Every Child Matters — And So Does Every Stranger

I need to start with an apology if my reflections have felt heavy lately. It’s not because I want to stay stuck in the heaviness; it’s because that's where my heart has been these days. And honestly, I think part of following Jesus is learning to sit with what’s hard, not to wallow in it, but to let it change us, soften us, wake us up to what really matters.

What has been weighing on me is how much fear appears to be shaping the world around us. Maybe you feel it too. It’s there in the headlines, in conversations, and in the quiet corners of our communities, this growing sense that difference is dangerous, that some people don’t belong, and that love should have limits.

When I see newcomers struggling to build a life here, or refugees being spoken about as if they’re a problem to solve rather than people to cherish, my heart aches. And when I hear Indigenous friends and neighbours say they’re still fighting to be heard, still waiting for justice, still asking for something as basic as clean water, that ache only deepens.

That’s why Orange Shirt Day matters. It’s not just about remembering a painful chapter in our shared story, though that must be the case. It’s also about facing who we are now and asking who we want to become.

This day started with the story of Phyllis Webstad, a young girl whose new orange shirt, a gift from her grandmother, was taken from her on her first day at a residential school. That single act reveals a lot about what those schools were meant to do: remove identity, erase language, and break bonds with family and culture. The United Church of Canada was part of that system. We took part in it. We caused harm. We claimed we were saving souls, but we broke spirits.

We’ve apologized, and we genuinely mean it. But apologies are never the final chapter; they’re just the beginning. Because reconciliation isn’t confined to a single day on the calendar, it's a way of life. It’s choosing to listen rather than explain. It’s creating space instead of filling it. It’s showing up repeatedly for people whose dignity has been denied.

I think about this a lot when it comes to refugees as well. Welcoming people who have fled violence, persecution, or disaster isn’t just “good citizenship.” It’s gospel work. It’s what Jesus meant when he said, “I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.” It’s what love looks like with its sleeves rolled up. And it’s one small way we begin to repair what’s been broken, not just between nations, but between neighbours.

What breaks my heart is how often people must fight so hard just to be seen. Yet, if our faith means anything at all, it must mean that no one should ever have to fight for their humanity.

This coming Sunday, I will wear orange (I hope you will too), not just as a symbol of remembrance, but as a promise —a promise to keep listening, to create space, and to love beyond borders and barriers. 

And because I still believe — even in a world that feels divided and afraid, that love is stronger than hate, and that reconciliation, no matter how unfinished, is still worth every step.