Will I ever learn to be as hospitable as a refugee family? This is the second time in two weeks that I’ve sat down to dinner with some of our refugue friends and been blown away by the hospitality.
The meal and the friendship is really unmatched. There is no hurry. It’s sitting, and water, and talk, and tea with cookies, and then setting the table and a feast. My photos don’t do it justice. Who serves, two kinds of rice, chicken, beef, fish, salad, yogurt, potatoes and more for a dinner with a couple of friends?
And it feels like time stands still. I planned to stay for an hour on the way home from Asheville. Three hours later, I drug myself away after eating a mountain of sliced strawberries.
And Zoya was truly at home there. She knows when we are with her daddy’s friends, people they went to spend time with and help while I was at work. Farsi makes her relax. It makes me relax.
It’s so hard to be there without him. It doesn’t make sense that I can’t talk to him about it and send him a photo at least. It’s confusing and I don’t know who I am, but I’m me.
And I want to learn to share this hospitality. I want people to feel welcome, fed, and that I have nothing to do that is more important than talking to them as long as they will stay. I want this always. I want this to be the Zolfaghari way.
That is the “real” mountain way. “Come sit a spell. Spend the night.” The porch is filled with conversation, a song breaks out. Real fellowship. We have lost something we must regain.
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Yes, we do. It is something that has been so lost in much of society and we are all the worse for it.
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