lay them at my door

The Syrians are walking.

They are so bound and determined to get to safety that they’ve taken to the Hungarian highways; the trains aren’t running, you see. They’re so insistent on freedom that they’ve decided just to hoof it. They’ve come so far. It’s just that littlest bit farther to Vienna, and from Vienna maybe not so far to Germany, where Angela Merkel has promised them asylum.

My Germany. Could I be any prouder of you? I want to beg my aunt to open the house to asylum-seekers, because it’s such a large house, a safe place, and if she only takes women and children, at least she has taken some. I know she won’t. I know she’ll say there’s only the one bathroom for sharing between herself and the refugees (true) and I think she’ll be alarmed at the prospect of so many strangers — and to me it wouldn’t matter; if it were my house, my bathroom, let them bathe in it. Let them sleep in our bedrooms and eat our food.

I’m going to urge my mother not to let her siblings sell. That house is a safe place. I swear if I come into money it will be a safe place with more bathrooms and Internet. Enough money and I could have the barn shored up, too — renovate it into living space? So if I did want to provide a safe place to someone who needed it, there would be so much more room.

There is great healing to be had in a home setting, when your own home has been stripped from you and you haven’t been able to make another. It is no less than a call from the universe: open your heart and open your doors! The love of a just God, whatever form that God takes, is surely love for all, not merely love for the ones who are the most like oneself.

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