THEM ? D ID HE EXPLAIN HOW TO TURN THE FIRE ON ? D ID HE EXPLAIN HOW TO OPEN AND CLOSE THE HEAT ? D ID HE EXPLAIN HOW TO OPEN AND CLOSE THE WATER ?
“W HOSE FAULT IS IT, THEN, FATHER ? D OES THE BLAME LIE WITH THESE POOR REFUGEES ? I S IT FAIR TO PUNISH THEM FOR BEING UNFAMILIAR WITH THEIR NEW ENVIRONMENT ? I S IT RIGHT TO PUNISH THEM FOR HAVING HAD TO FLEE THEIR HOMELAND AGAINST THEIR WILL ?”
“O R IS IT FAIR TO BLAME THE LANDLORD , W HO DID NOT TAKE EVEN ONE SECOND TO SHOW THEM HOW TO TAKE CARE OF HIS HOME ?
“I THINK THAT THE PATH OF RIGHTNESS IS THAT THE LANDLORD SHOULD BE ON TRIAL RIGHT NOW FOR NOT HONORING THE RULE OF LANDLORDS . H E SHOULD HAVE TO PAY THEM MONEY FOR ALL OF THE TIME THAT THEY SPENT CLEANING HIS FLOOD AND FOR ALL OF THE ANGUISH THAT THIS EXPERIENCE HAS CAUSED THEM .
“My father leaned back on the couch and smiled.
I’ M TELLING YOU, THE POOR LANDLORD WAS ALMOST CRYING BY THE TIME THAT I FINISHED MY GOOD EXPLANATION . H E KNEW THAT THE JUDGE WOULD SPARE US, AND THE JUDGE DID .
My father was a poor man, but he had not feared to speak in front of judges. Nor had he feared to speak in front of other groups, even his church: H ELP ! M Y PEOPLE ARE DYING ! T HEY NEED PRAYER ! T HEY NEED FOOD ! T HEY NEED BOOKS SO THAT THEY CAN LEARN !
H ELP ! M Y GRANDSON IN T IGRAY HAS NO PARENTS . H IS MOTHER, MY DAUGHTER, HAS DIED . H IS FATHER WAS A DER GUE SOLDIER WHO RAPED HIS MOTHER . P LEASE HELP HIM .
Most Americans would have dismissed a poor, handicapped refugee like my father, but the beautiful folks at Wheaton Bible Church remained true to their calling. They saw past his disguise, and they helped him the best that they could, even sending monthly checks to his orphaned grandson.
I wonder sometimes if God sent my father to test the truest sentiments of their hearts. I wonder if God sends angels to all of us.
My father was never afraid to ask for help. But he also used his own power to help others, especially the most recently arrived refugees. The poorer the refugees, and the more desperately they needed his help, the more he wanted to do for them.
The most desperate families usually came with five or six children, and with parents too old to understand life in the States. Landlords in Wheaton rarely rented to them.
There was one exception: a landlord who rented out his basement. The families would pile in like sardines, up to ten people huddled in three dark rooms. Somalis, Eritreans, Ethiopians, Kenyans, Cambodians — they all moved in, one family after the other.
Since my father knew Arabic, Tigrynia, Amharic, Giiz, English, and even a little Italian, he could usually communicate with the families, even with the non-
habesha.
Sometimes he would take a detour before he visited them, walking to the grocery store to buy bread and fruit.
He would carry the bread and fruit to the cellar dwellers and talk with the parents and the kids. He would encourage the kids to educate themselves, and the parents to discipline their kids: I F YOU LOVE YOUR CHILDREN AND WANT THEM TO BE COME GOOD PEOPLE, YOU MUST DISCIPLINE THEM NOW, BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE .
On many occasions, he translated for the parents at Public Aid or at school. Other times, he introduced them to extra sources of funding. He helped so much that World Relief Refugee Services eventually gave him a special certificate in recognition of his tireless dedication.
We watched in wonder as he showed us this badge of honor, as he framed it and kept it near him. We asked ourselves, how could this simple piece of paper inspire such joy and happiness in him? How could it make him radiate so?
Maybe the answer lay in his past, and in the greatness he had known as an advanced dresser who could help others in their time of need.
Life as a beetle had often cloaked it, but that same source of greatness still pulsated here in the States. That greatness continues to pulsate — if not in my father, then in those he helped and the stories they still tell of
“W HOSE FAULT IS IT, THEN, FATHER ? D OES THE BLAME LIE WITH THESE POOR REFUGEES ? I S IT FAIR TO PUNISH THEM FOR BEING UNFAMILIAR WITH THEIR NEW ENVIRONMENT ? I S IT RIGHT TO PUNISH THEM FOR HAVING HAD TO FLEE THEIR HOMELAND AGAINST THEIR WILL ?”
“O R IS IT FAIR TO BLAME THE LANDLORD , W HO DID NOT TAKE EVEN ONE SECOND TO SHOW THEM HOW TO TAKE CARE OF HIS HOME ?
“I THINK THAT THE PATH OF RIGHTNESS IS THAT THE LANDLORD SHOULD BE ON TRIAL RIGHT NOW FOR NOT HONORING THE RULE OF LANDLORDS . H E SHOULD HAVE TO PAY THEM MONEY FOR ALL OF THE TIME THAT THEY SPENT CLEANING HIS FLOOD AND FOR ALL OF THE ANGUISH THAT THIS EXPERIENCE HAS CAUSED THEM .
“My father leaned back on the couch and smiled.
I’ M TELLING YOU, THE POOR LANDLORD WAS ALMOST CRYING BY THE TIME THAT I FINISHED MY GOOD EXPLANATION . H E KNEW THAT THE JUDGE WOULD SPARE US, AND THE JUDGE DID .
My father was a poor man, but he had not feared to speak in front of judges. Nor had he feared to speak in front of other groups, even his church: H ELP ! M Y PEOPLE ARE DYING ! T HEY NEED PRAYER ! T HEY NEED FOOD ! T HEY NEED BOOKS SO THAT THEY CAN LEARN !
H ELP ! M Y GRANDSON IN T IGRAY HAS NO PARENTS . H IS MOTHER, MY DAUGHTER, HAS DIED . H IS FATHER WAS A DER GUE SOLDIER WHO RAPED HIS MOTHER . P LEASE HELP HIM .
Most Americans would have dismissed a poor, handicapped refugee like my father, but the beautiful folks at Wheaton Bible Church remained true to their calling. They saw past his disguise, and they helped him the best that they could, even sending monthly checks to his orphaned grandson.
I wonder sometimes if God sent my father to test the truest sentiments of their hearts. I wonder if God sends angels to all of us.
My father was never afraid to ask for help. But he also used his own power to help others, especially the most recently arrived refugees. The poorer the refugees, and the more desperately they needed his help, the more he wanted to do for them.
The most desperate families usually came with five or six children, and with parents too old to understand life in the States. Landlords in Wheaton rarely rented to them.
There was one exception: a landlord who rented out his basement. The families would pile in like sardines, up to ten people huddled in three dark rooms. Somalis, Eritreans, Ethiopians, Kenyans, Cambodians — they all moved in, one family after the other.
Since my father knew Arabic, Tigrynia, Amharic, Giiz, English, and even a little Italian, he could usually communicate with the families, even with the non-
habesha.
Sometimes he would take a detour before he visited them, walking to the grocery store to buy bread and fruit.
He would carry the bread and fruit to the cellar dwellers and talk with the parents and the kids. He would encourage the kids to educate themselves, and the parents to discipline their kids: I F YOU LOVE YOUR CHILDREN AND WANT THEM TO BE COME GOOD PEOPLE, YOU MUST DISCIPLINE THEM NOW, BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE .
On many occasions, he translated for the parents at Public Aid or at school. Other times, he introduced them to extra sources of funding. He helped so much that World Relief Refugee Services eventually gave him a special certificate in recognition of his tireless dedication.
We watched in wonder as he showed us this badge of honor, as he framed it and kept it near him. We asked ourselves, how could this simple piece of paper inspire such joy and happiness in him? How could it make him radiate so?
Maybe the answer lay in his past, and in the greatness he had known as an advanced dresser who could help others in their time of need.
Life as a beetle had often cloaked it, but that same source of greatness still pulsated here in the States. That greatness continues to pulsate — if not in my father, then in those he helped and the stories they still tell of
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