Where we Live

We live in an area of town where stepping into the nearest grocery store envelops one with the ambiance of an Asian market in a far off place.  On our way, we pass bearded men in turbans visiting on park benches or women walking in bright saris. At the playground swings, children come to stroke our grand baby's white arm or ask if they can hold our baby.

One day this summer there was a knock at our door at dinner time with an offering of a bag of blueberries, picked that day.  She stood there quietly and my H recognized her as the grandmother living with our new neighbors next door. We thanked her and asked her for her name. She just smiled and showed that she'd be on her way. We could tell she did not understand.

Now there was something about her gift that touched me to the core. This "stranger to this country" so brave and kind to head over to her neighbors. Of all the excuses she could have had, not knowing the language surely could have stopped her. But it didn't. In a new way it made me see how practical caring acts need no translation. Kindness can override culture and language.

It was not long after this encounter that we had a message at church on John 4, the story of Jesus making conversation with the a woman of a shunned culture. The pastor challenged us, in like manner, to start conversations with those around us, many of which are of foreign ethnicity. So often, we focus on our differences and fail to see the things we have in common or how we can help each other. He reminded us that the message of God's love is for everyone and that it only takes a few words to be friendly or to begin a conversation.

And should they not understand, the language of kindness is never lost.