One Chance Meeting



I watched the bicyclist  approach the bus driver to ask how much the fare to Seattle was. He had a French accent. The driver told him, and then the man went back to his bike that was loaded down with strapped-on bags.

My husband, who’d taken me to the bus stop, immediately went over to the bike rider and inquired about his travel plans. I saw the man open his wallet and my husband exchanged his American money for the man’s Canadian bills. 

The brief conversation enabled him to learn about a book the man had written, and his plans to ride his bike from Seattle to San Diego—he’d come from Montreal, Canada.

This interesting opportunity to connect with another person was lost to me, because I had preferred to keep to myself and grab my favorite seat on the bus.

So, I watched through the bus window as they shared what most likely would be the only conversation they’d ever have. It was one chance for two lives to intersect. 

How many of those one chance meetings have I missed? Probably more than I’d care to know.  Sigh.

I watched as they shook hands, laughed, and my husband took his picture. 

I hope I can be more observant of opportunities that come my way to meet another soul, to ask questions, and welcome fellow earthbound travelers. 

As the Bible says, “Remember to welcome strangers, because some who have done this have welcomed angels without knowing it.”   Hebrews 13:2

Oh, and the book the man wrote? Angels of the Road.




Popular posts from this blog

Counting the Cost

Image
Something big is missing in this photo. Let me explain. Here in my hometown, the Lower Elwha Klallam Tribe prepared a parcel of land for a new hotel. Plenty of planning and architectural designs were evaluated. A gemstone of a hotel would be built across from the waterfront—a beautiful, restful place welcoming travelers. A true four-star facility.   They cleared the aging brick structures that had been fading away between Front Street and Railroad Avenue. Then the pandemic hit, shortages of labor and supplies, add in the costly inflation that followed. Everything stopped.   But this is what I admire about the Elwha Tribe: they have counted the cost. They didn’t want to move forward and take on tremendous debt. They would rather move slowly and be financially ready, rather than begin building and then letting it sit unfinished.   Counting the cost is something I should have done earlier in life when I didn’t know what high interest rates would do to our farming costs and bottom l
Read more

Summertime Music

Image
During the summer months, in an outside seating area, a delightfully painted piano sits with a sign that says, “Play me”.   It was just before 8 pm as I walked past the piano. My bus would be arriving soon, and I still have another ten minutes to walk before reaching my bus stop. But no one is around. It’s a beautiful warm evening. I pulled out the piano bench and sat down. The sun was behind me, and the piano keys reflected its glow. I had no music in front of me, only the songs within me. Notes drifted into the air.  In those brief moments, the magic of music and summer came together. Isn’t that how it is? Summertime music has a way of lingering in our minds and lasting a lifetime. As I stood and grabbed my things, I heard distant clapping—I guess I wasn’t alone, after all.
Read more

Homeless Winslow

Image
A while back I found a left-behind sign at my bus stop. No doubt, it’s a “sign” of our times. Then there’s Winslow*—that’s the name I’ve given her because she’s always in downtown Winslow. As far as I know, she’s been homeless for a few years.  She has grocery carts filled with old toys, shoes, clothes, towels, games, and a wild assortment of cast-off stuff she must have collected from the town’s dumpsters. I’m not sure what she does with it all—if anything. But I’ve never seen her beg. Her nightly “home” is adjacent to the town’s post office—it’s a covered spot, so she parks her carts and pulls blankets over herself. That’s usually where I see her on cold, rainy nights. But this week, she was in the post office—the part that’s left open to the public all night. She had a toaster oven plugged in and was re-heating a foil-wrapped item that looked like something the grocery store might have given her.  I needed to mail a package, so I went to the self-serve machine and began pus
Read more