Emily Moen
The Sojourner
It seemed that in New York City, working with Pastor Heidi Neumark at Trinity Lutheran Church 100 th Street, my most meaningful moments always occurred on park benches. Maybe it's a side effect of city life, when respite can be found in a place to sit after a day of walking and trying to catch up with the world.
This particular day found me on a bench next to Mara. Mara had been mostly quiet at the program, and a bit separated from the other children. She was one of the only students who was in the process of learning English as a second language. Each day she came in and diligently started her homework with no extra prodding; I helped her muddle through the formation of sentences using her assigned vocabulary words. This day, as the other children sprinted into the park towards slides and basketball courts, Mara sought me out at my park bench and finally started to open up.
We connected over food. Mara's favorites are made by her mother, a native Mexican, and all have names in Spanish, so Mara carefully explained the ingredients and preparation methods for each, as her mother had taught her. I shared my experience of learning how to make lefsa from my grandfather this past Christmas. Her reaction to my explanation? "Sounds like tortilla!"
Mara is the daughter of undocumented Mexican immigrants. Her father worked alone in the US until she was five, when he sent for his family. Later he left them, and Mara is still uncertain of his whereabouts. Mara is seven. She rides the bus by herself to one of her various aunties' apartments when her mother has to work at the laundry. One auntie works at another laundry ten blocks away. One auntie sells tamales on Saturdays on the street. Since arriving in Manhattan, Mara has left twice-once to the Bronx for her cousin's birthday party, and once to Brooklyn to visit Coney Island. Her physical world is much smaller than mine, but no less complex.
When she had finished telling me everything, she noted that it was hard to "switch" all of her words, meaning her translation of things usually spoken of only in Spanish. She finished with a nonchalant, "Church is the only spot where we can talk about it, right." Trinity is a sanctuary for her family in a way that no other place in America has been or can be. Mara's family is welcomed there, unapologetically and unconditionally.
People in the area where I grew up in Northwest Wisconsin are concerned about the influx of Hmong and Somali immigrants in some smaller Scandinavian towns. But consider-when the Norwegians, the Germans, the Swedes, the French, and many others moved to Wisconsin, they too were interlopers. They too were sojourners in a land that confused them, overwhelmed them, and shut doors in their faces. It also made them scared. They too faced language barriers.
I think that the connection I am making here is remembrance of my own roots, of the roots of those Americans who have let a few generations cloud the memory of our predecessors who needed community, welcome, and care. Is it not a disservice to the memory of my own great-grandparents' perseverance to not welcome those who are attempting the same dream? Recall powerful words from Leviticus: "When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt" (Lev. 19:33-34).
Sojourners in a strange land. Almost all of the most influential people of the Bible would meet this qualification. So how do we treat the sojourner? How do I treat the sojourner? How I am treated by those whose territory I sometimes invade? I know that immigration is a complex issue, and I am only starting to understand it. For now, it is comforting to know that because Mara shared a bit of her New York with a sojourner, I have begun to consider this pressing issue through a more human lens.
