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.