WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

     My people? Who are they?  I went into the church where the congregation worshiped my God.  Were they my people?  I felt no kinship to them, as they knelt there.  My people!  Where are they?  I went into
the land where I was born,  where men spoke my language...  I was stranger there.   "My people", my soul cried.  "Who are my people?"   Last night in the rain I met an old man  Who spoke a language I do not speak  Which marked him as one who does not know my God.   With apologetic smile   he offered me

the shelter of his patched umbrella,  I met his eyes ... And then I knew ...