There are few experiences more distinctly Canadian than setting out to accomplish one small errand…
…and returning home an hour and fifteen minutes later because someone was sitting on their front porch.
Alleluia.
You were only planning to wave.
Perhaps you were retrieving the recycling bin.
Maybe you were walking the dog.
Perhaps you simply wandered outside to determine whether the weather was “humid” or “Ontario humid.”
Then someone called, “Well hello there!”
And before you knew it, both of you were leaning comfortably against the porch railing discussing gardens, grandchildren, hockey, the suspicious behaviour of squirrels, whether this winter will be bad because the woolly bears seem particularly fuzzy, and the remarkable fact that Harold down the street somehow continues cutting his lawn three times a week despite there being almost nothing left to cut.
Grace abounds.
Now, if someone from another country were observing this phenomenon, they might conclude Canadians possess an unusual inability to end conversations.
This is entirely possible.
But I suspect something much deeper is happening.
Because porch conversations have never really been about efficiency.
They are about presence.
One of the oddities of modern life is that almost every conversation now seems to have an objective.
We schedule meetings.
We book appointments.
We text ahead.
We send calendar invitations to discuss things that once required little more than walking across the lawn.
Everything has become organized, productive, and wonderfully optimized.
The porch, however, stubbornly refuses to cooperate.
The porch exists in that marvellous space between public and private.
Not quite inside.
Not quite outside.
Not entirely passing by.
Not entirely staying.
It is architecture designed specifically for interruption.
Now, I have always found interruptions rather fascinating.
Clergy live with them constantly.
The telephone rings.
Someone drops into the office.
A hospital calls.
A parishioner catches you just as you’re leaving church with the immortal words, “This will only take a minute…”
Experienced clergy know this sentence has almost no measurable relationship to actual time.
Grace abounds.
Yet some of the most important moments of ministry have happened precisely because the carefully planned schedule quietly fell apart.
A conversation that wasn’t expected.
A story someone finally felt ready to tell.
A prayer offered beside a car in the parking lot.
A laugh shared over absolutely nothing.
The interruption became the ministry.
Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable living that way.
Read the Gospels carefully and you discover that Jesus is almost always being interrupted.
People stop him while travelling.
Children gather around unexpectedly.
Blind beggars shout from roadsides.
Women reach through crowds.
Disciples ask bewildering questions with astonishing consistency.
Meals become teaching moments.
Walks become healing opportunities.
The Kingdom of God keeps arriving in what everyone else considered interruptions.
Perhaps they were never interruptions at all.
Perhaps they were the work.
And maybe that is part of what porch visits quietly teach us.
Neighbourliness cannot be hurried.
Friendship refuses to fit neatly into fifteen-minute appointments.
Community grows one unplanned conversation at a time.
Now, I grew up in a world where front porches were almost extensions of the living room.
People wandered over.
Nobody apologized for stopping by.
Coffee somehow appeared.
Conversation wandered wherever conversation wished to wander.
Nobody seemed particularly anxious about how long it was taking.
The tomatoes could wait.
The dishes could wait.
Even the lawn, despite Harold’s admirable dedication, could wait.
People came first.
Somewhere along the way, we became very busy.
Our calendars filled.
Our devices buzzed.
We became astonishingly efficient at staying connected electronically while slowly forgetting how to linger with one another.
And perhaps our souls have noticed the difference.
Because I suspect loneliness is not cured simply by having more contacts.
It is healed when someone chooses to remain on the porch a little longer.
To listen.
To laugh.
To ask one more question.
To be unhurried enough that another human being begins believing they matter.
That, it seems to me, sounds rather like the Kingdom of God.
Ordinary Time is, after all, the season in which we discover that holiness usually grows quietly.
Not through spectacular miracles every afternoon.
But through ordinary habits repeated faithfully.
Kind words.
Open doors.
Shared gardens.
Borrowed tomatoes.
And yes…
Long porch conversations that accomplish almost nothing…
…except reminding us that we belong to one another.
Perhaps the next time someone calls out from their porch, resist the urge to glance at your watch.
The weeds will still be there.
The emails will remain impressively patient.
Harold will almost certainly still be mowing.
But the opportunity to share half an hour with a neighbour—that may well be one of the holiest appointments you never scheduled.
Grace abounds.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of neighbours, shared laughter, and conversations that cannot be measured by the clock. Slow our hurried hearts, and teach us to welcome the holy interruptions that remind us we are not meant to journey through life alone.
Give us eyes to notice those who need a friendly word, ears willing to listen without rushing, and hearts open enough to make room for others. May our homes, our porches, our churches, and our lives become places of hospitality where your love is quietly lived out in ordinary moments.
Help us to discover your presence in every unexpected conversation, and may we leave each encounter having reflected a little more of your kindness, your peace, and your grace.
In the name of Christ, who was never too busy to stop for someone in need. Amen.