The healing began in the most unexpected place — the back seat of an Uber on an early June morning in Honolulu.
As the driver pulled away toward the airport, soft Christian music filled the car. For a moment, I froze. I had never heard worship music in an Uber before. The sound felt like a quiet invitation — a reminder that God meets us even when we least expect Him to.
When I finally found my voice, I asked, “Is that Christian music I hear?”
She smiled through the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”
“So… you’re a Believer?”
“Yes, I am.”
And just like that, two strangers became sisters. She told me about her church, and I shared that I’d been visiting different congregations lately. The conversation flowed easily — joyful, sincere, Spirit-led. By the time we reached the terminal, I realized I was leaving home with more than suitcases. I was carrying a small sign of hope in my heart — a reminder that even in seasons of loss, God still arranges divine appointments.
I settled in for my five-hour flight, then a connecting flight in Los Angeles, to Colorado for my mother’s 89th birthday.
My time in Colorado was spent working remotely for my son’s East Coast company, resting at home with my mom, dining out, and celebrating with my siblings. I think I successfully hid the heavy blanket of grief that was my constant companion.
The July morning air was crisp as I stepped outside my mother’s home, suitcases already rolled to the end of the walkway, ready to begin the next leg of my summer travels. It was one of those mornings that the western sky feels impossibly wide while your heart carries more weight than your luggage.
Second Uber Ride — Communion of Spirits
My Uber driver, a kind man named Doug, greeted me with a warm smile and easy conversation, loaded my bags in his car, and I hugged Mom goodbye. He and I talked about the weather, where we were from, and about how the day was going so far. Then, somewhere along the way, he mentioned his church.
Curious, I asked, “May I assume you’re a Christian?”
He chuckled softly. “You may indeed.
And just like that, a 45-minute drive became sacred ground. We talked about Scripture — about the promises tucked into prophecy, about hope in uncertain times, and about the faith that keeps us steady when the world feels anything but. The conversation flowed as naturally as if we’d known each other all our lives.
When we pulled up to the Denver airport, Doug carefully lifted my suitcases onto the curb. Then, without hesitation, we hugged goodbye — two Believers who had simply recognized the same Spirit in each other.
“See you in heaven,” he said with a grin.
“Count on it,” I replied.
As I walked toward the terminal, I realized that what had started as an ordinary ride was actually the second gentle note in God’s symphony of caring. I didn’t know it yet, but every Uber ride that summer would carry its own divine message — a whisper reminding me that God still travels with me, one mile at a time.
I arrived in North Carolina tired, but revived by the sight of family. Between then and when I left the second Saturday in September, my time was full. I was now in the same town as CoffeeFix. I continued to work remotely, going between Mugs Coffee Shop and home as my offices.
Spending time with my son, daughter-in-love, and three beautiful granddaughters was amazing. In those moments, the blanket of grief was lighter. However, I often stopped and thought about how much they would have enjoyed their Papa.
I was staying at Alyssa and Steven’s, who were only about 15 minutes from Belmont, where Fred and I had called home for 19 years. As was normal, I rented a car to visit dear friends, dine at my favorite restaurants —hot dog and barbecue joints — and travel to my hometown of Harrisburg, then to Concord to see high school friends.
Third Uber Ride — Unexpected Comfort
A few days after settling in, I called an Uber to take me across town to pick up my rental car. The morning was warm and breezy with clear blue skies, not the Southern humidity I was expecting.. I slid into the back seat, exchanged the usual pleasantries, and we pulled out of the subdivision onto the highway.
Before long, my driver began sharing about his life — how he’d moved to North Carolina a few years earlier, how his parents had both been ministers, and how that legacy had left him wrestling with anger and confusion.
“I still believe,” he said quietly, eyes on the road. “I just… haven’t wanted to find a church again.”
His honesty caught me off guard in the best way — like looking in a mirror from years ago. I told him a bit about my own faith journey, about the hurts and disappointments that had shaped me, and how grace had eventually rebuilt what religion once fractured.
By the time we reached the rental office, the heaviness in the car had softened. I told him about my home church, Bethel, and how it had been a safe place for my own heart to rest. He thanked me — not for the recommendation, but for listening.
As I stepped out of the car, he said, “I’ll think about it. And… thank you for praying for me.”
I smiled. “You’re already on the list.”
That ride reminded me that healing isn’t only about receiving comfort; often it’s about passing it on — realizing that even in your own rebuilding, your cracks can let someone else see the light.
Fourth Ride — Connecting to the Familiar
By the last weekend of my visit, I had returned my rental car and settled in with family for a few final days of rest. One afternoon, I made plans to meet a longtime friend for lunch — she still worked at the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association, and I wanted to catch up and see the updates at the Billy Graham Library.
I called an Uber, not thinking twice about it. But when the driver arrived and we began to talk, I couldn’t help but smile at the familiar rhythm of our conversation. Once again, I found myself riding with a fellow Believer.
He mentioned that he used to work as a contractor in the Production Department — and, as it turned out, he knew my friend. We laughed at the smallness of the world, though I’ve long since stopped believing such meetings are accidental.
Our conversation flowed easily, the way it does when faith connects two strangers in a shared language of hope. We spoke of God’s goodness, of perseverance, and of how He weaves paths together for reasons we might not see until later.
By the time I arrived at the Library, I felt a lightness stirring that I hadn’t felt in quite a few years. Not the fleeting kind that passes with circumstance, but the deep, quiet feeling that comes when sorrow has begun to loosen its grip just a bit.
That afternoon, as I walked through the familiar halls filled with stories of faith, I realized the truth that had been unfolding all summer: God had made His presence known mile by mile, conversation by conversation.
Three rides. Three believers. Three reminders that God never wastes a moment — or a mile.
The Fifth Ride — The Word and the Promise
As the afternoon shadows stretched long over Charlotte and storm clouds were gathering in the distance, I called another Uber to take me back from the Billy Graham Library. My driver greeted me with an easy smile and, as we pulled onto the road, asked what I thought of the Library.
I told him I’d been visiting a dear friend who worked there — and that, years ago, I’d actually been on staff at BGEA Headquarters when the Library first opened. That simple exchange opened the door to a deeper conversation. Before long, he began speaking Word over me — affirming what he felt the Lord had in store for my life, declaring changes and purpose I hadn’t dared to speak aloud.
He said, “There’s a woman you’ll meet on your flight back to Hawaii — she’ll need to talk with you.”
I smiled politely, uncertain what to make of his words. I didn’t know his walk with the Lord, but I knew sincerity when I heard it. So I tucked his message quietly into my heart, the way you do when you’re not sure whether to expect something or simply be grateful for the hope it stirs.
That was Friday.
Monday morning, I woke up in Charlotte at Alyssa’s house, preparing to begin my remote work. As I set up my laptop, I realized something was different. My face felt lighter. My heart… quieter. I caught my reflection in the black screen of the computer — and froze.
I was smiling.
Not the automatic, perfunctory smile that had been second nature for the last few years — this one reached all the way to my eyes.
Right there, in that quiet room, I laughed out loud and said, “You did it, Lord. I feel joy again!”
It was the first real joy I’d felt since 2016 — since Fred’s first diagnosis of frontal lobe dementia.
And as if God wanted to confirm what He’d begun, on the last leg of my journey home — somewhere between LAX and Honolulu — I met a young woman on the plane who needed to talk. Just as the driver had said.
We shared stories of loss, faith, and endurance high above the clouds. By the time we landed, she was smiling too.
Full Circle
Looking back, I see how it all fit together:
Five rides.
Five believers.
Five quiet confirmations that God’s grace still travels unexpected roads.
The number five — divine order, redemption, grace — a reminder that what feels random is often woven by design.
My healing didn’t thunder in; it whispered.
It came in songs from strangers, in prayers spoken softly, in the hush between miles.
Somewhere between departure and return, joy slipped back into my heart — unannounced, but unmistakable.
That was my healing season.
The summer of 2024, when my joy came home.
© Karen Dixon | “And Then There Was 1”
Living in the Here and Now
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