A Stranger, a Story, and the Journey at Sea

A few Sundays ago, I took a trip out of state to visit family. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t drive — I took a bus. There was something unexpectedly soothing about surrendering control for a moment. No hands on the wheel. No mental checklist of exits and turns. Just me, the open road, the shifting landscape, and the quiet gift of being carried instead of carrying everything myself. I let my mind settle while someone else carried the responsibility of getting us there. A small, needed rest.

And now, writing this from the middle of the ocean — carried by waves and held by God’s quiet, as the ship gently rocks beneath me — I understand that the rest I felt that day, that moment of surrender, was not accidental. It was preparation.

When I returned, I ordered an Uber home, hoping to extend that quiet a little longer. But the universe had other plans. My ride wasn’t quiet, and I wasn’t alone — not in the way I expected.

I met Alina.

Alina was an amazing and formidable young black woman with a presence that filled the car before she even spoke. The kind that shifted the entire ride. Strong. Warm. Steady in a way that made you sit up a little straighter. She told me she works a commission‑based job during the day and drives through the night to keep her family afloat. At first glance, I thought she was in her twenties. But she was only a year younger than me — and had lived through storms that would age anyone.

We talked about kids and life. She told me how she had her life and family all planned with her husband. Their dreams. Their plans. The life they were building together.

And then she told me how it all shattered.

He was one of the first COVID victims in Maryland. Sadly, death laid its icy hands on him during a time when families couldn’t even say goodbye, couldn’t hold a hand, couldn’t whisper a final prayer over the body of someone they loved. That is the most painful thing a person in grief could ever go through. That kind of grief is a wound that never fully closes.

Yet Alina spoke with a calm that didn’t match the weight of her story. A calm that only comes from surviving what should have broken you. A calm rooted in faith — the kind that steadies you when the world refuses to stop spinning. You would not fathom what pain she’s gone through.

She reminded me of how fleeting life is. How quickly everything can change. How one moment you’re making plans, and the next you’re learning to breathe through a loss you never imagined.

She reminded me to trust God in all things — not just the beautiful ones.

And she reminded me why I write.

I write intentionally because our words — and our works — will outlive us. But today, I write because I am reminded of the journey that brought me here in the first place: seeking closure I never fully received, and finding comfort in the act of putting pain into language.

Encounters like this are not accidents. They are gentle nudges from God, from something bigger than us — reminding us to live intentionally, to speak truthfully, and to let our words touch others while we still can.

To unexpected conversations.

To strangers who become mirrors.

To healing that arrives in the backseat of an Uber or a cruise ship.

To living with purpose.

Happy new month — here’s to letting the sea, the journey, and the unexpected moments shape us into who we’re becoming.