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A Day to Be Thankful For

It wasn’t about Glasgow. Not really. Not the shopping, not the Americano in the street café, not the book I read whilst relaxing there. I had cabin fever. The walls of routine had closed in this week, so I did what my spirit sometimes insists upon: I took the train to Glasgow and let the day unfold, unplanned.

It was about connection.

A street evangelist stood near Buchanan Street, handing out tracts with a soft earnestness. What struck me was his courage—standing alone in a world indifferent at best. But wait—two young, pleasant men approached as I was speaking to the dear evangeliser. They said to him, I see you, my brother. There was a warmth in their greeting, a reminder he was not alone in the apathy of the busy street. These three pilgrims—me included—brought hope to the fellow traveller. We spoke gently, honestly. It reminded me of the early days of faith, when conviction hadn’t yet calcified into doctrine, when love still led the way.

Then in Waterstones, the title of the day had to be And the Roots and Rhythm Remain by Joe Boyd—a line taken from the Paul Simon song. I discussed it with a man, and we entered a dialogue about the strangeness of aging and, of course, books: Zadie Smith, Dostoevsky, Barbara Kingsolver, and many more. But then—we knew someone in common, despite our geographical distances. Talk about six degrees of separation. So much packed in, in the time it takes to down an espresso.

By the time I got to Glasgow Central, I’d missed my train.
“Maybe that’s not a mistake,” I said to myself. “Maybe it’s how we were meant to meet.”
A thought worth keeping under the banner of divine providence.

I sat beside a young Kurdish man waiting for his train to Birmingham. Young—for such depth. Composed. Kind. Filled with hope. He was destined to become an aircraft engineer; may God bless his pathway. Sometimes we carry home in people we meet, albeit fleetingly.

And there it was. The thread that had run quietly through the day. Not city sights, not caffeine or comfort, but people. Encounters. The mosaic of humanity that reminds you how vast and beautiful the family of man is. Different languages, faiths, skin tones, histories—but all bearing the same fingerprints of God. All aching, hoping, surviving, loving.

I took the train home full, not of things bought, but of souls met.

Gratitude, I find, comes unbidden on days like this. It slips in like light through the cracks of a weary heart. I am thankful for the reminder: we are not alone, and the world—despite its noise and sorrow—is still filled with goodness if we dare to look up and see it in one another.

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This past weekend, I found myself weaving through the vibrant tapestry of London’s bustling streets. Some carry with them a preconceived notion, whispered and widely accepted: that Londoners are a reserved bunch, particularly on the labyrinthine threads of public transport. Yet, my experience painted a different picture—a canvas filled with unexpected strokes of friendliness and openness.

It’s curious how a simple “hello” can thaw the frostiest of demeanours. Indeed, some individuals were tough shells to crack, a phenomenon not unique to this city but common wherever humans gather. The initial hesitation seemed rooted in issues of trust and security, but genuine interest and respect quickly bridged that gap, leading to warm exchanges and smiles that softened the sternest of faces.

I had been reading a companion of sorts—Edward Hirsch’s How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry. This isn’t your average introduction to verse. Hirsch dives deep, guiding the reader through the layers and rhythms of poetry.

One segment that particularly resonated with me was his exploration of Walt Whitman’s “To You.” In it, Whitman extends an invitation to the reader, a call to engage in the simplest yet most profound act of connection: conversation.

       “Stranger, if you are passing, meet me and desire to speak to me,
       Why should you not speak to me?
       And why should I not speak to you?”

Reflecting on these experiences, I am reminded of the essential truth that we often meet each other at our best when we are open to the world and to new interactions. As travellers and as humans, when we are removed from the everyday stresses and immersed in the joy of discovery, we find it easier to revel in the beauty each person has to offer.

Through the simple yet profound act of speaking to a stranger, I rediscovered the enduring power of human connection—a theme as timeless as any poem and as beautiful as any landscape. Whether in the heart of a bustling city or the tranquillity of the Highlands, it seems we are all just waiting for someone to extend a hand, open a dialogue, and connect. In doing so, we weave ourselves into a larger human story, one conversation at a time.

Interestingly, one of the most fascinating conversations took place 2000 years ago and someone recorded it:

Luke 24:13-35 NIV - On the Road to Emmaus - Now that same - Bible Gateway

"Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them,

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As I reflect on Pearl S. Buck’s words, "Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them," I can’t help but feel the deep truth and urgency behind her statement. To me, how we treat the elderly is not just a reflection of how compassionate or organized a society is—it's a test of our humanity. When the elderly are neglected, forgotten, or made to feel like they no longer matter, it's not just their lives that are diminished; it's the entire fabric of society that begins to fray.

Growing up in a culture that often celebrates youth and ambition, I have noticed how easy it is for the elderly to fade into the background, especially in modern, fast-paced societies where individualism reigns. But in my heart, I know there’s something deeply wrong with this. It is a sign of brokenness when the wisdom, experiences, and stories of older generations are ignored. Their lives matter. They are not relics of the past, but the very foundation on which the present stands. When we allow them to slip into loneliness, we lose more than we might realize—we lose connection, purpose, and a part of our shared humanity.

 This brokenness is not something we see in every culture, however. I’ve always been struck by the contrast with more communal societies, like the Gemeinschaft communities where bonds are personal, and the elderly are woven into the very heart of the social fabric. There, the older generation isn’t treated as a burden but as a living library of experience, contributing to the community’s identity. It's a reminder that we thrive best when we hold tightly to one another, valuing every person for who they are, not just what they can do.

In these societies, I’ve noticed that the elderly live longer, not only because they have physical care, but because they are emotionally and spiritually nurtured. They know they are loved. They know they are needed. That sense of purpose sustains life in a way that no amount of material provision ever could. When people are made to feel valued, they flourish. They have a reason to keep going because their existence still matters in the eyes of others.

A culture that truly respects its elderly allows them to continue being active participants in life, sharing their wisdom and knowledge with younger generations. This is something I particularly admire in Chinese culture, where respecting one’s elders is ingrained in the social fabric. The concept of filial piety—deeply rooted in Confucian ideals—reminds me that it’s not just about caring for older relatives out of obligation but recognizing the incredible value they bring to the table. The elderly in these societies remain central figures, revered for their wisdom and insights. It’s a world away from the loneliness and invisibility I often see among the elderly in the West.

It is heart-breaking to witness the opposite—a society that treats its elders as though they are no longer needed, as though their worth is tied solely to their productivity. When the elderly fear the young, or worse, feel abandoned by them, I can’t help but feel that society has lost something essential. It has lost its soul. For me, it’s not just an issue of morality; it’s an issue of identity. Who are we, really, if we cannot care for those who raised us? If we leave them to languish in isolation, we are severing our connection to our past, to our roots, and ultimately to ourselves.

I believe that a society which fails to honour and include its elderly is a society that is fractured at its core. The brokenness doesn’t just show up in the lives of the elderly; it seeps into every corner of our world. It’s a sign that we’ve lost touch with the things that matter most—community, continuity, and love. I’ve seen first-hand how older people light up when they feel included, when their lives are infused with meaning and purpose. In these moments, they are not just surviving—they are truly living.

And isn’t that what we all want? To feel like we matter, that our lives have purpose, and that we are loved, no matter our age or ability.

For me, the way forward is clear. We need to heal this brokenness by restoring our relationships with the elderly, by making them feel valued and loved again. If we don’t, we risk creating a society where not only the elderly, but each of us, feels more alone. We lose the chance to learn from those who have lived through life’s greatest challenges and triumphs. We lose the chance to grow as individuals and as a community.

Caring for the elderly is more than just meeting their physical needs; it’s fulfilling a God-given duty that restores a vital part of our own humanity. When we care for those who once nurtured us, we uphold a sacred cycle of love and purpose—one that, by God's grace, may one day return to us in our own old age.