Nine years ago, I had nine strokes within the course of a few hours.
Nine blood clots to both hemispheres of my brain.
My recovery was tough, and in those early months and years of trying to find my new normal, I struggled. Certain colors had sound, made me irrationally angry and could bring on terrible migraines. Sounds of a certain pitch caused my brain to fritz out, and the only thing that helped was to go to sleep.
Kelley Kennedy
I was left with a constant anxiety that felt like fire under my skin. My life suddenly became very small and narrow. Home or church or doctors’ offices — that was the extent of my capabilities.
Katie, my older daughter, was doing an internship with a refugee resettlement agency during that time and had been working closely with a family newly arrived from the Middle East. Both parents had health concerns, and the four children also needed some care, so Katie spent many hours with them, escorting them, walking them through our complex health care system.
She came home one day, several months into my recovery with an invitation — one that included all of us. A dinner at the home of this family. They wanted to thank Katie for her assistance.
“Mom, please” she begged, knowing full well what it would cost me in terms of effort and stamina. What if a color or a sound set off my poor beleaguered brain, in a place I never had been, with people I never had met? As I looked at her sweet face, so hopeful, I couldn’t refuse her. So, to dinner we went — my first “social outing” since the strokes.
The home was exceedingly modest and so small I wondered how it could possibly contain a family of six. A sectional sofa took up the majority of the space in the small living room.
“The home was exceedingly modest and so small I wondered how it could possibly contain a family of six.”
Mohammed, our host, a gregarious man with dancing eyes, gently helped me to sit and then brought pillow after pillow, until I was propped up to his satisfaction.
Noor, our hostess, nodded, waved and smiled shyly from the adjoining closet-size room that housed the kitchen. The house was filled with the most exotic smells — of spices and foods unfamiliar to me.
Children were everywhere, the older two bringing a small table from the kitchen, and a couple of others from rooms unseen. They lined them up in front of the sectional and then added a few mismatched chairs — turning the living space into a dining space.
A scarf and a few pieces of brightly colored fabric were laid on the tops of the lopsided tables, and then came the platters. One containing a whole fish, with crispy skin and flaky flesh, a giant bowl of chicken and rice, then vegetables, salads, fruits, flat bread and dessert.
I remember being concerned that they had spent far too many of their meager resources on us. The tables groaned and wobbled with the bounty. The children sat excitedly and expectantly. The adults stared at each other for a moment — suddenly hyper aware of our language disparity.
Mohammed, whose strong body had been crippled by the beatings he sustained in his country of origin, stood and blessed the food in a tongue that was foreign to me, but with a reverence of which I was well acquainted. Dishes were passed, and with her limited, broken English, Noor encouraged me to take some of everything, then more of everything. And suddenly we were all exclaiming over the feast.
Through the miracle and graces of the Google translator on Mohammed’s phone, we shared stories late into the night — of my illness, John’s work, Katie’s childhood, the DMV, Mohammed and Noor’s life together — normal and happy in the land of their birth, until it became full of danger and pain — their commitment to finding a better life for their children, the same children who danced around the furniture and made funny faces to entertain us.
We laughed together — so much laughter. We cried together over such a broken world. We saw and were seen. In that tiny room we experienced care and nurture — nourishment for soul and body. Out of their scarcity, they gave with abundance.
This was without a doubt one of the holiest moments I’ve ever experienced. A true embodiment of “Thy kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven.” Would that it could always be so.
Kelley Kennedy serves as children’s minster at Emerywood Baptist Church in High Point, N.C.