Nobody Met You by Accident

Nobody met you by accident.
Not the stranger whose eyes held a question
you did not know you were carrying.
Not the friend who arrived like rain
on a day you had decided drought was permanent.
Not even the one who left—
their leaving, too, had a geometry,
a shape God had already traced
in invisible chalk across the floor of your life.

Before you were a name,
before language learned to point at you,
you were already a thought moving through silence.
You were an intention,
not shouted, not rushed,
but held the way mountains hold snow—
with patience that looks like stillness
until it isn’t.

Every meeting begins earlier than we think.
It begins in the soil learning how to be generous,
in rivers rehearsing the art of turning,
in stars practicing collapse and ignition
so that someday, far below,
two lives might cross paths
on a bus stop bench,
in a comment section,
in a hospital corridor smelling of antiseptic and prayer.

We say coincidence
because it is easier than saying
there is a mind behind the music.
We say chance
because faith asks for nakedness—
and nakedness is frightening
in a world that worships armor.

But look closer.

The leaf does not fall randomly.
It listens to a signal older than wind.
The tide does not arrive late;
it is answering the moon
with the devotion of a lover
who has never once forgotten the appointment.

So why would your life—
this fragile, furious, unfinished poem—
be governed by less care?

You met them when you were ready to break.
Or when you were ready to grow arrogant.
Or when you were convinced
you could survive alone,
a small god ruling a small kingdom of habits.
They arrived like a mirror you did not ask for,
showing you a face
that was both stranger and home.

Some came as blessings.
Some came as storms.
Some arrived softly,
their voices barely loud enough
to disturb your routines.
Others tore the roof off your certainties
and left you staring at the open sky,
learning for the first time
how vast your ignorance had been.

Still—none of them were accidents.

God does not hurry.
God does not waste ink.
Every crossing of paths
is a sentence written with deliberation,
even when the handwriting shakes,
even when the meaning is delayed
for years, sometimes decades.

You thought you were choosing freely.
And you were—
but freedom is not the absence of design.
It is participation in it.

Like a bird choosing how to ride the wind,
not whether the wind exists.

Think of all the moments you dismissed:
the missed train,
the call unanswered,
the conversation that stalled into silence.
Think of how furious you were
with the universe, with God, with yourself.
Think of how later—
much later—
you realized what did not happen
was protecting what still needed time.

Faith matures slowly.
It is not fireworks.
It is tectonic plates learning patience,
continents drifting toward meaning
by fractions of a centimeter per year.
It is the long obedience of seeds underground,
believing darkness is not abandonment
but preparation.

You were not forgotten
in your loneliest season.
You were being shaped
for a meeting that required
a different version of you.

That heartbreak refined your hearing.
That delay taught your feet how to wait.
That silence trained your soul
to recognize a voice
when it finally called your name
without shouting.

God plans with eternity in mind.
You plan with tomorrow, maybe next year.
This is why faith feels like surrender—
you are handing over the map
to Someone who sees the whole terrain
while you are still arguing with the fog.

But notice this:
even the fog has a purpose.
It slows you down.
It forces attention.
It keeps you from running off cliffs
you were too confident to see.

Nobody met you by accident—
not the teacher who planted doubt,
not the child who planted wonder,
not the enemy who sharpened your courage
against their resistance.

Some were meant to stay.
Some were meant to teach and leave.
Some were meant to break you open
so light could enter places
you had barricaded with pride.

This is not cruelty.
This is craftsmanship.

The potter does not hate the clay
that resists the wheel.
The sculptor does not despise the stone
that fights the chisel.
Resistance is not rejection;
it is conversation.

Your life is a conversation
between your will and God’s patience.

Believe this—not as a slogan,
not as a sentence printed on a poster,
but as a lived, breathing trust:
nothing that reached you
escaped divine notice.

Not your tears at 2 a.m.,
not your prayers that felt foolish,
not your doubts that tasted like betrayal.
God is not threatened by your questions.
Questions are how intimacy deepens.

Even now,
as you read these words,
something is aligning quietly.
You cannot see it yet.
That does not make it unreal.

The universe began in darkness,
remember.
Creation did not wait for light
to believe in purpose.

So believe.

Believe that every meeting
was timed with precision
beyond your comprehension.
Believe that every ending
is a hinge, not a wall.
Believe that what feels random
is only unreadable from your current altitude.

One day—
not today, perhaps—
you will look back
and see the pattern emerge,
like constellations
that only make sense
once you stop staring at individual stars.

Until then,
walk gently.
Pay attention.
Trust the silence as much as the song.

Nobody met you by accident.
God has planned everything.
Not to control you—
but to love you
through a story vast enough
to include your freedom
and patient enough
to wait for your belief.

Just believe Him.