Some people come into our lives and stay for years.
Others brush by for a moment — a single crossing of paths, a fleeting exchange — and yet something in that instant etches itself into us. A moment in time that is a tiny thread in the fabric of our lives.
I like to call these moments in time.
Some linger only long enough to help us cross a street, or an ocean, or a threshold we didn’t know we were standing on.
Others appear across a short span of time — a few weeks, a season — and then disappear as suddenly as they arrived.
But their energy, their faces, their touch stay with us and help create the tapestry that is a life lived.
These encounters run the full spectrum of human feeling.
Some were joyful, others devastating.
Some flirted with mystery or laughter.
Each one, in its own way, shaped me.
Crossing Guards and First Trusts
When I was little, between kindergarten and second grade, two crossing guards stood like sentinels between me and the world.
Mrs. King waited at the corner of my block — pressed and perfect in her uniform that included white as snow short gloves. Her smile and a firm “hurry up”, firmly but gently pushed me along each morning.
She was composed, even rigid in her presence, but I felt safe with her — loved, even.
Emma stood at the corner of Steele School.
She was gruff in that New Yorker way that hides tenderness under sarcasm.
She scolded me for dawdling, but when I returned in my twenties, she recognized me instantly and teased me again about being late — this time with affection.
Between those two women, I learned something profound:
that love and safety can exist outside of family, that strangers can hold you with care.
The Kind Nurse and the Empty Room
There was a nurse whose name I never knew, but she lives in the shadows of my memories. I woke in a hospital bed after a long illness.
I remember the fear, the ache for my mother.
And then her hand — cool, gentle, stroking my face.
That moment, that touch, became a memory I carry like a soft light.
It taught me that presence can heal even without words.
The Man at the Beach
Once, at Jones Beach, the concession stand worker helped me pass the time with laughter.
He bought me an ice cream and kept me company until my dad arrived.
I never saw him again, but I remember the warmth of his kindness turning fear into adventure.
The Night in Louisiana
One night, two men. A single encounter that changed everything.
I tried to cut that thread from my story, to pretend it didn’t belong.
But pain doesn’t vanish when denied; it waits to be felt.
And when I finally allowed it space, it wove itself into the tapestry of my life. No longer the outcast of an open wound, but as the strength and courage of a scar whispering the truth of my journey quietly.
Days later, the doctor and nurse didn’t push for answers.
As they held me, the first human touch since the trauma, I felt something shift.
Their quiet support wrapped around me, and in their arms, I wept silently.
And, for the first time, I felt the faint beginning of what it meant to feel normal again.
The Flight to Paris
In 1998, I sat beside a man on a flight to Paris — a missionary who had spent his life teaching the words of Jesus.
We spoke about truth and calling and the courage to live in alignment with one’s soul.
He told me, “Always be true to yourself.”
Somehow, that made an eight-hour flight feel like a few shared breaths.
I think of him sometimes when I question my path, his voice quietly reminding me to follow my
True North.
Darius
After my mother died, I worked afternoons at a nursery school.
There was a little boy named Darius who, without knowing it, became my healer.
He was all laughter and sticky hugs and wild imagination.
He told me he wished I were his mom.
And truthfully, I wished I were his mother too.
In a way, we nurtured each other.
I, in my longing for my mother who was gone.
And him, in his longing for a mother who, as he once told me, “doesn’t yell all the time.”
At a time when I was broken and raw, his love was a balm, proof that grief and joy can coexist in the same heartbeat.
The beauty was in how we found the mother we needed in each other.
I still feel his small arms around my neck, and I whisper gratitude for the way love found me through him.
Faith and the Matriarchs
Years later, before I knew how I was going to make it to Africa, I received an email from a man in Australia.
He told me he had created a journey for ten women to travel together through Africa — a sacred pilgrimage called The March of the Matriarchs, or MOM, as he called it.
It was full, but just days before departure, a woman had dropped out due to illness.
He invited me to join, urged on by a colleague who believed I was meant to be there.
At first, I couldn’t imagine how I’d gather the time or money, but something in me whispered go.
So I followed my heart, leaned into faith, and with support and grace, I said yes.
When I asked the name of the woman who had dropped out, he told me: Faith.
My mother’s name is Faith.
In that moment, I knew.
Finding Faith — in name, in spirit, in trust — was the call.
That trip changed me.
At the Great Monument
One afternoon, while walking alone near the Great Zimbabwe Monument, I met three children carrying several empty milk containers.
They were walking miles each day to collect water because their village’s pump had broken.
I reached into my pocket to give them money, but they refused.
Instead, they asked if I had any water.
We sat together for half an hour, sharing water, fruit, snacks, laughter, and stories.
When I noticed one little boy saving his fruit, I asked why.
He smiled shyly and said, “It’s for my mom and my little sister.”
That moment has never left me, their generosity, their joy, their grace.
In giving what I could, I received far more.
Africa taught me that sometimes impact isn’t about what we offer, but how we receive the beauty and strength of others.
Watering the Seeds
Some moments plant themselves quietly in the soil of the heart, like seeds waiting for their season.
Africa was that for me.
The children, their laughter, the shared water and fruit. A living reminder that generosity is not measured by abundance, but by presence.
In the years since, I’ve come to see how each encounter, whether tender or traumatic, loving or fleeting, carries its own kind of seed.
Some bloom immediately; others take years to break through the surface.
But every one of them roots itself.
The way we tend those seeds, through gratitude, reflection, and forgiveness, is how we grow into who we are meant to become.
And just as the children refused my money but accepted my company, I’ve learned that true nourishment comes from connection, not transaction.
The impact of those moments continues to ripple.
They remind me that what we water with attention and care continues to grow, even when we can’t yet see the bloom.
The Everyday Angels
They still show up — the Lyft driver who told me his story of redemption and gratitude.
The barista who writes kind words on my cup each morning.
Tiny threads weave the tapestry of a life.
The Ripples of Relationship
And then there are the moments — the words or gestures — from the people who do stay in our lives.
Family, friends, lovers, those we’ve shared chapters with.
Sometimes it’s just a single sentence that sticks, or a look, or a hug that lands at the exact moment we need it most.
Other times, it’s words that cut, hard to forget, echoing in the quiet of years later.
I think about the things I’ve said that I can’t take back.
The first moments, the middle ones, and sometimes the last. Moments filled with love or regret or the aching wish for one more chance to make it right.
There are moments of forgiveness. The ache of not being forgiven.
The people we love who’ve hurt us, and the ones we’ve hurt.
The ones who’ve passed that we’d give anything to speak to again.
The ones still here, but we no longer speak to.
All of it — the joy, the pain, the anger, the tenderness is impact.
All of it ripples.
In expanding my awareness of these moments. How they sometimes seem to collapse time itself in their vibration. I find myself moving through life with more intention.
In my family, with friends, in stores, in traffic.
Energy follows intention.
I’m grateful for all of it. Of course, not always right away.
These days, I meet life with curiosity. Finding my way to be grateful to myself and others. We all have an impact on what shapes us. Forgive when possible. After all, forgiveness, quite literally, is for giving.
The best gift I can give to myself, over and over.
The Mark We Leave
Impact isn’t always grand or visible.
Sometimes it’s a look, a tone, a few seconds of shared humanity.
These moments ripple through our lives. They’ve taught me that connection is constant.
Our lives are made of brief sparks that illuminate like beacons to remind us we are human and connected.
We never really know who we’re shaping or who is shaping us.
We just keep crossing paths, leaving traces — love, laughter, or lessons — like footprints in sand that the tide of time carries forward.
And I suppose, fittingly, that is my Mark.
Author’s Note
As I write these reflections, I feel the gentle hum of all the lives that have touched mine, seen and unseen, spoken and unspoken. Each one is part of of the tapestry of my life, teaching me to live with more heart, curiosity, and presence. May we all remember that our smallest gestures ripple farther than we know.
With roars of love and gratitude,
Jennifer
