The dirty walls are the first thing you notice when you walk into the refugee center. The years of people passing in and out have painted the walls with neglect. Hope or new life are not the words I use to describe my impressions of the place. I want to change that.

I hope that the time I spend making the visible surface of the refugee center beautiful again will also give me an opportunity to see the invisible — to listen to story after story of the refugees’ struggle to survive.

“My husband is violent and abusive,” says the woman resting on the cold steps outside. Her cup of tea sits perched on her knee while worry has carved permanent lines on her face. She has five children whom she is practically raising alone, except for when her husband occasionally leaves his mark. The less the better.

“Will you paint my mother’s walls so she isn’t so sad?” pleads the little boy who keeps me company after school. They return to Germany each time they get deported. “Life is better here, so it’s worth trying. I have no friends though, as a result. Will I see you tomorrow? I want to talk to you again. Maybe someday I will be an artist,” he says with a smile.

“Please come for tea!” The mother smiles but you can still see it. Sadness. “We don't have much, but please come. Life is so hard and unhappy for us. We could use some good company.” The weight of the responsibility and reality of the life they have been given are almost visible on her stooped shoulders.

What is the message that I want to express? Hope. But not hope in just anything. Hope in El Roi, the God who sees you and knows you by name. Without Him, there is no other hope.


Emma and her family make disciples in Germany.