By a Hands On Student in NAME
The first time I went into the garden, I was in search of succulents. I passed by the archway that led into an open, green courtyard, and was immediately drawn to it. I could glimpse grass, plants, and a small lot of open space, all of which were rarities in the city. I was stopped by a short man in a lawn chair at the entrance, and he told me it was closed, but I could come back. He probably also told me what the establishment was, but I didn’t know enough Arabic to understand. I came back the next day, and was greeted by an old man and a young woman. I could tell in their eyes they were thrilled I was there. I wondered if I was the first American they’d ever met. I found two little baby succulents and bought them for what amounted to 50 cents. I spoke with them in Arabic, but the young woman started speaking in broken English with me after I told her I was from America. I left the garden that day overjoyed.
I had found plants to call my own in the desert, and I purposed in my heart to make that young woman my friend.
Over the course of the next month, I kept going back to that plant shop. Each time, I tried to talk with the young woman a little more. I learned that the garden was beside a nursing home, and to use her words, the home and garden were together called “A Home of Happiness for the Elderly.” Each time I came home with more plants we didn’t have room for or need of, my roommate would shake her head and laugh. But I was on a mission. Finally, when I entered the garden one day, the girl greeted me and called me her friend. So on that day, I got her number and we arranged plans to spend time together. For the rest of my months there, I spent many hours with this friend. I would visit her in the garden, she would make me tea, and we would sit and talk. We shared our stories with one another, as well as our dreams for the future. We talked about politics, culture, tradition, and religion. We often talked about how everyone has an unclean heart, and how we all have to deal with that. I told her about Jesus, and he became a frequent topic of conversation. She held firmly to the belief that she was responsible for cleansing her own self from her own sin.
During Ramadan, I had Iftar in her home with her family. They all took me in and loved me. She and I sat on her bed and leaned out the window, watching all the people below, under the night sky. Across boundaries of culture and language, we shared a friendship and love that overcame these obstacles. The combination of being in her home and watching the night sky brought out deep conversation, as it seems to do in every country. She told me about her belief that her purpose, as a woman, was primarily to be pretty. My heart ached. I was struck by this thread in her life: she wanted to make the outside good, in accordance with both beauty and religion, in hopes to make the inside good too.
At the time we said goodbye, my sweet friend had still expressed minimal interest in the gospel, but my hope for her has not wavered. My prayer is that she will learn that her purpose is not to be pretty, and that there is only one who can fix her heart. I will never forget our talks in the garden and under the stars, or the love that was rooted in a shared humanness, despite little else in common. I know a love that fueled my love for her, and my prayer is that that love will speak to her unclean heart long after I am gone.