Thursday, October 22, 2026
Sometimes God places interesting people in our path. Years ago, our small church went to a local fast food restaurant after evening services. It gave the kids time to play together on the playground, and the adults time for conversation and relationship.
One night, I connected with a man while stopping to get ketchup to go with our fries. He sat near enough that our eyes easily connected, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. So I walked closer. I soon learned that he was handicapped due to an auto accident many years prior. He walked with two canes and his speech was rough, but his heart was good and he desperately wanted a ride to church. He became a regular visitor to our home and taught our children to play chess.
At times, it's easy for me to treat people like the landscaping around my home. Let’s start with the fact that I'm a lousy gardener. I kill aloe plants and ferns alike. If I can't put it outside and allow God to take care of it, it's probably going to have a very short life span. Because of this, the landscaping around my house is purposely simple — weed killer applied occasionally, flowers in pots that I can yank out and replace once I’ve inevitably killed them. Almost no effort is required of me all summer.
Far too often, I organize my life like that, too. I get my mind set on priorities and go about my day moving around people, focused on the task at hand. The people complete the picture of what the store or gas station should look like, but when I take a moment to really look, they aren't that much different than my front garden.
In between the landscaping stones, some weeds still grow. The edges reveal signs of neglect. Pesky spiders walk through the bug killer unfazed. And sometimes, when a person's life is about to fall apart, you can see the old, dead flowers that no one's bothered to yank out and replenish with fresh soil and green plants.
People around us are hurting. Maybe you are, too, and no one's noticed yet. All it took for me was a few steps closer to a man by the ketchup, and a friendship began that changed things for him and for us. You never know what one step toward someone might start.
How much would it mean to you for someone to actually see you — not just register you as part of the scenery, but stop long enough to make you feel like you matter?
Now flip that: who's already scenery to you? The cashier, the one who delivers your packages, the coworker whose desk you pass ten times a day. What if you stopped this week to really see one of them?