Grocery shopping used to seem so routine. If I wanted to make French toast for Saturdays breakfast, I could pop into the supermarket on the way home from a long week at the office, grab a crusty loaf in the bread aislepre-cut, of courseand follow a simple recipe the next morning. Who thought about whether French toast was an international dish? Just pass the syrup please.

Stores became more sophisticated (and so did I) adding delis and bakeries and a mind-boggling array of choices. My shopping habits changed, upgrading with my consciousness of finer cuisine. French toast now means starting with the real McCoy. I reach into a huge basket for an 18-inch baguette (which I slice at home with a proper bread knife, never mind the crumbs). And if Im feeling particularly erudite, perhaps fueled by a Friday afternoon sugary latte, I may pick out a loaf of Cuban or Armenian, pretending to know the difference.

But recently this change in international market choices has accelerated. Hey, who stocked the pasta shelves with tabouli and phyllo just when I was finally figuring out the difference between manicotti and linguini?

Last week I was standing in produce trying to decide between South African forelle pears and New Zealand comice pears. An Asian woman inquired: had I seen any Chinese lotus roots? No, I replied, feeling a bit squeamish and wondering why. I pushed my cart to avocados, considering whether the shipment from Chili could be any tastier than the California fruit Ive always loved.

A man in a flowing white robe asked if knew the going rate for cilantro. I didnt, I said, then impulsively asked where he was from. I think he replied Guyana, but later I wondered if he had said Ghana or even Guinea, feeling incredibly geographically challenged.

I resolved to be bolder about clarifying details (and which hemisphere would your country be in, sir?) if

another opportunity presented itself, and sure enough one did.

I rounded a corner and stumbled across two couples arguing, or so I first thought. Turns out they were just excited to find fellow Muslims in a grocery store. The tip-off, I learned, was that each wife was dressed in a hijab, as Americans call the womans white head covering (a detail I asked as they included me in their conversation).

Reporter instincts kicked in, and I began to probe. For example, why are Muslim wives covered head to toe? They explained that this was protection against loose morals. The more I listened the more I learned.

What I got was a mini-course in Islam. Muhammads faithful shun what they consider to be the low personal standards of the West, which they blame squarely on Christianity.

America is so me centered. In Islam we say its not a religion, its a way of life. Christians become slaves to the local politics and culture. This lecture was delivered by a man whose business card said he is a web developer/system programmer for a major wireless company. An African American, his ancestors came from Nigeria, he said. His wife was born in Morocco. The husband of the other couple, whose card identified him as a consultant for a high tech company I wasnt familiar with, explained that they both were from India and would return when his contract was over.

The conversation seemed loud and even crude to my American sensibilities, probably because of their fervor and passion. As another shopper joined the discussion and attention drifted from me to her, I had a chance to catch my breath. Much as I disagreed with what the Muslims were saying about both my religion and my country, I liked their conviction and directness.

The newcomer to our little circle was an immigrant from Estonia. Svetlana defended not only America but also Christians, who, she pointed out, founded the country and made it possible for such a discussion to take place. I hadnt heard a reference to our Bill of Rights in quite a while and was touched by her sincerity. She was applying for citizenship, she said, because of such freedoms.

The conversation drifted and so did the Muslims, although not without jotting their cell and pager numbers on their business cards. I might want to know more about Islam, they suggested. I was struck by how such a gesture was what we Christians call being on mission.

Together Svetlana and I pushed our carts toward frozen foods. We exchanged the basics: marital status, neighborhoods, jobs. Finally I felt bold enough to invite her to church.

Her response was another jolt of the reality of North America as a cultural melting pot. She didnt need to go to church, she said, because just living here is enough for me. In other words, she elaborated, life is so much better for her now than when she lived in Estoniafirst in communism and later in an economically struggling democracy.

Svetlana associates worship with asking God for help, not thanking Him for it. She is free now, shopping where there are plenty of choices and money to pay for them. Its not that she doesnt believe in God; its that she doesnt know about an ongoing, personal relationship with Him. She

believes that He has blessed certain nations, and that her personal connection to Him was to uproot and move here. To Svetlana, becoming American is becoming Christian.

Im happy, she assured me with a beaming smile.

And I believed her. But I felt down, defeated. I had not made a convincing case to her (much less to the Muslims!) that church is more than another Christian cultural phenomenon, like shopping at the supermarket.

How can I show the Svetlanas I meet more and more often these days that Jesus died for their sins, that faith is their link to Him in eternity, that a fellowship of believers will enrich their lives and help them to follow Him?

In this issue of On Mission we look at the changing face of North Americaimmigration statistics, distinctives of ethnic people groups, people who are reaching out and people being reached.

Go with us to this supermarket of ideas where we learn to share Christ across cultures.

Carolyn Curtis is editor of On Mission.