Blessings.

My college psych professor started the semester of Psych 101 by reading Ursula Le Guin’s story, The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas. He used it, at least in part, to help explain the German concept of Schadenfreude — the feeling of satisfaction that can come from seeing someone else’s misery. Omelas is a seemingly Utopian place except for a very dark secret. One child in each generation is kept in darkness and misery. As other children come of age they are told of the suffering of the one. All are initially horrified by the revelation but only a few choose to walk away. The many who stay resign themselves to the child’s plight — they could not live the lives they live if the child didn’t exist. That child’s suffering somehow serves to remind them of their blessings. I’d like to think I would be one of the few who walk away, but I’m not sure I would have the courage.

I attended a potluck last night hosted by the international refugee committee and various other organizations. It was a “mixer” of sorts intended to introduce members of the community to each other and to welcome newcomers who just happen to be refugees. My friend and I ate dinner with an Afghan family and a woman from Bhutan. Language was a barrier for all of us, but we smiled at each other and agreed the food was good. The woman from Bhutan spoke more English than I speak Dzongkha (which is none), so she carried the conversation.

Afterwards, we watched a short skit that was very funny about the refugees’ first experience on an airplane. In some respects, it was funny because so many of the elements were universals — the food is terrible, the noise from the plane engine is too loud to talk over, the instructions can be confusing if you’ve never flown before (especially if they are spoken in a language you don’t understand), and turbulence can lead to some nasty side-effects (like puking into your hands which are in front of your face because you know you’re going to die and you’re praying — yep, that was MY first experience on a plane). There were some great jabs thrown in here and there — like the flight attendant speaking louder and more slowly when she realized the refugees didn’t understand English.

Next came a sketch called “Three chairs.” Sitting in the first chair, which represented her past, a young woman from the Congo told her story of living in a refugee camp in Zambia for 15 years. She didn’t go into a lot of details, but she didn’t have to. You could tell from the expression on her face that she didn’t want to think about it too much. She then moved to the second chair, which represented her life when she first came to the United States. She talked of working nights as a custodian for a local company — it was hard work and she’d never worked nights before. She also struggled to find transportation to and from work. The job only lasted a few months. She then moved to the last chair, which represented her life now and her hopes for the future. She talked about the two jobs she has now and about how appreciative she is for everything people have done to enable her and her family to come here.

As I reflected on her story, I thought about what I was doing during those same 15 years she was in a refugee camp. I was busy living my life.

Sure I give to charity. I volunteer my time. I “give back.”

I haven’t had to worry about transportation to and from work since my car broke down my senior year of college and I went about six weeks without one. I haven’t had to worry about whether or not I have enough food to eat pretty much ever. I haven’t slept on the ground except at summer camp when my parents paid for the privilege.

I felt guilty last night. Guilty that I have not done enough, prayed enough, or given enough. My dad always said that guilt was the Holy Spirit sending you a message. I don’t know if I necessarily believe that, but I do think we have an obligation to consider how we can do better when such things come to mind.

Obviously, I can’t fix it — not for everyone — maybe not even for one person — but I can sure as hell try.

Today is the start of Lent. Instead of giving something up for the next forty days, I am committing to 40 tangible actions to help our local refugees. I don’t know yet exactly what those 40 acts will be. I know it will likely take me longer than 40 days to accomplish them — but blessings are meant to be shared and my walk away from Omelas begins now.

Message me if you’d like to join me — we can do it together.