“Ghar Chalo”

She walks home because she doesn’t have a car. Well, she did, but not anymore. So now she walks. It’s a five mile trek and the season is turning to winter. The chilly air forces her to pull at the sleeves on her floor length dress and tuck the edge of her hijab tighter around her head.

In a place far from her home, she struggles to find community. She longs for a friendly face. Her eyes peek around at the busy neighborhood, but she only sees strangers. She needs to get back soon to cook for her children. Food was her solace; a taste of home, a reminder of better times. But were they really better? She knew they were not. If they had been so good, she would not be here. Walking home alone.

She passes several more neighborhoods and apartment complexes. Each one looks like the one she lives in. She misses the wide-open fields from her country. The rich soil that generously grew plants and flowers with only the turn of the hand. She pulls the cloth bag further up her arm, and imagines that it’s filled with fresh spices plucked up from her own garden. But it was not. At least the market here carried something similar. She was thankful.

Rounding the next corner, she crosses the street and turns left. She looks up and sees a man in the distance. He was heading in her direction. It was safer here than back home; this she knew well. But still, she should remain cautious of the stranger. She watches him draw closer on the path up ahead, but she feels no danger from him.

Though she keeps her head ducked, she looks up to see where he is. He had stopped and was waving at her. Did he know her? How could he?

“Salam!”

He called out and she stops too. She glances around to see who he was addressing. It was only her on the path. She looks back and sees that he is right in front of her.

He wears a white gown wrapped around him, and she wonders where he is from. His skin is neither too white, nor too dark. His smile is pure joy. Who was he? She pulls her things close, but still feels no fear. She knows she should turn away and go, but then he speaks again. They were things she had never heard before. She didn’t know why they were different; she only knew she wanted to hear more.

….

I knock gently on the door in front of me. It was attached to a small townhouse apartment that was cloistered into a much larger complex that houses hundreds of people from many different countries. I can hear rustling from inside and so I wait patiently. I look down at the bag in my hands and hope the small gift would be honoring.

“Ghar Chalo.” Come to my home, she had said to me a couple of days before, and so here I was. Soon, the door opens up and I step inside, slipping off my shoes in the front hall. She motions for me to come and sit. “Are you hungry? I will cook for you.” Before I could really give an answer, she hurries to the kitchen and begins opening drawers and pulling out things for me to eat.

I remember the first day I had met her, only just this week. I was walking home from school and had hoped I could find someone to share my good news with. Along the path I was taking, I saw a woman coming toward me. Would this be my chance? Before I could do or say anything, she had looked up and her eye had caught mine. She waved to me. Did she know me? How could she? She came closer and I could see that her smile for me was pure joy. Who was she?

The clanging from the kitchen had stopped and in no time at all, my friend had whipped up a feast. She comes in and sits with me and we share a meal together. I can’t help but wonder “am I here for her, or is she here for me?”. Maybe both. She begins to tell me again of how her life has changed, and I watch as her face lights up. I look at her, and I see Jesus.