I once visited an Iranian grandmother in her home. She made Turkish coffee in delicate cups, and fed me pumpkin pie and chocolates.
“It is always like this, back home,” the man with me said, who was from Palestine. “There is always hospitality.”
“I am very religious,” the Iranian said in response, and quoted the Bible; “That which you do unto others, you do unto me.”
“I don’t believe in the God of Americans,” the Palestinian man confided in us. “They are too afraid of one another. They have no trust and they have no warmth. There is no God teaching them.”
“It is the same God,” the woman argued in a soft, good-natured tone. “Same God, different language.”
They disagreed, but the sun still shone, and the coffee was still good. The lady from Iran showed me photos of all her grandchildren and told me to visit again.
“Any day,” she said. “There is always more.”