How and why do we decide to approach someone to ask a question or to ask for help? Several months ago, my husband got tickets to take our young sons to a silent movie with live organ music at the Paramount Theater in downtown Seattle. He picked up the boys from school, while I shopped for a roasted chicken-in case they were starving before the movie began. Preventing hunger is my specialty.

As we approached the Paramount and searched for a parking space, a tall man on the street began looking at us. Then he continued to follow us on foot for over a block. When we parked the car, he stood nearby on the sidewalk, waiting for me to open my door or window. I stayed put in the car as my husband got out (he’s 6’6”) and walked around to see what the man wanted.

The stranger spoke only Spanish. He pointed at me and waited until I finally opened the window. When I did, he inquired softly in Spanish: “You are from Santiago Papasquiaro, aren’t you?”

As it happens, my ancestors originated in the mountains of Durango and its best-known city, Santiago Papasquiaro. The man then said that he could not resist speaking with me because, although embarrassed by his physical appearance-he looked pretty disheveled-he recognized me as one of his own in a place where there were few Mexicans. He simply had to approach me. He said he was headed for Spokane to work in the fields, but he had fallen asleep on the Greyhound bus and ended up in “this city where nobody speaks Spanish, like in California.” The man appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He apologized again for his appearance-for not “making you proud of your people”-in front of my husband and children. As a good northern Mexican, he was frank and forthright: he said that he was thirsty. Did I have any water in the car?

I inquired whether he was also hungry. He nodded in shame. I opened the trunk and smiled, relieved that only one leg from the roasted chicken was gone. I gave the chicken to him, along with water and some cash, which he refused until my husband told him it was OK. Then I told him I would be back to look for him tomorrow. He said that he was staying at the Rescue Mission, not far from the theater and across the street from the Greyhound station. Herrera was his last name, which is my cousin’s name. He guessed what family I came from, and told me his first name was Francisco, like that of my oldest uncle.

I went downtown again the following morning, accompanied by my mother, who had just arrived from California. We had a load of clothes for Francisco, but we couldn’t find him. People at the mission said that he had left for eastern Washington. “He got enough money to take the bus from this relative he ran into. He said his prayers had been answered.”

What stands out in my mind now was Francisco’s tranquillity, and how he had prayed the rosary under his breath the entire time we were saying goodbye. As I gave him the chicken, he told me: “Almost a whole chicken, and warm too! My wife must have been praying hard for me today. She is such a good woman.” Later, I came to realize that he was right. What else could have prompted me to buy a roasted chicken before going to the movie that evening-something I never do? Or to have put extra water in the car? “You will find a nice Mexican girl from Durango who will help you,” Francisco’s wife had told him in a dream the night before. But she had not told him where.

Who might be praying for us today? Have we ever found ourselves in some unexpected place at an unforeseen time and in unusual circumstances? Have our wishes ever been met as if in a dream? Is God on the bus, at the corner, at the rescue mission, in a foreign city?