Knock

The loud knock startled me and asking “who is it?” I cautiously approached the door. Looking through the door’s peephole, I noticed a handsome young Mormon whose facial look of surprise and inquiry prompted me to open the door. I felt both safe and curious noticing his familiar missionary grabs and sans the usual partner.

Opening the door a crack that would let my wild head of hair out, it hit me how in Dominican Republic there is such a welcoming sense of being that I would not have thought to keep my door partially closed.

The conversation included of his comment about a deft person they were searching in the area and of how I don’t go to church in the United States because I find it boring. He wore a plastic hearing piece in his right ear. When I replied his comments, he leaned on his right side to hear me better, and I felt bad for my high pitch voice. I tried to be firmer in my answers as I highlighted my words with a bit of hand movement.

As the conclusion approached he invited me to his church and I said that maybe I’d go, just to be nice. I assured him that I have good memories of Mormons from my experience growing up in Dominican Republic and then back at Buffalo State College where I visited their Student Union table.

I asked him that if I saw “that” person, should I send him to their church at 65th Street and Columbus Avenue. “Yes.” And so he went on with his quest