Be The Change...

The first time I heard the phrase “Be the change you want to see in the world”, it was from my daughter, Ruth. She walks the walk, putting in many hours every week, trying to help in places where hope is hard to come by.

It’s been over a year now since Ruth took on a new challenge, taking on an unpopular social need with a Syrian family. They couldn’t navigate the maze of American culture and legal demands without a strong and dedicated advocate. They, and she, have walked a gauntlet of virtual abuse, experiencing first-hand the hate and prejudice that our current administration seems to champion. They’ve also seen the flip side, the welcoming love and support that is inherent in our DNA as Americans.

I couldn’t be more proud, not just because she is my daughter, but because she is one of the many in this country who still believe in the words of a different lady who has championed countless millions of immigrants who also needed a helping hand.

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”

This is a look at Ruth’s most recent visit with her Syrian friends…

A few weeks ago I was hanging out with my Syrian friends, and one of the little boys, age 8, was trying to tell me about something he had eaten recently. The English word for it was on the tip of his tongue. In one years’ time, their English is astonishingly good, and it’s endearing when they forget a word, and struggle to find it. “Muffin... toast.... DOUGHNUT!! That’s it! I had a doughnut! Mmmm, it was so good!” He went on and on about a first for him, eating a doughnut.

Tonight I came armed with two dozen assorted Krispy Kreme doughnuts. We all sat on the floor, kneecap to kneecap, and shared a huge home cooked meal, as per usual (to them “No thank you, I’m not hungry” means a 4 course meal instead of a 6 course) and swapped jokes and stories. The kids proudly showed me their most recent tests, they are all thriving in school, all happy and well adjusted, and although I can take zero credit for it, I am overwhelmingly proud of them. The love in their family is palpable.

After dinner, we stuffed ourselves with doughnuts. And then, they brought out a small cake they had made. “Happy birthday!” little Fasial, age 6, shouted. “But it’s not my birthday!” I laughed. The older girl, age 15 explained, “We don’t really know what to call it, but it’s one year since we met you, and we love you so we wanted to celebrate it.”

And, as I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, for once it was me that struggled to find words.