We stood around after church talking in small clusters.
He walked up to me and handed me a white flower. “A flower for you.”
“What do you call it in English?” he asked through his friend.
“A Gardenia,” I responded.
A smile spread over his face. “Gardenia!!!” I could tell by his response that he knew the word.
The friend filled in any chance of miss understanding. “The flower has the same name in Arabic and English.”
I high fived my flower giver. A joy filled acknowledgement that we both knew a word in each other’s language.
We drove away. The white flower in my hand. A gesture so simple yet meant so much. What motivated him to give me that gardenia? Was it his mutual understanding of knowing what it means to be relocated? Was he remembering a special friend, mother, or sister that he wished he could hand a flower to? Was he simply trying to show kindness?
I tucked the flower into a tiny bouquet that I had placed in the bathroom the night before.
For the next three days the fragrance from that flower drifted out into the hallway.
For the next three days, I would catch myself staring at it. Admiring its beauty. Astounded by the giver, who gave something from nothing. A Syrian Refuge.
Change my heart, through the lessons you desire to teach me here, dear Lord. May I learn to give as was just given unto me.