The other day, five minutes before we closed the charity shop, a woman came in to browse.

Normally by that point in the day people tend to rush, apologising for coming in late, aware that you are beginning to tidy up and think about home. But I told her to take her time. I still had jobs to do anyway, and honestly, I’ve never liked making people feel hurried. Life already feels hurried enough.

Almost immediately I noticed she had an American accent. Having lived in America for eight years, and being married to an American, it naturally opened up conversation between us. We chatted while she looked around the shop, and when she came to the till with a little book that cost 50p, she realised she had accidentally brought euros out with her instead of pounds.

She looked embarrassed, but I told her not to worry about it and to just take the book. I said she could always pop back another day with the 50p if she happened to pass by again.

The next morning, right as we opened, she returned.

She spent a little more time looking around the shop and picked up a few more things while we chatted again between customers. It was one of those small, pleasant exchanges that probably would not seem especially significant to anyone else. Later that day I remember mentioning to Roger that I had met a fellow American in the shop.

Then the following morning, as I stepped off the boat to take the dogs for a quick walk, there she was again.

Out of all the places to bump into one another, there she was standing right outside.

We were both genuinely surprised and pleased to see each other again, and this time the conversation stretched longer. I called Roger out to meet “another American,” and somewhere between talking about travel, England, and life, she mentioned being a great admirer of C. S. Lewis. Before long we realised she was also a Christian.

She shared that she had come to England on a sort of retreat. Time away to spend in nature, reflect, and hear from the Lord. We admitted that, if we were honest, hearing from God had felt difficult for us since moving back to the UK. There have been moments over the past couple of years where we have felt a little untethered spiritually. Not without faith, but perhaps without clarity.

She smiled and said that since arriving here she felt God had been speaking to her everywhere she went. Even through little encounters like ours.

I cannot really explain why those words encouraged me as deeply as they did, but they did.

Perhaps because sometimes faith is strengthened in very ordinary ways. Not always through dramatic moments, but through conversations on towpaths, unexpected kindness, shared meals, cups of tea, and people being willing to truly see one another.

She came in for tea that afternoon, and the following evening we went out for a curry together along with another friend. What struck me afterwards was how easily it all happened. A stranger walks into a charity shop five minutes before closing, and a few days later you are sitting around a table sharing stories, laughter, thoughts about life, faith, and the world.

In another version of life, we could all have stayed politely distant.

She could have rushed out of the shop.
I could have been too busy to talk.
We could have smiled at each other on the towpath and carried on walking.
She could have chosen solitude over tea.
Any one of us could have decided we did not have time.

But instead, for a few days, our lives overlapped.

Before she continued her journey, she left us a note saying how encouraged she had been by meeting us. I remember reading it and feeling quietly moved because we felt exactly the same about meeting her.

The following Sunday, sitting in church surrounded by people from different countries, backgrounds, personalities, and walks of life, I found myself thinking about how extraordinary the family of God really is.

To meet somebody from the other side of the world for the very first time and yet feel there is already something deeply familiar between you.

Not because of nationality, politics, age, status, or shared history, but because underneath all of those things is Christ.

And yet beyond even that, I found myself thinking about human connection in general.

I worry sometimes about how lonely modern life has quietly become.

We are more connected than ever and yet, somehow, often more isolated from one another. People sit in cafés together staring at phones. Neighbours live side by side for years without knowing each other’s names. Many people are desperately hungry not just to be spoken to, but to be noticed. To feel that their presence matters to somebody.

I recently read that some of the happiest and longest-living people in the world are those who live closely in community with others. That truth does not surprise me at all.

I think we were created for one another.

Not constantly, not noisily, not without boundaries or solitude, but genuinely and meaningfully. I think there is something deeply sacred about making time for people. About listening properly. About lingering a little longer in conversation instead of rushing away.

For the past four years Roger and I have continuously cruised around the canal system, always moving, always travelling towards somewhere new. This year, while we work through his citizenship process, we have stayed in one place for the first time in a long while.

If I am honest, I was reluctant about that at first.

I love movement. I love discovering new places and meeting new people. I have always said to Roger when we move somewhere new that I wonder who our future friends are there — people we simply have not met yet.

But perhaps this season is teaching me that sometimes you do not have to go searching for those people.

Sometimes they simply arrive.

Sometimes God brings them gently across your path in a charity shop five minutes before closing.