November in Southeast Asia is hot and wet. There are no changing colors on the trees and no crisp nip to the air. Sighing, I would stubbornly pull out my drawer of fake leaves and the pine cones that had traveled with me halfway across the world. I turned up the aircon and tried not to long for a traditional North American Thanksgiving celebration.
In our third year in the Philippines, we decided to invite local friends to have Thanksgiving dinner with us. They’d heard of Thanksgiving, a celebration of the survival of one of the first English settlements in the U.S., but they didn’t know much about it. No problem. I was overly eager to share. I scraped together recipe staples from expat friendly grocery stores and begged visitors to bring me cream of mushroom soup in their luggage.
After dinner, I downloaded Squanto and the Miracle of Thanksgiving by Eric Metaxas onto our Kindle app. We sat in our living room, and I read it to our friends. Watching their interested faces, I heard this familiar story in a different way for the first time in many years.
Eric Metaxas spotlights Squanto the American Indian in the Pilgrim tale, and he gives details about his life that I hadn’t thought enough about before. 12-year-old Squanto was kidnapped by Spanish sailors in 1608. They took him from Massachusetts to Spain and placed him on an auction block to be sold as a slave. Spanish monks bought his freedom instead. They taught him about God and tried to help him return to his home. After 5 years, they sent him to England because it would be easier to find a ship back to North America from there. Another 5 years went by in England, but while he waited for a ship, he lived with an English family who was kind to him, taught him English, and helped him look for an opportunity to return to Massachusetts.
By the time Squanto saw his own familiar shoreline again,10 years had passed. I can imagine his longing to embrace family and friends, but when he arrived at his village, no one was there. A plague had decimated the tribe. He was the only one to survive. Lonely and sad, he lived with another Indian tribe and tried to make sense of his loss.
One day, he was told that English families were living on the site of his old village. He went to meet them. Like him, they had experienced much death and sorrow. Nearly half of the Pilgrim settlers had died the previous winter. Grateful to be able to communicate with him in English, they asked Squanto if he would help them learn what they needed to know to survive. He could’ve said no, but he didn’t. Squanto chose to teach them, and it was his decision to do so that made all the difference. They thanked God for sending Squanto and saw his arrival as one of God’s greatest blessings to them.
When our family moved overseas, I was overwhelmed and worried that I would never find a way to fit into the culture of the Philippines. I read books, and I tried to learn a little Tagalog. That definitely wasn’t enough to find my place in a new land. I felt deeply how much I didn’t understand, and it was a lot. Though I didn’t know what to ask for, God sent it. He sent help in the form of Filipino friends who took an interest in my family and taught us how to thrive in their country. I can see them all now in my mind’s eye, having Bible study and chats on homeschool class days with us, taking us to the local markets and encouraging us to try different foods, riding with us on church retreats and explaining what we’d see out the windows, translating signs and videos for us.
These were our Squantos. I thank God for them. I recognize and honor them for their care for people that they didn’t have to befriend or help. And I ask you, Expat or Immigrant... who have been the Squantos in your life? How can you thank them today for giving to you in a thousand big and small ways that have meant so much? You were lonely and afraid that you wouldn’t be able to thrive in a new land. You wouldn’t have without them.
We have returned to live again in the U.S. this year, and we’re in the rocky process of repatriating. We’ll have our turkey and stuffing this year with a side of real autumn leaves, but I long for the faces of friends that we have left behind.
I’m also realizing that it’s my turn. I am in my home culture again, and around me are people who are not in theirs. They’re just like I was overseas, feeling out of place and wondering if they’ll fit in and be welcomed. It’s my turn to be a Squanto. It’s my turn to pay attention, reach out, and be a blessing.
Happy Thanksgiving to us all. And if you are so fortunate, hug your Squantos.
