The Kindness of a Stranger

I woke quite early the day of my husband’s visitation. I’d spent the night in my sibling’s hotel room, who both had come to support me after Charlie’s sudden death. Slipping quietly from the room, I headed for the lobby.

Finding a chair in front of the fireplace, I scooted closer to its warmth, trying to ward off the chill that never seemed to go away. With a brand-new journal in my lap and a pen in my hand, I was ready for a special time with God. Very softly, I began to sing a familiar song of comfort, soothing my soul with a reminder of God’s love and of His nearness.

After a while, I headed back to the room, hoping to get a little more rest. Passing by the hotel desk, a tall, young man looked up at me and said, “How are you doing?”

Have you ever had a hotel clerk ask you such a question? Especially with eyes that searched yours, waiting for a response?

I replied, “Pretty well, considering tonight is my husband’s visitation.”

After telling me he was sorry for my loss, Carl said he’d heard me singing earlier. We talked about music’s ability to comfort the soul, and I shared how certain hymns and other songs of the faith had the power to soothe me like nothing else.

Somehow we got on the topic of my journaling as a way to process my feelings and to dialogue with God. I mentioned that although I’d forgotten to bring my Bible, there were many passages in my heart that I could still reflect on.

It felt so comfortable talking with Carl. Perhaps it was the way he listened so intently, and how he seemed to truly understand what I was saying. I told him how hard it had been to write in my new journal, and by way of explanation, I read aloud the first part of my entry:   

Usually, beginning a new journal is one of my favorite things to do. All those crisp, clean pages, with nothing yet written on them—an open vista for my thoughts. This time, however, it was incredibly painful even to record the date—to make it official. This would be the first new journal I wrote in with Charlie no longer on this earth.

My hands shake as I write this. His absence has left a void nothing else can fill. As if part of me has been severed and I’m bleeding out. Be near, Oh God.

Sharing something so intimate with a stranger, especially a man, might seem strange. And perhaps it was, even for me. All I can say is it felt right. But it was his response to my entry that blew me away.

He said, “Remember how you told me you didn’t have your Bible with you? But that there were passages locked in your heart, so you could still ponder the words?”

I nodded.

“Similarly, with all the years spent with Charlie, do you not have many shared memories that you can call to mind? In that way, is he not still with you?”

I stood there blinking up at him, my eyes flooding with tears. How had this young man gained such wisdom? Many people twice his age would not have made such a correlation.

Thanking him for his encouragement, I walked away marveling. It had only been days since my “divine encounter” on my plane ride home after Charlie’s death. Although the moments spent with Carl were different, some elements made me wonder if perhaps he, too, could have been an angel. Regardless, one thing was for sure—the Lord had continued to reach out to me when I needed it most.

As we were leaving that day, I stopped by the desk. Carl was by himself, and once again I thanked him for taking the time to speak to me. Then, I told him I had been sensing the Lord wanted me to be a bridge in the desperate need for racial reconciliation. You see, Carl’s skin was a beautiful mahogany color.

I asked him what he thought might bring healing to the deep wounds caused by prejudice.

He quickly responded, “This,” gesturing between the two of us. “Frank, caring exchanges go a long way towards healing the divide between races and cultures.”

Shaking hands, I walked away with greater strength for what lay ahead. Once again, God met my sorrow in an amazing way. I still have warmth in my heart from our time together.

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