Point A to Point B

A few months ago, a new neighbor moved in next door. He’s a singer-songwriter and has had some real success doing it. Super nice guy. Great family. Young kids. Just good people. And on top of that, he’s a Christian. As we’ve gotten to know each other, I’ve noticed something that feels rare.

Almost every conversation we have ends up pointing back to Christ.

We’ll start out talking about guitars, songwriting, or something music-related, and before long we’re talking theology. It never feels forced or awkward. It just naturally goes there. And that’s something I’ve wanted for a long time, friendships where faith isn’t compartmentalized or avoided, but woven into real, everyday conversation. That kind of connection feels special, and unfortunately it doesn’t seem all that common anymore.

The other day, we were talking about C.S. Lewis and how he came to faith. Most people know Lewis because of Mere Christianity or The Chronicles of Narnia, but his conversion story is just as interesting as his writing.

Lewis didn’t grow up as a committed believer. For a long stretch of his life, he actually considered himself an atheist. He was highly intellectual, deeply logical, and resistant to Christianity. Faith, in his mind, felt emotional and unreasonable. What mattered most to him was truth, and for a long time he was convinced Christianity simply wasn’t true.

But over time, that confidence began to crack.

Through friendships, long conversations, and a lot of internal wrestling, Lewis slowly ran out of reasons to keep resisting. He didn’t have some emotional breakthrough. In fact, he didn’t even want to believe. He simply became convinced that Christianity was true, whether he liked it or not.

That’s where the moment comes in I’m really writing about, and what my new neighbor brought to my attention.

In 1931, Lewis was riding in a motorcycle sidecar on his way to the zoo. He later said that when he got into that sidecar, he did not believe Jesus Christ was the Son of God. By the time he arrived, however, he did. No dramatic scene. No emotional rush. Just a quiet surrender to what he believed reality demanded.

One trip. Point A to point B. A man gets in one way and steps out another.

That story immediately made me think of Saint Paul, originally Saul. Paul’s conversion, recorded in the book of Acts, is much more dramatic on the surface, but the pattern underneath feels similar.

Paul was confident in who he was and what he believed. Educated. Certain. Convinced he was doing the right thing. Then, in the middle of a journey, everything he was sure about collapsed. When he got up from that road, he wasn’t the same man who started it.

Different stories. Different intensity. Same result.

What stands out to me about both Lewis and Paul isn’t just that they converted, but how it happened. Neither woke up that morning hoping to be convinced. Both were resistant. Both were thinkers. Both were sure they were right.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of a journey, truth interrupted them.

Lewis later called himself “the most reluctant convert in all England.” Paul went from persecuting Christians to becoming one of the most influential voices in the Church. In both cases, faith didn’t come through comfort or convenience. It came through surrendering to something they could no longer deny.

That challenges me.

It reminds me that faith doesn’t always show up in big emotional moments or perfectly planned settings. Sometimes God meets us while we’re moving. On the road. In the middle of ordinary life. Between where we’ve been and where we’re headed.

I think that’s what stays with me most. God doesn’t always meet us when we’re looking for Him. Sometimes He meets us while we’re busy, distracted, or sure we already have things figured out. Somewhere between where we’ve been and where we think we’re headed, truth has a way of showing up. And if we’re honest enough to let it, it can change everything.

And life never looks the same afterward.