One moment my daughter, Isabella, is asking him to support her fundraiser, the next we are invited to his house for tea.
It seemed rather old-fashioned to make space for scanning catalogs and pondering purchases in the comforts of home. Bella however, determined to make a sale, readily accepted this invitation.
The kitchen table decked a lavish display of desserts. Truffles, pastries, coconut cakes sprinkled with chocolate were all perfectly set in place. For the girls, chocolate Bon Bons. Breaking bread, sipping freshly brewed hot tea, the art of conversation began to take shape as stories delicately unfolded across the table.
In between bites of sweet delicacies we soon forgot the real reason for our visit.
To close the deal.
Small talk aside, we became lost in the mystery and unfamiliarity defining his childhood. Worlds away from our American heritage, we were intrigued at the stories of this man’s spiritual legacy.
One church was built in the middle of the city. Families from scattered villages traveled miles, even hours, to worship and commune before Holy God at this one church. No division of denomination, no separate corner for varied Christian sects. Everyone came together as one body, unified under the roof of this Christian church.
A Christian church in Iran.
We listened to instances of persecution, prejudice and segregation. Experiences when your name either welcomed an invitation or a door slammed shut. Occurrences where religion determined whether worthy to drink at the same table or touch the same food.
Childhood friends forsaking fellowship for the letter of the law. Other friends abandoning pride and prejudice for the spirit of the law.
As details emerged from memories of decades past, I heard a theme woven in these stories lived before my time.
Love.
Love pushing past the barriers of religion.
Love speaking truth.
Love welcoming in.
Love built on a heritage of the Father’s sacrifice and faithfulness.
Sunday marked the beginning of the work week. Friday being the only day off, this was when church held. Friday was Holy Sabbath.
Taxed by the distance of traveling to the city, sacred words collided in the space of home to configure a church. When our friend was a young boy, his father determined church would be every day. In quiet moments, the Book was opened and pages were turned.
He faithfully and consistently read from “In the Beginning” of Genesis to “I am the First and the Last” of Revelation.
Page by page. Precept upon precept. Line upon line. Divine words spoken into a boy whose father loved God. Pages now torn, spilling out of the spine and falling apart tell a story of this father’s sacrifice and faithfulness.
Love was the spiritual birthmark left on our friend. God’s Love.
Pain healed in loving his neighbor.
Persecution overcome in resolving to never persecute.
Segregation exchanged for welcoming, open arms.
“Now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” I Corinthians 13:13
Fellowship shared over hours of talking, clanging dishes and sinking teeth into sweet sugary delights. Together we shared vastly different cultural heritages and spiritual upbringings. Personal triumphs and internal struggles mixed in with sips of tea.
I wonder if the art of conversation has now become a fine art.
In an era when time and solitude are the most sacred asset and busyness trumps togetherness, intimate conversations are being left behind. Technological advances usher in convenience of prayer requests sent through keystrokes, thoughts limited to 140 characters and drive by comments as acceptable affirmations.
In spoken agreement, we concluded nothing can replace the touch of a human. The same physical touch that Jesus used to heal the blind, make the lame walk and cure disease.
We once again found sweet Holy Communion in an unexpected place where a little girl took a risk and the invitation of my husband’s boss was taken.
This fellowship of believers divinely ordained in closing the deal.
