We have different ideas about refugees and immigrants. Some welcome them with open arms. Some shun them as freeloaders and criminals. Some feel sympathy but worry about being overwhelmed by their numbers.

Recently I realized how I can’t get these people out of my mind.

From the little I know about my own ancestors, most came to this country before the American Revolution. I don’t know if they were refugees from wars in Ireland or England or France or if they were drawn simply by promises of a better life. Some of them appear to have been poor, a few more well off.

For all I know, my ancestral tree may include native Americans and black slaves as well as Europeans, but certainly the family benefitted from white privilege. We also benefitted from immigrating at the right time.

That’s why I can’t get those refugees, like the ones on our southern border, out of my mind. They’re my people several generations back.

Whatever choices we make in immigration reform—and we certainly need reform—perhaps we can act from the understanding that these immigrants and refugees are us. Wisdom we need, but hatred and disparagement we don’t.

The numbers may be large, but our policies, if we are not to be judged by a higher power, must come from compassion—toward them as well as the countries they come from.