About six months ago my husband and I moved from an apartment in a historic part of the city to Parma, an ethnically dense town with working families. We live close to church, hoping to be a gospel light to Ukrainians, a people held captive by religious tradition, with no concept of salvation by the cross of Christ.
Just the other day our family was on a walk. We had gotten root beer from the fruit market, and were pushing the stroller home when Bogdan greeted some neighbors we had never seen before.
Dobriy Den he called out to an older couple. They approached us and we spoke over the fence.
Their faces were worn by the sun, their hands rugged with work.
The men argued theology in words I don't understand. He invited my husband to sit. She showed me pictures of their grandchildren, cooed over the girls, and showed me back to her garden. There she loaded me with parsley, more than I could ever know what to do with. She gave me tomatoes, basil, green onions, and garlic. She explained that if I planted the cloves I would also have garlic plants, and then she said In the springtime I will help you plant a garden of your own.
Come anytime, they said; we're not American. It's an interesting thing when you meet somebody that shares with you like family, especially with only a little more than a zip code in common.
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