I know Nothing of love

In this room, enormous pictures cover white peeling paint. People are crammed on rows of short stools. I look and see black hair, some streaked with white and grey, faces wrinkled with joyful smiles. Red characters hang on the wall, a lit up cross hangs above a mirror, reflecting the small room, making it look bigger. The thought hits me again, as they raise their voices to you, and tears stream down my cheeks,
I know nothing of love.
When we arrived, they welcomed us like celebrities. At first they sat us in the back, then they kept moving us to the front, making others move so we could have the best seats. They even moved the elderly lady sitting in front of me so I could stretch my legs. Who are we, but spoiled Americans already so addicted to comfort?
I look at a woman shriveled with age, years of joy and heartache behind her eyes. I can only imagine the things she has gone through in this life. She deserves to be honored, not me.
I am nothing, and I know nothing of this selfless love that clings to the air in this room.
I have hardly lived at all, but now I am awake. Now I am embracing love.
In this room, my own sacrifices seem so petty. All I clung to was dust.
My head cannot understand a word being spoken, but this sing-songy language goes past
my head straight to my heart, and I know I am not the same person who left America.
I look around, this room packed with heroes and kings disguised as peasants.
I desperately want to know, to experience, to see, this kind of reckless love that moves people to give it all up to gain true life.