Along a narrow footpath, I walk serpentine around trees embedded in squares of earth, down metal stairs into the underground, my boots clinking on each step. Curly locks of hair swirl upward in a wind tunnel and down like confetti. I grab onto H’s arm — the rudder guiding me through swells of humanity.
For most of our silent walk, I keep the tempo H sets for the journey. Through fluorescent tubular halls deckled with movie posters, our arms gently brush against the coats of strangers holding shopping bags and collapsible cycles. My body squeezes into the arc of his torso through a narrow impasse.
Sometimes when the rhythm of our steps is broken by someone pushing past in a hurry, I move in front of H and trust his hand gently clutching my shoulder, leading me in the right direction.
On an escalator with the slant of a small ski slope, we stand single file to the right, allowing the fellow frantic to run instead of exhale. I’m certain our thoughts coincide with each other but our facial expressions don’t reveal hints to that reality.
Stepping off, a man strums from a chair in the corner, his guitar case a cash register of kindness strewn with pounds and pence. The art he offers to nameless faces interrupts a maze of unspoken thoughts and fills the hollowness of public space with bravery.
Sharing the art of who we are lends permission for others to step out of the shadows and embrace the hope of calling.
Beside each other, leaning against the swaying shell of the train, our unspoken thoughts become chatter of revelation. Our eyes sift through the chaos of activity and arrive at similar assessments, the same way they have every day since we met that providential evening twenty-four years ago in a room full of people.
Whether leafing through the newspaper, scraping the last spoonful of yogurt from the bottom of the plastic container, or paying for a carton of milk while a drunk engages you in conversation at the counter, God breaks into your everyday life like a song echoing off the hollowness of your porcelain exterior.
He reminds you through the twists and turns of your journey that those split-second decisions aren’t random but leading to the right platform for influence. Perhaps that’s why Jesus says, “Anyone who intends to come with me has to let me lead. You’re not in the driver’s seat; I am.”
Changing trains, we wait for the illumination of a lone headlight to break through the distant darkness and throngs of people.
An uncommon quietness precedes a powerful move of the Holy Spirit.
Listen. Momentum is building.
Destiny is coming down the tracks.
Mind the gap and allow Love to guide you.