Is the little I am doing enough?
By Sarah E. Z., in response to the prompt, “Dispatches from the Kingdom”
The resettlement agency case worker stared numbly at the computer screen. She had just said goodbye to a client reporting domestic violence. They had moved the Venezuelan client and her child to another location and referred them to local resources, but she still felt sick in her heart, knowing that it was not enough. During normal times, they would have been able to do more as an agency, including following up on the case and making sure they were finding ways to heal and thrive. Now with the funding cuts, she wasn’t sure if the agency would be around long enough to help them through the worst part of the crisis. “God…” she had lost the words to pray. “God, help them.”
Her phone rang, jolting her out of her reflection. Bracing herself, she answered the phone. “Another eviction notice? Okay, I will reach out to the leasing office. The family doesn’t have to leave yet. We can figure something out.”
And so it went: one crisis after another, no time for anything but the immediate fire in front of her. She wondered how long she could keep this up. She wondered if anything she was doing was enough for these families. She remembered her own welcome as a refugee many years before and feared it was not.
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The community member stared at the bill the Afghan family had just shown her, aghast. She had no idea how they would pay this, no idea how she might be able to help them. She’d been involved with the immigrant community around her for years, welcoming families, connecting them with resources, being invited into their homes for tea – so much tea. But this season felt different, the families’ situations more fraught, the go-to solutions more threadbare.
The son had had a seizure, and they’d gone to the emergency room – the resulting bill cost more than their rent which they were struggling to afford on the father’s warehouse night shift position. She knew because last time she had visited, they had gone over some budgeting together. Moving from a small rural village in Afghanistan to a large metropolis in the United States had been a hard shift for the family, especially as they struggled to learn English once funding was frozen. Even so, they had been so welcoming every time she had visited, and she was determined to help them with the tools they needed to thrive in America.
She looked up from the paper. “This is a lot of money. How is your son?”
“Better now, Alhamdulillah.” The shadow in the father’s eyes told her the fear that the seizure would strike again lingered.
His wife who hadn’t been able to consistently take English classes yet due to childcare needs looked at her husband with concern. Would their friend be able to help them?
She thought of her church’s benevolence fund…and the person who zealously guarded it against what they thought of as her work aiding and abetting criminals. While this family had come through the refugee resettlement process, she also walked alongside families who were legally seeking asylum, but had just had their TPS status removed. This person couldn’t be bothered to see the difference, but then again, she didn’t always either: they were all children of God. How could you sit across from someone and hear their story of desperate fleeing, of all the barriers they had encountered and overcome to get to where they were, and know how far they still had to go…and turn your back on them?
She smiled up at the couple. She would try again. She had to. After telling them she would reach out to a charity, she put the bill down. “And how are your children doing with school?”
As they haltingly chatted, using their basic English and Pashto as well as a translation app, the thought niggled in the back of her mind: was she doing enough?
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The problem with learning English was that it took time. The ESL teacher often bemoaned this as he watched his students eager to get better-paying jobs to support their family as they adjusted to life in America. They attended classes with determination, but sometimes fell off as they found a job that didn’t pay well, but was better than nothing. Or got discouraged as their English haltingly improved but their job applications still were denied. In a challenging job market, who was willing to take a chance on these newcomers? He knew friends with fluent English and several degrees who were struggling to find work; what hope could he offer these men?
With a heavy heart, he went back to reviewing the days’ lesson. Learning English could make such a difference for his students, but how could he judge them when their promised rent payments had been cut off? How did proper verb conjugation make a difference when they were still turned away from workplaces for the color of their skin? Was it going to be enough?
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The non-profit worker pasted a smile on his face as kids from all over the world trickled into his room. The images from the articles he’d just been reading haunted him: kids being ripped from their parents, the families who’d been days away from their resettlement flight to the United States now suffering, and so much more pain, the stories were starting to blur. It was hard to put the news aside to focus on work, when he saw the news reflected all around him: in the kids who stopped showing up because their parents were afraid of them being taken regardless of the circumstances. In the mother who gravely thanked them for the snacks they provided in their afterschool program because their food stamps had been cut off, and her job wasn’t enough to cover rent. In the donations that had stopped with a note about being worried about perceptions.
He couldn’t solve any of that, but he could give these kids a break from it all. “Welcome! Come on in! Put your bags down in the cubbies so we can start with a game.”
The kids made their way over to the carpet, laughing and groaning, while the quieter kids like a solemn little Congolese girl trailed behind. Watching them, he wondered again if anything he was doing was enough. What was a game of Simon Says going to do in the face of children watching their parents choose between food and housing?
Thankfully, the kids did what they had done so many times before: grounded him in the present moment. He walked them through the game, talked down a fight, comforted a crying child, and hid laughs at their more absurd antics.
As he walked across the room, supervising their quiet gameplay to end the hour, he tripped over a ball that had drifted from its bearings. Had he just seen…he fumbled as tried to regain his balance while looking behind him.
Yes, the little Congolese girl was smiling. Bent over a game with her Syrian friend, she wore the first smile he’d ever seen on her somber face. Even as some of the rowdier kids called out teasing comments at his stumble, he couldn’t shake his own smile in return. Who knew miracles came hidden in small smiles?
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Was it enough? The church leaders talking about mobilizing their congregations towards compassion and welcome instead of polarization and rejection. The white woman smiling at the hijabi when she has been told instead to cross the street in fear. The cashier painstakingly learning “Salaam alaykum” to greet the long-bearded men who shop in his store.
None of it is enough by itself. But every little light, every persevering step, every hand of compassion is a dispatch from a kingdom that is bigger than us all.
A Venezuelan woman and her child finding a moment of peace and quiet thanks to a caseworker’s swift actions. An Afghan family avoiding debt and watching their son play in safety thanks to a determined friend in the community. A Burmese father solemnly sharing the news of a job acceptance with his steadfast ESL teacher the week after he passes his English test. A Congolese girl laughing with an abandon her hardworking family and caretakers never thought they’d see.
Every thread of hope woven into something bigger and brighter than any could dare to dream. This patchwork quilt of love is what we weave together when we extend welcome and love those who are different than us.
Keep going, loving, and welcoming. God is taking your small effort and making more. The Kingdom comes every time you love one another.
This poem was written by Sarah E.Z. from our online writing community, and is shared with permission. If you would like to connect with us about contributing poems or essays for our blog or social media, please fill out this interest form.
