An Act of Faith.

September 1987

The tires of our U-Haul brushed against the curb as my roommate, Dave, and I pulled up to our new home, a duplex in Seattle's Central District. We walked up the porch steps, opened the door and gazed at the narrow stairway which led to our top-floor unit.

"This is going to suck," one of us muttered.

After pulling up the cargo hatch to discover a freshly decapitated philodendron, I craned my neck to see a strange figure approaching and stopping next to our truck's ramp. Tall and lean, he clasped his hands together as if praying. He wore a loosely fitting beige tunic and pants, a skull cap and sandals. A long, black beard flecked with grey nearly concealed his sun-leathered skin.

"I help you, please." He looked up at us, his wide grin revealing the absence of two teeth.

Dave and I glared at each other skeptically as most sheltered white men in their twenties might do when faced with a stranger's generosity, especially one who looked so out of place to us.

The man rested his open hand over his sternum and gently bowed. "Raheem," he offered. We hopped down from the truck and introduced ourselves, extending our hands. He shook them robustly and repeated, "I help."

"Okay, yeah, sure. Thank you," I said.

Within seconds, Raheem was hefting a heavy box of books down the ramp and up the stairs. He continued carrying the heaviest objects—he even tried to haul a couch by himself— and easily equaled Dave and my output combined. An hour later, the cargo area sat empty, all our possessions stacked in our new place. Only then did Raheem stop.

I brought down a six-pack of Pepsi and offered one to Raheem, his knees propped up high where he sat on the curb resting.

"No no, please." He waved his hand and a drop of sweat rolled off his nose. Dave and I popped open our soda and sat down next to the benevolent stranger. We asked him a series of questions, but an embarrassed grin washed across his face. He didn't understand.

Raheem reached his long fingers into a breast pocket and removed a folded piece of paper, He unfolded it and handed it to me:

Hello,

My name is Raheem. My family and I came to the United States from Afghanistan after our village was bombed by the Soviets. Our home was destroyed and two of my children were killed.

I formerly worked in food services at the Kabul Airport, where I became acquainted by an American pilot. After hearing of my family's misfortunes, he offered to sponsor my family as refugees in America.

I am currently enrolled in English and catering classes at South Seattle Community College.

God bless you.

"Wow," I said, my 25-year-old sensibilities not for a moment considering that Raheem wouldn't know the meaning of such a word. I handed him back his information sheet and he smiled, tucking safely back in his pocket. He pointed toward our back window. "Family apartment." I looked out and saw a small, two-story building with four units.

Raheem stood and shook our hands again "Goodbye."

Still stunned by this man's gesture, we watched him amble slowly away, not a shred of urgency in his gait. A large oval of sweat darkened the back of his beige tunic.

"Thank you!" we yelled.

He turned and faced us, clasping his hands and bowing as he had done an hour before. As Raheem retreated down the street and disappeared, Dave and I shook our heads and looked at each other, wondering if we'd see this man again.

We did. Three months later, on a chilly December evening, the doorbell rang. Not used to drop-in guests, I opened the front door tentatively, peaking around in case imminent danger required any kind of hasty maneuver.

Raheem stood on the porch in the cold, wearing the same clothes I'd seen him in before, smiling the same incredible gap-toothed smile. In front of him, he balanced a fully decorated Christmas tree—ornaments, lights, tinsel, even a stand to hold it. "Meddy Cdismuss!" he laughed. His strong arm held it out to me. and I invited him in, pulling his offering awkwardly through the doorway.

We chatted awkwardly for a few minutes and then he shook my hand again and left.

I wouldn't see Raheem again for two years. And while I'd moved out of the area and in with my girlfriend in north Seattle, I couldn't get him and his amazing generosity out of my 24-year-old brain. Around Thanksgiving of 1989, I decided to go back and find the family, see how they were doing and repay Raheem's kindness. I had no idea whether or not they still lived there, but I had to try.

I knocked on the first door toting three bags of groceries. I figured since Raheem had been so nice in providing us with a fully decorated Christmas tree, I would repay the favor with the makings for a full Thanksgiving dinner.

The top of a child's head peaked around the door. "Hello."

"Hi," I said. "Does Raheem live here?"

The door closed. Damn, I thought. Oh well, three more chances...

Suddenly, the door opened and there he was... Raheem. He shook my hand as if I were a long-lost brother. He ushered me into the two-bedroom apartment where, after taking the groceries from me, gestured to a couch were three children sat watching Knight Rider on the TV. He barked something to them in another language and the scattered. I sat and his wife appeared out of nowhere with pistachios, cookies and tea.

I took in their living area. Seven children stood or sat in various places around the dark apartment, staring at me while his wife sat outside the small kitchen and looked away.

The oldest child, a boy, sat next to me on the couch and interpreted our awkward conversation. We chit-chatted about small-talky subjects and after popping a couple more pistachios into my mouth, I wished the family well and walked to my car.

It's been 30 years, now, and I still think about Raheem and his family all the time. First, they endured an enemy invasion and the loss a child. Then, despite the generosity of the American pilot, they were displaced from everything and everyone they knew, a family of nine trying to make a go of things from a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment somewhere in America.