Two moments from our recent trip to California: the first took place in San Francisco. It was near dusk. Daughter Abby and I were walking to a nearby park. We came to a group of people on the sidewalk. They were taking pictures of one of the city’s quaint old row houses. Curious, I asked a couple who were about my age. They spoke in a French accent. I noticed that most of the group was speaking French.

They told me this was “La Maison Bleue (The Blue House).” In 1971, French singer Maxime Le Forestier spent the summer here. He wrote a song simply titled “San Francisco” about that home and friends who lived there in sort of a commune. It’s a well known song in France, and I could tell it meant a lot to the couple. The song was part of their early relationship; they were holding hands as they talked to me. If you are of that era, it might be comparable to a James Taylor song on the radio.

The second moment came at Big Basin State Park. Abby, Pam, and I were walking a trail through the Redwood Forest, my first time seeing those ancient trees. We came around a turn, and there was a young redheaded man on a bench. He was trying to write something. He was crying, sobbing really, and tears fell on the paper.

We stopped and asked if we could be of any help. It turned out he had lost a daughter that morning to a miscarriage. The grief was fresh and raw. We offered what sympathy we could and after a while moved on.

In those two passing encounters, I was reminded how alike all of us are. Like the French couple, those close relationships we are fortunate to have are the gold in our lives. Caring about, being cared for by someone, especially if it lasts over time, is a gift. A song from forty years ago can conjure deep memories.

The grieving father’s emotions are also seated in love. It’s a different kind, that of kin. Children, parents, siblings, none of these are guaranteed; they can all be gone tomorrow. Familial bonds remain with us, even after death.

The feelings revealed by the older French couple and the young man in the forest are universal to our species.

Pam and I have been fortunate to travel some the last six years, all of it around our children. We visited Abby in Spain, Seattle, and now San Jose. Twice we spent time in the South when Ezra was graduating from training at Fort Benning in Georgia. All those places are a long way from our little farm on the prairie.

In Madrid and Barcelona, there is the mix of people that one finds in European cities, including immigrants from Africa, many of them Muslim. In Atlanta and Charleston, African Americans are a large part of the populous. In Seattle and California, Asians are prominent. California has been largely Hispanic for generations. The Bay Area where Abby lives now is the meltingest of the melting pot. At Ash Wednesday Mass, I was one of a small number of Caucasians.

In traveling about, touristing, walking, shopping, there are lots of brief encounters with lots of people. You sit next to someone on a bus. You ask someone for directions. You are served at a café. Then, there are thousands of people you simply pass on the street, maybe offering a brief glance or a smile as one of you moves around the other. And there are little kids. A smile or a funny look at a child is seldom wasted.

Now and then there are conversations. I’ve noticed these tend to come easier at bars, churches, and ballparks for me. A wine or a beer, prayer, and baseball tend to be unifiers. I’m sure there are other things that bring people together in fellowship.

In all the encounters in our travels, I have a hard time recalling any that were unpleasant. That’s thousands of people who briefly passed though my life and hundreds that I spent time talking to. They were all ethnicities and creeds. Like I said, we are all of us more alike than different. One of the joys of travelling is seeing that truism played out over and over.

We are more alike than different. I’ll go a step further and say that most are decent people, good at heart. We come from the same Creator, made in the His image, forged in His love. If you believe that, then every person deserves respect and honor. That includes the young woman working the counter or the old man sitting on a park bench. Offering a smile is the least we can do.

Occasionally you meet a jerk. You have choices. The first could be to respond in love. That might seem a lot to do, but remember we have within us the love of God that was given to us unearned and undeserved. Letting that shine through us is possible. The second choice is to walk away. If we react with anger, we’ve probably satisfied the jerk anyway. Then there are times we need to stand our ground; I am not a pacifist. Those times are rare, though.

We should not be naïve. Don’t let your wallet sit on the dashboard of your car, and don’t walk in certain areas late at night. I should remove temptation from my own life where I can, and I shouldn’t lay temptation in front of others. That’s common sense.

But common sense doesn’t mean that we need to be suspicious of others. There are so many voices telling us to be wary of Muslims, Hispanics, immigrants, etc. We can cloak ourselves in hyper-suspicion. We can turn inward, keeping out others, shunning anyone who looks different. Our community can do that. Our nation can do that. Maybe we’ll be “safer.” But I doubt it.

We are told in Thessalonians, “You are children of light, children of the day. We are not of the night or of the darkness.” Perhaps it is easier to be mistrustful of others. We’ll be right some of the time. But I don’t think that is living in the light.