Take a minute. Read a story. It's a good one. It happened four nights ago.
We had just picked up Damaris from basketball practice.
It was dinnertime (which is 8 or 9 here).
It was dinnertime (which is 8 or 9 here).
She needed to stop by NOE to pick up some things related to the marathon
(because it is in just a few weeks). We were going to wait for her, but she
asked us to go get food instead. Quesadillas.
We—her mom and I—drove to a specific restaurant just a few
streets away.
This one, like many here, is run by a family from their home
(on the patio or the garage).
The neat thing about this restaurant (besides the fact they
individually pressed the tortillas for each order, and that the grill was right
there) was the seating.
There was one table. Just one. It was long. Kind of like a
picnic table. The toppings (onions, lime, cilantro, salsas) were in bowls with
spoons in the middle of the table, and the chairs were placed around it.
Norma and I sat down.
And so did a group of
guys who came right after us.
So there we were. Five of us. Strangers to each other.
Preparing to eat dinner together in a garage-patio in central Mexico.
They were talking to each other. Norma and I were talking to
each other. And our conversations overlapped, so we were all talking together.
Not even ten minutes—less, I bet—and we realize we all go to the same church.
So, then, there we were. Five of us. Now only semi-strangers
to each other. Holding hands and praying over the dinner we were going to eat
together in a garage-patio in central Mexico.
(They asked me to pray. I did. In Spanglish. Though mostly
English, simply because I don’t know the words.)
And the story continues.
Damaris had shown up at this point. All of us were still talking together. The owners had joined us, too. It was mostly
in Spanish (with some English thrown in there). Eating quesadillas (mine which
I ordered without “queso”…).
This other guy had also shown up, too, and he
recognized me because I walk down his street to go to NOE. Now the table was
nearly full.
The owners asked where I was from.
Upon saying “Portland”,
they began talking about how beautiful it is there!
They know, not because they
have been there, but because of the photos their son took.
He walked out of the
house (I recognize him to be from the church, too) and began talking to me in
English about the time he went to Portland with the NOE students as part of the
exchange program a few years ago.
Quesadillas finished.
Stomachs “llenos” and hearts “contentos”.
(And those are
actually two words I learned at dinner tonight.)
