I was a young twenty-something, working somewhere between 50-60 hours per week, in the early years of a career in Human Resources in the hospitality industry. Step one meant mastering the management trainee program, with extensive time spent in each department, familiarizing myself with both the function and people necessary to make things run efficiently.
One of the friends made during that time was a shy young breakfast cook, named “Pepe.” He actually had a longer, fun name to say — at least 10 syllables (!!) — but as he’d wink and smile at our attempts to say it properly, with a beautiful Mexican accent, we all agreed that “Pepe” worked just fine.
Pepe stood out to me. Truth is, he was one of the kindest, gentlest men I’ve ever met. He never took things for granted; he worked hard, was punctual, loyal, and always did what he said he would do; he was fully trusted and relied upon. He was also incredibly shy.
Pepe rarely spoke before being spoken to first. He listened well, but it took many weeks before he’d even look me in the eye. There was just a sweetness in that shyness that was both authentic and endearing.
Pepe had left the states for sometime in order to be with his family in Mexico. When he returned — and I deeply respect how hard this must have been for him — he came to me asking for a place to live. As a young professional, I really had little. But as a legal immigrant, Pepe had even less. I had a one bedroom flat on the second floor of a woodworking business, on a median in the middle of the road (yes, you read that correctly). Pepe and I worked out an arrangement where for four months, he slept on my couch.
The situation was that Pepe’s wife was still in Mexico. He came back to the U.S. with an appropriate work visa, hoping to save enough money to return home and provide for his family. While Pepe worked full time as a breakfast cook at my hotel, he also worked full time at another hotel as a dinner cook. It was thus not unusual for Pepe to work a minimum of 16 hours per day. In other words, even though we agreed that he could fully use my flat and sleep on that humble sofa, I rarely saw him there. He worked harder and more than anyone I’ve ever known.
On a rare day, Pepe and I would have an evening off that overlapped. Those days were precious. While his broken English and my even-more-broken Spanish often prompted an immediate chuckle for the other, we communicated well. In fact, our favorite thing to do those nights was read together. Pepe, grateful for a mere roof over his head, bought me a paperback bible. The left side of each page was in English — the right, in Spanish. Together we read the Bible, attempting to connect at deeper, heartfelt, meaningful levels. It was one of the most fascinating, beautiful seasons of my life.
I always find myself troubled when the immigration debate heats up. Let’s face it; it has heated up on multiple occasions, but in the current climate of seemingly far too many who are ready to either (1) immediately pounce on the next perceived evil thing Pres. Trump does, or (2) immediately praise the next perceived wonderful thing Pres. Trump does, it’s very difficult to have reasonable dialogue, separating fact from fiction, and discerning where and where not to be concerned.
I admit: I am uncomfortable with the global rise in terrorism and the significant number of persons who wish to harm Americans and Christians simply because of who they are and what they believe. I would like to find reasonable, compassionate ways to ensure those persons — who truly are the ones most motivated by evil — have lesser access to succeed in such heinous activity.
But I also wish we would never allow our need to screen out the terrorist to extinguish our compassion for the refugee — our compassion for the tired, poor, and the “least of these.”
It helps me, therefore, to think of Pepe. Pepe reminds me of the compassion each of us should have for one another… and yet, we are so stingy with our mercy and grace. Maybe we withhold it from the refugee; maybe we withhold it from those who sincerely desire to keep out the terrorist. The challenge is that too often too many justify withholding it from someone.
I wonder where Pepe is now… how his wife and children are. I have no doubt they are somewhere, thriving… following their father’s example… full of that exceptional, endearing kindness… and reading wisdom on the couch together.
Respectfully…
AR
As I read this I have tears streaming down my face. The Bible and all that it stands for both in this memory and today, January 30, 2017, has taught me how we are encouraged to be kind to one another, how to treat
others as we would want to be treated but most of all Jesus tells us to feed his sheep. In the New
Testament Jesus asks Peter three times if he loves him. Each time Peter says yes, Jesus tells him to feed his sheep. So that is what we are called to do: to love and care for others.
So how can we turn our backs on these refugees? As each of those who are leaving their war
torn, crumbling countries so they can find freedom and peace only to be turned away or held as terrorists at every airport in the United States of America.
This is not the America I pledge my allegiance to. This is not the America I think of when I put my hand on my heart when I see that glorious “Red, White and Blue still waving.” I say no to Isis but I say YES to those homeless, hungry and hopeful refugees who thought they would be coming to “the land of the free.”
What has happened? More to the point, why does it continue to happen?
My answer: if he could be elected he can be impeached. That would feed many sheep.
I
I think we must always help refugees along with anyone around us in need. We certainly can (and are) helping refugees in their country while we attempt to properly assure they are safe and have no record of being a criminal or desiring to harm Americans. I’ll borrow the analogy from Roddy Bullock,” I don’t lock my doors because I hate my neighbor, I lock my door because I live those inside my house.”