Today was supposed to be a quiet day, working from
home. I had only one responsibility
today, besides finishing up a few random things for church on Sunday. I had to take my Syrian friend to her therapy
appointment. It was supposed to be one hour out of my day, something I could
check off my to-do list before getting back home to finish up some work and
cook dinner. And I could have done that,
had I simply dropped my friend off outside her house and then driven home. But I didn’t.
Because I thought it would be more kind to stop in and say hello to the
family whom I hadn’t really talked to since last week. One member of the family
had just had surgery and so I wanted to see how he was doing. That was to be my
act of kindness for the day. So I went inside. And I told them I wasn’t going
to stay, but the patriarch of the family-- we’ll just call him A.-- said to me,
“Five minute, Sara.” At which point we all laughed. Because in this household,
there is no such thing as five minutes. Five minutes turns into a cup of coffee,
which turns into a bowl of rice pudding, and before you know it, it’s dinner
time, and you’ve been there for an hour. This time, however, I really was only
going to stay for five minutes (meaning, maybe 15 minutes). And that’s when it
all went off the rails.
While we were sitting and talking, A. got a call on his cell
phone. Turns out, another Syrian family, recently arrived in America, was on
their way to visit from New London. But they had been pulled over by the police
about three blocks from A.’s house. And this was bad, because no one in this
new family had a driver’s license. Before I knew it, A. was putting his phone
in my hands and asking me to talk to the police. I got on the phone, having no
idea what was happening, and a cop asked me if I could explain to the driver
and his family that he was going to follow them the rest of the way to A.’s
house, where he would give them a ticket and then be on his way. I could not do this, because I do not speak
Arabic. So I said I would come meet them. A. and I jumped in my car and drove
three blocks to find a van full of Syrian refugees and two police cruisers with
lights flashing. “Oh!” said A. I just
shook my head. It’s never just five minutes, I thought.
I went to speak with the cops, who lectured me (as if I was
somehow in charge of these people whose names I didn’t even know) about
international driving laws. And he said that he was going to be nice and let
them off with just a ticket, even though technically he could have their car
towed right then and there. “Yes,
officer, thank you officer,” I said.
“Can you please explain to them about the ticket?” the officer asked.
Seriously? Do I look like someone who
speaks Arabic?? “No,” I said, “but I can
call someone who can.” At which point I pulled out my phone to call one of our
translators, thinking I could put him on speaker phone with the cop. But by the time I had dialed the number, the
cops were in their cars pulling away. So
I was on my own.
To make a very long story much shorter, the translator
dropped everything he was doing to come and save the day. (He gets the kindness award for the day). We
all made it back to A.’s house safely, and the new family got quite a lecture
about the rules of the road in America.
Never a dull moment folks. And it’s
never, ever just five minutes.
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