanent bluish hue. She was so shy and reserved our first day and many days after. But one day as the other children were occupied in a game of catch, Dimon was alone and I sat next to her. I tried to engage her with a coloring book and crayons, but she simply drew a line and then stopped, showing no enthusiasm. On a whim, I blew in her ear as my father used to do to me to make me laugh. And immediately the biggest surprised smile appeared on her face. Then, to my own surprise, she leaned over and blew in my ear. That began a permanent tradition between Dimon and me, one that never failed to bring a smile to her face. Today, Dimon is back home with her family, hands and lips a healthy pink, and I imagine a big smile brightening her face.
Um Wahaj was the mother of a little boy named Wahaj. She was young, smart, and a conservative Muslim. At first we had little contact, but soon she began trusting me and the other volunteers with her son, something the other mothers had always been hesitant to do. Um Wahaj invited me eat lunch at Shevet Achim; she shared the food she made for herself and Wahaj, making sure I had more than enough. I learned through her broken English and later through some translations from the workers that a month before she and Wahaj left their family in Iraq, her brother had been killed in a suicide bombing. Now here she was alone in Israel with none of the family support or familiar surroundings that can make mourning less painful. She was alone, probably worried for Wahaj, and sad over her brother, and yet she was one of the calmest and sometimes most energetic of the mothers. I will never forget the day that I accidentally bounced a ball over our stone wall into a construction dump on the other side. Not only did she climb over the wall to retrieve the ball (and one more that had been lost to the dump a few days earlier), but she also found innovative items that could be made into play things for all the children—to her it was a treasure hunt and an adventure. I am so glad that I could be part of her life, perhaps making it a bit easier by watching Wahaj or taking her mind of her worries; and I am glad that she was part of my life, making real the tragedy of war and conflict and opening my heart to the compassion of Jesus.
Through volunteering at Shevet Achim, God developed compassion in my heart for these children and mothers, who left the familiarity of home for the hope of better life for their children. I have been given so much as an American and have taken so much for granted. These people and so many others reminded me that to whom much has been given much is required. And that is no longer just another wearisome command, for now I see how much I have—time, financial security, natural talents, the truth of Jesus—now I truly see the needs of multitudes of people, and now I want to give all I can to the people for whom Jesus also had compassion.