Our young waitress at dinner had a strong accent, and my wife asked where she’s from.
“Ukraine,” she said.
She’s been here a year. She’d lived near Poland, away from the fighting.
On my walk the next morning, I crossed paths with a grandmotherly woman who’s always pushing a small child in a stroller around the neighborhood.
I was curious how far she walks every day, and I stopped to ask her.
She hesitated and said in a heavy accent, “I’m sorry. My English is not very good. I like to walk.”
“Where are you from?”
“Ukraine.”
She’s been here “a few months.”
I told her we’re praying for Ukraine.
Walking home, I thought how lucky we are in this country.
For all our problems, our bitter divisions and our poisonous politics, people still come here when they flee war, fear and tyranny.
May it always be so.
Slava Ukraini. Glory to Ukraine
Slava America.
