I recently told this story at the Council on Foundations’ Building Together conference in May, so if you were there, please indulge me in its retelling.
I want to share with you an experience that made me reflect upon the brevity of life and why we should take joy in chance encounters.
It was the night before my daughter Abigail’s 7th birthday. I was in D.C. for an overnight trip, and more than anything, I wanted to be home before bedtime to give her a goodnight kiss and wish her a happy birthday.
I rushed out of the meeting to make the 5 o’clock train and quickly jumped in a Lyft with less than 30 minutes to make it to the station from Dupont Circle. “Green lights all the way, please, please, please…” I murmured to myself. It was a prayer and plea to whoever was responsible for controlling the traffic lights in front of the White House during rush hour.

“Where are you headed, Jenn?” my driver asked, trying to ease the total stress ball in his backseat.
“New York,” I said. I then told him how much I had been traveling for work recently and how much I wanted to go home to see my babies. “My daughter is turning 7 tomorrow,” I said. “I promised I’d be home to kiss her goodnight.”
He pulled up Waze and Google Maps on his phone, with all roads plastered in red. “What time is your train again?” he asked.
“5 PM,” I said.
“I usually drive only at night,” he shared. “At midnight, this ride would take 5 minutes. I’ve never seen it like this before.”
Sitting in gridlock, I took a deep breath and texted my husband, Jon. “I don’t think I’m going to make my train.”
Minute by minute, inch by inch, we got closer to Union Station. At ten minutes to the hour, I asked the driver to drop me off before the traffic circle, knowing from experience that I had a zero-percent chance of making the train if we got stuck there.
With my hand on the door handle, I was ready to make a run for it. “Thanks, Henry. I think I can do it from here.”
In the kindest voice from the front seat, Henry’s response surprised me. He hesitated and then said: “Well, I don’t know, Jenn. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
A few moments later, as the next light turned yellow and then red, Henry quickly put on his flashers and said “Ok, go!”
I jumped out of the car and started to run. From the open car window behind me, Henry yelled out: “You’ve got this, Jenn. You’re going to make it. You will get to Abigail!”
I ran across the traffic circle, through the terminal, and onto the train just as the “Boarding” sign was flashing. The doors closed right behind me.
5:01. We made it. Thank you, Henry!
I texted my husband as soon as I settled in my seat: “Success!” to which he gave a heart.
An hour into the ride, my phone pinged with an alert from Amtrak. “We are experiencing delays due to a trespasser strike.” I looked up and noticed that other passengers had received the same message.
You could hear loud groans throughout the car, mine included. The conductor then announced we were stopped, with at least a 90-minute expected delay, probably longer. I called Jon, almost in tears. I knew now that there was no way I was going to make it home before bedtime. And guilt was spreading fast inside me.
In the way that only Jon could calm me down in any crisis ever since we met in college, he said: “There’s nothing you can do about it. Go to the bar car and get yourself some food and a beer before they run out. You will be home for her birthday tomorrow. It’s okay.”
We hung up. I walked toward the bar car to find that the line was two cars long.
The woman in front of me was checking her phone incessantly, letting out loud sighs between text messages. She was visibly frustrated and out of sorts.
This one brief moment helped us turn toward one another, hear each other’s stories, and see each other’s humanity.
I remembered the olive branch offered to me by my driver, Henry, earlier, so I turned toward her and said, “This sucks, right?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I was just telling my friend how easy it is to go to DC for the day for work. Then this!”
I nodded in agreement.
After a brief pause, I said, “It actually took me a minute to realize what ‘trespasser strike’ means. At first, I was imagining a person with a picket sign. But now, I realize someone was actually struck by the train and must have died. As bad as this is for us, I keep thinking about that person and their family.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. At that moment, she told me that her husband died suddenly just six months ago. His name was Ali. Their dog was waiting for her at home, and Ali was his favorite person. He’s not been the same ever since. She was texting her neighbor to come and take their dog for a walk and feed him, not knowing what time she would get home that night.
“Can you tell me more about Ali?” I asked.
She pulled out her phone to show me the last photos she had taken of Ali before he passed away. She shared memories of their marriage and their lives together. “Everything can change in a snap second,” she said before wiping away her tears.
When we got to the front of the line, we ordered a beer for me and a champagne for her as a remembrance and celebration of Ali’s life. We gave each other a hug before returning to our seats, and I didn’t see her again for the rest of the train ride.
I believe that she and I were meant to be in each other’s lives for that one brief moment – to bear witness to the singular pain that comes with a life lost, and the beauty and grief that comes from reflecting on a life lived.
This one brief moment helped us turn toward one another, hear each other’s stories, and see each other’s humanity.
If I hadn’t let curiosity lead me that day, I may have walked away from the line judging the woman in front of me, believing that – in her nonstop texting and loud sighing – she was placing her comfort above someone else’s tragedy. Not knowing she was experiencing a tragedy of her own. How quickly I judged her.
But I’m grateful that the strangers I met that day wore their hearts on their sleeves. In doing so, they allowed me to wear my heart on mine.
By sharing a bit of ourselves with each other, giving grace and a space to be vulnerable, we were able to suspend our preconceived notions, ask questions from a place of curiosity, listen from a place of compassion, and be in one another’s corners, cheering each other on. In doing so, I came to realize, that in all of these chance encounters, we are experiencing this life together.
As a species, we humans have evolved and have made impressive progress thanks largely to our ability to tell and listen to stories. We passed down knowledge of how to make fire, where to hunt for food, and how to raise and nurture the next generation. We traveled across deserts and oceans, carrying stories as a form of currency and inheritance, the values of lineage and heritage.
Yet along the way, the growing distrust, fear, polarization, and self-sorting in our society — because of wars, conflicts, historical wrongs, and ideological differences — have prevented us from taking an interest in hearing each other’s stories.
It’s not hard to understand why we retreat to our corners and become less curious about the unknown. A lack of belonging or a sense of safety makes us put on armor to deal with the external world, from small chance encounters to bigger ruptures in our lives.
But if there is something that can help us see each other differently and give one another a chance, it’s the act of seeing humanity up close.
It’s saying, “Tell me your story,” or ‘Where are you headed?” or “Tell me about Ali.”
It’s asking those you love or those with whom you never imagined being in the same room with, “What are your hopes for the future?”
That’s the power of telling and listening to each other’s stories, something you already know deep down inside you.
Even though I didn’t make it home in time to give Abigail a goodnight kiss, I was able to squeeze her tightly after crawling into her bed around midnight. She stirred just enough to say, “Is it my birthday yet?” before being sound asleep again.
With Abigail peacefully sleeping in my arms, I replayed the day in my head – how much I wanted to run home to be with her, and how much more beautiful my life was made by the chance encounters and strangers I met along the way.