Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
Jeremy Ricketts via Unsplash
It was just a cup of coffee.
And it wasn’t.
It was more.
I met her an hour earlier
as I pulled into the drive,
rang the doorbell at the wrong apartment,
found the right apartment,
and yelled her name to her husband
who had poked his head out of the upstairs window.
She was covered from head to toe
as I expected for a woman from Syria.
She smiled. A lot.
I tried to make conversation. She handed me her phone.
As I drove, I asked the phone, “How many children do you have?”
She answered. I told her about my children.
We arrived at the appointment. And waited.
Her sister called by video and there, in the waiting room,
I waved to a woman living in Libya.
After the appointment, we drove back to her house.
I approached the driveway, clogged with cars now.
“Cafe? Cafe? Cafe?” she asked.
“Yes!” I said. As soon as I parked the car.
She hurried inside. The other cars moved. Her husband guided me as I parked.
They invited me in. He told me his name. I told him mine.
I sat on the couch, waiting. We smiled. Said a few things in simple English.
When she came down to invite me upstairs, I did not recognize her.
Gone was the covering she had worn outside the house.
She was like any other woman I might meet.
Upstairs, I sat in the kitchen as the coffee simmered on the stove.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“A little,” I said.
She served us coffee, me and her, in flowery tea cups with saucers.
It tasted sweet, like milk and sugar.
“Babies?” the husband asked me.
“Two,” I replied, telling their ages.
They told me their kids’ ages.
He told me his wife is a hairdresser.
She gestured at her eyebrows, showing me what else she does.
I am constantly surprised by my new friends.
We talked about family. The sister in Libya. Two more still in Syria.
A shadow crossed her face. I did not have to ask. I could not ask.
Her husband said they had gone to Turkey. Then New York. Then here.
Here, in this home, for only two months.
I showed them a picture of my children.
I told them my brother lived in Chicago. I showed them on a map.
Our conversation was simple. I wanted to stay.
I had to leave.
On my way out, they pointed to the bedroom, where one of their boys slept.
I saw him, the little boy in the bed.
And his face reminded me of the other boys I’ve seen.
The boy on the boat. The boy on the beach. The boys in bombed-out buildings.
This boy, he sleeps in a bed in an apartment in an ordinary city.
Will he remember what his life could have been?
What will his life be now?
It was just a cup of coffee.
I drink a lot of coffee.
Somehow, I think, I won’t forget this one.
A month or so ago, my husband and I decided it was time to start the home buying process. We connected with a realtor who came highly recommended by a friend. She pointed us to a lender so we could get the paperwork started and get an idea of how much house we could afford.
And it all started to overwhelm me.
Last week, I started taking a class for first-time homebuyers. It’s a series of three classes spread out over a week and I’ve left the first two in tears. I had no idea home buying was so difficult. Maybe it isn’t for everyone, but the whole process sounds more terrifying than fun.
Until we started researching and asking questions and taking steps, we didn’t know all the things we didn’t know about buying a house. And we still don’t know even a quarter of it, I’m sure.
For a couple of smart people, this seems to be a theme lately.
You can read the rest of this post at Putting on the New. I blog there on the 12th of each month.