Day 100: Sew Joy

Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your graciousness be known to everyone. Philippians 4:4–5

A few years ago I had the privilege of going to Thessaloniki, Greece, for the second time with my dear friend, Christine Caine, along with several of my closest friends from Nashville to introduce them to A21, the incredibly effective anti-human-trafficking organization that Chris founded with her husband, Nick. What none of us knew while planning the trip was that the greatest refugee crisis since World War II would be taking place just a few hours from our hotel in Greece as hundreds (and sometimes thousands) of mostly Syrian men, women, and children fleeing their country’s violent war and the cruel oppression of ISIS extremists were washing up on the shores of the Greek island of Lesbos every single day because of its proximity to Turkey and Syria on the northern shore of the Aegean Sea.

Which is why we volunteered when we heard the UN was desperate for volunteers to help with the unprecedented influx of refugees. Most of these refugees fled their homes with only the clothes on their backs and had lost loved ones on their perilous journey across the Aegean because merciless pirates often crammed over one hundred passengers (all of whom were charged exorbitant “transport” fees) onto inflatable life rafts suitable for no more than twenty so as to increase their profits. As you can imagine, many drowned in their frantic quest for asylum. So we unanimously agreed to pile into vans and drive several hours to a remote, abandoned train station—one that had hurriedly been turned into a tent city serving as the second official stop for refugees after being processed by the Greek government at Lesbos.

I don’t have words to adequately describe the hopelessness of the first group of refugees we watched climb out of buses a few hundred yards away from where UN officials asked my friends and me to help assess each individual or family’s most urgent needs and then direct them to the corresponding tent. We were quickly overwhelmed by a crush of people begging for help. And in short order we amended the slow and ineffective “sorting system” and began passing out food rations to everyone within reach, giving all the parents bouncing infants on their hips formula for their starving babies, and teasing with a rag-tag crew of rambunctious, teenage boys who were hungry for some small sense of normalcy amidst the trauma and sensed that a group of bossy female volunteers from America might be just the place to find it.

Yet by far the most effective “aid” we handed out during those October evenings happened when we got transferred to the juvenile tent, where hundreds of beautiful but apprehensive kids were gathered, flanked by their worried mamas and daddies. Men and women who felt they had no choice but to leave behind their war-ravaged homeland and militant jihadists, yet knowing that what their children had witnessed in the pursuit of safety and a better way of life may well have caused permanent emotional damage.

Since there were no video games or toys to entertain those darling kids with, and because none of us could speak any of the Middle Eastern dialects represented, we began singing and dancing a very animated version of the Hokey Pokey as a last resort. Unbeknownst to us, the Hokey Pokey is a universal favorite, and almost immediately the refugee children formed a giant circle with the “crazy American chicks” and began singing and dancing their little hearts out, too.

And we just might have set a Guinness Book world record dancing the Hokey Pokey there on the frigid border of Greece and Macedonia because those precious peanuts were tireless! Whenever one of us stopped to catch our breath, they’d pull on our sleeves and plead for us to keep on going in lilting accents we couldn’t understand, but with adorable upturned faces that were impossible to refuse.

At one point, I stepped out of the cacophonous ring of hokey-pokiers to take off my heavy sweatshirt and a young Muslim mom in a full burka approached shyly and asked, “May I speak with you for a moment?” in perfect English. I said, “Yes, of course.” And was then completely caught off guard when she took my hands in hers, looked into my eyes, and said with a quiet smile, “Thank you so much for dancing with my son. His little sister was killed a few weeks before we left Syria and he’s been despondent ever since. This is the first time I’ve seen him laugh in a long time. My husband and I are so grateful to you.”

She continued by saying she knew we were Christians and she believed our prayers to be powerful. Then she humbly asked if I would mind praying for her son’s joy to return. I told her I’d be honored and asked if I could have her permission to invoke the name of Jesus while I prayed for him. She considered my request solemnly for a few seconds before nodding graciously. I’ve prayed hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of prayers in my lifetime but few have felt more sacred than when I got to hold Farema’s hand and pray for Jesus to mend her little boy’s broken heart.

I’ve never forgotten that experience—how Jesus can use one song and dance to spread joy, and spread His name, even in the worst of circumstances. The unconditional love of our Creator Redeemer brings tangible hope, lasting peace, and supernatural resurrection power that can restore what death tries to steal. Wouldn’t it be awesome if there was a Spirited gang of obsessively grateful, undone by Jesus, genuinely happy and not faking it through the hard stuff kind of believers, who were willing to run headlong into real life bellowing this glorious good news of the Gospel? I’m absolutely convinced it would change the world . . . at least our little corner of it!

• Would the people who know you best describe your joy as “contagious”?
• Why do you think you sometimes shy away from sharing the joy of Christ in your spheres of influence?
• Where could you stand to sew just a little bit more joy in Jesus’ name?