I had never visited a mosque before,
was a novice faith reporter, there
to observe the prayers, the meal.

It was an evening during Ramadan.
I sat with my wife in the lobby,
feeling lost like the parable sheep.

As we took off our winter coats,
a woman noticed the visiting strangers,
offered us head scarves she had in her car.

But, of course, you don’t have to wear one,
she said, and we accepted that out,
that escape route from the unfamiliar.

Then she led us into a dark, hot room
where the women stood listening
to an imam’s Arabic prayers.

Time after time, they kneeled,
touched their foreheads to the floor.
I found it hard to breathe.

But I loved the kindness of those women
at the iftar. They made a place for us
at a rug spread out across the floor.

Filled our plates with dates
and samosas, lentils and fattoush,
introduced us to their children.

Asked us questions too:
Do you have children? Husbands?
Where do you go to church?

Not to write a story later,
simply because they cared.
It made my head feel naked.