Hope in the Midst of Pain and Loss
Ivor and his wife Carolina were a part of a border trip in late May. His personal story, together with his experience on the South Texas border shines a light on how important it is to give a Christ-like welcome to those going through pain and loss.
In late 2019 I was deeply moved by the images on the news of the humanitarian crisis on the US-Mexico border. I began searching for organizations that were actively responding to the great need, and I came across the Border Perspective Instagram account. I was impressed by the heart behind the work that was being done on behalf of families and individuals at the border. My wife and I moved to The Woodlands, TX from Nashville, TN in April.
Preparing for our trip to visit the Moya family in South Texas really began 23 years ago when my family emigrated to Cleveland, Ohio from a small town outside of Munich, Germany. What is happening at the border today reminds me of what I went through throughout my childhood.
One of the most painful experiences in my life was feeling like I did not belong. As a son to a Croatian dad and Serbian mother who was born in Doboj, Bosnia, and Herzegovina, I carried with me a mix of the cultures and people who fought in a deeply dividing and painful civil war. People were fleeing from the Balkans and Germany didn’t know what to do about the families who were seeking shelter in their country. It was a crisis, a logistical nightmare, and citizens naturally responded in many different ways. I vividly remember the elementary school in Germany where kids reminded me often that I was a “Flüchtling," a refugee. Some called me an “Ausländer," or foreigner.
In the midst of pain and loss, some of the locals showed up and went through it with us. They provided us with essentials, helped us find an apartment and my parents found jobs. Some of the kids organized a fundraiser for us. They emptied their piggy banks and gave up their allowances so we could have our first Christmas in Germany together and not be without. This meant a lot to my parents who tried to give us as normal of a childhood as possible.
One of the people who was with us was Sister Regine, a Catholic nun who was assigned to help refugee families like ours. One day, my mom was worried about finding a way to buy toiletries - we budgeted about $5 a day. She didn’t know the language and felt helpless. The next morning, she heard a soft knock at the door. When she opened the door, there was a grocery bag filled with essentials and toiletries hanging on the handle, but there was no one in sight. She was astounded because she didn’t tell anyone about her the day before. To this day my mom tears up over that small act of kindness. That’s the impact of Sister Regine’s faithfulness to her calling.
For me, Sister Regine began a battle against the hurtful things I was being called by telling me about Jesus, and God’s love for me. She taught me that God had a plan for my life, that He heard my prayers, and that He would never forsake me. She fought to have me baptized but when the priest turned our request away because I was too old and a refugee, I was heartbroken. She was with me then, too, and reminded me that God has not turned His back on me.
Sister Regine also spent time disagreeing with the local priest who wanted her to spend more time sweeping the floors of the church, and less time doing life with us. In 2016 I visited her convent outside of Munich and I got to ask her why she went into service, and how she found the compassion to help us. She shared with me that she and her sister were orphans from Czechoslovakia, and both of them accepted the call to a life of service because of their painful experiences growing up. “No child should feel the pain and abandonment I felt, so I dedicated my life to serving others,” she told me.
Fast forward to 1998, when the German government decided all displaced families from the Balkans had to go back because the situation in the region had calmed down. My parents wrestled with the decision to go back to Croatia or Bosnia, but being mixed presented many risks for persecution and threats of physical violence against us.
Under the Clinton Administration, the United States opened a lottery for families like ours, who couldn’t go back to a country where schools were segregated based on ethnicity and religion. As I write this in May 2021, some schools in Bosnia are still segregated.
We applied and waited for what seemed like forever, knowing that once the decision came, we’d have to pack up what we could and move again. On July 20th, 1998, we boarded a flight from Frankfurt to Chicago, saying goodbye to our two lives - friends and family in Germany, and moving even further away from friends and family in Bosnia and Croatia.
I vividly remember that a thunderstorm grounded our flight from O’Hare to Cleveland, where friends and our sponsor family waited for us. It was late at night. My brother was the only one who could speak English at the time, so I mimicked his words when he asked for a Coca-Cola from the flight attendant.
We landed in Cleveland and were greeted by old friends who made the journey across the ocean the year prior. We also met our sponsor family, the Pappas family, for the first time. Bill and Suzanne lived on the east side of Cleveland, and their parish at the time asked if anyone was willing to host a refugee family for a weekend until the church found a more permanent home. What was supposed to be hosting us for a few days turned into a month. Bill and Suzanne welcomed us with open arms. They helped my parents find work and drove us to our immigration paper appointments. Bill taught me about this American thing called baseball, and we learned so much about life in America from the Pappas family.
I don’t want to get too much into a discussion about the immigration process, but if I can summarize immigration in one word it would be that it was really dehumanizing. From an early age, my existence and identity felt reduced to a case number, a set of fingerprints, and the chasing of visas. My parents wanted us to have freedom from that, so they chose to begin life again in America, where we could have a fair shot at higher education, work, and basic human rights. The first time I had to renew my US passport, the entire process lasted 15 minutes at my local post office. I returned to my car and began to weep because at that moment I grasped the sacrifice my parents made more fully.
During our short stay with the Moya family we experienced their hospitality, and witnessed how they, alongside organizations like Catholic Charities, provided some of the same services my family received many years ago. We visited places like the Donna Holding Center, a massive cluster of boarded-off tents that are kept at 50 degrees and full of children. We watched charter bus after charter bus come and go, dropping new migrants off, taking some to Catholic Charities and others back to the border to be deported.
We peeled back the complex layers of immigration, national security, and what our Lord commands us to do with our lives. We talked things out together. We asked many questions, we shed tears, and we saw beauty, hope, and life in the midst of suffering. Yonathan provided context and an immense amount of grace as we grappled with it all.
When we step into someone’s suffering, we’re really stepping onto holy ground. I believe that when we lead with love, God honors this posture of our hearts and uses it to make a difference in the souls of the hurting in front of us.
God oftentimes reveals more about Himself through those on the margins of society. It’s no wonder that when Jesus was describing the Last Judgement to the Pharisees in Matthew 25, he said this:
“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left.
Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’
Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’” - Matthew 25:31-40
As I read Jesus’ words, I immediately shudder. I am moved to repentance; for the wasted time and resources, for my fear of sharing my testimony, and growing numb to all the times God provided someone to live this scripture out in the midst of my suffering. I have to repent of my desire to stay inside my comfort zone and see things with worldly eyes.
On the way back to The Woodlands, TX, I texted Bill, our sponsor, to thank him for how he and his family stepped up for us. Bill is a retired commercial photographer and we’ve spent 23 years of friendship bonding over our mutual love for photography, other cultures, and storytelling.
When families arrive at Catholic Charities, they’re given a change of clothes, basic hygiene items, food, shelter, and an envelope with information about their sponsor and where they’re headed to next. This paper is part of the welcome packet they receive as they wait to be connected to their sponsor. Depending on if they travel by bus or by air to their sponsor's location, they’ll use papers like these to ask for directions and help along the way.
Bill replied with a photo of my parents, who were sitting across the table from him at that very moment.
I’ve spent time being angry at God. I’ve wrestled with God about why I and so many others had to go through immense loss and painful experiences. I know I’ll always carry a bit of unbelief with me because grief, pain, trauma, and suffering are complex. After being in close proximity to others who are currently going through similar circumstances, I see the purpose more clearly. I could’ve been bitter about all of the challenges my family and I have had to endure, but with God’s help, I’m compassionate and kind. If you feel that same tug on your heart, please don’t ignore it. Explore it. Find others who are living it out and ask them questions, see how they got to a place of activation, just like I did when I reached out to Yonathan, Sister Regine, and others in my life. I’m willing to bet that you’ll find that those you look up to have had to overcome similar challenges, doubts, and fears. You’ll also see that with God and time, all things are possible; even life after loss and pain.
Don’t let other people’s apathy discourage you from following your path in a life of service. Apathy breeds in comfort zones. Advocacy can be isolating, discouraging, and frustrating, but remember this: the pain, suffering, and hopelessness you experienced is very real to you, just as the overcoming of it is. No one else has your story.
To the reader who has made it this far, my prayer for you is that you continue to see God putting people in your life who live scripture out through the hospitality and friendship they provide and that they bring you a sense of joy and celebration in your life.
Wherever you are, I hope you are making space at the table for others, in your own unique way. Take one step out of your comfort zone; I know God will use this small step in beautiful ways.
