I was a Green Beret,” he stated.
“Did you go to my country?” Her voice is soft. Her face tilts toward his.
I open my eyes to see his expression. From my previous three minutes of eavesdropping, I already know some background. It’s his first pedicure. His wife of fifty-six years finally convinced him a professional pedi is a good idea. He served in the military as a young man and is a Veteran proud of his accomplishments.
Assuming the wisp of a woman crouched at his feet is Vietnamese, I wonder what he will say.
“No, my assignment was closer to home.” His voice is steady…quiet.
I search the faces of the other eavesdroppers. We exhale silent relief and return to the safety of our cell phone screens, eyes afraid to acknowledge our shared reality — fifty years and three million Vietnamese deaths later, history’s hangover still haunts our local nail salon.
This is America. Land of the free. Home of the immigrant. Everyone has a story. Sometimes our stories share the same space or intersect in unusual ways. For example, I teach in a school where there are two children whose families recently arrived in the United States because their countries are at war…with each other. Their mothers stand in line at the Scholastic Book Fair and speak English with the same strong Eastern European accent. The kids are both blonde, fair and blue-eyed. I don’t know for certain, but I could guess that the girls’ babushkas are colder than usual this winter. And sadder. This war will celebrate its second birthday in February. The candles won’t be on cake, but on mantles in memory of loved ones who won’t be coming home. Ever.
Yesterday, as I scrolled through social media on my lunch break, I wept with a brown-eyed boy in the Middle East as he described to someone he trusted, the horror of trying to play ball with his nephew in the war zone that is their neighborhood. A bomb suddenly exploded the entire area, leaving his playmates dead or limbless. “We can’t live here! He wailed into the camera. “This is not a life!”
I understand, sweet boy. You are so right. This is definitely NOT the life we long for. Not the life we were created for. And not the life we pray for. This is not how it was meant to be, nor how it will always be. I know you can’t see me or believe me—sitting here, half a world away with my pedicured toes and my full belly. But I feel it, too. The sense of injustice, the rage and outrage that makes me want to scream at Aljezeera and throw my slippers at Fox. I can’t stand it. Hate knowing about all these horrific things that Just. Don’t. Stop.
I used to be SO invested in doing something to make a difference, no matter how small. I posted on social media. I raised funds. My Honey and I sponsored refugees through the Uniting For Ukraine program and made our home a safe haven, even when we ran out of beds and had to use the sofa for the seventh body under our roof. I stayed up many nights, reading about horrific things and posting pleas for help. People rallied, contributed, donated and supported my nonprofit, Relevant Life Solutions. We sent funds for food, medicine, uniforms and funerals. We prayed and pleaded with God for relief for all the suffering we heard about. We felt overwhelmed at times. We ARE overwhelmed at times. One faraway war is eclipsed by another, but the results of Russia vs. Ukraine live in our house.
I sit with them in the social services office while strangers argue about whether or not refugees should even be here, let alone receiving benefits of any kind. No one realizes where they are from as they stare silently at the floor. I cry with them at the end of long workdays where customers or coworkers mock their “strong accents” and treat them with disdain. I listen to one-sided conversations with loved ones left behind as they share the fear of living in villages where neighbors’ windows are blown out because of drone attacks or nightly air raid sirens and growling stomachs prevent anyone from getting a decent rest.
My sense of justice and my compassionate heart keep me from giving up completely, but I’ll admit I’ve gotten discouraged. I stopped watching and reading the news for a while. I stopped posting about needs I know about. I stopped doing anything to promote the work we are doing. I even stopped asking God to stop that war. He’s got a lot going on in the world right now. I’m sure He will get to it when He gets to it. I’m sure He’s there, loving the people on both sides. Answering the prayers of those who abide under the shelter of the Most High. Working all things together for the good of those who love Him. He doesn’t need me to whine, wheedle or beg Him to do anything different.
What He does need me to do is to love those within my sphere and under my care. He needs me to drive a little girl to school each morning and care for her while her mother is working. He needs me to share what I have and offer my help in practical ways. He needs me to send that $100 per month to the single mom who escaped to Romania with her two children, but just can’t make ends meet as she seeks to start a life there. He needs me to advocate for that little school where the poorest of kids can learn about Jesus and receive a quality education. He needs me to write the things that live heavy in my heart, but just can’t seem to find their way out as words and sentences and paragraphs and chapters and books that will help people find hope and know they are not alone in their situation. He needs me. And He needs you, too. How will we love people today? How will we live out compassion? How will we make a difference on a planet ready to implode?
Jesus probably says it best in Matthew 25:40, something like “If you have done it for one of the least of these, you have done it for me.” I think that’s it. That’s enough. If that young woman in the nail salon, who may or may not know my Jesus, can humbly wash the feet of a Veteran who served in the armed forces that nearly decimated her country and the lives of her ancestors in a pointless war, surely I can serve somebody, too. I can buy some groceries, fill a gas tank, give a ride or pay a bill. I can be a shoulder to cry on and a fund raiser for those without a voice. I can do all these things and more through Christ, who gives me strength. Yes Lord. Yes I can. And so can you, dear Reader. Together we can make a difference. Let’s do this! 2024 is waiting.