Soon after I arrived in Albania, I was begging God to help me love as He loves and grieve as He grieves. A muezzin began to howl from one of our city’s many mosques. Then another. And another. The cacophony was beckoning thousands to embrace a faith that cannot save. Most tourists think “the call to prayer” is novel and culturally inspiring. But tears were streaming down my face. Why? Because God’s compassion had come to my breast. You know of what I speak. You have felt powerful pangs of compassion