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When I ignored the mailed invitation to their open house, they knocked on my door and promised me snacks and a tour.

So, I went– having no food in my house and little interest in their new, unfinished mosque.

I ate all their seedless grapes and Ritz crackers and was wary of their pink lemonade.

I met an elderly man with a thick accent, a thinning hair top, and a gentle smile. He told me that our countries were friends and that the most beautiful place he had ever lived was outside a small college town in Montana.

I smiled back at him and offered him their lemonade.