What to give the children

There were three of us children, and my parents raised us with intention. They bought a set of encyclopedias while my big brother was still in diapers and dutifully put the yearbook stickers in place each year. We had swim lessons, homemade birthday parties, and we were even on TV with Miss Marsha.

Despite all this attention to planning, the most important thing my parents ever did for us was done for someone else’s benefit.

When we were about 6, 8 and 9, my parents sponsored a refugee family from Cambodia. I do not remember the family discussions we must have had before their arrival. What I remember is a young woman clutching a toddler in an oversized dress, with her husband and brother at her side. Not one of them knew a word of English. They were at once frightened, and incredibly brave.

We children lost our basement playroom, where we had once been allowed to develop empires of Lego blocks and cardboard boxes for our marble people, or to drag out our mad scientist experiments for days or weeks with no clean-up call. The new people descended into this abode, and slept for most of a day. I perched on the steps, watching their brown feet for any sign of movement.

They smelled like spices I did not know, and they spoke volumes with dark eyes and timid smiles. I loved them right away. I was glad to give up my basement. I’d have given them my bedroom, my playhouse, and all my toys, too.

My mother prepared food she thought our guests would appreciate – chicken, rice and vegetables. The Cambodians sat around the table, staring. They would not eat. She called an interpreter, who looked at the spread and laughed softly.

“They’re confused,” she explained. “You’ve served an entire chicken. They’re probably worried this is all the meat for the next week. And that bowl of rice on the table – that’s only enough rice for one or two people.”

My mother took them to an Asian market. She stared wide-eyed as Len pointed to a fifty pound bag of rice. Soon Len was in the kitchen, treating us all to a sumptuous Cambodian meal. The rice was firm and dry, without the butter or sugar preferred here in the South. She spooned a steaming mound onto each plate, and garnished it with two bites of chicken cooked in ginger and a spoonful of steamed vegetables.

Our next task was to teach our guests English. When I remember my childhood home, I remember words taped all over the house: window, door, piano, and chair. My parents argued over “little tree,” which Mom worried they would assign to all pine trees. Dad compensated by labeling a dozen more trees.

We kids argued over weightier matters: Is it more Christian to teach Houn swear words, or to risk that he might not know if someone insults him at work?

Over time, our house guests learned the language and the culture. They worked hard, saved money, and eventually moved to Washington State to be near other family members. The experience was so positive, my parents opted to repeat it, later taking in members of Len’s extended family.

Although our Cambodian friends now live on the other side of the continent, they never forget to share their lives with us through calls, visits and photographs. Recently my parents were invited to a wedding, where they were honored as though their sacrifices had taken place only yesterday.

Of course, I do not remember any sacrifices. What I remember is growing up with an extra big brother to fend off the bullies. I remember holding a little brown baby and learning to say her name. I remember teaching a small boy to ride a bike. I remember Homp working in the garden and helping with the cows. I’m sure my parents (who will be embarrassed by this column) would say that everything they gave was repaid tenfold in terms of love, loyalty and generosity.

Because my parents were so intentional about our raising, they must have discussed the prospective impact of refugee sponsorship on their own developing children. They obviously believed the benefits to us children outweighed any risks. Still, I doubt they could have foreseen the impact it would have on us. Of all the things my parents did for us – the money spent on education, the hours baking in the sun to cheer us on at swim meets or freezing at football games, and all the shopping, chauffeuring, lecturing and worrying -- everything pales in comparison to this:

My parents taught us to love people before they have earned it.

Such unmerited love is the heart of Christmas. Not only can we say “God so loved the world,” (John 3:16) but also that “Christ died for us while we were yet sinners.” (Romans 5:8) God did not wait for us to realize we needed a Savior. God did not declare that in order to receive help we must first learn a language, or fill out the right paperwork, or be born a certain color or under a certain creed. Our Savior reached out to us in perfect love, not in spite of our destitute state, but because of it.

This is what we need to give our children. Give them a model of the world that empowers them to go forth in love, trusting the goodness of God and the resilience of the human spirit.


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