As I was crossing the street the other day, I noticed a guy on the corner squinting at me and then waving his arms. It was StoneCold. I hurriedly crossed over and talked with him for several minutes. I had been hoping that we would meet up again; it had been weeks since any sighting.
I invited him to join me for dinner later that weekend at a nearby Arabian restaurant. Despite his seriousness, he's pretty intrepid when it comes to eating, so I thought he might enjoy being my company on Sunday evening. In true StoneCold investigation, he asked if it was "authentic." "Well, the guy who owns the place is from Syria," I responded. That was good enough for him, and he seemed eager to exercise his international palate.
I tried to order things that utilize ingredients commonly found in Chinese food, such as tomato, cucumber, eggplant, chicken, beef, and garlic. We had a good sampling of some dishes that he had never tasted, before, and all of them earned his approval. He was delighted with the meal and plans to take his dorm-mates back for dinner one night.
Long before we ever sat down, I had been asking for any future conversations to take a natural path toward eternal topics. I cannot develop a script in anticipation of our meetings and dinners. He would see through my attempt, and I would be at risk for losing ground with him. Instead, I continually ask for favor with him and for his mind to be steered into questioning me about what I believe. If he initiates those kinds of dialogues, I know that I am not stepping out of bounds.
Over tearing pieces of steaming hot pita, he very casually asked me, "Are you commanded to go throughout the world with your beliefs?"
Yes, [we] are. But it's not something that we are told to do without joy. It's like being cured of cancer and the doctor says, "Go out and tell others." Wouldn't you do it not only because you were asked but also because of the second chance you had been given?
He nodded and gave a simple, "hmmm." Considering his view of imperialism and forced theology, his answer - devoid of any rebuttal or inflammation - was a sweet acknowledgment to me of grace that is slowly invading his perspective. But I swallowed my joy along with my baba ghanoush and, like Mary, treasured that moment in my heart.
As we left the restaurant, I noticed that the evening sky was hovering low and dark overhead. I heard an inimitable roar above the clouds, something foreign to me these last seven months. My face erupted into a grin as I considered that "He thunders with his majestic voice." Within a few steps, the pavement was beginning to become spattered with rain. We hastened, but the heavens gave way and we were caught in a downpour. I looked over at StoneCold, walking step in step with me and shaking his head from time to time. I felt water begin to penetrate my jacket and the lightweight sweater underneath. We jumped over slight dips in the street and laughed at all the other pedestrians so luxuriously shielded by umbrellas.
We finally arrived at an intersection near my dorm. As I turned, he followed, assuming that he would escort me all the way to my front steps. I assured him that I would be fine. Above the thunder and the echoes of raindrops, he said, "Call me if you have any problem."
I stepped into my lobby with only the tops of my jeans still dry, water dripping from my hair, my eyelashes, and my fingertips. I hurried upstairs, changed clothes, dried my hair, and cocooned myself in a comforter.
I never got sick, and I never regretted sharing the first thunderstorm of the year with StoneCold.
