Returning Home

I walk along these streets – somehow haunted by the voice of a young woman I once knew. Every avenue has a story. Every turn a memory. In each footfall, I take a step back in the pages of my life. It is bittersweet – a longing I somehow do not mind. London is forever a ghost town. A city that tells a story from long ago.

There are inexplicable ties that bind us together. I have stood at the door of eternity, hand in hand with these friends. Love’s labour is never lost. My life is somehow told in two places. Birmingham and London. It seems that the things that break my heart remain in these two cities, and the present in my world is often left within them as well.

I left the flight in my own plane of existence, and found myself doing the welcome home dance. David looked at me as if I was stupid. There’s no use explaining the joy I feel – only Mark understands the passion of revisiting our city. I wonder how these students will experience my hometown. I wonder if they will struggle through the idea of m-tourism. I wonder if they will find a lack of love in the world that they find here and seek to find what God will do. I question my ability to really show them. They will see what they choose, and they will have to open their eyes.

We sat on the tube, tickets in hand, money received, somewhat dazed from the long night over the Atlantic. We barely noticed her enter. Her shalwar kameez was blue and lavender, like the colour of the sky in fog before the darkness settles. She looked around for a seat, since she carried a large bag and several other items. David realized she was there, and moved to offer his place. She simply stood there. Soon, Meredith shifted seats, and the woman moved to sit between us, more comfortable to place herself among women. She smiled and nodded her thanks. She seemed overly concerned for me as I laid my suitcase on my knees… forever made to mother people. Koi Bat Nehi.

I imagine her name is Fatima, Zayneb, or Khalida. She settles and I ask her if she has far to travel. In broken English, she replies that it is not far to Hammersmith. Her gestures along the journey make me wonder about her language limits. I think we would have chatted the time away if we had been able to. I really need to start back up on my Urdu. In contrast, a young woman stands across the aisle by the other door; phone stapled to her ear, jeans as tight as they come, blathering gossip intermixed with expletives. They could be mother and daughter but for the generation gap.

There is so much to do here. One is gentle and meek and loves the law of her god. She is humble but misguided. The other is blatant and distrusting, and IF she serves a god, it is certainly not her parents’ deity. How do you reach them both? How do you bridge the gap between generations? How could one person speak into such different worlds?


My favorite Turkish restaurant is under new management. After so long away, I wonder if people will still recognize my face. There are a few friends that still work there. Our waiter was pleasant as we slowly spoke our orders in Turkish. Two British friends joined us for rounds of karisik meze and yemek. The students were great, willing to try even kidney and taramasalata (both disgusting). I sent them on a scavenger hunt. I wanted the students to have an opportunity to ask questions about culture; usually, on a first day, with peanut butter on the brain, queries do not come quickly. Mandie and Matt came into the restaurant with a key chain full of evil eyes and elephants.
Why would someone put the evil eye on the same chain as the good luck charm? Why not just have the elephant and not the eye? If they are Muslim, do they believe in luck? Aren’t they monotheists? Isn’t this idea like serving another god?

And so it begins.
Don’t’ ask me, ask them.

Meredith was shown the purpose for hijab and the burkah. She bought a head scarf and was taught how to wear it properly. She believes the woman she spoke with was from Eastern Africa. I didn’t realize that there were people from this country living that far down Turnpike Lane. The saleswoman’s husband sat silent, reading the paper. I need to teach the students observation. There will be times when questions do not work, and all you can do is pray blessings on the house. Speak to God on their behalf. Touch the doorposts as you leave. Leave His aroma behind you. Watch.

David will struggle. I see the furrow in his brow and I wonder the thoughts in his mind. I will struggle. I stand at the door to my past looking into my future. I must believe that God will work in this place - that He is passionate about the ten million souls that make their home here. These are His people - not just mine.