Reversing the Revolution, One Loaf at a Time

I had just gotten off the plane when I started telling my husband, Bobby, a story about the guy I sat beside on my flight. The stranger was gentlemanly and interesting and when we landed, he jumped into the aisle to wait his turn to disembark. As I struggled to free my large purse from its prison under the seat in front of me I said, “Would you mind grabbing my suitcase?” Bobby stopped me, mid sentence, and said, “I would have thought you could get your own suitcase.” 

“Of course, I can,” I answered, and went on with the description of my flight. Just because I didn’t get my suitcase down doesn’t mean I couldn’t have. 

That’s true of lots of things. Just because I didn’t doesn’t mean I couldn’t. 

When I was growing up, I didn’t think about my future much. That may be why I had no idea what I wanted to study when I got to college. I hadn’t dreamed about being a teacher or an accountant. All I had really wanted to be was an Olympic gymnast, or a Rockette, or one of the dancers in a musical on Broadway. But, I wasn’t brave enough to set out and do any of those things on my own. 

Farmer's Market Haul

So after several years in Betty Thomas’s Bible study at Auburn University, I realized that I really wanted to be a wife and mom. I wanted to stay home with my kids to be the one who raised them day in and day out. I wanted to hear their jokes and wipe their noses and tuck them into bed at night. 

Bobby and I were dating when I realized I felt called to being a homemaker. We were serious enough for me to confess it to him. He thought it was a little crazy and weird at first, that I would want to stay home to take care not only of our children, but also of him. But, soon he came to love the idea as I did and decided that he too wanted me to stay at home, full time, if we had kids in the future. 

That doesn’t mean that I didn’t finish my degree or that I didn’t use it or that I don’t value it now. Because I did and I do. And would encourage any young woman to get her degree as well. 

But, Bobby and I did get married and we did have two amazing little boys and I’m thankful I got to live the life of a full time wife and mom. It was a huge blessing that not everyone gets a taste of. I made home cooked meals most nights. I sewed some of our boys' clothes and mine. I learned how to grind wheat to make bread and used our crockpot to make yogurt. 

Ice Cream Sundae

Not every stay-at-home mom does that kind of thing. But, I liked the idea of being a bit more self-sufficient than the average family, of contributing something tangible to our home and sustenance. I was amused and a little puzzled when my cousin Ginny arrived at my home one day and observed my bread making set up. “You’ve single-handedly set the feminine revolution back 50 years Amy!” She didn’t seem too upset when I gave her a loaf for Christmas though. 

My kids would joke about a family who lived down the street in Fort Worth. “They buy their bread at the grocery store,” one of the boys said. “They buy EVERYTHING at the store,” the other responded. And they laughed. I knew I wanted our family to live a natural, healthy, home focused life. I had no idea the boys were noticing. 

I also homeschooled our kids for 6 years. I loved it. While my kids don’t always look on that time with fondness, I think it was great for all of us - for the boys’ education and for our life as a family. And, again, I’m thankful we got to live like that for a while. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was a “trad wife.” I probably still am in some ways. I didn’t always wear a dress and I was never good at gardening. But, I did and still do consider Bobby the head of our family and I’m attracted to the beauty of a simple, slower life, strong family relationships, and meaningful work. 

Even if I hadn’t been able to be home full time, I still think I would have gravitated toward a quiet, pleasant home life with a traditional family order and old-fashioned skills. I always thought making jam with the figs from the backyard was fun and I’m happy my kids know what a from scratch cinnamon roll tastes like. 

Salad with Shrimp and Nasturtium Blossoms

I was surprised and excited to see someone like Julia Stiles’ character in the movie Mona Lisa Smile. Katherine Watson is seen throughout the movie dating a boy from Yale, doing his homework even, as she attends college at Wellesley. She’s astute and attractive and assertive. She has potential. She could rule the world. 

At one point Julia Stiles and her teacher, played by Julia Roberts, have an intense, emotional conversation. Julia Roberts has discovered that Julia Stiles wants to get married and have a family, not pursue a degree in the law.

Katherine Watson (Julia Roberts) says, "Do you think you'll wake up one morning and regret not being a lawyer?" 

Joan Brandwyn (Julia Stiles) replies, "Not as much as I'd regret not having a family, not being there to raise them. I know exactly what I'm doing and it doesn't make me any less smart." 

And I agree. While I may not have climbed the corporate ladder or built a brand, I believe that my time spent at home with my children was as intellectually and emotionally challenging as time spent outside the home would have been. Maybe more so because I was keenly aware that I wasn’t simply doing a job, I was raising two people who would eventually become men who would lead their own families. 

One of our boys recently got married. During their reception, one of my daughter-in-law’s best friends gave a beautiful speech. She talked about growing up with Kailee and the hard times they had been through. Parts of her talk were funny and parts were sweet. But, at one point she talked about how much she had grown to love my son, Davis, and his relationship with Kailee. 

Homemade Bagel Sandwich

She looked at me and Bobby and said, “To Mr. and Mrs. Britton - you should be incredibly proud of the man you raised. You truly did an amazing job.” 

Now, I know that a wedding is not at all about the parents, but in that moment I felt so affirmed and noticed. I felt like my choice to stay home, the sacrifices Bobby and I made to make it happen, and the occasional derision and ridicule had been worth it. It worked. Just like logging flight hours to be a better pilot, all those hours I logged being a mom had paid off. 

Because I chose to take a hands-on approach to raising my family and caring for my husband doesn’t mean I’m weak or stupid. It means I’ve chosen to use my womanhood, intelligence, and gumption in a way that builds up my family. Even though I’m perfectly capable of opening the door or getting my suitcase out of the overhead compartment by myself, letting someone else do that sometimes is really nice. It preserves an orderliness to the world I find comforting. 

Trad Wives aren’t a bad thing. While I don’t think everyone needs to make the same choices I have, I think there has been great blessing to myself and our family because of them. Sometimes it looked like sacrifice, sometimes it looked (and felt) like drudgery. But, most of the time it was beautiful and sweet and meaningful. It definitely wasn’t glamorous and my resume now may be lacking because of that time at home. But, I know better.

A Large Unhurried Swallow

I’ve always been a celebrate-er. I got so excited I could barely stand it when it was time to put the deliciously pink Queen of Hearts cut out on the front door for my birthday parties. When I practiced and practiced and practiced doing baton tricks in my front yard, I would celebrate 10 catches in a row (surprisingly difficult depending on the trick) by walking around the corner to Looser’s Grocery Store for a Snickers and a Coke. And when several of my friends got married or had babies, I was first in line to help throw a shower or plan a dinner. 

Celebrating is fun and I don’t think we do it enough. As my children have grown up and gotten too old and cool to celebrate the events in their lives, I’ve implored them to “mark the occasion” somehow. First day at a new job? Mark the occasion. Bought a new-to-you car? Mark the occasion. Hit all your exercise goals this month? Mark the occasion! And, it doesn’t really matter how.

Maybe you need a weekend away, or a new haircut, or a new outfit. Maybe you need to have all your friends meet you at the Mexican restaurant for dinner. Maybe you need to call a special friend to share all the gory details. Or, maybe you just need to treat yourself to a new bracelet from the booth you love at the antique mall. All valid. All great ideas. Just do something. 

Maybe that’s why we take so many pictures nowadays, to make the events in our life stick. To make them stand out, dripping with meaning and significance.  

When my son graduated from the University of North Alabama without once setting foot on campus in an academic capacity, it made sense for him to opt out of the formal graduation ceremony. But, just doing nothing to celebrate his graduation wasn’t a good idea. So, I convinced him to let us have a big family dinner at Oskar’s, a restaurant near Lake Martin. It was wonderful. We ate delicious food, visited, and decorated golf balls for Davis to use (to USE Davis!). 

There was a time during Davis’s engagement to my daughter-in-law, Kailee, when I thought we were going to have to mark the occasion of their wedding at the courthouse. And, we would have too, but instead they marked their own occasion with a beautiful wedding in Florence, AL. I’m thankful they took care of that for me. 

Marking the occasion is what weddings and birthday dinners and graduation parties are all about. It’s just doing something that’s special to you, something that you’ll remember, something that will make you think, “Awww. I love that we did that.” And, it doesn’t just have to be for a birthday or wedding or graduation. Maybe you need to celebrate the fact that your mom isn’t sick anymore or you finished everything on your to-do list, or you had a really good hair day. 

Davis and Kailee Marking the Beautiful Occasion

Do it! Celebrate. Mark the occasion somehow. You’ll be glad you did. It’s pretty important. I think there’s something scientific to it. You have a life event that’s meaningful and special, so you buy yourself some flowers, or a car, or a vacation. But, you do something thus marking this event and this memory as special and significant in your life. 

When I googled “mark the occasion” I found this: To mark the occasion means to do something special to celebrate, honor, or remember a significant event. Common ways to mark an occasion include throwing a party, having a formal ceremony, buying a gift, or raising a glass. 

When looking up synonyms I found a lot of stuff about raising a glass or drinking a toast and one mention of taking a quaff or draught. I wasn’t familiar with the word “quaff” but it means A Large Unhurried Swallow.

Ahhh. A large unhurried swallow. 

That’s it, isn’t it? The next time you feel the urge to celebrate finishing War and Peace or giving up biting your fingernails, you need to mark the occasion by taking a quaff. A quaff of wine, of life, of time with those you love. Large and unhurried. 

No! Ne'er was mingled such a draught 

In palace, hall or arbor, 

As freemen brewed and tyrants quaffed, 

That night in Boston Harbor 

Oliver Wendell Holmes

 

My Coach Purse

 “If you believe that your thoughts originate inside your brain, do you also believe that television shows are made inside your television set?”

― Warren Ellis 

I recently bought a Coach purse at a local thrift store, Recycle Circus. I love it. It’s pink and too small for all my stuff. But, it’s pretty and it’s Coach. I bought it after seeing that someone I follow on Instagram is constantly finding Coach bags at thrift stores. 

This is how it happened…

When visiting Recycle Circus, I spotted the pink and brown bag and thought it was cute. I knew it was Coach and had recently seen several videos about finding Coach bags at thrift stores. But, this one was $25 which I thought was a bit much. So, I left the store and went happily on my way. 

With Coach bags fresh on my mind, I went to Dillard’s with my husband, Bobby, to find a shirt and tie for him to wear to our son’s wedding. While taking a detour to the women’s clothes, we passed the purses. Lo and behold there was a Coach display! So, I wandered in and picked up a small, leather bag. It was almost $300! A quick examination of the rest of the display showed me that the small bag was the cheapest of the lot. 

Suddenly, the Recycle Circus Coach purse didn’t seem so out of my price range.

The next weekend, I returned to Recycle Circus to find the Coach bag still hanging by its leather and gold strap. I grabbed it, carried it around the store for a few minutes, then took it to the register to pay. It’s all mine now. 

Until recently, I didn’t even know that I should want a Coach bag. I never even thought about Coach bags. The few I had seen were drab and brown with the Coach logo all over them. Not really my style. Plus, they were super expensive. Definitely not my style. 

It’s all the fault of Amber Yackzan. She makes these really cute videos about “thrifting in NYC” and cutting her own hair. While I’m not about to cut my curly hair myself, Amber reminded me that I really love and appreciate thrift stores. 

Since watching her videos I’ve bought the adorable Coach purse, a pair of sneakers that look like they’re made of lace, and a maroon jacket with embroidered flowers on it. There was a time when almost every day I wore at least one thrifted item. I’m getting back to that now. Today, for instance, I’m wearing a blue shirt, recently bought at my local America’s Thrift Stores. It fits great and goes with almost everything. A very good find. 

I’m embarrassingly susceptible to influencers. I asked for and got a Warmie for my birthday thanks to Jessica_Rae and her videos about Christmas gifts. I started using ChatGPT like a madwoman after watching upgradingkatie and her life transformation. And, I’m doing stretches in my pjs in the morning because of thepeachiespoon. 

None of these things are bad. They may actually have improved my life. But, I never would have thought of them on my own. Or, if I did think of them, I wouldn’t have implemented them or known how to get started. 

So, now we come to the point, social media, good or bad? But, maybe it’s really not so cut and dried. Smart people have been saying this forever. It’s the use of social media that can be hauntingly destructive. But, social media itself isn’t so horrible. 

Unless it makes you buy stuff you didn’t know you wanted. Then, maybe…

Celebrating Lent

“O Lord, make this Lenten season different from the other ones. Let me find you again. Amen.” —Henri Nouwen

Google says that Lent is a “solemn Christian religious observance in the liturgical year in preparation for Easter. It echoes the 40 days Jesus spent fasting in the desert and enduring temptation by Satan, according to the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, before beginning his public ministry.”

Somewhere along the way, people in the church decided that since Jesus fasted before his death and resurrection, we should too. Then, the ideal was whittled down until the essence that remained was fasting not from all food all the time, but fasting from meat on Fridays which would allow us to give our meat money to the starving. Devout Catholics still observe this tradition today. 

However, I’ve seen that Fridays in the Catholic-ly populated midwest have become something of a party. Lenten Fridays in Nebraska and Iowa are a time where people gather in smokey community centers to swim through a haze of grease, and sit together at paper covered tables eating fish with slaw and hushpuppies. I’ve been there and it’s wonderful and delicious. But it’s a bit of a departure from Google’s definition that “Lent is solemn.” 

Many Protestant believers also celebrate Lent, but not necessarily by giving up meat on Fridays. I’ve had friends give up social media, coffee, or TV. It’s all in an effort to focus more on how we should be living in light of Jesus’s sacrifice. 

When I occasionally helped at the Charlotte Mason school in Birmingham, AL, they celebrated the Christian year in their chapel services. The students all wore different capes for different parts of the year. The ones they wore for Lent were made of burlap. They were brown and drab and scratchy. But after Lent they got to turn the uncomfortable capes in for one made of purple velvet signifying the royalty of Jesus. It was beautiful and soft. A definite upgrade and it demonstrated in a way the students could truly understand that something wonderful had happened.  

One year for Lent, I listened to a specific Christian song every day - Keep Making Me by Sidewalk Prophets. In 2026, for every day between Palm Sunday and Easter I watched an episode of The Chosen. I liked doing both of those things. They made me think and that made me feel closer to Jesus and the trials he went through. It made Lent and my faith more of a practice, more of an almost tangible part of my life. Perhaps I’m not just adding something into my life, maybe I’m giving up what I would normally listen to or watch in exchange for something that will bring me closer to God.

I don’t seem to be as good at giving something up for 40 days. In college, a friend of mine suffered through the jitters and headaches of going without caffeine for Lent. I was with her on Easter Monday when she sat on the floor of her dorm room with a huge Coke. I think she had jitters and a headache after that, too. My sister has given up secular music and styrofoam takeout containers. She says giving up something for Lent shouldn’t look like you’re trying to lose weight, like giving up chocolate or fried food. 

Another friend of mine who grew up Catholic asked her children to give up sugar for the week leading up to Easter. The sugar rush they got from the candy in their Easter baskets must have been real and intense. 

While I think it’s amazing to even contemplate giving something up (or adding something in) as a spiritual practice during Lent, what happens after that? After the 40 days, what then? It seems there should be another spiritual discipline you employ, kind of like a maintenance phase. 

But, maybe life is a maintenance phase. When I just looked up “what is a maintenance phase” Google told me that a maintenance phase is when people use several weeks after a diet or weight loss to let their bodies adjust to a new norm. “(A maintenance phase) allow(s) the body to recover physically and mentally before potentially resuming weight loss or focusing on other goals.”

Eastertide, Pentecost, and Ordinary Time, the next three parts of the Christian year, may fall right in line with Google’s wisdom. After the excitement of Jesus’ resurrection and the potential stress of giving up complaining or Chick Fil A, it might be time for a little recovery. It might also be time to rest before focusing on another area of life that needs attention.

So maybe instead of thinking how sad and drab it is to be in the season of “Ordinary Time” I’ll reframe that to be a season of slowing down and reflection. A time not to test myself, but to let myself recover from the strain of adding or taking out something hard and taxing. 

So, what about you? How do you observe Lent? I’d love to know. 

“Lent is a time for discipline, for confession, for honesty, not because God is mean or fault- finding or finger-pointing but because he wants us to know the joy of being cleaned out, ready for all the good things he now has in store.”

― N.T. Wright 

Enough

There’s a strange and disturbing trend flooding our youth group. It’s not particularly cutting edge or original. But, it’s here and must be dealt with. It’s the concept of being “enough.” 

Several years ago I chose the word “enough” as my word of the year. That might have been a strange and disturbing trend too, but I enjoyed it - having something to focus on and set my course by. I had similar thoughts to what the youth group is experiencing  - I was worried that I wasn’t “enough.” Enough of what I’m not sure. 

Strong enough, pure enough, dedicated enough. I don’t know what my problem was. But, I was pretty sure I didn’t measure up to whatever it was God had in mind for me. Eventually, though, I felt like God was telling me it was ok. I didn’t need to be enough. I was already enough. He was delighted with me just as I was. 

But, I didn’t believe Him. I persisted in my pleas for God to change me into whatever better version of Amy He thought I should be. And soon instead of a still small voice reminding me that He was enough and I didn’t have to be, I started to hear a stronger, firmer voice telling me, “Enough!” As in, cut it out. Stop it. Get over it. Enough!

I’m afraid our students need to hear that reprimand now. I’m afraid they need to have God or someone tell them they’re not enough. They never will be. What would they need Jesus and His saving grace for if they were enough? But, enough already. It’s cool. You’re cool. You just need to trust. 

It’s like in To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. At the end Lara Jean and Peter have an honest discussion, finally. Peter tells Lara Jean that he loves her after Lara Jean confesses that she likes him, and not in a fake way. At that point Lara Jean asks what they put in a contract for a real relationship. And, Peter replies, “Nothing. You gotta trust.”

God’s like that. He’s not up in Heaven thinking of all the random and specific things you need to stop doing or start doing in order to be in an acceptable relationship with Him, or to be an acceptable version of yourself. “Don’t talk bad about your friends.” “Read your Bible for 45 minutes every morning and night even if you’re so tired you’re definitely going to fall asleep.” “Go to church every time the doors open.” 

God’s not like that. Sure there are things that will make Him proud of you if you stop doing them. But, He’s not going to leave you if you don’t. He’s sticking around. He loves you! And, you don’t have to worry about being enough because He is enough. And, He’s got this. 

You just gotta trust.

Nine Days in Austria

I’ve been having a hard time putting our trip to Austria into words. It happened two years ago and I’m still struggling over it. The trip was long anticipated, delightful, and fulfilling. When we first got home, I thought, like everyone these days, “I should post pictures of our trip!” But, though I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Those pictures weren’t enough. There were stories and feelings and backstories and sweet family memories that should be shared too. But, I didn’t really want to share. I wanted to keep them all to myself. 

Here’s why: Bobby and I spent two amazing years in Austria working with refugees. It was a defining point of our lives. We would forever be the couple who had been missionaries, however briefly. Those years weren’t perfect, but to our friends and family in Alabama, they sounded big and exotic. I liked that. 

So, for 25 years, literally, we had been wanting to return to Austria - to a place we loved, a place that took a lot out of us, a place that molded us into the couple we became. And, we had wanted to share all of that with our kids. But, the time was never quite right. Either we had time but no money, or we had money but no time. Or, maybe our kids didn’t have time. But, the summer of 2023 was it. Allen graduated from the University of Nebraska Omaha three days before we hopped a plane and flew to Vienna. Davis would graduate from the University of North Alabama two months after we returned. It was the perfect time. 

One of the highlights for me was visiting the ministry center, The Oasis, where we used to work and seeing my kids play chess and sort clothes there, activities we used to do weekly. Our first night at the coffee bar on this trip, I played UNO with two young men from Syria. I doubt either of them was 20 years old. My mom instincts started kicking in and I found myself wanting to help and protect them, telling them to make sure to come back to the clothing room, asking if they wanted extra cookies, extra anything I could give them. But, before the night was over they left and I had to let go. It was so unsettling watching them, younger than my own boys, walking alone into the night, so far from home. Where were their moms, their families? Were they worrying at that very moment how their sons were?

I loved sitting in the courtyard at our old home, bathed in bright sunshine, Albrechtgasse 27, with our former landlady, her daughter, and our dear friend, Miriam, who lives there now. Frau Schurz kept looking at my grown up boys, smiling and saying, “die schoene grosse Buben” which means, basically, the big, beautiful boys. She was so thrilled to finally meet them after watching them grow up in our Christmas cards. Frau Schurz told us that she had been at her doctor’s office that morning and as she left she excitedly told the receptionist she was in a hurry, she was meeting her American friends. The young receptionist asked who these American friends were. Frau Schurz said it was Amy and Bobby who used to live in her backyard. The young lady said, “I know Amy and Bobby!” She had been a young Bosnian refugee at one of our kids clubs. What a very small world. 

We also had Sunday lunch in the cozy apartment of another friend, Carol, catching up and helping make the most delicious frosting of sour cream and melted chocolate chips for the cake she baked for dessert. After lunch we took a walk through the nearby vineyards.

The whole trip was surreal and sublime. The boys loved walking to the train station and being able to get anywhere they wanted without a car. We loved showing them the town we used to live in and watching them figure out how to communicate without knowing much German. It was wonderful. 

When we got back to Alabama, and I was trying to figure out how to put all this into words, I had a time of sorrow and frustration. “We didn’t DO anything while we were there. Why didn’t we plan more stuff and DO more?” We had planned the trip to be low-key and calm. We wanted uninterrupted time to rest and wander and visit. But, upon reflection I got scared that the trip hadn’t had the sweet, unhurried feel I had dreamed of. But, instead it was too boring and too slow for 24 year old boys. 

Weeks later when I re-read the journal I kept in my Bella Grace magazine (because I forgot to pack my actual journal) I realized that we did an awful lot and covered an amazing amount of ground. We spent two days in Vienna where we rode the huge Wiener Riesenrad or Vienna Ferris Wheel (you can see it in the movie “The Third Man”) while a polka band played below, music wafting into the open window of our car. We also spent one day in Bratislava, Slovakia. We didn’t have to exchange money or present our passports at the border like in pre-EU days. It was convenient but oddly unsatisfying.

We toured churches and palaces. We helped our old team serve refugees. We visited with long-time, beloved friends. We drove through the countryside to a tiny hamlet with a children’s program for refugees and listened to a brook as it meandered over rocks and between overhanging trees. 

We stayed in a small apartment like an Austrian would live in, eating pizza and Schnitzel and Doner kebabs bought just outside train stops. We soaked in the mystery and majesty of a place that was first mentioned in writing in AD 869, over a millenia ago. We bought chocolate and magnets and I bought an adorable purple purse the color of a Milka candy bar wrapper. People still ask me regularly where I got it.  

But mostly I learned some stuff about my family. Davis doesn’t like to walk by places. He wants to go in and tour things and see stuff up close. You may think he’s not paying attention, but he’s probably looking up stories or facts about where you’re going on his phone and will soon tell you all about it. 

Allen likes to push himself and he’s basically up for anything. He climbed by himself up to the ruins of a fort and brought back beautiful pictures. At one point we arrived home late after a tiring day, but Bobby and Allen wanted to find a place to have a beer. They wandered out into the night and eventually found Zum Reichsapfel.  Bobby remembers going there back in 1997 with some of the other missionaries we worked with back then. Bobby and Allen came back an hour later very pleased with themselves for being adventurous. 

Bobby is going to be tense on the way, he wants to find the best way to get to our destination. But once we get there he’s going to rally and be the pied piper we’re all going to follow.

Now, I feel like we didn’t just have a trip to Austria, we didn’t just visit friends there. We didn’t experience the laziness of a vacation. We LIVED in Baden for nine days. Oh, how I wish it could have been longer. Maybe next time.

"Better to see something once than hear about it a thousand times."

-Asian Proverb

  

Befriended

The floor was mopped, the tea was made, cookies were arranged on a platter and orange, plastic chairs curved in a circle.  Everything was ready.  Soon, people would show up.  

While my husband, Bobby, and I were missionaries in Austria from 1995 to 1997, this was our normal Friday night thing. Bible study. Those invited were the refugees we spent our time visiting and praying for. These gatherings began with singing, moved on to a Bible lesson, and ended with food. 

Bobby dreaded Friday nights, but not because of the Bible studies. He loved those. He just knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours after drinking even one cup of hot, black tea and I would want him to stay awake with me and talk. 

Bobby and our teammate, Miriam, left me to finish setting up while they drove to a nearby refugee pension to collect our regular attenders. Miriam could fit four people in her tiny, powder blue Fiat Panda and we could fit that many in our Honda Kombi wagon. 

Two people I hoped to see that night were Ramin and Leila. Their children, Vahid and Ashti, though they were quite young, would undoubtedly come too.

Ramin and Leila were new friends of ours, recently arrived from Iran. They weren’t Believers in Jesus. But, like many refugees we befriended, they would sit through just about anything for the chance at a night out. Our Friday night studies delivered a chance for these men and women to feel valuable. For a few hours, they were everyday people, not one of a herd, shuffled to meals and lawyer appointments and clothing rooms, one of the masses. On Friday nights they were human again, part of a small group, talked with, listened to and served. 

Ramin and Leila were Muslim, and openly so. They didn’t give the impression of being particularly religious and they weren’t planning on converting to Christianity, unless it made their asylum chances better. If you’ve been persecuted at home because of religious reasons, you’re more likely to make your case for shelter in another country. But you must prove it.

Ramin and Leila were a little older than Bobby and me and already had kids. Ramin was tall and imposing with thick, curly hair. He rarely smiled and spoke near perfect English. His wife, Leila, was petite, quiet and anxious. She had expected their journey to be much easier, much quicker. She was surprised to find herself living in a room with her husband and children for months on end. They had no money and few possessions. 

Ramin and Leila’s children were tiny, beautiful people. Their daughter, Ashti, had shiny, straight, dark hair.  Their son, Vahid, had curly black hair like his dad’s. The kids were rambunctious and happy, not old enough to truly understand what was going on. They were on an adventure, meeting strange and interesting people. Too young for school, they were spared the confusion and frustration of being thrust into a room all day, away from their parents, not understanding a word of what was happening. 

One day, I had Leila over for lunch along with her children.  We ate on my porch and walked around in slippers. The children played on the stairs leading to our loft bedroom.  I remember Leila almost falling, slipping on the wood floor in her borrowed slippers and the children giggling a lot.  I don’t remember what we ate or what we talked about. But I remember the look on her face when she walked into our modest, but homey house, shock and joy and jealousy and relief. It was so much smaller than where she had lived in Iran she said, and so much bigger than the room she presently occupied.

Leila told wistful stories about her house back in Iran; the smoky brown, glass cups she drank tea from, the patio on the roof of the home she shared with Ramin’s parents, the lavish clothes she wore to parties. I wondered once why she had left. The stories she told made Iran sound exotic, elaborate and opulent. Asking her to explain, Leila just shook her head and clicked her tongue. “There’s no future there,” she said. Life was hard in Iran and getting worse.

Leila's sister and her family traveled to Austria with Ramin and Leila. They lived next door to each other in the pension. Ramin and Leila, along with Leila’s sister and her family, had hopes of going to America or Canada. They knew people who had gone before them and would help them when they arrived. In Austria they didn’t know anyone. 

At one point Leila’s sister and her family decided to leave Austria. They had waited long enough and made the risky move of forging ahead, uninvited, to another country. Ramin and Leila chose to stay put. I don’t know if fear or common sense or a lack of money caused them to say goodbye. But I know parting was terribly hard on those sisters. And I don’t know where Leila’s sister and her family ended up.

Ramin didn’t ask many questions or talk much during those Friday night Bible studies. But he would translate for his wife and any other Farsi speakers. He once said, "We should pray to God. We pray to Mohammed, and he doesn't help us." I wasn't entirely sure God was going to help them in the way Ramin wanted. But I was excited he might give it a try.

As far as I know Ramin and Leila are still living in Austria. We believe they received asylum, permission to live there permanently. 

We tried to introduce Ramin and Leila to the One who could give them a future and a hope. Though we didn’t see them make a decision to follow Christ, we heard they did just after we left. 

I hope and pray it’s true. 

“Refugees didn’t just escape a place. They had to escape a thousand memories until they’d put enough time and distance between them and their misery to wake to a better day.”

Nadia Hashimi