Maybe Our Gods Have the Same Favorite Food
A connection with a stranger about life, and perspectives.
The town was immersed in the holiday spirit; decorations, dazzling lights, and Christmas music sneaking from behind closed doors — beckoning the arrival of loved ones. I had always loved the holiday decorations and the spirit of togetherness. But that chilly night in December, I was not exactly in a spirited mood. I didn’t care for the turkey sandwich that I had bought from Ruth’s Deli minutes ago.
We had just had our second snow of the winter two days ago and a white Christmas was on the cards. My relationship with snow is similar to what most of us experience during our first romantic fling. Incredible at the beginning; interactions are flirty, spontaneous, and stimulating. Eventually, it just becomes a soaking wet mess, filled with complexities that you want to tread carefully.
My loved ones were thousands of miles away; my classmates had left for the break. The only thing keeping me company was my loneliness. It was not the first time either, but that night, I could feel a pang in my heart. I yearned for company and conversation. I roamed a few blocks and arrived at a small, deserted park. Tonight, even the Bostonians were not keen on braving the chilling winter.
Then I saw her. So, I am not alone after all. She was buried in her notes, perched on a bench by the lamppost. Her half-eaten burrito lay by her side. I gazed at her from a few paces, expecting a startled response from her any moment now.
She never looked up, consumed in scribbling something tirelessly. Her long hair was peeking from behind her woolen scarf. They would fall on her spectacles and she would brush them away. A large reefer was keeping her warm.
Her boots were long and messy — they had been to places.
Occasionally, she would hold her pen between her teeth and rhythmically tap her notepad before engrossing herself back in her scribbling routine.
“What are you writing?” I instantly regretted it as the words left my mouth. She had a beaming smile. With a friendly motion of her hand, she asked me to sit beside her on the bench. She put her notes down and stared at me inquisitively. “It’s a gratitude journal — helps me count my blessings.”
She had seemed different from a distance. Maybe it was the ambiance of the lamppost or my yearning for some company that had made her mesmerizing at first sight. And then, I looked into her eyes! I heard a whisper from her soul — I saw and felt things.
“I am sorry for the intrusion, I was just…”
I could not come up with a plausible reason as to why I had stopped to talk to her. She picked up her burrito.
“Don’t worry. Let’s just enjoy our meal.”
I mumbled something about not wanting to eat alone either.
“But we are never alone. The guy upstairs,” she pointed her finger upwards.
I looked around; there was not a soul in sight. Oh! She was talking about the Big Guy upstairs.
Judging by my quizzical expression, she chirped, “Don’t you believe in God?”
Wow, that is super blunt and direct. Look who is talking! I smiled uneasily as I recalled my intruding act a few moments earlier. Everything is subjective.
“I do believe in God, but I have never thought of dining out with Him.”
My craving for the sandwich had returned. I was enjoying the opportunity to strike up a conversation.
“You should. Maybe He will tell you His favorite food.”
It was my turn to laugh now.
“What if my God’s favorite food is not the same as yours?”
I noticed a frown as her eyebrows met in the middle over her tiny nose. “Why do you say so?”
“Where are you from?” I asked instead to try to lighten up the conversation.
“I am Fatima from Nigeria,” she held her hand out for a handshake.
“I am Ali. Maybe our God does have the same favorite food after all.”
She finished the final bits of her burrito and gathered her things.
“You say that because I have a Muslim name like yours?”
I started walking with her not wanting the conversation to end abruptly.
“So, you are not a Muslim?”
“I don’t know if I still am a Muslim. I started my journey praying towards Mecca and now Jesus is my savior.”
She hesitated a little; wanting to share more but she felt vulnerable before a stranger.
She looked me in the eye and said, “You don’t like it. Are you offended?”
I was but I lied.
“My Dad is not too happy about it,” she murmured.
“He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”
There was more relief than sorrow in her voice. We started walking towards the exit.
“What made you change your mind?”
“Basketball” she replied.
I had heard a million reasons for people doubting their faith but basketball was never one of them.
“You see, as a young girl in Nigeria, I had never known the comforts of life. We were almost always out of food. My dad didn’t work, and my mom did what she could to feed the family. It wasn’t until I got recruited to play basketball through a chance encounter. Only then I realized, there was a better life to pray for.”
We reached the exit and stood on the sidewalk, seemingly ready to go our separate ways. But she continued, “Basketball brought me to the United States. However, I was not sure if I was good enough to get a college scholarship. I stayed with a family in Atlanta and played basketball for my high school. The idea of losing what I had instilled fear in me. As a kid, I had been to the church a few times with my mother.”
She paused a little but went on, “In this difficult time I found my mother in Jesus and started talking to him. He makes everything right in my life. Whenever I am making a decision, I pray that Jesus decides what’s best for me.”
“What is your story?”
All she got from me was a hollow stare. I watched as she strode off in the darkness.
I stood there silently immersed in deep thought and reflecting on my journey as a Muslim. I am not particularly spiritual but now and then I pray to God. Whenever I felt vulnerable, I had the solace that God was watching over me, and he would help me navigate my path.
In times of need, he will come to my rescue. I could still hear the low hum of holiday music in the background. I turned around and I was in Konya, the city of swirling Dervishes; I could hear the Azaan (Muslim call for prayer).
Her stifled whisper broke my trance. “Ali. Maybe they do. Maybe our Gods do have the same favorite food after all.”
I looked up but she was long gone!
Postscript
I found a wonderful article about the impact of interacting with a stranger by Chloé.
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