She wore a colorful, shiny dress with a matching head wrap. She and the younger man sat along the side wall every Sunday after service while the others mingled over coffee. I’m not sure how, but we became friends. We didn’t speak the same language. We didn’t have anything common, or so it seemed.
But, I tended to side with those on the sidelines. I too struggled to carry on a conversation with the average church-goer. Had my skin been purple or blue, and not the majority color, it would’ve been easier to see that I too felt awkward and out of place.
So, we invited them to our house. We sat inside and drank tea because that’s what they liked. Then we listened to their stories of fleeing their war-torn homeland, losing family, starting over here. The English was simple, but her repeated “so hard, so hard,” was enough for me to know I related on some level.