The Right Place at the Right Time

Ever since I moved to Germany in June 2016, it's as if God has been pulling all the threads of my life together. Three years of mostly forgotten German in high school and college. Time spent as a child in the Middle East among Arabs. 20 years in Africa. Traumatic life experiences of my own to soften my heart to those who have seen worse. And a decent ability fixing bicycles from years of having to do it myself. 

One of the first ways this came together was in the bicycle ministry at the refugee camp here. My friend Gene is the main guy behind a ministry that finds used bikes for refugees to use getting around town and to school. I go with him every other week to help repair the bikes, which also gives the opportunity to get to know precious adults and kids from Syria, Iran, Afghanistan, Guinea, Nigeria and meet a practical need. 

Gene(L) and Me (R) under the tent working on bikes at the refugee center some time last year. 

Today was one of those days where EVERYTHING COMES TOGETHER in a way that only God can orchestrate. One of those times where you just kind of sit back and say, "Okay, God, You obviously set this all up. I'm along for the ride. Do your thing."

First of all, we weren't even supposed to be at the camp today. Our normal time should have been last week, but since Gene was away, we had canceled. Rather than make it a whole month between visits, we decided to go today instead of next week. 

We each fixed several bikes - not too many, with good time to chat with folks - as always in broken German and English with the odd Arabic word thrown in. 

We got done a bit early and were carrying the tools to the car. I rounded the corner to see an American guy, Brian, with an African talking to the security guards. I hadn't met Brian yet, but Gene knew him. He was saying, "Does anyone know French?" just as I walked by. 

I chimed in and was swept into that place where you're speaking multiple languages. Brian to me in English. His son interpreting into German for the guards. Me to the African guy with him in French: "What's you're name?"  
"Dembele" 
Wait a second. That's a MALIAN name! 
Switch to a Bambara greeting. Dembele breaks into a bigger smile than when I spoke French, beside himself that someone in this strange land speaks Bambara. 
Turns out he's a Malinke from an area in Mali where I did language survey 23 years ago. 

Brian had been out driving with his sons and saw Dembele walking down the road several miles back. Brian works some in East Africa and was moved to stop and see if this guy was okay. They shared no language but somehow he convinced him to get in the car and come with him to the refugee center. He arrived only minutes before we left. 

Confusion ensued as we talked with the camp staff about procedure to follow. I related that he had come from Italy arriving today on the train. He was 10 months in Italy and then before that he crossed the sea from Libya. He had no papers or documents on him. He hadn't eaten in 2 days.

It seems we needed to take him to the larger camp 15 min away. But in the meantime, the police had been called and so we had to wait for them to arrive. Brian needed to get to soccer practice but managed to find a bag of food among his groceries to give to Dembele. We all exchanged contact information. 

Then I sat with Dembele and made him comfortable as we waited 45 minutes for the police to come. It was good to be able to comfort him, tell him a bit what to expect, reassure him of that all would be well. 
It was obvious he was both tired and a bit scared. 
I got someone to go inside and find the couple from Guinea and they came out and talked to him in French and reassure him. 

I asked about his family. His mother is 58. She and his older brother are back in Mali in the village, where his brother grows millet and peanuts. The best I could tell, he left Mali only in search of better opportunities. We tried to call his brother but couldn't get through, but I left a text telling where he was and that he was okay. 

The security guards came over a few times as did different refugees. We'd switch to German or English and I would introduce them. My synapses were close to bursting trying to go back and forth between German (which I speak poorly) and French. At times, it felt like I had to go in and manually shift gears on the language derailleur in my brain. I kept throwing "und" and "oder" into my French sentences - call it skipping gears. At least it made things funny for those around. 

Suddenly the police were there. They were asking questions in German and found out he only speaks French. So I get to be the interpretor. 
Then they're searching him, patting him down, going through his pockets. I'm trying to keep one step ahead with explanations so he'd know to take off his shoes and socks, show the bottom of his feet. Put them back on. Now get in the car. 
I was able to stop and ask where he was going and tell him so he'd know that he was going with them to a nearby town for tonight. Then 2 hours north of hear to a bigger center where he'd be registered and possibly relocated. And then I said goodbye. 

Pray for Dembele. He's a fragile young man making his way in a strange land without any English or German or any papers. 
It would be great if he ended up in a camp nearby where Brian's family and I could visit. 
But if not, it was great just to be a friendly face speaking in a familiar language in a strange land. And to know that God is orchestrating a majestic dance around us. 

PS. Oh, and guess what? Today I discovered my "Toubabou" t-shirt from Mali in the bottom of the drawer and put it on for the first time in perhaps a year! God has a sense of humor.