Family Day

Rashad was in fine form, motioning us all into his small apartment, “Welcome! Welcome,” and cracking jokes as much as is possible if you only know six words in English (makes me think he’d be full of fun and jokes if I spoke his language). He was pleased as punch to have all of us there in his home on Family Day. We, the twelve people in his support group are his new family, and he was almost giddy with pleasure that we were all gathered together for a family meal.

“Sit down, sit down!” he insisted. He had a small kitchen table, but that wasn’t where we would eat. He gestured toward cushions on the living room floor where Manal had set out places for all of us on two plastic tablecloths laid on the carpet, using paper plates and cups. One cup held forks, for those who needed them. It reminded me of Mixtec meals that you eat by using your tortilla as a spoon. Syrians use pita bread the same way. Some of us had trouble getting down on the floor with our creaky knees, and we admired the nimbleness of our hosts. Rashad had insisted this was to be a Syrian meal and didn’t allow any of us to bring a thing. This was his way of saying thank you.

Manal had been cooking since the day before and the spread was lavish and artfully arranged. We had cigar-looking things wrapped in grape leaves and filled with rice and lamb (I think). We had chicken and cashews served over seasoned rice baked in yogurt. We had another chicken dish with noodles. We had what looked like samosas but weren’t called that in Arabic (sorry, Rashad kept telling us the Arabic words and we kept saying them and forgetting them, saying them and forgetting them. I know that is what it feels like to them as they try to learn our language. Reminded me of learning Mixtec. I understand! One world I am teaching Manal is "FRUSTRATED!") We had fritters and salad and fruit and drumsticks. We ate well, every bite delicious. There was much left over, and Rashad suggested everyone come back the next day for more.

It was the first time I’d seen Manal dressed up. She wore a floor-length sun dress over a long-sleeved sweater and an azure scarf that set off her black eyes. As she brought out tray after tray, insisting we eat more and still more, I admired her willing, servant heart. I was warmed by her gracious hospitality.

The group requested a prayer over a meal, and in English, we blessed it in Jesus’ name. Rashad was fine with that. “Messenger of Peace,” Rashad calls our Jesus, our Prince of Peace. In times like these I am filled with gratitude that my Prince stands for peace even for those who don’t know him as Lord. I’m also grateful that while my own family has been halved and sent along their way, (how I miss them!) God has given me this new one to love for a while here in Canada. God brought this orphaned family here to join me in my own exile.

Family Day is not a Canadian invention.