Who can we Become, as humans?! Are we leaving Opportunities on the table? Read below of a friend’s “chance” shopping trip encounter with a Somalian woman a few nights ago:
As we strolled down the last aisle at Costco, my six-year-old son was trying hard to remember an Arabic word he had learned earlier that week. He kept asking me and his older brother about it, at the same time as we passed a young North African Muslim woman, likely in her early twenties.
At first, I barely noticed her—she was sitting quietly against a pallet of beverages, her head bowed, wearing a simple unpretentious pastel hijab that matched her modest demeanor.
But as we walked by, I caught her glancing up at us. It occurred to me that she might have overheard my son’s attempts to recall the Arabic word. I hesitated for a moment before turning back.
“I saw you look up,” I said, smiling gently. “We’re trying to figure out an Arabic word my son is learning. Do you speak Arabic?”
She nodded, her face lighting up with sincerity as we began to talk. She spoke fluent English, and our conversation was natural. I asked about her background, and she shared her story.
“I’ve lived here for ten years,” she explained. “I’m originally from Somalia, but my family spent time as refugees in Turkey while waiting for support from the U.S. government.”
Then she paused, her expression shifting to one of disbelief. “Do you realize,” she said slowly, “you are the only American who has ever stopped to talk to me? No one has ever asked me about myself or even tried to engage me. You’re the first. We’ve gotten used to it—keeping our heads down. But we want to talk.”
Her words hit me like a wave. I felt so sorry for the cruel distinction people make and tried to explain, however inadequately, “I don’t see people as being different—we are all God’s masterpieces, the colors on His canvas are beautiful.”
At one point, I asked her, “Did you come to America for freedom? To escape oppression?”
Her response was thought-provoking. “Yes,” she said, “but would you call this freedom?”
“No,” I admitted. “I wouldn’t! What we often call ‘freedom’ here—immorality, materialism, greed—it’s not real freedom. It’s the opposite. Doing whatever we want isn’t liberating; it’s enslaving. That’s actually what I’m trying to teach my sons.”
They were standing next to me just as engaged in the conversation as I was.
She nodded, her agreement evident. “Exactly,” she said. “It’s not freedom to have no restraint. Boys, you need to listen to your mom. I’ve never met someone like her. Thank you for stopping to talk to me. And if you ever meet other women like me, know that we want to talk.”
That interaction has stuck with me—we both knew, freedom isn’t a nation, and its not a right to live however we want. It’s being governed and loved by God and reciprocating that to others.
