I was waiting for my daughters to finish a math tutoring session at Joan of Arc public school. (Joan of Arc is my hero — I love that there’s a public school in NYC named for her!) I saw this church across the street.
It was Saturday afternoon and a lot of well-dressed people were mingling on the sidewalk. “Goody! A wedding!” I thought.
I entered the church. The sanctuary was paneled and low-ceiling-ed. Empty, except for a couple of girls who plucked keys on the piano. That was a bit annoying.
I sat for a minute, restless. As I was leaving, I heard a party going on in the basement. People sang, “feliz compleaños.”
I have to admit that the language barrier made me feel I wasn’t really a part of the action at this church. I wished I spoke Spanish, but I don’t. Not enough any way.
But then, something happened and for a moment, I felt I belonged. See, this boy ran down some steps, fast like he owned the place. He stopped, stared and smiled. That’s it. A smile. That smile took off when words and language failed. I left uplifted.