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There Are No Strangers

The sun, sinking fast, gave a last gasp of light and disappeared. I zipped up my coat as night crept into the garden. I should go home, I thought, but the peas I’d sown still needed watering. I turned the nozzle to a soft spray for them. A noise behind me turned my head. Two girls were standing at the fence, admiring the lush plants. “Are those squash?” one of them asked.

“Yes. Three kinds,” I answered. “Do you like vegetables?”

“Oh yes!” She said, grinning. “I’m vegan.”

“Me too! Would you like some fresh zucchini?” I asked.

“I’d love it. I’ll cook ratatouille,” she answered/

“Please, come on in and cut them,” I offered. I handed her the pruners and pointed out the two fat squash. She picked them and hugged them to her chest, thanking me.

“It’s a pleasure to be able to share with you.” We shared a smile and held one another’s gaze for a moment. I realized then that I’d never met a stranger: I meet family; other children of God.

We exchanged phone numbers, and I promised to share more food when she stopped by. The girls left, but love remained. Even in the darkness, the garden glowed—God’s spirit shining.

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