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Have you ever felt you were standing in a swirling river of love?
When I read about the November 9, 2004, Hmong refugee clothing distribution in a Sunday program, I would like to be a part of it. Since my children are grown and no one in my family wears medium or small clothing, I shopped and put together a modest box of jackets, sweaters, and other winter clothes for children. I prayed that others would donate and that the clothing would multiply until all who came seeking winter clothes would go away warmed. My Lord and my God! The donations flowed in like a flood. How could I ever have wondered about the abundance He had in mind for His beloved people.
 Available during the week days due to unemployment, I offered to help with the sorting and also during the distribution day. Think of the biggest river you have ever seen. Now picture this: the full length of the Gathering Area of Woodland Hills Church with row after row of tables piled with clothes over our heads, clothes and boxes of shoes stacked in valleys underneath, and a MOUNTAIN range of coats on one end of the room. Now that you have that vision…imagine the sanctuary door alcoves filled with strollers, toys, huge piles of bed coverings, kitchen and household miscellaneous. Now think about the vast hallway of the new youth center narrowed to a small path by bags and boxes overflowing with precious gifts.
On distribution day, that overwhelming Tuesday, in the Valley of Clothes, near the foot of North Coat Mountain, I spread out another armload of items, and turned around to find a small, older couple. Dressed in their “Sunday best,” they appeared in the middle of the foyer-turned-marketplace. Each carefully carried one fur-lined artic coat and wondered if they could still contribute to the clothing drive. They imagined it would be very hard for people from a warm climate to find themselves here in Minnesota and asked each other what else they had at home in the closet, at times disagreeing gently, and then deciding that they may come back later with more. The three of us watched as hundreds of our Hmong neighbors gleaned whatever they could carry. I will not forget the couple’s smiles as they watched.
Shortly after, a woman with all the appearances of wealth surprised me in the shoe swamp. She held out bags of clothes to me and disappeared through the doors as quickly as she had appeared. A quick look revealed new clothes straight from the store.
The buses full of students arrived later that afternoon, and I watched excited teens having fun choosing from the head and hand coverings…I wish I knew what they were saying. There was a bracelet in the bottom of one of the boxes I had emptied on the table in front of them. I held it out in front of the girls. When they finally focused their attention on my outstretched hand I was rewarded with the most beautiful smiles and giggles.
The most precious smile I was given that day came from an elderly Hmong woman dressed in the clothes of her country. She was sorting through piles of baby clothes higher than her head. Time and experiences I couldn’t even imagine had taken toll on her teeth and drawn maps on her face. We connected for just one grandmother-to-grandmother moment. I went off to deliver another armload and when I looked again she was gone.
A tall, young Hmong man asked, “Will your store be open next week?” He had been in the states for a few years and had brought families who needed winter clothing. He knew of others in Minneapolis who didn’t know about the event that he wanted to bring as well. “Tomorrow?” he asked.
I spoke with others with seven children, with five children, with many cousins who just arrived in the states, and others expecting more family members and partial families arriving, hoping for the rest to come eventually. Many who arrived in earlier years were now assisting those recently given permission to come here. It struck me that we who are U.S. born can offer some mittens but not really understand a refugee’s needs.
Flow river flow. I shopped in the Zayre’s Shoppers City store just a few years after the Viet Nam conflict changed the Hmong culture forever. Three decades later I worship in and serve Hmong refugees in the very same building. My Lord and my God!
by Trudy Sprague | 
