Any time someone feels comfortable enough to share themselves with me, I consider it one of the greatest gifts I can receive. Yes, I’m an extravert and really comfortable with strangers, but I like to think it comes from a deeper place. Because Jesus wants to be in relationship with me, I’m inspired to show others the same sincere hospitality. I can do this by sharing small talk with a stranger, connecting with a new client, or welcoming a visitor at church and inviting them out for coffee. If the person in front of me feels genuinely at ease, then I know God is at work, connecting us as humans. I couldn’t love it more.

Recently I was invited to speak at the Be1 Experience event in Arlington, Texas. The vision of Be1 is this: “Encouraging women to break down the walls that divide us and uniting to do kingdom work that impacts the world.” For this conference, we focused on race, with the themes of listen, love and forgive.

My topic was listening, so I hammered the basics about how listening is the most validating thing you can do for another human being and how defensiveness is a connection killer. Of course, I told a few stories along the way, and I was sincerely surprised when people thanked me for sharing my airplane stories, which were simply my previous travel experiences that came to mind as I was preparing for the event. Let me share three of them with you.

While headed to Washington, D.C., to do some communication training, I started chatting with my temporary new neighbor on the plane. He soon shared with me that he grew up near Money, Mississippi, and said, “You probably don’t know where that is.” Actually, I had just been there, so I told him I knew exactly where it was. I wasn’t planning to share that I had been there to visit the Emmett Till memorial; it’s not exactly effortless small talk with my African American seatmate. Emmett Till was a 14-year-old African American who was lynched in Mississippi in 1955 after being accused of offending a white woman in her family’s grocery store. But when he point-blank asked me why I went to Money, I told him. From there we continued talking, and he began to share details about how he grew up. He told me, “I hated white people, hated them.” I looked at him and said, “I don’t blame you.”

Another time, I found my seat by another African American male. Airplane seats are notoriously crowded, and he started apologizing for taking up so much room. I just laughed and told him the great thing about being 5’2” is that I don’t take up much space, even on an airplane. “Please don’t worry; we will be fine,” I said. So again, we started talking. He was a government official from a small town in the Mississippi Delta. He shared with me about his concerns for the young people in his town and how important education is. He said, “If a young man doesn’t get an education, you know what happens to him.” He assumed I knew, and I nodded confidently because I paid my own dues in hot, greasy, restaurant kitchens during high school and college. People who don’t go to college have to work minimum-wage jobs. But then he went on, “He ends up in jail.” I was glad it was dark, because I’m sure my face displayed how the jail option had never entered my mind. For him though, everyone knew the inevitability of this fact.

One more. This time, the chitchat with my African American seatmate came near the end of the flight. As we talked a little, she showed me a picture of her cutie grandson. She was traveling to Jackson, Mississippi, for her 50th college reunion at Tougaloo. Wow, 50th reunion! Then I did the math and realized the dangerous turmoil she must have experienced at that time. I asked her about her time there, and she began to share how she worked with Medgar Evers and others. My jaw dropped as I babbled out a sincere, but probably pathetic, thank you. I googled her when I got home and was further impressed by her professional accomplishments.

The point of sharing these stories is not that I’m special. I am not. My children may tell me that I’m extra, but that’s a topic for another day. I have made all the selfish and defensive mistakes. And by engaging in small talk with these three strangers, I didn’t set out to do anything in particular, although the interactions ended up being meaningful for me.

The point is that God is working. I fully acknowledge that connection among racial lines is thousands of years overdue, and we have difficult work ahead. But if strangers can have these kinds of conversations, God is working: one on one, person to person, connection by connection. God has certainly worked on me to be able to accept someone’s story as they experienced it. These conversations were gifts because, though strangers, we were able to connect as humans despite the vile history. If a man can tell me he hated white people, then I’m grateful that he can tell me the truth and even more grateful that the hate is past tense for him. If a community leader is encouraging young people to get an education, then I’m grateful and want to learn more about that critical effort. If a woman is willing to come back to Jackson for her 50th reunion, I’m grateful that she was willing to share a little of her activist experience with me and that I had the privilege of thanking her.

When I listen to these personal experiences, and when I consider present and historical facts, hate is the logical response. I’m in awe of the believers whose love for Jesus is stronger than the hate.

At the Be1 Experience, Phyllis Davis, a professor at Southwest Christian College, was one of the speakers. In addition to giving an outstanding presentation on forgiveness, she shared this untitled poem that she wrote. She gave me her permission to share it here, where it will serve as our conclusion.

I saw you come. I watched you go.
Never planned to like you.
You, I didn’t even want to know

Never planned to love you. Didn’t want to care
But there you were and there was I
Our paths crossed everywhere.

The world said, “No, not meant to be.”
So I looked for someone more like me.

Polite I’ll be, but never close
But then came the thing I’d feared the most
For as we traveled, I could see,
I needed you, you needed me.

The days went on, the months flew by
I shared your joys, I helped you cry
I said, “Can someone help me see,
How souls so different – so close can be?”

The answer came was hard but true,
That it wasn’t me,
It wasn’t you,
It must have been the Christ we knew.