Last month I spent three weeks in Morocco, living and working alongside people whom I had never met. I knew very little about social customs and even less of the language, but the people welcomed me in the kindliest ways.

Many mornings I would wake up to the warm sunshine from my bedroom window and the softs murmurs of people speaking French in the living room. When people come into your home, it is customary to provide them with a meal. Our kitchen was constantly filled with the smells of Ethiopian coffee, freshly baked cinnamon rolls, and cheesecakes. Our home was open to all and all left filled.

This same practice was evident in the church. Each Wednesday the church opens its doors to people who are seeking assistance. These people are typically Sub-Sahara African migrants who are fleeing their homes and
in search for security in another country. Each Wednesday I would help move the pews in the sanctuary as we created areas to hand out clothes, shoes, fill-out paperwork, talk with ministers, physicians, and social workers. The room was filled with languages, tears, little toddlers, tired mothers, families relieved to have come so far but heartbroken if a request could not be met, laughter, and constant movement to create more room.