As my husband, Dennis, and I searched out items on our lengthy list, I did what I do any time I’m in an unfamiliar place, be it a new city or a new grocery store: I engage with the people around me, usually through some sort of goofy humor. Before I knew it, I was laughing with another mom in the trail mix section, as we both sought out particular mixes requested by our children. Later in the cheese section, not one but two women recommended an inexpensive-but-tasty cheddar they said I should not pass up. Done! Finally, a worker in the chip aisle came to my aid several times as I searched for a variety of unusual treats. I found myself giddy with the fun-loving community I discovered among the shelves, the kind of community that reminds me of what many of us are looking for when we go to our parish churches.

We go to church not just for Mass, to be fed by the Eucharist and the Word, but to be among those who are searching, just as we are, for something that is not always easy to find in this crazy world of ours. And just as we might shy away from a place in our everyday life that leaves us overwhelmed, we often do the same on the spiritual journey. Rather than dive in and sidle up to someone else who is trying to navigate the same challenging path, we try to figure it out on our own.

Our lives are busy. We often rush into Mass with only a few minutes to spare and rush back out again, not because we don’t want to linger, but because life and its demands can make lingering feel like a luxury or an impossibility. And yet those human interactions are vital to our lives as Christians and as compassionate people on a troubled planet.

My family often jokes about my penchant for striking up a conversation with anyone who happens to be near me — in the grocery store, the library, the doctor’s office. But I find that when I let down my guard and approach someone not as a stranger but as a companion on the way, they almost always respond with happy surprise. I have navigated entire cities like this, relying not on Google or Yelp to get me to locations or restaurants but rather the kindness of strangers and the good advice of those who have been there before.

And isn’t that a lot like our faith journey? We are all on the path together, and each of us has something to offer based on the way we have encountered God. It is only when we are willing to turn to strangers on the sometimes-challenging terrain of our spiritual landscape that we find the spiritual friends and the community that will point us toward the thing we are seeking and remind us that we are not alone.

I’m going to guess that most people don’t go to Trader Joe’s and come home with spiritual revelation packed up alongside the vegetable dumplings and sourdough bread, but the truth is that God’s mystery and majesty are always swirling around us. We think of mysticism as something only for saints who spend hours in contemplation, but it’s always right there, waiting to be plucked off a shelf and gathered into our heart.

This column originally appeared in the Aug. 22, 2024, issue of The Evangelist.

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I waited for everyone to clear out and then went closer to the altar to get some photos. That’s when I noticed an old woman sitting in a pew, skull cap pulled far down on her head, raggedy oversized clothes, big bag full of something at her side. She had all the markings of a homeless woman and our eyes met and we both smiled and I said hello and walked on by. But for some reason, just as I was about to leave, something — perhaps the echo of “Whatsoever you do…” that was running through my head at that moment —  told me to go back. And so I did.

I sat down in the pew right behind her, leaned in and asked how she was doing. She smiled again and asked me where I was from and how long I’d been in town and if I had children and a home. And I asked her if she had any family nearby. She said her 27-year-old grandson took care of her, but it was pretty clear that they must be struggling mightily because this woman looked like she had seen some very hard times in her life.

I told her my name was Mary and she loved that and said she would pray for me. (Her name is Zenobia, by the way, in case you’d like to send up some prayers for her. I think she could use them.) And then we talked a while more — about the troubles in our world, about the need for peace and the need for prayers to get that peace. She pulled out a prayer card of St. Jude and told me to take it. Then she held out a little vial of oil from a nearby shrine to St. Jude and told me to bless myself with it. I did what she told me, all the while feeling that I was in the presence of someone very special. We finally said goodbye, promising to pray for each other, and as I walked away my mind kept coming back to Mother Teresa’s challenge to see Jesus in the “distressing disguise of the poor.”

A few minutes later, as I stood in the gift shop, waiting to buy a beautiful wood carving from Mexico, Zenobia came in, saw me, and told the shop manager, “This is Mary from New York!” Then she asked to borrow the phone, and the woman at the register ushered her behind the counter. She came back to me once more, took my hand for a minute, and then left. I asked the woman ringing me up about Zenobia, and she said, “She is the real deal,” and went on to tell me how holy and good and strong Zenobia is and how she has an “interesting effect” on people. And I knew just what she meant.

So I thought I was doing a good deed by sitting down with a poor woman in a pew, but it turns out I was the one who received the greater gift today. I set out to see a church, but I ended up seeing Jesus.

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