Quaker Life

Seven years ago, Friends United Meeting re-imagined Quaker Life as a publication that occurred at greater length, but less frequently. We changed the format to that of a small paperback book, so it could be placed like a devotional on a bookshelf or night table, or easily fit into a purse or satchel. We took out the news items that could not be timely in a publication with months-long pauses and emphasized stories about the intersections of life and faith. We encouraged artists to send us their visual works.

After three years, we began to choose theological themes for each issue, to assist writers and artists in finding stories in their own lives. We’ve settled on an extremely loose interpretation of each theme, but we’ve ranged broadly across the fields of faith, theology, and belief. So far, our authors and artists have reflected on grace, joy, justice, hope, peace, crisis, mercy, light, abiding, community, simplicity, listening, integrity, gentleness, stewardship, and discernment.

In this issue, as both a sabbatical and to celebrate seven years of our mosaic of Friendly living, we’ve selected a few pieces to represent the best of Quaker Life. These choices reflect the discernment of a small number of Quaker Life staff members about the pieces that have moved us, taught us, stuck with us, over the past seven years.

The authors in this issue range geographically from Kenya to Cuba, and from Baltimore to Newberg. Their themes range from creation to the cross. The theologies they express represent no creed, but the experiential endeavor to listen for and follow the Inward Teacher. That we chose these particular essays reflects our own characters more than any objective standard of fruitfulness; there are dozens of essays that we could have chosen—and nearly did. But in early summer 2023, as we prepared for the massive Triennial event in Nakuru, Kenya, this is what spoke to us.

This issue of Quaker Life is Volume 7, Number 4. After seven years, we are again making some changes to our content, beginning with Volume 8, Number 1. Starting with that issue, we will no longer be including memorials in Quaker Life—either memorial minutes from Meetings or obituaries from newspapers. Instead, we will publish obituaries on our website as they are submitted. This will prevent us from falling several years behind in publishing memorials, as has happened recently when we have been challenged with very many submissions and recurring space limitations. You may continue to submit memorials and obituaries as you always have; now they will be published here: www.friendsunitedmeeting.org/memorials.

In the Quaker Life space previously held by obituaries, we will publish a selection of the best pictures from the previous three months of our email newsletter, the FUM E-News. The photos may not be current or timely, but they reflect the broad spectrum of Friends United Meeting in the world for those who are casual readers, or not connected to our digital publishing and therefore missing out on our news coverage.

In the past seven years, there has been a measurable increase in the quality of the pictures that have been submitted to us, as cellphones with digital cameras, powered by artificial intelligence, have so vastly improved the picture quality available to all of us. We hope that reintroducing, in a small way, the visual representation of Friends living their faith in the world will add to the depth of spiritual experience you gain from reading Quaker Life.

DECIDING TO CARE

It took around two years for our committee to form and get on the same page. It felt like a small eternity. We yearned to follow scripture’s teachings, wrestling with our hesitations. Could we truly welcome the foreigner? What would it take specifically to help refugees resettle in our home city? I remember watching news stories during that lag. So many people who needed aid. They were desperate. The image of the drowned toddler, washed up on the beach. Still, we were organizing. And then, like that, we were clear. We were ready.

We partnered with a local Refugee Resettlement Agency. We anxiously waited for our family. When the call came, we assumed it would be a small family coming in a few months. Instead it was a group of ten, coming from Pakistan, arriving in two weeks. We took a deep breath, sat together and listened.

We didn’t have a lot of information at first. They were Muslim, and from a sect that was similar to Quakers in interesting ways. They were pacifists. They also had deep tolerance and respect for other faiths, including Christianity. They followed the teachings of a man who critiqued some of the practices and assumptions of Islam (similar to George Fox, depending on how you look at it). This was seen as heresy by many in their home country which led to terrible violence. Locals could abuse or even kill anyone from their group without penalty. They had escaped to Sri Lanka and stayed in a refugee camp for two years. Other than that, the information at first was sparse.

We hurriedly worked to furnish two homes for the families. Thankfully, the community came together to help us gather home goods. We had drop-off and pick-up days. People I have never met handed me family heirlooms. “Make sure they know they are welcome here,” I was told. This is how I met God in strangers, even in my own neighborhood.

We partnered with an Hispanic church from just outside the city. We assembled bunk beds, painted rooms, updated somewhat dilapidated rental homes. There were late nights and early mornings.

I want to say it was all very easy. But we had to move fast, make quick calls, and jump in whether or not we felt certain of what we were doing. Sometimes we stepped on one another’s toes. The investment in our preparation, however, gave us the gravity to walk it off, and keep going after the pinch had eased and sometimes even before. We were about something bigger and had no choice but to see it. There were deadlines! This led to deeper intimacy and problem-solving. I have been a part of my congregation for twenty-three years and I was just getting to truly know some of these individuals.
‍

ARRIVAL DAY

We met our families at the airport holding flowers, signs and balloons. Later they would tell us that no one had really explained ahead of time who we were. Still, there they were, so excited, huddled in a large group. Three women emerged from the concourse dressed in beautiful saris, dresses, loose leggings, uncomfortable shoes. Two men in dark layers, heavy for summer clothing. They looked tired, confused, slightly apprehensive, cautiously hopeful. Several children held their hands. One was a babe in arms. They all wore bright clothes. The little girls wore pink sparkles. They smiled with delight. We tried to remember the Urdu phrases we had been taught to attempt greeting them in their native tongue. A translator from the agency stepped forward and explained who we were and verified who they were.

We split into cars and drove them to their new homes. Tours were given. Food was waiting.

HAVE YOU NOT LOVED

When people want to connect but don’t fully speak one another’s language, there can be charades. Speaking clearly and slowly. Gesturing. There is no room for sarcasm, delicacies, euphemisms or easy metaphor. This leads to unavoidable laid-bare truthfulness about the human condition.

In conveying more meaningful “get-to-know-you” stories, one must sum up the experience. “I was sad. I was mad. He died.” Why is it so unusual to just say it?

One day, a couple weeks in, I had an idea to take the large family who lived closest to the university on a walk. I would show them the nearby flowers, pathways, and sprawling architecture. There was a woman around my age who appeared to be single; in the US, people find it unusual that I am single, and I can’t imagine how unusual it must be in Pakistan, where arranged marriage is common.

I wanted to ask her about it, but she asked me first. “Not married,” I told her. “I was with a man, but now my heart is very broken.” I motioned with fists around my heart, as if to tear something in two. She understood. I felt deep relief to just say it, to so plainly acknowledge this pain I carried, invisible to most but ever present to me.

She tried to explain her story, but it was more complicated and it seemed she couldn’t fully share with everyone present. Still, I learned about their time in the refugee camp. How they planned their escape from Pakistan. I asked about Sri Lanka, their refugee camp. What was it like?

“Very hot,” the woman’s older brother said, his children scampering around him, “Very rainy. All the time. Big animals.”

“Animals?” I asked, incredulous. “What kind?”

They went on to describe large, wild animals. Elephants. Leopards. 

“Snakes,” he said with disgust, shaking his head, moving his palms wide apart, “Big snakes.”

I felt my eyes grow wide, mouth agape, “Snakes?” 

“Cahbras,” he told me. 

I gasped, “Cobras?!”

They all nodded. We stepped amongst perfectly manicured lawns, planted pansies, summer school students scurrying between classes, soft breezes, the light din of the clock tower bell and I began to see what this family had just endured.

“How did you do it? How did you make it?” I asked. “I could never do that. I could never make it out alive.”

I reflected that again to the woman, as we walked side-by-side. “You have been through so much. I could never do it. I don’t even know what that’s like.”

She shook her head and turned to me, staring straight into my eyes with softness, “You could.” She said it like she knew. 

“No, not me,” I said.

“Have you not loved?” she asked, very seriously. 

I felt tears sting my eyes. She didn’t break eye contact and sympathetically nodded, as if to say that I could fight and endure it. Heartbreak is so different from fighting cobras it would seem, but maybe not as much as I had thought. She knew.

I also saw that pure love is a powerful force and leads us to do all sorts of courageous things. Anyone could and perhaps would follow the path they had taken.

SURVIVAL

Later, I would learn more. How the women had mostly lived in captivity in their home country, because it was too dangerous to go out in the streets, as we had done so casually that day. From reports, I learned more about the killings of many from their sect, prevalent sexual assault, and daily abuses that these families who now radiated such sunshine had endured. 

BECOMING FRIENDS

In the months that followed, we spent many hours shuffling family members to doctors’ appointments, schools, job interviews. Bus-riding and driving lessons were offered. English tutoring times were arranged. With ten people, many birthday celebrations dotted our calendars. We didn’t know that birthdays weren’t necessarily acknowledged in their native culture. They indulged our parties and created their own, happy to treat us time and again to elaborate Pakistani feasts. Spiced meats, savory yogurts, cucumber salads, flavored rice…it was all so delicious and thoughtfully prepared. “Eat more, eat more,” they kept saying.

I am sure they thought these Quakers—who so rarely made time to celebrate amongst themselves—might just be the consummate American party animals. We were always ready for it.

Very quickly, we built depth. There was an interdependency. We saw their trust and vulnerability. What could we do, but rise to the occasion?

One evening when I stayed late, it became prayer time. I started to leave but they encouraged me to wait. It wouldn’t be long. I felt honored as they reverently stood and knelt in dim yellow lamp light, there in the living room, as I quietly sat, holding Light too. God is big, mysterious and Holy.

EVERYTHING NEW

The adolescent boy quickly excelled in school and soccer. We took him to practices and cheered him on at games. We bought picture frames for his school awards.

The early-elementary-age sisters unveiled their infatuation with my car, a drab gray used Prius. To them it was the height of glamour. Every time I visited, they wanted to sit inside, check out the cloth interior, run their fingers along the safety-grip steering wheel. “Take picture! Take picture,” they would ask, spreading across the hood or folding their arms like young rappers. My 2008 hybrid was boss!

We welcomed a new baby girl to the family of the younger couple. At the hospital, I touched her warm cheeks and cooed over her long lashes.

That first year, we served as emergency contacts, we attended school events as invited guests and we rejoiced with glee to hear the girls sing Frosty the Snowman with nearly perfect pronunciation and tone at Christmas.

HOLDING ON & LETTING GO

Part of the idea of sponsorship is to help create independence for the families. We promised to would help with safety, acclimation, welcome and support, but ultimately release them to their own experiences and rewards. Gradually we took steps back in certain ways, “though friendship lasts a lifetime.”

This has meant seeing the families less frequently, although some of our retired folks still babysit and help with appointments. Our last birthday party was this Spring. The baby girl was turning one. We ate cake before dinner, our newfangled tradition. (A miscommunication from earlier birthday parties.) After hours of playing and catching up, a terrible storm came out of nowhere. Phones blared with emergency warnings. Some, including myself, had been heading out the door, hands on metal knobs.

“Why don’t you stay?” Our hostess asked, standing in an emerald green sari, children and guests in every area of their small apartment. 

“It’s ok,” she smiled.

So we waited, enjoying the extra time together, rain pounding outside. 

It was during that time that a tornado ravaged a swath of our city, destroying more than 150 homes, injuring many and killing one person. But that day we were safe, comfortable and dry. Those we protected had become our refuge.

‍