Another quick trip—4,000 miles traced across the friendly yet bumpy skies in what felt like a blink. Another reminder that even the briefest journeys can carry weight, if we’re paying attention. Travel has a way of doing that—disrupting routine just enough to create space for reflection, for recalibration, for change.
This one came together quickly. Two acquaintances, one shared city, a long-overdue visit finally realized. The flights were bumpy but kind enough, and by some small grace, I slipped past the notoriously long TSA lines that had plagued the airport just a day before. Efficiency, for once, was on my side.
What I didn’t plan for—what I couldn’t have scheduled or optimized—was the encounter that would come.
I often say that opportunities to make an impact aren’t rare or distant; they’re woven into the ordinary moments we tend to overlook. You don’t need to cross time zones to find them. Still, sometimes you do—and sometimes they’re waiting at a breakfast table.
My guest and I were being served by a young man, in his early twenties. He was attentive, engaging and carried himself with a kind of practiced openness. His arms told stories before he spoke—tattoos layered with meaning, some bold, some deeply personal. As those who’ve spent time dining with me know, I’m often curious about the “why” behind people’s choices. So I asked.
He didn’t hesitate. He walked us through the artwork—each piece a marker of something lived, something lost, something learned. One, in particular, was in honor of his sister who had passed. The way he spoke about her wasn’t performative; it was grounded, real. I shared that I’ve been considering a tattoo myself—something to honor my daughter, to mirror the one my other daughter chose as a tribute.
“Do it,” he said without pause. “It becomes something you carry forward. Not just memory—honor.”
Then he showed us the one he was most proud of. On the inside of his arm, simple but striking: “Not a orphan but a child of God.”
He told us a bit more of his story. It wasn’t long, but it had already seen its share of turbulence—far more than smooth air. There was a sense that he lived with a kind of internal vigilance, always aware of how easily things could slip, how necessary it was to stay focused, to stay grounded, to choose rightly even when it’s hard.
What began as casual conversation stretched into something more. When I offered a blessing over the meal, he joined us—an unprompted “Amen” that felt less like politeness and more like participation. Later, he pulled up a chair and sat with us. For a few moments, the roles dissolved. It wasn’t server and customer anymore—it was three people sharing space, story and something that felt a lot like fellowship.
Looking back, I can’t help but think of the account in Acts 8, when Philip encounters the Ethiopian official—an unplanned meeting, a moment of openness, a life intersecting with truth in real time. There’s something powerful about those unscripted intersections, when you realize you’re part of something larger than your itinerary.
But what stayed with me most was the young man’s quiet, honest admission: that staying focused, staying true, is a daily fight.
It brought to mind Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 9:26–27—about running with purpose, about discipline, about the intentional effort it takes to live what we claim to believe. Not shadowboxing, but engaging fully. Not drifting, but directing.
That message didn’t come from a pulpit or a planned conversation. It came from a young man navigating life, reminding me—without even trying—that faithfulness is less about grand gestures and more about consistent, conscious choices.
The meetings I planned were meaningful. The conversations were rich. The food didn’t disappoint. But the moment I didn’t plan—the one that interrupted the schedule and ignored the script—may well have been the most important part of the trip.
Even more memorable than the hours long flights home, punctuated by the rhythmic persistence of a child kicking the back of my seat.
Because sometimes the real purpose of the journey isn’t found in where you intended to go—but in who you meet along the way, and what they awaken in you when you least expect it.
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Pastor Mark
Mark, the eighth of nine children born to Reuben and Henrietta Meeks—dedicated church planters with nearly 30 congregations established across California’s Central Valley—is a preacher's kid who grew up immersed in faith and service. With over forty years of experience teaching, discipling, and ministering to communities, including the hospitalized and incarcerated, Mark responded to God's call to pastoral ministry. He holds degrees in civil engineering and public administration, as well as a Master’s in Theology from Fuller Seminary, equipping him to serve with both practical insight and spiritual depth.
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