Sabbath Devotional :: Room in my Heart

This is a note written on a paper towel from a student from Eritrea. It says “thanks” in Tigrinya and Amharic. The last word says “ticher” for “teacher.”

In December 2016, two months after I began volunteering for Refugee Services of Texas, I saw an opening for a position teaching English to recently arrived refugees. I hadn’t worked outside the home in years, but felt teaching was part of God’s path for me. I never could have imagined how interacting with such an incredible group of people would change me. Making room in my heart for those who suffer unimaginable burdens has made a lasting impact on me, and I am forever grateful.

A few days before class began, I received a list containing all my students’ names, ages, marital statuses, levels of education and countries of origin. The anticipation of meeting them filled me with eagerness, excitement, and, honestly, some anxiety. What had life been like for my students in DR-Congo, Syria, and Sudan? Growing up in Utah, I never associated much with people born outside the USA, nor people who practiced different religions. Would I even be able to communicate with them, let alone teach them? What if I offended them or said something hurtful? Would they like me? Would they treat me poorly? I was intensely aware of how different they were from me.

Yet, on that first day of class, seeing their bewildered yet kind faces quickly eased my mind. I did my best to learn how to pronounce each of their names correctly and asked questions about their families, where they had been born, how long they had lived in a refugee camp. I taught them to say, “Hello, my name is . . .,” and “How are you?” Their eyes were intense and alert as they struggled to understand; they were so eager to learn.

For three months, we laughed together and shared our stories, and both teacher and students learned together. I learned that they were not so different from me after all. They loved their families and their faith, and they loved good food! On graduation day, everyone arrived dressed in their best clothing with delicious plates of food to share. I was able to try traditional Syrian tabbouleh and Kibbeh for the first time. We smiled, took pictures, and parted ways. They taught me so much about their lives, their culture, and what it was like to live in a war-torn country. I still struggle to comprehend a life filled with bombs, children playing on tanks, daily fear, and uncertainty about the future. I have taught several classes since that first one, but those special students impacted my life the most. I miss them and think of them often.

Since then, fortunately, I have seen a few of them in the office occasionally, and some have even returned to visit me in the classroom. Recently, after the horrific shooting in Christchurch, New Zealand, our family attended an interfaith community event held at a large mosque in Fort Worth, Texas. As we were leaving, I saw one of my former students from that first class, a young father from Syria. I was so happy to see him! I asked him questions about his family and how things were going for him. I introduced him to my husband and daughters, and asked about fellow classmates whom I had not seen or heard from in almost three years. Their faces appeared in my mind, but even though they are all still very much in my heart, I could not recall many of their names.

As we drove home, I chastised myself for not being able to remember their names. How could I forget the mother and her two twenty-something sons? She had missed class many times in order to care for her husband in the hospital. He had been recovering from surgery and had received treatment for an infection brought on by a terrible wound. One day in class, I asked the son how his parents were doing. He expressed his concern and shared how his father had been shot by a sniper in Syria two years earlier. The wound had never completely healed, causing him daily pain, and infection had begun to spread.

I also couldn’t remember the name of the Kurdish woman who came to class with a terribly swollen cheek after suffering for weeks from an infected tooth. Or another mother who, on graduation day, shared in English how she hoped one of her children would study to become a teacher and another a doctor. Their faces, their eyes, their hopeful hearts are ingrained in my mind forever. I pray for their continued safety and success here in the USA.

I hope to see them all again. I have taught several classes over the past two-and-a-half years working for Refugee Services of Texas. I don’t know when or if I will see them again in this life, but I look forward to reuniting with them again after this life is finished. I recently read Doctrine and Covenants 130:2 and thought of my dear friends: “And that same sociality which exists among us here will exist among us there, only it will be coupled with eternal glory, which glory we do not now enjoy.” I hope my precious friends, with names I have forgotten, are doing well on this life journey. I laugh when I consider the anxiety I felt before I began teaching that first English class. I’m so grateful God has led me down this path, and I hope to continue making room in my heart for more new friends in the future.