It’s the anniversary of Hurricane Katrina this week, just as another big storm is bearing down on the Gulf Coast. At the same time a desperate mission unfolds in Kabul as we scramble to evacuate those facing violence because they served our country. Waves of Afghan refugees are making their way to neighborhoods like mine and perhaps yours. Will they be welcomed by those who read scripture and call it holy? What gifts might they share, just by being themselves, to those who show them hospitality?
Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.
Hebrews 13:2
In 2005, after the Lower Ninth Ward was destroyed, we welcomed a family from New Orleans into our home in North Carolina. They had family nearby, and we had room. At the time, we lived in a church parsonage that had a huge basement walk-out apartment with 2 bedrooms, a bathroom, living/dining room and kitchen. An abundance of space. They had lost everything—their home, their business, and all their possessions. Their large family was split up across cities. Staying with us were a grandmother, mother, and two teenage sons.
The boys enrolled in our local high school, and played football that year. The grandmother rocked and read her Bible, until she became ill and died, far from home. The mother, S, tried to navigate the process of FEMA and rebuilding from 700 miles away. She took care of her boys, her mother, her own soul, and kept her scattered family connected. She crocheted faster than anyone I’ve known, producing blankets, hats, and scarves to share. She sang hymns and cooked spicy Cajun food, the sounds and scents drifting upstairs and mingling with our Disney movie soundtracks and chicken nugget smells.
S and I connected that year over cancer and grief. Both of us had buried children—a shared loss that can turn strangers into sisters, however briefly. And during the year they lived with us, I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had multiple surgeries, and my mother was diagnosed a few months later. S shared her hope-filled wisdom as a survivor, crocheted us both soft blankets, and brought food upstairs just when we needed it most.
Eventually, they moved away to live closer to more family. We stayed in touch sporadically for awhile. I hope we provided a small, brief refuge for them. I know my own memories of that year – the Katrina and cancer year – are always wrapped in a crocheted blanket, and smell a little like jambalaya.
I wonder, who was really providing hospitality and shelter from storms?
To learn more about welcoming Afghan refugees in your community and elsewhere, check out the ministry of Church World Service.
*It was only after finishing this piece that it occurred to me: we often call the blankets S crocheted us “afghans.” I did some digging and found that the phrasing pops up in English beginning in the 1800s, and may be because of colorful textiles and wool that originated in Afghanistan. Here’s the power of writing: I didn’t set out to write about the blankets S made. I intended to write about providing refuge. The afghans she made just came out in the writing, as I was remembering details from that year. Without the time spent putting words to this memory, I would not have made the remarkable connection between those blankets made with love for me by a Katrina refugee back then, and the women, children and men who are also called Afghan, and are in need of refuge now. Writing about it helped take the yarn through the twists and turns needed to make the connection. Want to see what you discover in your writing? Sign up for my Fall Writing Workshop, or join my email list for a free weekly writing prompt.
