"I am overwhelmed by the beauty of the scene, and filled with deep, inner calm."

Over in the cluster of houses in the lower village, I can see men climbing ladders to remove the snow from the roofs of their houses.  My mom looks worried and avoids eye contact with me because I didn’t wake up in time to begin clearing the snow. She had to walk through a huge knee-deep snowdrift to reach the shed to chop hay and mix it with dried alfalfa grass to feed the sheep and goats.

I wait as Latifa brings in the copper tray, teapot, glasses, and freshly baked wheat bread wrapped inside a cloth. When she places the bread on the wool carpet sewn by my grandmother, that means breakfast is ready.

I sit close to the table cloth, pulling a loaf of warm bread towards me. Mom stares at me, rolling her eyes, still unhappy that I have not yet tackled the snow on our roof. She tells Latifa to call Rohullah in for breakfast. Rohullah is lucky – he gets all the attention this morning.

I don’t enjoy my breakfast. Leaving it half-finished, I go out and put on my sturdy leather boots. The shovel is greasy, and the snow won’t stick to it. I climb the roof, still feeling a bit upset at Rohullah getting mom’s attention. A snow removal competition starts between him and me as we both work to clear the snow.

I hear mom’s gentle voice as she stands on the shed, calling us,‘Bachem, sons, take a break, come inside and drink a glass of tea to refresh you.’ When we go indoors, Mom rubs our cold hands in her warm ones, and gives us hugs. A bowl of dried mulberry and fresh hot tea are ready for us.

The image of my Canadian neighbourhood as I look out from my bedroom today is very different to the village where I grew up. I give myself a shake and return to my present-day self. I’m not home. Mom is not hugging me; she is not here to be upset with me this morning for waking up late. I don’t see Rohullah outside, clearing the path to the washroom. Latifa is not in the kitchen, baking fresh bread.

I’m far away from home – very far. The last time I hugged my family, competed with Rohullah about who could clear snow the fastest, or felt resentful over his getting Mom’s attention was a decade ago. I felt my family’s presence this morning, as Renee, my new parent, and I played in the snow for a while. On this day one year ago, I was sitting in the refugee camp, dependent on the mercy of the world to show some kindness and get me out of the refugee camp in Indonesia.

As I start my first winter in Canada, I think of all the refugees displaced by war around the world, particularly those in Indonesia who don’t even experience seasonal weather changes to spark the memories they created with their families, before having to escape their country of origin.

If you are in a position to help, let’s help one refugee at a time to come to Canada, where they’ll be welcomed and treated with kindness, and where the weather in the changing seasons will help keep alive their precious memories of life with their families.