At 17 I traveled with a group of youth to Zhitomir, Ukraine to volunteer in the community. It was fulfilling and delightful, but tipped many of us out of our comfort zones: one day we visited a home with children who had been physically and neurologically affected by the Chernobyl disaster aftermath. Many days we facilitated a camp where we performed skits, made balloons, and skipped around playgrounds with kids.
I remember how fascinated the kids were with our cameras and how they all wanted to be in our photos. I asked my friend to take a picture of me and a group near the swing set — they all crowded around, jostling to be within the frame. I vividly remember one taller boy pushing a shorter blonde-headed kid away, as if to exclude him.
I remember the twinge I felt — a desire to halt the exclusion and repair what I felt should not be. I stopped the photographer, found the boy, and brought him towards the center. Today, this is one of my favorite photos, now over 25 years old. We’re all beaming, and the boy I brought to the front looks content, as if his being welcomed back settled him. For the rest of the trip when he appeared at events, I made a point to invite him into other photos.
Over the years, I’ve wondered: have I ever unknowingly or knowingly pushed anyone out — not done my part to welcome someone who needed it? Have I ever missed “seeing” someone because I didn’t look beyond the exterior or I was too impatient?
I can’t help but think of a passage from a children’s book by Kate DiCamillo, “Flora and Ulysses: The Illuminated Adventures”:
“Alfred T. Slipper was a janitor. Most of the time (often, in fact) they treated him with disdain. They had no idea of the astonishing acts of heroism, the blinding light, contained within his outward humdrum disguise. Only Alfred’s parakeet, Dolores, knew who he was and what he could do.”
How many times have I walked past an Alfred T. Slipper, missing out on an opportunity to welcome, to understand, and perhaps to be understood myself? Maybe one of the biggest parts of life is about welcoming others, as we live out of our own experience of feeling welcomed.
I think part of welcoming means being open to learning from others, realizing their lives could teach me something. For me, it’s also about the overflow of the shelter of welcome I experience through my connection with God — I suppose those who feel deeply welcomed can more easily welcome others. Perhaps it also means being vulnerable and intentional about going deeper in relationship. That’s not always safe. That can be scary. But to be truly understood, we have to open up. I have to let you see my dreams, hopes, even fears.
We can’t have close relationships with everyone, but I have a hunch there are small ways to reach out to those around us, to thread welcoming into the moments of the tapestry of our days. I ponder too — what does it look like for me to welcome those I don’t agree with — how do I cultivate a connection when my moral compass is oriented differently from yours? People aren’t one dimensional —they’re not just their behavior or their position on a policy. Maybe when we discover that we take the opposite position on an important issue in the community — maybe that’s when we should say, “Ok, let’s meet for coffee and doughnuts and see what happens.” That might not be for everyone, but I think sometimes doing hard things is what brings the maturity we’re built for as humans.
I’m becoming more intentional to “see” those around me — those close to me and those who are only acquaintances. When I slow down and take care to notice, I realize there is an even greater stretching for me to do in this arena. To welcoming, to understanding others and taking the risk to be understood (and yes, potentially misunderstood).
But as Jonathan Auxier says in his children’s novel, “Sweep: The Story of a Girl and her Monster,” “That’s what it is to care for a person,” Toby said. There was not even a hint of mocking in his voice. “If you’re not afraid, you’re not doing it right.”
