Where belonging doesn't exist, we can create it

For people who live between countries and languages, belonging often becomes something that must be rebuilt from the ground up. It rarely arrives ready-made; instead, it grows slowly through gestures that might appear small but carry enormous meaning. A shared meal after Mass. A phone call from someone who notices you have not been at church. Someone asking how your children are adjusting to their new school. These moments weave threads of connection where once there was distance.

I have witnessed this kind of belonging many times in migrant communities among women who arrived in the United States unsure of their future. I have witnessed them slowly begin organizing prayer groups in living rooms. A rosary, coffee in chipped mugs, children running through the hallway. Week after week, they returned to sit together, to share stories of work, worry and hope.

Over time, something unexpected happens.

The living room became a place where tears could fall without embarrassment. Someone whose husband had been detained by immigration authorities found other women ready to accompany her through sleepless nights. A newly arrived family found people willing to help translate school forms or guide them through unfamiliar systems. Little by little, a community took shape.

Like Ruth and Naomi, these women were rebuilding life through fidelity to one another.

Migration often breaks the structures that once gave stability to our lives. People leave behind extended families, familiar streets, languages that feel like home in the mouth. Even faith communities — which once held memories of baptisms, weddings and funerals — may suddenly be far away.

In that moment, the question becomes spiritual: Where does belonging live now?

At its best, the church becomes a place where that question can begin to find an answer. Not because the church eliminates the pain of displacement, but because it reminds us that Christian identity does not depend on geography.

In fact, faith has always been shaped by people on the move.

Abraham left his homeland without knowing where the road would lead. The people of Israel crossed the desert in search of a promise they could not yet see. Even the Holy Family fled violence and became refugees in Egypt before returning to begin again.

The story of salvation has never been a story of stability. It is a story of God accompanying people whose lives unfold between departure and arrival. 

Perhaps this is why Ruth's words continue to resonate across centuries. In the middle of uncertainty, she does not speak about territory or inheritance. She speaks about relationship: "Your people shall be my people."

Those words do not erase the vulnerability of migration. Ruth still walks into an unknown land. Naomi still carries the grief of everything she has lost. But the promise between them creates a new possibility: belonging that grows out of mutual commitment rather than shared ancestry.

In many migrant communities today, that same quiet miracle continues to unfold.

People who once believed they no longer had a place slowly discover that community can be rebuilt through gestures of loyalty, hospitality and care. Strangers become companions. Prayer circles become extended families. Churches become spaces where names, stories and hopes are remembered.

None of this erases the reality of borders or the pain of displacement. But it reveals something deeper about the life of faith.

Belonging, in the end, is not only something we inherit from the past. Belonging is something we create together as we walk the road of faith.

And in those fragile yet faithful acts — sharing bread, holding one another's stories, refusing to let someone walk alone — God continues to gather a people from those who once believed they no longer belonged anywhere.