It was fitting. We left the way we came. Around 10:45 PM it started to sprinkle, which turned into a pretty heavy down pour. I had just brought all of the boxes of clothes in from outside of the container outside of the gate and was sorting baby clothes away on our newly installed shelves.
I just sat and listened to the rain hit the tin roof above me. Again, listening to Jesus romancing my soul. He knew what I needed as a way to close out my time there with the refugees. He knew exactly how He was going to bring the past five weeks there to an end.
He reminded me how He knew that even before I knew I was going to be in Greece He knew I was going to be there. He knew I was going to be in the container that night and He was going to bring the rain once again. Only this time, the rain came much more as a renewing spirit than one that made me feel completely helpless.
Looking back over my time at the transit site the experiences cross through all of my senses.
I see a sea of faces of refugees extremely joyful but still with a clear sense of loss and fear. I see lines of refugees pleading to me for dry clothes while pointing to their wet pants as I tell them we don’t have anymore. I see thousands of abandoned life jackets lining the beaches and hundreds of punctured rubber rafts and forsaken wooden boats. I also see hundreds of grey mounds of blankets on the ground telling me that the people under them are sleeping and trying to hold it together and stay as warm as possible. I see Jesus winking at me with the shooting star that Cassidy made me wait for in order to get off of the freezing cold container roof.
I hear the surge of a mob and the pounding against the container and the shaking of the gate to express their urgency to want to get in. I hear the voices yelling at me to do something in languages I do not understand. I hear the sound of children and infants crying and screaming while being pushed in line, but also children laughing and beyond elated to have someone blow bubbles for them. I hear the laughter and smiles that came with finding yet another ridiculous sweater or nonsensical outfit in the PC for one of my fellow volunteers to try on. I hear the cheers and raised voices of competition in the volleyball game I jumped in on where my arms felt like jell-o after because we played with a soccer ball.
I smell the port-o-potties and the distinctly pungent odor that told us they were being cleaned. I smell the body odor that followed refugees who had not had the ability to shower for days because of a lack of any amenities. I smell mountains of clothes, some freshly laundered and some stale from being at the bottom of a pile for weeks, that I scoured through in order to find order amongst the chaos of clothing.
I taste the fresh tea or hot chocolate coming from the kitchen that told us we were about to bring warmth in a cup to the refugees in the big tents and the surrounding grounds. I taste the dinners that Shirletha made me every night when I neglected to feed myself, which always brought me rejuvenation into the night that I didn’t know I needed. I taste the freedom the refugees now were able to experience with their feet hitting European soil, but also taste the pain of the journey they have endured.
I remember the touch that came with the hugs I received from grateful families and the kisses that came from children that had no idea the journey ahead of them. Their relentless kisses started at my dimples and filled my entire face with warmth. They reminded me of the beautiful innocence and genuine love they had for me as I spun them around and held them tightly in my arms. Regardless of whether they would see me ever again, in that specific moment they loved and laughed with me with all they had. They touched a place in my heart that very few have reached.
But mostly I feel all of it. I feel their urgency to want to move on to safety. I feel the weight of the situation and the literal weight of the children and bags they were carrying away from a home they still loved. I feel the pain of loss that hung around the harbor and the coastline from boats that did not make it and people who were never found. I feel the restlessness of the children who just wanted someone to play with or a new place to go explore.
When I think about my last night and leaving behind the past five weeks of my life and the situation I firsthand witnessed, I for the most part feel incredibly and infinitely small.
But it feels good to feel small. It is good to be reminded the world is so much bigger than what our minds are capable of comprehending. But at the same time, it is to play as a reminder of how we were given a small and specific role to play in this magnanimous world. Working with the refugees I’ve learned what I do with my role there may be small but that does not mean the impact of it is small.
On my last night, I planned on sorting through clothes and attempting to bring more structure to the Peace Container. I lasted a couple of hours before the Lord told me to put down the clothes and go and love on some people inside the site. I played volleyball, danced, and laughed with volunteers and refugees. I had a Race altering conversation with Bethany, an alumni racer, who prayed over me and shared her wisdom and hard truths she had learned from her Race.
She told me that happiness was a choice, and you could always find an excuse to not be happy. At the same time, you could always find excuses to be happy. Each ministry I am to come to next, any team I am to be a part of, and all travel days I am about to endure will be dictated by my choice of how I view it.
So on my last night, Jesus brought me redemption through the rain. He brought me closure on one of the most influential seasons of my life, but also an opening to a future He has planned for me to walk through with Him.
There I sat in my Peace Container one last time with my eyes closed on top of a mountain of children’s clothes boxes and bags getting lost in the sound of the rain. I reminisced about all I had done and looked forward to all that was before me. Lesvos became a home, but the Lord reminded me it was only temporary.
Now, on to South Africa where He has plans, new experiences, people, and more thunderstorms for me ahead!
