Great America

Eight years ago this month I went to the airport to meet a refugee family from Kosovo who had travelled from a refugee camp in Macedonia. They got off the plane with only one duffle bag that held all of the possessions they managed to grab from their home before the Serbs came with guns to force them out. The four little girls (ages 6 months - 8 years) were covered in red blisters from having scabbies. They were all so thin. My friends and I didn't think the baby would make it to the parking lot. Apparently they had eaten only bread and tomatoes in the refugee camp.

For the next year I sponsored them, raising money for rent and food, helping them find jobs, gathering donated clothes, taking them to the public health clinic for immunization shots and to take care of the scabbies, helping them apply for Social Security cards, teaching them how to ride the train, shop in a grocery store, and basically how to live in an American big city.  Needless to say, it was intense. They were extremely appreciative, but also depressed and dependent. I saw another side of America -- one of red tape, paperwork, complicated forms, passive-agressive beaurocrats, isolation. A land of plenty but also of processed food, city apartments with no yard for the kids to play in, and bad inner-city schools.

I often thought maybe they'd be better off back in Kosovo. But then I remembered that at least here no one is driving them out of their home with a semi-automatic weapon (with the exception of one neighborhood where they lived that the police called the "Juneway Jungle."

I never knew if I was doing too much for them, or too little. But in time I found my boundaries, and they found their way. In the process they basically made me a part of their family.

They've made some bad decisions, which was hard for me to watch, but in each case they seemed to bounce back and get it together. Now the oldest daughter will be a Junior in High School. Dad has a good, solid job. Mom is working in a hotel -- difficult work, but she has friends who are co-workers. And she likes to contribute to the family finances. Each time I visit they offer me tea, Turkish coffee, and on special occassions, what they call "pita," which is sort-of like Greek spinach pie.  They know it's my favorite.

I was visiting them earlier this summer and Florije, the oldest daughter, mentioned that she wanted to go to Great America, an amusment park north of Chicago. They girls had never been to an amusement park. Suddenly, I had a great idea for their birthday presents this year. My women's small group contributed money, and we bought the whole family tickets to Great America.


A few weeks ago, on a Monday, David and I took them to the park. It was a perfect Chicago day -- in the 80's, sunny, low humidity. The older girls kept talking about the rollercoasters. So David and I told them to pick which one they wanted to go on. They picked the "American Eagle", a big, creaky wooden monstrosity that made my stomach flip just looking at it on the map. We waited in line for 45 minutes. Finally, we got on the rollercoaster train, pulled down the bar that would keep us on our seats, and away we went. Okay, I haven't been on a rollercoaster for a while, and discovered that what made them so exciting when I was 20 is exactly the thing I don't like now: The feeling of flying off the track, of being bounced around on the track until my neck hurt, of the feeling of my stomach jumping into my chest. Yikes. In the middle of the ride I thought, "Never again!"

Well, the girls had similar feelings. As soon as we got off, Florije said, "I don't want to do that again!" Which turned out to be a good thing because we spent the rest of the day riding on smaller rides with short lines. They had a blast. And I just kept thinking how good it was to see them smile.