We plopped onto a shady bench, weary physically from touring one of Istanbul’s famous mosques in the heat. Weary spiritually from what we’d observed in the intricately decorated building packed with tourists yet devoid of life. “I am old,” my husband sighed to the Turkish man beside us, snacking on a bag of chestnuts. He smiled and extended the bag to me, then Bill, who accepted the offering, while I politely declined.

Because that was they way of things, there in Istanbul’s tourist zone. Friendly men frequently approached us, offering directions or information. Feigning interest for five minutes or ten, as we welcomed it warmly. But their kindness was fake, inevitably becoming a sales pitch for their rug store or tour company.

We kept falling for the ruse, of course. Our greatest delight in traveling is to meet people. To hear their stories and find points of connection. So we readily respond to smiles and greetings wherever we are. But by our second day in Istanbul, I knew the routine. I knew that a smiling man on a bench offering his chestnuts was nothing more than a setup for luring us to buy rugs or spices or Turkish Delight. I knew that to accept the chestnut was to open the door for yet another person to take advantage of me. To leverage my friendliness for profit.

His English was minimal, and our Turkish non-existent, yet we learned that he was a visitor too, a tourist in his own land. “Ah, America!” he grinned, extending the bag again. I gave in and took one, tasted it’s warm sweetness, waiting for the sales pitch with guarded heart.

But that afternoon, on a bench in Sultanahmet Square, the pitch never came. We simply relaxed into companionship together amid the noise and crowds around us, the taste of chestnuts and friendship a sweet blessing in the afternoon heat.

My conscience stung later, as I remembered the assumption I’d made about the man. The way I’d judged his intention. Closed my heart. Because no one should be judged by the behavior of their peers.

I, as a conservative, white Christian, have been judged. Grouped with haters and hypocrites. Not because of my behavior, but because of theirs. My son, as a young, Black male, has been judged. Grouped with protestors and criminals. Not because of his behavior, but because of theirs. Have you, like me, felt the sting of assumption pasted over your individuality? Have you, like me, categorized and dismissed someone as a member of a certain group instead of seeing an individual bearing the unique image of their Creator?

Bill asked the man if I could take their picture, and he smiled and embraced him there on the bench, Turkish and American, Muslim and Christian, two men reaching past labels to see each other for a few brief moments. Two men who taught me the importance of keeping my heart open, because otherwise I might miss the precious gift of connection and the chance to share a warm chestnut with a new friend.