Every person who has walked into your life was sent.
Not metaphorically. Not as a way of making meaning from coincidence. But in the deepest sense — the same intelligence that holds the stars in their positions also holds the pattern of your encounters.
There are no accidents in this.
We move through our days behind glass — the glass of our own thoughts, our preconceived ideas about what a conversation is for, our agendas, our assessments of the person in front of us before they’ve finished their first sentence. The divine is present in every encounter. But presence requires a particular kind of seeing.
The noise drowns it out.
It is possible to spend an entire conversation with someone who was sent to you, and miss them completely. Not because they said nothing. But because you were never quite there — you were in the next thought, in the reaction already forming, in the story you’d already decided you were in.
The gift passes through the room, and you were looking the other way.
Arrive at each encounter with an openness — however quiet — that this one might matter. That this person might carry something. That the conversation might turn toward something neither of you planned.
The divine rarely announces itself. It slips into the space between sentences. It arrives in the detail someone lets fall without knowing they’ve let it fall.
Nothing that has found its way to you has done so by accident.
The question is only whether you were there to receive it.