There are many mysteries in life.
Why do socks disappear in the dryer?
Why does the grocery cart with the wobbly wheel always seem to choose me?
And why is it that the neighbour who has lived three doors down for twenty years still introduces himself every Canada Day as though we met only yesterday?
These are questions that may remain unanswered until the Kingdom comes.
But there is one neighbourhood mystery I have come to appreciate over the years.
The Wave.
You know the one.
You’re driving slowly through the neighbourhood.
Someone is watering flowers.
Someone else is sitting on the porch.
A person is walking a dog that appears to be walking them.
And then, without a word, someone lifts a hand from the steering wheel, or raises two fingers from the lawn chair, or gives that wonderfully understated Canadian nod that says, “I see you.”
Nothing dramatic happens.
No speeches are made.
No committees are formed.
No ribbon is cut.
Just a wave.
An entire village could probably be governed successfully by the proper use of hats, good manners, and people waving at one another before anyone had time to become unnecessarily suspicious. There is probably more wisdom in that than first appears.
I count myself particularly blessed in this regard.
About a year ago, Sarah and Matt moved into the house next door. Not long after they arrived, their beautiful baby was born. Since then, life for them appears to operate at a pace known only to new parents and air traffic controllers.
Yet there is something about Sarah that quietly delights me.
No matter the season of the year.
No matter how rushed she appears.
No matter how full her hands are with all the equipment that seems to accompany every outing with a small child—bags, blankets, bottles, toys, and contraptions whose purpose remains a mystery to those of us whose diaper-changing days are long behind us.
She always looks over.
She smiles.
She waves.
Sometimes the waving hand is the very one already holding baby equipment, making it less of a graceful wave and more of an impressive feat of balance. But somehow that only makes it more wonderful.
She always takes a moment to say hello.
I doubt she realizes how much that simple gesture brightens my day.
It lasts only a few seconds.
Yet every single time it quietly says, “I see you.”
“You matter.”
“I’m glad you’re my neighbour.”
It is perfect and beautiful neighbourliness.
And every time it happens, the whole neighbourhood feels just a little warmer.
It has often struck me that Jesus spent a remarkable amount of time simply noticing people.
He noticed Zacchaeus before anyone thought he deserved noticing.
He noticed Bartimaeus when the crowd wanted him to be quiet.
He noticed the woman who touched the edge of his cloak.
He noticed children everyone else considered interruptions.
Again and again, the Gospels remind us that before Jesus healed people, he often acknowledged them.
“I see you.”
Those may be among the holiest words never actually spoken.
Perhaps that is why something as ordinary as a neighbour’s wave carries more spiritual weight than we realize.
Every wave quietly declares:
“You belong here.”
“You are part of this place.”
“You are not invisible.”
In a world where many people feel increasingly anonymous, those tiny acknowledgements become acts of grace.
Loneliness rarely begins with being physically alone.
It often begins with feeling unnoticed.
Modern life gives us endless opportunities to pass by one another without ever truly seeing each other. Garage doors open by remote control. Cars glide silently into driveways. Headphones accompany our walks. Screens occupy our attention while real human beings move past only a few feet away.
We have become astonishingly efficient at sharing geography without sharing humanity.
Yet every once in a while someone interrupts the trend with the smallest possible act.
A smile.
A nod.
A wave.
And somehow the world becomes just a little kinder.
Churches, if we are honest, sometimes underestimate this ministry as well.
We imagine hospitality requires elaborate programs.
Certainly those have their place.
But I have watched newcomers decide whether they feel welcome long before coffee hour begins.
Someone smiled.
Someone learned their name.
Someone waved across the parking lot.
Someone remembered them the following Sunday.
That quiet ministry often preaches a far more convincing sermon than the preacher.
Thankfully, no theological degree is required.
No diocesan committee has yet established a certification process for Advanced Liturgical Waving.
Although, knowing Anglicans, one suspects a subcommittee could probably be assembled.
The requirements would naturally include proper wrist angles, seasonal variations, and a respectful discussion about whether two fingers or the entire hand best reflects the Thirty-Nine Articles.
The meetings would be delightful.
The report would be slightly longer than necessary.
And everyone would still wave exactly as they always have.
Fortunately, the Kingdom has never depended upon perfect technique.
It has always depended upon willing hearts.
Every day God quietly places people along our path.
The cashier.
The crossing guard.
The neighbour cutting the grass.
The elderly gentleman sitting on his front porch.
The child riding a bicycle with far more enthusiasm than steering ability.
The woman walking her dog before breakfast.
Most of them are not asking for profound wisdom.
Many are simply hoping not to pass through another day completely unnoticed.
Perhaps that is why the ministry of the neighbour who waves matters more than we imagine.
It reminds us that every person we meet bears the image of God.
Every acknowledgement quietly honours that sacred truth.
Grace often arrives looking very much like someone who is already carrying more than enough, yet still finds room to notice another person.
Every smile becomes a tiny act of resurrection against isolation.
And every ordinary wave whispers the Gospel in a language every human heart understands:
“I’m glad you’re here.”
That may not seem like much.
But then again, neither did five loaves, two fish, or a mustard seed.
God has always been rather fond of beginning with small things.
Perhaps the Kingdom grows one wave at a time.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the ordinary people who brighten our days with simple acts of kindness—a smile, a wave, a friendly greeting, or a moment of genuine attention.
Open our eyes to notice those around us, especially those who may be feeling lonely, overlooked, or forgotten. Give us hearts that are never too hurried to acknowledge another person, and hands that are always ready to offer a blessing, even in the smallest ways.
May our everyday encounters quietly reflect your love, so that through us others might know they are seen, valued, and deeply loved by you.
In the name of Christ, who always noticed those others overlooked. Amen.