Those first few moments are always a bit awkward. You’re entering someone else’s domain,
a stranger’s world. Your language
is minimal, your face is pale, you are different. Each experience is different but they all have this in
common. Yeah, “awkward”
is the prefect word to describe the initial moments of climbing into a
taxi.
Mo was a bit grumpy when I climbed into his. That in itself is nothing unusual. The interior was pretty clean. Cigarette butts and empty coffee cups
were conspicuously absent. And
there was no blaring music and no body odor either. I had to do a double check to see if I was really in a taxi.
The conversation started with the weather, excuse me, the
HOT! weather, and wound it’s way through the travails of traffic, good restaurants,
politics and made it’s way to religion.
Surprisingly I could understand much of what Mo said. He talked quickly and I found myself
mesmerized by his lips. Not in a
creepy way but more a fascination in how quickly they moved and how effortlessly
the words rolled off them. I found
myself praying for understanding and ability to speak better Arabic. Actually I was asking for a miracle but I understood him and
he somehow understood me. As we
sat in stand-still traffic, Mo espoused how wonderful his religion was, how he
had lived for seventy-two years under it and how he would die in it. “After death, heaven….” he said with a
smile. But the smile was half
hearted. Not because he didn’t
hope the words were true but because he wasn’t really convinced.
“Are you Muslim?” he said. It wasn’t a challenge.
It was a compliment really.
Why else would an American live here in this place, have five children,
speak in the terminology I spoke, and embrace the words he spoke and him in
general?
“No, but I love Muslims.” I’d said it before and meant it still. He paused and looked at me. Whatever he saw was enough so the
floodgates opened and Mo went on a twenty-minute discourse on the virtues of
his religion. For him it boiled down to living a good life, observing all the rituals and hoping that was good
enough. Heaven was going to be a
wonderful place. “No poverty,
sickness and no…car accidents.” The last one he muttered as we nearly
rear-ended another taxi that whipped over in front of us. Mo said all the right things. He followed the script perfectly and
although occasionally spoke loud enough that other drivers turned to see what
was going on, his heart wasn’t in it.
How could it be? He had no
assurance. Mo had lived his entire
life under a system that decries “Do your best and maybe you’ll make it.” Oh to be able to succinctly offer him
hope. Oh to be able to give him
the Truth.
We arrived at my destination. He apologized for not having a phone but obliged me with a
photo. I may never seek Mo again
but I guarantee I’ll remember him and I’ll pray that he finds the assurance
that comes through Truth. Yall
pray for Mo.
