Hello, there. We've never met face to face, but you've been on my mind a lot these past few days. My heart and mind have been broken and stretched and stitched back together more than they ever have before, searching for answers to many questions. I live in a small, very conservative Southern town where being open-minded is often ridiculed as naive, so I feel this is the only way to communicate my thoughts and feelings outside my family and close friends.
My name is Becky Norris, and I am a housewife and mother. My husband and I have one daughter, with a second due in two weeks. In what should be a joyful time of preparation for a new baby and the holiday season, instead I find myself grieving for people whose faces I've only seen on my computer screen. I can't even begin to imagine or understand the horror and pain you've been through, seeing your homes, neighbors, and loved ones destroyed. I've never known what it's like to try and sleep at night without knowing if a bomb will fall before morning and kill you. I don't know the anguish and worry of trying to keep my children safe from armed terrorists walking the streets.
I have not lived a wealthy life, but I have lived a privileged one. My husband makes enough for us to live in a cozy, clean (mostly!) house, have plenty of food and clothes, medical care, and just a little to save away. I try and think of what we would do if all that were suddenly ripped from us, and we were forced to run across the state of Arkansas to try and survive. I can't.
I know it is highly unlikely that any of you heading for the US will end up in our little town, and if you did I'm afraid most people here would look at you with suspicion, fear, and even hatred. You might have seen what many Americans are saying on social media, that they do not want you here because you happen to look a bit like the terrorists committing these unspeakable acts you are running from. But if you do happen to find your way here, I hope you will forgive them. Most have never been outside this country, let alone met anyone from a foreign land or a religion different than their own. All they know is what they've been told, to be afraid and to lash out at what they don't understand.
I see the pictures of you with your children, struggling in camps and sleeping on pieces of cardboard on the ground. I see your eyes darkened by fear and sadness, and I wish I could do more from my little house on a quiet street. I wish I could pay to fly you and your children here to the mountains, put cots and sleeping bags in my living room, and give you a safe, dry place to sleep. I would love nothing more than to invite you into my tiny kitchen for a big pot of homemade soup and freshly baked bread. I wish I could hear your story from your own lips, and then cry and pray with you for an end to the madness. I wish I could see my daughter sharing her toys with your children, and hear them laughing and playing together.
But more than anything in this world, I wish that more around me felt the same way. I wish more people in my clean, quiet little town would realize the excruciating pain and suffering you've survived, and want to welcome you with open arms. I wish the many churches in this town would open their doors to feed and clothe you with unlimited compassion and generosity. Sadly, this likely won't happen.
In the meantime, if you do happen to find your way to this tiny mountain town, please remember that there are a very few of us who want you to have a safe place. And I will fling my doors open wide, give you a big hug, and sit you down for a hot meal.
Until then, know that I am thinking of you very much, and praying for your safety and well-being with all my heart.
-Becky Norris
John 21:15-17 NIV
15 When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”
“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.”
Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”
16 Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”
Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.”
17 The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?”
Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”
Jesus said, “Feed my sheep."
To my loving daughter, how I love and miss you so. I can feel the pain you communicated I also wish to open the door to let you people who are endangered a safe place to feel loved and appreciated. A place to heal. A place to feel rested. Becky my love go with God, I got your back and I. Am down with the cause. Cool, the Bigkahona......
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