I’ve been watching those 3000, then 5000, then 7000 migrants in the caravan from Honduras through Mexico toward the U.S. I’ve heard the statements–none of which have been observed or proven–about the group containing criminals, gang-members, and mid-Eastern terrorists. As I look into their faces on the news I put myself in their midst.
Since I’ve been widowed I’ve been urged to move into a smaller home or apartment in a more affordable area. I think about it and realize I would be giving up all that I’m familiar and comfortable with, like my friends, local family, my church, the city I grew up in, and neighbors who support me. I’d move to an area where I’d have to learn to navigate new roads and find the best shopping. I’d face people with different attitudes towards us senior citizens and/or disabled. My new location would require new ways of doing things, new challenges for me to adapt to. In short, it would likely take a long, uncomfortable while to become “home.”
I believe that these souls who are walking thousands of miles carrying a few meager belongings and their children are just what they say they are. I believe they are giving up their homes and all they held dear to escape violence, danger, death, and poverty that never ended despite their hard work. I believe they’re looking for a better life where fear and uncertainty is not a daily occurrence. I believe they are willing to work hard to give their children a chance to survive and grow into productive adults.
I’d be leaving behind so much less than they are, taking a far less of a chance than they are, working a lot less hard than they will have to work to achieve their new life.
And I have a real choice, while they do not. I get it.