Almost all of us have moved at some point in life. Whether it be to a new flat, new city, state or maybe even a new country. Initially home is…well, different. For many of our brothers and sisters around the globe who for whatever reason have become refugees, the idea of home is nothing more than that, an idea.
I first met Moira on a subway in Beijing. A friend of mine, Jen, gave the brief introductions as we stood waiting for our train. With red hair loosely hanging down her back, thick Chicago accent, and body language reminiscent of someone from the inner city, Moira stood out amongst the throngs of Beijing commuters. .
When I was young, I used to sing little nursery rhyme: “Ring around the rosy, pocketful of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down!” Little did I know when I was singing the song in my childlike voice about the bubonic plague of the 1600s in England in which people contracted a rose shaded rash before dying.
I thought I had it all together. I thought I was a great leader, a great role model, a person with knowledge and insight and Biblical revelations to share. I thought I had the answer. In fact, I thought I WAS the answer. But then I realized – all of those statements are about ‘I’.
I believe it would be a fair assumption to say that not one of us reading this could (honestly) claim that we have never come in contact with a person who is homeless at some point in our lives. That is the only assumption I will make, now that we have that out of the way…I will stick to my own personal story.