The clock just passed midnight and I’m on a bus headed to the airport to catch a 5AM flight to Lesvos Island. The past week in ATHENS has been as anticipated. To say the lines are blurred between refugee, immigrant, tourist, and Greek citizen would be an understatement. Some seem privelaged, only to find out there family was killed by Hussein in Irag, or Gaddafi in Libya. While other, well-dressed, immigrants have been indignant and frustrated with the economic crisis-that is Europe, to only hear them blame all circumstances on America’s oil driven greed. Most are consumed with anger, and essentially fear, so with that my level of explanation has greatly diminished with each passing day. The responses have become expected, so I don’t steer the conversations there. Instead, it has been more, and more about childhood, fond memories, anything that will create an opportunity to point to my Father.
I don’t have time to tell you about Mohamed from Senegal, or Apostolis, the Greek caretaker of the Christian mission, or Kurdos & Twanas, the 17 year old Iraqi translators that loathe ISIS for what they have done to their families, yet spent this afternoon taking Olivia and I to the beach (after we bartered with them to go to church-street kids).
Meeting people like this is what my God compels in me, and in actuality, it turns out to be my reward. How amazing.
We’re split up now. The girls staying in Athens, the guys headed to Camp Moriah in LESVOS. We will be staying on a ship docked in the harbor. Please keep lifting us up, it is how you can come alongside us.
I have no idea what tomorrow has in store, but man, I can’t think of a more beautiful statement right now.