That's When I See Her
I open the front door to let Anna and Theo play outside for a bit, bundling them up in hopes they won’t notice the chilly bite in the air. They resist, as most four and two year olds would, but I don’t give them the choice. Cabin fever has hit us hard and we are all ready for some relief.
That’s when I see her.
Daya is across the grassy lawn standing on her front stoop, her door open wide. Her children are grown now but she is still there watching, admiring the young boys who are kicking a well-worn soccer ball right outside both our doors. I hear her yell out a few words to the boys in Nepali, her native tongue. They seem to understand her as they walk toward her. That’s when she turns to go back inside, leaving the boys standing on her stoop.
Moments later Daya returns with an armful of shirts and scarves and hats. All for the boys who aren’t her own. That is when I notice a few of the boys are in flip-flops and two or three are in t-shirts without any protective layer covering the lower portions of their arms. A shiver falls down my spine as I think how cold they must be. I wonder if it was their choice to be outside without the proper apparel or if there were no other options in their homes. But she doesn’t seem to care one way or the other. I see her clothe each boy making sure every part of their body is covered so they can continue their game. She mothers them and loves them as if they were her own. A mother’s love goes beyond her own children.
She teaches me to do the same.
***
We meet Hadya for the first time as we are taking our evening stroll around the block. She is standing on her front stoop when we introduce ourselves and welcome her to the neighborhood. In very broken English she tells us she recently moved here from Syria. My heart drops as I realize all that she must have gone through just to bring her family here, to safety.
She invites us in her home. We walk in and she insists we take the best seat in the house, the brown leather sofa. Her four young children scramble around the room, their giggles tell me they are not used to strangers in their home but their smiles are sweet and inviting. Already I am humbled by her generous hospitality, and yet no words have been exchanged since walking through her front door. We all sit in silence for what seems like an eternity until she exclaims, “Tea?!” We nod our heads and thank God under our breaths that a distraction replaces the awkwardness.
As she walks into the kitchen Theo is at her heels. I follow to make sure his curiosity doesn’t get the better of him.
That’s when I see her.
Hadya scoops my little boy up in her arms. Pulling a piece of candy from her cupboard, she hands it to him and gives him a kiss on the cheek before setting him down again. He runs out of the kitchen, and I smile thinking about how she only just met us 30 minutes before and already she is loving on our children. She speaks Arabic, we speak English, and yet that doesn’t matter to her. Love crosses cultures. Love breaks down the language barrier.
She teaches me to do the same.
***
It is Sumita son’s birthday. She has been slaving away in the kitchen since yesterday morning, preparing the perfect Nepali meal for her beloved boy who is turning 10 and all the family and friends who will attend. We hear a knock on the door while Anna and Theo are playing on the floor at our feet.
“Come to my birthday!” Sumita’s son, Abhay exclaims.
“Of course we’ll be there,” we say. We laugh to ourselves knowing that whatever we had on the agenda that day will have to be postponed because, in the neighborhood, an invitation into someone’s home precludes any other plans.
We get dressed and walk the few steps next door. We are greeted by the birthday boy and ushered into the living room. We stand awkwardly but only for a few seconds before Sumita’s husband demands we sit. He shoos the two kids who are lounging across the futon couch, ensuring we get the best seat in the house.
That’s when I see her.
Sumita emerges from the kitchen, perspiration rolling down the temples of her face. Her beautiful smile welcomes us and in her best English she says, “Thank you for coming!”
We are honored. We come from two very different worlds. Although we share a wall connecting our homes, we might as well be strangers. We know very little about one another, and yet she treats us like family, maybe even better than family. She embraces our differences, welcomes us into her home, and loves us like we are her own.
She teaches me to do the same.
***
Every day I am humbled by these women, these mothers. They came to America with nothing but the clothes on their backs and babies in their arms. We moved into the neighborhood so naive. We were going to be the ones blessing, hosting, loving, giving, teaching. We were going to be the ones to change the world. Instead, they are changing my world. With very few words they have taught me so much. Perhaps greatest of all is the lesson that despite our vast differences, maybe we are not so different after all. We are all mothers loving our children, loving our friends’ children, loving our village, making this world a better place.
I am grateful to have seen them.
Guest post written by Jessica Jones. Jessica is a former suburbanite now residing and doing mission work in the inner city of Charlotte, North Carolina, with her husband and their three young children. Most days she feels like she's living in a different country as they are surrounded by families from all over the world. She loves it. Plus she can still enjoy American luxuries with Target and Starbucks only five minutes down the street. She balances being a wife, mother, friend, and neighbor all by the grace of God. A square of Ghirardelli Dark Chocolate in the evenings helps, too. You can find her sporadically writing about life and her family's experiences living among the nations on her blog, Jess Writes Here and on Instagram or Facebook.