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The Warmth of Unknown Faces

"And wasn’t it that author, Gwendolyn Brooks in Maud Martha

who once wrote about all this life and what shall we do with it? Bless her!"

We may have met. Perhaps on the West Highland Way, or was it that day in Dubrovnik, maybe Warsaw or Berlin or the Govan we grew up in. Or perhaps we may never have met. What’s the chances? I was pondering this as I wandered through Glasgow yesterday. All these people—some bright with a ready smile, some carrying their burdens like invisible luggage. The woman silently debating which Christmas jumper to buy for her husband or was it her dad. The man in the wheelchair asking gently for a few coins. The fellow in Waterstones buying six books, moving with the certainty of someone who knows exactly what he seeks. I caught myself wondering about him: gifts, or indulgence? A well-read soul, either way. And there it was again—that restless longing the Portuguese call saudade de conhecer o mundo, that aching desire to know the world and its people.

As the city opened around me, it felt like moving through a tapestry woven from unspoken stories. Each person I passed was a quiet universe, complete, complicated, immeasurably rich. Yet all I glimpsed were small fragments: a glance, a gesture, the turn of a shoulder as they slipped past. It’s astonishing, really, how many lives we brush against without ever stopping long enough to feel the contours of their humanity.

Still, something in me thrills at these brief proximities. I find myself imagining the paths that brought each stranger to that precise moment beside me on Buchanan Street. Were they running late? Were they thinking of someone they love? Were they wrestling with a decision or relishing a secret joy? There’s a gentle magic in the not-knowing, a kind of soft wonder that asks nothing more than attention.

I suppose that’s the heart of it: the warmth I feel doesn’t come from conversation but from possibility. The possibility that any one of these unknown faces could have been a friend, a confidant, a companion for a few miles or a few years. We pass through each other’s stories like shadows—yet the passing leaves an imprint, however faint. It reminds me that the world is wide, and full of people I have yet to meet, people who might change the colour of my days.

As I walked, this thought settled into me with surprising tenderness: even in a crowd, we are not alone. We share the pavement, the weather, the swirl of November lights, the faint smell of German bratwurst as I drift past the stall in St Enoch’s. We share the silent promise that life is happening around us, constantly, vibrantly, and that we are part of it whether we speak a word or not.

Maybe this is why I’m drawn to strangers in the first place. They represent the untold, the unfamiliar, the chapters unwritten. They remind me that the world is not exhausted, that there are still stories waiting beyond the curve of the road. And in that sense, every unknown face carries its own kind of warmth, a glow of potential, fragile but unmistakable.

By the time I reached the end of my walk, dusk had begun to gather over the rooftops. The city lights flickered alive, scattering gold into the evening air. People hurried past, bags swinging, scarves tucked tight against the cold. I watched them for a moment, feeling that gentle ache again, not loneliness, but a yearning toward connection, however fleeting.

Perhaps we have crossed paths somewhere. Or perhaps our worlds will never quite collide. But the thought of you—another unknown face, another story moving through its own landscape—brings a quiet comfort. In the grand weave of things, we’re all wanderers, drawn toward one another by the faint, persistent warmth of simply being human.

And then another thought rose, soft but steady: I guess the warmth toward unknown faces is not only for this world. This echoes something deeper—a recognition that, in the long light of eternity, many of these unknown faces may one day be familiar. After all, life does not end with our brief crossings on a winter street. With eternity in view, there will be more than enough time to meet all those whose names are held in God’s Book of Life. Time without hurry, time without loss, time to finally see each other as we were meant to be.

Many Christians understand the great promise of Scripture as having both a present and a future glow—a hope we taste now, and a fullness still to come. Paul spoke of the hidden wisdom of God, the things no eye has seen, and no mind could yet imagine, made known in Christ. Throughout Scripture the same thread runs: God preparing something new, something whole—a restored world free from sorrow, death, and decay.

If that is so, then every stranger I pass may be someone I’ll one day greet with recognition instead of curiosity. The woman with the jumper. The man in the wheelchair. The fellow with six books tucked under his arm. And countless others whose paths brushed mine for a breath and then were gone.

We move through this world surrounded by lives known only to God. But the day is coming when loss will have no place, when separation will be no more, and when the warmth of unknown faces will become the joy of known ones—beloved, redeemed, gathered into the same forever.

Most likely we have never met. At least not yet. But in the hope set before us, there is always the promise that someday, in the renewed creation God is shaping even now, we will have all the life we need to meet, to know, and to rejoice together in the great story He has written.

“No eye has seen,

no ear has heard,

no heart has imagined,

what God has prepared for those who love Him.”

I Corinthians 2:9 (BSB).

Sweden to Govan: The Circus That Found Us

In his book Quicksand: What It Means To Be A Human Being, Henning Mankell wrote of a childhood moment in Sveg, Härjedalen, when the circus arrived. It did not arrive grandly, not in a blaze of light and splendour, but in a battered, rickety truck that looked as if it might give up before it reached the town square. Its timbers groaned, its tarpaulins flapped, its wheels wobbled under impossible weight. And yet to the children who lined the roadside, wide-eyed in the chill northern air, it was nothing short of miraculous.

That weary truck carried with it a promise. A secret world was rattling into town—clowns daubing their faces, jugglers testing their balance as the vehicle lurched forward, the smell of greasepaint and sawdust waiting to spill out. Mankell confessed that often the anticipation was greater than the performance itself. What mattered was not the ring, nor the tricks, but the mystery of what lay hidden behind the planks, that portal into a world where the everyday was briefly suspended.

I knew that same hunger in Govan.

Our backdrop was different; an industrial heartland where ungroomed dogs prowled the closes, where tenement walls hemmed in the sky, and where winter pressed down like a heavy hand, making the mornings as dim as the evenings. But just as in Mankell’s Sweden, the promise would arrive. Not on a truck, but on the walls. Posters appeared overnight, splashes of colour against the soot-stained stone. Painted clowns with impossible grins, lion tamers frozen in their daring, trapeze artists suspended mid-flight. To a boy in Glasgow, those images were more than ink and glue. They were invitations.

And then came the Kelvin Hall.

To step through its doors was to cross a threshold. Even before I entered, I could smell the sawdust, hear the brass warming up, feel the charge of something other breaking into the ordinary. The lights, the animals, the spectacle—yes, they dazzled. But like Mankell, I discovered the real enchantment lay in the longing that preceded it. The ache of expectation, the way imagination filled in the gaps before the first drum roll struck.

For a few hours, life lifted above its greyness. We were transported, lifted beyond tenement smoke and shipyard clang to a place where marvels reigned. But the marvels never lasted. When the show was over, when the crowd spilled out into the cold night air, a sadness fell, the kind of hush that follows laughter too soon ended. The posters would curl in the rain, the animals would be packed away, the truck would head down another road. And the streets of Govan, like the streets of Sveg, would return to themselves.

Yet the echo remained.

It was not the circus itself that endured, but what it awakened; a reminder of how deeply children hunger for something extraordinary to pierce their days. Mankell and I, strangers in different lands, carried the same memory: that the circus was not a show, but a promise. A fleeting glimpse that life could, for a moment, lift its veil of greyness and dazzle us with wonder.

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“The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” 

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I must have been eight when the janitor at St Anthony's in Govan brought in a big box of brand new books. The teacher handed us all a copy and I sat and got lost in the pages of mine. Many of the pupils got bored with theirs and asked for a change. "Look at McCrory" the teacher said, "He is enjoying his." The truth is, it was boring, but I got on with it and persevered. And if the truth were told, it was the only compliment I ever got from a teacher.

 In Selma Lagerlöf's The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a profound yet straightforward insight is introduced: “The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” This notion implies that the mind, unlike any physical space, expands with its contents. It grows ever vaster with each new thought, idea, or dream. Reflecting on this concept, I recognize its resonance in my experiences, especially in my interactions with others—both enriching encounters with individuals who read and think deeply.

My journey through life has often meandered along paths lined with books, through landscapes rich with paragraphs and ripe with rhetoric. Along these paths, I have met kindred spirits—people whose minds, like mine, seem to thrive on the endless nourishment of words and ideas. There is a palpable depth in conversations with these individuals, a shared understanding that reaches beyond the spoken word, facilitated by our mutual expeditions through literature.

This literary journey does more than just broaden our knowledge; it enhances our capacity for empathy. Like the trees I observe from my window in winter—prepared and eager for the abundance of spring—our minds, fertilized by myriad narratives and perspectives, grow branches and forge connections. Each book, each story, adds a layer of understanding, enabling us to relate more profoundly to others' feelings and experiences.

Moreover, empathy—a quality deeply tied to our ability to understand and share the feelings of another—seems enhanced by reading. Literature serves as a rehearsal space for empathy, inviting us into the minds and lives of others, promoting understanding across boundaries of time, culture, and circumstance. Without this engagement, my capacity to empathize would be stunted.

Reflecting on Lagerlof's wisdom, the more we fill our minds with thoughts, ideas, and emotions, the more expansive they become—not crowded, but enriched and deepened. Those who abstain from reading deny themselves not just the knowledge and entertainment books hold but also the chance to expand their cognitive and emotional capacities.

As I continue to navigate a world populated with both types of individuals—those open to the endless possibilities of thought and those closed off—I strive to advocate for the value of reading. Not just as a source of information, but as a vital exercise in building bridges between minds. My hope is that more people will discover the joy and value of reading, not only for their enrichment but for the greater empathy and understanding it fosters within our communities.

Thus, my journey, much like that of young Nils, remains an inward as much as an outward adventure—an endless exploration where the more I discover, the more I realize how crucial it is to encourage others to open the books, open their minds, and by doing so, open

“No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.”
—August Strindberg

“No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car.”
—August Strindberg

The One Place Time Stands Still

Once upon a time, time itself began—at the moment of the Big Bang. Don’t puzzle over that too much; that’s the work of theoretical physicists.

When Genesis declares, “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth,” time is not only set in motion—it keeps moving forward. Even here, as you read one word after another, the moment you’ve just touched is gone forever. You have a better chance of finding porchetta at a Bar Mitzvah than reversing the clock.

And yet, time does not entirely escape us. The mind refuses to let it stand still. Ask the capital of Scotland and the answer comes quick—Edinburgh. But ask about the last meal you shared with family or friends, and a film begins to roll in your head. A scene is replayed. A moment is captured.

My Captured Moment

I grew up in Govan, Glasgow. My friends and I would take the ferry across the River Clyde and wander until we reached the Dowanhill district, where Avril Paton would one day set her beloved painting Windows in the West.

Windows in the West – Avril Paton

I remember staring into those houses, envious of the warmth that seemed to spill out of them—families gathered, people reading in soft chairs with cats curled on their laps, children leaning over board games at the table.

Years later, I felt the same quiet ache when I looked upon a winter scene in a Stockholm suburb. Something in both moments drew me back to that fairy-tale vision of childhood: logs crackling on the fire, family gathered, the simple comfort of reading and talking together.

It is a reel of memory still playing in my mind. Only dementia could steal it from Image by Copilot