There are few places where human nature reveals itself quite so clearly as a summer parking lot.

I do not mean the grand cathedral-like parking lots of large shopping centres, where one may wander for forty years and still not find the promised space near the entrance.

I mean the ordinary summer parking lot.

The one outside the grocery store.

The one near the farmers’ market.

The one beside the ice cream stand.

The one at the community ball diamond where every vehicle appears to have been parked by someone fleeing persecution.

In winter, we tend to move through parking lots with grim determination. Head down. Collar up. Keys in hand. Spiritual gifts limited primarily to endurance and traction.

But summer changes things.

In summer, people linger.

They stand beside open car doors.

They compare produce.

They admire dogs.

They ask where you got those strawberries.

They comment on the heat with the seriousness of Old Testament prophets.

And somewhere between the reusable shopping bags and the slightly soft peaches, a conversation begins.

This is one of the quiet gifts of summer.

It draws us out of our houses and into the shared spaces of ordinary life.

Not always glamorous spaces, mind you.

The Kingdom of God may be like a mustard seed, but some days it also looks remarkably like two people talking beside a grocery cart with one wheel that has clearly chosen a different vocation.

Summer gives us these little crossings.

We meet people we did not plan to meet.

We speak to people we might otherwise pass by.

We discover that the person ahead of us in line, the neighbour by the flower stand, or the stranger holding a melting ice cream cone is not merely background scenery in our very important personal drama.

They are a person.

A child of God.

A bearer of stories.

A soul with joys and worries, hopes and aches, errands and sunburn.

And sometimes, by grace, we are given the chance to notice.

The Christian life is full of these holy interruptions.

Jesus seemed to welcome them far more than most of us do.

He was forever being interrupted on the way to somewhere else.

Someone called out from the roadside.

Someone touched the hem of his garment.

Someone climbed a tree.

Someone asked a question.

Someone appeared at a well in the heat of the day.

Again and again, what looked like a delay became the place where grace broke through.

This is mildly inconvenient for those of us who like schedules.

And by “those of us,” I mean almost everyone who has ever said, “I’ll just run in quickly.”

There is, of course, no such thing as running in quickly during summer.

You will meet someone.

They will ask how you are.

You will answer honestly by accident.

They will tell you about their garden, their grandchild, their hip replacement, or the fact that the price of cherries now requires financing.

And before you know it, the errand has become something more.

It has become encounter.

It has become community.

It has become, in its own humble way, ministry.

Not ministry with a clipboard.

Not ministry with a title.

Not ministry requiring a subcommittee, though I am sure one could be formed if absolutely necessary.

Just the ministry of being present.

The ministry of looking up.

The ministry of asking, “How are you?” and staying long enough to hear the answer.

Ordinary Time is the perfect season for this.

It is the long green season of growth, and growth often happens in places we overlook.

We expect spiritual growth to arrive through great discipline and solemn effort.

And sometimes it does.

But sometimes it arrives while standing beside the corn on the cob.

Sometimes it arrives while holding the door for someone carrying too much.

Sometimes it arrives when a stranger laughs with us over the absurdity of trying to keep ice cream from travelling down one’s wrist faster than theological reflection can respond.

Summer reminds us that holiness is not confined to church buildings.

God is not waiting only in pews and sanctuaries.

God is also present in the public square, the market stall, the walking path, the splash pad, the park bench, and yes, even the parking lot.

Especially the parking lot.

For there we learn patience.

We learn attentiveness.

We learn that everyone is carrying something, even if it looks like only a bag of tomatoes.

We learn that kindness can be brief and still be real.

We learn that a small conversation can soften a hard day.

We learn that grace often appears without an appointment.

So this week, let summer do its good work.

Go outside.

Walk slowly.

Run the errand, but do not worship efficiency.

Look up from the list.

Smile at the person beside you.

Ask the question.

Make room for the interruption.

You may not have planned anything holy.

But then again, neither did Moses when he noticed the bush burning.

Neither did the disciples on the road to Emmaus.

Neither did the woman at the well.

Sometimes the most important encounters begin when we are simply on our way to somewhere else.

And if, along that way, you find yourself standing in a summer parking lot discussing peaches, weather, or the outrageous price of cherries, pay attention.

Grace may be nearer than you think.

It may even be parked crookedly beside you.

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Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of summer days, for open skies, familiar paths, and unexpected conversations.

Help us to slow down enough to notice the people around us. Open our eyes to those who need a kind word, a listening ear, or simply the assurance that they are seen and valued.

When our days are busy and our minds are elsewhere, remind us that your grace often meets us in interruptions and ordinary encounters.

Teach us to welcome the stranger, cherish the neighbour, and recognize your presence in the simple moments of daily life.

May our words bring encouragement, our smiles offer kindness, and our lives reflect your love wherever we go.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.