Ordinary Grace

I was out walking the other day when I came across a man walking his dog.

I was alone that day – no leash in my hand, no dog attached to the other end of it. His dog, on the other hand, was off leash, wandering nearby and seemingly quite content to be out enjoying the day with his human.

The man looked to be about my age, maybe a few years on either side of me. He was black. I am white.

I said hello.

He said hello.

And then we talked about his dog.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two of conversation. Nothing important was said. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t learn anything about each other’s lives.

Eventually, I continued my walk and he continued his.

That was it.

Except it wasn’t.

I remember very clearly how I felt as I walked away.

Content.

Peaceful.

Grateful.

There had been a hint of connection between two people who would probably never see each other again.

And there had been an absence of something.

No animosity. No guardedness that I could feel. The sense that either of us needed to be wary of the other. No icky.

For a couple of minutes, neither of us was a category.

We were just two people who happened to cross paths on an ordinary day.

And I loved that.

I have thought about that tiny encounter several times since.

Not because anything remarkable happened, but perhaps because nothing remarkable happened.

I saw our differences. I did not see a barrier.

I can only tell you what the encounter felt like to me. I don’t know what he thought as he walked away. I don’t know whether he gave our conversation another thought. I can only hope that, for him too, it felt easy. Comfortable. Human.

Maybe what has stayed with me is that difference didn’t automatically become distance.

We live in a world where we sort people quickly. Sometimes before a word has even been spoken.

We notice race. Age. Gender. Clothing. Religion. Politics. Wealth. Poverty. An accent. A tattoo. A bumper sticker. A neighborhood.

Those things tell us something about a person.

But none of them tells us everything.

And I wonder how often I decide who I think someone is before I’ve given them an opportunity to show me.

That’s an uncomfortable question.

Because I don’t think categorizing people is something only other people do. I do it too. Sometimes without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s part of why this little encounter felt like such a gift. There wasn’t enough time to know much of anything about one another. There was only time enough to meet the person standing there.

And his dog.

Maybe grace sometimes looks that ordinary.

As a person of faith, I think often about Jesus calling us to love our neighbor. I know those words. I’ve heard them most of my life.

But maybe I have sometimes made “neighbor” more complicated than it needs to be.

My neighbor can be the person living next door. My neighbor can be the friend who needs me. My neighbor can be someone hurting who I have the opportunity to help.

And just maybe, for a minute or two on an ordinary walk, my neighbor can simply be the person whose path crosses mine.

I didn’t do anything extraordinary that day. Neither did he.

Maybe that is important too.

Living my faith isn’t only found in the big moments when I make a conscious decision to serve or forgive or donate or sacrifice. Some of it happens in the tiny spaces between people – in how I see someone, how I approach them, how much room I leave for them to show me who they are.

Perhaps community begins there too.

Not when we stop seeing our differences.

But when we stop assuming those differences must separate us.

I know why that brief conversation stayed with me. It reminded me of something I don’t ever want to forget. I was paying attention. And there it was. A glimmer. Just a pure and simple glimmer of what happens when differences don’t become barriers.

There was a man.

There was a woman.

There was a dog.

There was a hello.