Last night I finally watched God Grew Tired of Us. It’s a beautiful film worthy of 90 minutes of your time. (And available for streaming on NetFlix.)
Our neighborhood, like a lot of other communities in the United States, has become a place of refuge for many people relocated here because of war. I’ve heard an estimate that as many as 60 language groups live in the 92115 zip code. A drive down El Cajon Boulevard or University Avenue validates. I meet them all the time, saying hello and exchanging uncomfortable pleasantries. My Swahili, Spanish, and Arabic is far worse than their English.
The neighborhood in which I live has become a literal refuge in the city as we have a large, open park perfect for sports. Obviously children play at the park all day. But each evening, about 50 Somali men gather to hang out and play soccer until the sun goes down. On Saturday’s, several hundred people, mostly from Mexico and Central America, come to watch youth soccer. On Sunday’s, a different group of men get together to play cricket.
Lately, my heart has been stirring me to figure out some of these folks stories. Maybe I’m just the curious type? And maybe God is the one pushing me? The difference doesn’t seem to really matter, I suppose.
I wonder if they are as curious about my life as I am about theirs? What circumstances lead to them arriving here? Like the movie brought out, I wonder who is explaining to them some of the things they are encountering each day of their new life in America?
I guess I won’t know any of that until I take the first step.