By Bill Dodds | Catholic News Service

My personal "immigrant" experience is very mild. I was almost 12 when the family moved from the Midwest to the Northwest.

For a time, on a very small scale, Dad and Mom and we five children were "strangers in a strange land." We had no relatives here. We knew no one.

We were the new people in the neighborhood and parish, at work and at school, who were from Nebraska and one of those "states in the middle that start with an 'I.'" (As if Illinois, Indiana and Iowa were interchangeable.)

Apparently we pronounced a few words "incorrectly" and were to be pitied that our state, whatever it was, had no ocean or mountains. Iowa, they said, was nothing but cornfields on flat land and Nebraska was ... a shrug of the shoulders.

We could argue "rolling hills" in Iowa, but what was the point compared to mountain ranges? And there seemed to be no use saying something about "Omaha beef." (Take that, "Washington state apples!")

It was easy for us to adapt and learn local customs and idioms. Soon, to use the time-honored image of the melting pot, we blended in just fine. And we came to love this part of the country.

We were a middle-class white family that moved into a middle-class white neighborhood and became members of a predominantly middle-class, white parish, school and workplace.

Now I think of all that sometimes when I'm out on a walk and pass by my neighbors who are Vietnamese immigrants. A grandma and grandpa, middle-generation adults and some youngsters. The older folks give me smiles and waves. The others offer a courteous "hi" or "good morning."

A few houses down the street, there's a family from Egypt. I've visited with the dad quite a bit. He has told me about life in northern Africa.

(Then, too, there's the family right across the street. That dad is from ... Iowa!)

I've been thinking more about my personal history and neighborhood since the media have been covering so many stories about immigrants and refugees. I try to imagine what it would have been like if my family had had to "flee" the Midwest or were forced out. If we had then lost touch with extended family members left behind. If we could never return to visit.

There's nothing new about saying the United States is a nation of immigrants, including countless refugees. That all of us are "hyphen-Americans." (In my family's case, Irish-Americans.) Except, of course, for the "indigenous population," those who -- historians tell us -- traveled from northern Asia and headed south to populate the Americas so long, long ago.

With all the news items about borders, the wall, visas and green cards, it's not hard to pick up on a sense of uneasiness, if not downright fear, among so many citizens and newcomers. And, coupled with that, a sense of helplessness.

What can a family do? What can your family do?

Four simple suggestions:

-- Welcome those newcomers in your neighborhood, school, parish and workplace.

-- Donate to national and local organizations and programs that assist immigrants, refugees and migrants, and let your children know you're doing it.

-- Pay attention to what the U.S. bishops and the pope are saying -- are teaching -- about "welcoming the stranger."

-- And pray for families who have been uprooted from their native land because of war, oppression or economic conditions.

To learn more, visit the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops Migration and Refugee Services website at www.usccb.org/about/migration-and-refugee-services/

Bill Dodds and his late wife, Monica, were the founders of the Friends of St. John the Caregiver (www.FSJC.org). He can be contacted at [email protected].