My Comfort Zone

The child across from me put her hand over her nose. Others avoided the end of the car where the homeless smell wafted from. I was just thankful that the Hispanic man gave me his seat, and I didn’t need to stand swinging the 9 x 13 carrier of dessert that I was taking to church for dinner. Riding the train felt like home to me. The place I wanted to be – certainly more comfortable than pulling up to church in a rental car and walking into a sea of white faces, proper dress, and not knowing where to stand or sit. (You all know I love you too!)

Out of the subway station, up the steps and through the brown door into the foyer of Sugar Hill Mission, Laurence and I went. The missionaries, houseparents, tract workers, and young men greeted us. I shook hands with tall Allister and tapped Sonia’s shoulder as I walked by her spot on the back row, women’s side. I gave a wave to Minister Isaac Akinyombo as he sat down and turned to greet his daughter, Sister Christianah. Her husband, Brother Dayo, had the message, affirming what the Lord has been speaking to me about the last while: God hears and answers our prayers.

The Reuben Akinyombo family was there, and I got to sit across from Sister Bisi at lunch. Bisi, Sonia and I had a lively conversation that circled through NYC and wouldn’t have made a lot of sense to the people of the congregation where we parked our rental car, though those people mean ever so much to me. But here at Sugar Hill I’m comfortable. The city is my home. After the young men served coffee, we’d eaten dessert, and washed the dishes the missionaries, houseparents, Laurence and I sat and visited with Eric. Eric came from Ghana. A few months ago he gave his heart to the Lord, and he is a happy man.

Tonight we’re comfortable in our tiny apartment, in a building with 47 other apartments, on a street with more buildings. I love the desert and the mountains, sunset and sunrise views, the relatives and a proper congregation, but this is home. Berniece