Welcome.

We are all good at different things - it's true, I know,  I like to remind myself of that when I'm confronted with what I'm not good at.  I'm not good at being flexible in my routine.  I'm not good at administrative endeavors. I'm not good at being nice when I'm cold and/or tired.  I'm not good at speaking, really in any capacity, but particularly if I don't have time to process my thoughts first. 

And I'm really not good at hospitality. Some of my closest friends haven't been to my apartment.  I don't host people. My space is my space is my space. It's my little carved out area that I protect, even to a fault. 

Hospitality - not my gift. 

I'm better at other things. 

So many other cultures that I have had the privilege of experiencing are based around welcoming other people. To turn away the stranger is to bring disgrace to the family, to the country. 

I live in New York.  I swim through tourists anytime I go downtown. I squish my shoulders together and hop through the sea of people in frustration. My arms are not open to the stranger. 

Hospitality - not my gift. 

So here I am in Holland, a land that feels oddly familiar to me. The biggest shock I've dealt with has been the abundance of bicycles.  It's incredible. There are more bikes than cars.  I can't get over it.

Other than that, everyone knows English, fashion is similar, the food is the same, and the scenery reminds me of different parts of the Midwest.  I haven't had to adjust. 

The culture in the refugee center is obviously different. There isn't one nationality. There isn't one language. There isn't one religion. There isn't one fashion style. There are people that are learning to survive in a new land while still holding on to the values and customs that they have known their whole lives. 

Many, being from the Middle East, are really good at hospitality. Really good. Welcoming the stranger is part of their DNA. 

The mural that the boys are painting is in the passageway of a bike path. Bike messengers are passing us all day long. 

It's a highly trafficked area. 

People see us. People stop. People talk to us. People help paint. 

That's how I met my new friend.  I'll call him Munir to protect his identity. Munir was walking past and saw our group painting. He spoke only Arabic, but he knew he had to show me his own artwork. He pulled out his phone and tried to explain the detail work of a stencil painting he had done. I'm sure I only understood a piece of what he was trying to communicate, but it wasn't difficult to understand that this man was a talented artist. Like really, really good.

About an hour later his wife came to visit us.   She spoke English and showed me portraits that Munir had painted of his children. 

Then she said, this one is of our son the day he arrived here from Syria. 

The boy had one coat on his arms, no bags, and a tired look on his face. 

She said, "This is good day for us.  This is day we get our son back."

I looked at them and felt such love and compassion for them. Their eyes were soft and gentle. 

The woman then started speaking to me in Dutch (classic mistake because pass for Dutch quite easily) and so I told her that I'm not from here, I'm from NYC. 

Munir understood me.  He stopped the entire conversation, grabbed my hand, and said, "Welcome. You are welcome here."

My heart stopped beating. 

I just left NYC and my biggest concern is being withoug kombucha for ten days. This man fled war and prayed his family would be reunited again. 

He lives in a refugee shelter and may never see his hometown for the rest of his life. 

With joy in his heart, he reached out his hand to welcome me to the tiny plot of land that he was allowed to stay on. 

Hospitality is central to middle eastern culture, I get that, but this man has to know that I left a country that just banned him from being allowed in. Yet, instead of feeling anger and frustration, he opened his arms to me. 

He didn't hear me say that I'm from New York and pull back his affection. He didn't look at me and think, "You're from America, where my heritage is so scary to you that I'm not allowed on your land. America, where I am a terrorist.  Got it. I'll be on my way now." 

He didn't hold the sins of my country against me, even while my country holds his nationality against him. 

He chose abundance, even in a time of scarcity. 

He chose to be the bridge, not the wall.  An example of what I want my life to be. 

"Welcome.  You are welcome here."

His voice echoes in my heart. May in reverberate out of my soul, wherever I find my on this planet.