Inclusion

Between the Roots has me thinking a lot about inclusion. Not the clean, polished kind that gets printed on a poster or added to a statement somewhere. I mean the kind that happens in real life, in awkward silence, in unfamiliar places, with people who do not share the same language but still manage to understand each other. Years ago, I went to some hot springs that were not really known unless someone showed you where they were. There were no signs. No big parking lot. No easy path. Just a small pullout about twenty kilometres down a forest service road, then a steep trail leading down to the water. The first time I went there was with my dad. Back then, it was simple. Just hot water seeping out of the ground into a wooden box big enough for two grown men. That was it. Nothing fancy. Just warm water, rocks, trees, and the kind of place you only find because someone brought you there. Over the years, it changed. People added to it stone by stone, visit by visit, until it became a couple of pools that could hold about twenty people. One morning, I stopped there around 5 a.m. I was exhausted. I had just finished a fourteen-hour workday, then drove through the night on my way home for my grandpa’s ninetieth birthday. I had not planned to stop. I had no shorts. No towel. Nothing prepared. I was tired, sore, and running on fumes, but I decided I wanted a soak. There was one small car in the pullout, but that did not deter me. When I got down to the pools, I was surprised to find the hotter pool already full. That was the one I wanted. As I approached, the group already settled in noticed me. They were Asian, and as soon as they saw me coming, they tightened closer together. Not to shut me out. To make room. They gave me almost a quarter of the pool to myself. It was kind, but it was also awkward. Everything went quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that happens when strangers are trying to figure each other out without wanting to offend anyone. I settled into the water and looked up at the sky. After a little while, they started talking again in their own language, laughing and enjoying the morning. I could not understand the words, but I understood enough. I understood laughter. I understood comfort. I understood that they had made space for me, even though I was still separate from the group. Then one of them spoke to me. He asked if I knew their nationality. Now I had to guess. I had been around enough Asian cultures to know I could cross off Japanese and Chinese, and a few others as well. That did not leave me with many guesses, so I answered carefully. “Korean?” That changed everything. The space they had made for me disappeared, but not because I was pushed out. It disappeared because I was no longer being kept separate. They spread back out, the awkward gap closed, and somehow I became part of the moment. Then one of the younger women went to get out of the pool and tripped over a hidden rock near my legs. I managed to catch her before she hit her head on the rocks surrounding the pool. She did not say anything. She just sat there for a moment, right on my legs, gathering herself. Then she moved closer, leaned back against me, grabbed my hands, and pulled my arms around her. I still could not understand the language. But I understood that. She just wanted to stay there and feel safe for a moment longer. That moment has stayed with me. Because maybe inclusion begins when people make space, but it becomes something deeper when that space no longer feels like a boundary. It is one thing to be allowed near people. It is another thing to feel safe with them. That morning, I was not invited in with a speech. No one explained the rules. No one handed me a welcome card. No one had to say, “You belong here.” The space simply changed. The distance faded. A stranger became safe enough to lean against. I think Jesus understood inclusion that way. He did not just make room for people at a distance. He came close. He touched the untouchable. He spoke with the overlooked. He ate with the ones others avoided. He saw the person before He saw the label everyone else had placed on them. He made people feel safe enough to come near. That is the kind of inclusion that changes things. Not forced. Not fake. Not polished until it loses its heartbeat. Real inclusion notices who is standing on the outside. It makes space without making a scene. It lets people settle. It lets trust grow. And when the moment comes, it allows the space between people to disappear. Because sometimes belonging is not announced. Sometimes it is felt. Sometimes it happens down a steep path before sunrise, in a pool of hot water hidden in the trees, surrounded by strangers whose language you do not understand. And sometimes, Between the Roots, inclusion looks like someone who was once separate becoming safe enough to hold on to.