The red light lasted forever. It was one of those intersections where you start wondering if the sensor is broken, if maybe you should run the light, and if anyone would really notice. I sat there, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, and eventually did what we all do when we’re trapped in place: I started people-watching.
There was a gas station on the corner where a young woman was pumping gas when a man approached her. He looked disheveled, possibly homeless, moving with that particular gait of someone who’s been walking all day. My attention sharpened. A woman alone at a gas pump, a stranger approaching; I kept watching, ready to intervene if needed.
They talked briefly. He gestured at something. She shook her head. He walked away. I relaxed slightly, feeling a little foolish for my heightened concern. But then the woman reached inside her car, grabbed something, and jogged after the man—chasing him down across the gas station lot.
She caught up to him and handed him what looked like a few bills. They both smiled, talked for a moment, and then she walked back to her car as he continued on his way.
The money was the least impactful part of what I witnessed. Everything else struck me. The fact that she took the time not only to talk to him initially, but also to go back to her car to figure out how to help after he had already left. That she ran to catch up with him. Even from my car window, I could tell that man felt seen. Cared for at a human level. It was such a tiny interaction, maybe two minutes total, but I could feel the weight of it.
The light was still red. I was still watching. Another guy, filling up his tank one pump over, said something to the young woman. She turned; they started chatting, then laughing at something. Two strangers, finding common ground in a BP parking lot, of all places. Community born out of compassion in a place where we typically avoid eye contact, swipe our cards as fast as we can, and leave.
I sat there feeling like I’d just witnessed something important, though I couldn’t quite name it. The light finally turned green.
I drove home thinking about what I’d seen—about my instinct to see danger first, and the woman’s instinct to see something else entirely. About how she had chased someone down to help him. About the way one act of compassion had somehow created space for connection between her and another stranger.
The story of Nicodemus in John’s Gospel is one that I think about more often than most other stories from the Bible. Nicodemus, a respected Pharisee and member of the Sanhedrin, had spent his life building credibility within the Jewish religious establishment, and here was this controversial teacher from Nazareth saying things that made the other Pharisees indignant. Nicodemus was curious, maybe even convinced, but terrified of what it would cost to be seen with Jesus in daylight. So, he came under the cover of darkness, when no one would see him, when his reputation would stay intact.
Jesus received him anyway; He didn’t shame him for his cowardice or test his commitment. He just had a conversation. Met him exactly where he was—in the darkness, in the fear, in the self-protection—and spoke to him.
I wonder what would have happened if Jesus had seen Nicodemus the way I initially saw that man at the gas station. In Nicodemus’ case, he could’ve been a threat to Jesus’ credibility, someone who might be gathering information to use against Him later. Jesus could’ve seen Nicodemus as an interruption to more important work. As someone not worth the risk.
But Jesus saw something else first. He saw someone worth receiving. Someone worth drawing closer, even though he showed up afraid and in secret.
Nicodemus shows up two more times in John’s Gospel. The second time, he speaks up cautiously in a Sanhedrin meeting, suggesting that they should at least give Jesus a fair hearing. Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it’s something. The third time, after Jesus has been crucified, Nicodemus shows up in broad daylight with seventy-five pounds of myrrh and aloe to help bury the body. That is an extravagant, public declaration.
From nighttime visitor to cautious defender to public mourner. Jesus’ compassion in that first meeting, His willingness to receive Nicodemus in the darkness, changed everything about how Nicodemus saw the world. And, eventually, it changed how Nicodemus was willing to be seen in the world.
The woman’s compassion at the gas station didn’t just help one person feel cared for. It created an atmosphere where a second stranger felt comfortable striking up a conversation. Where a BP parking lot became, for just a moment, a place of human connection rather than transactional isolation. Compassion is multiplied just by being visible.
We’re trained by our world to see threats, inconveniences, and interruptions. The homeless man is a potential danger. The neighbor who wants to chat is going to make us late. The coworker struggling with something is going to create more work for us. The child acting out is disrupting our plans. We’re not necessarily wrong to notice these things. Still, when we let those assessments determine our response, when that’s the lens we look through first, we’re operating from a completely different framework than the one Jesus modeled.
Over and over, Jesus looked at people and saw past what everyone else saw first. He saw their need. He saw their worth. He saw potential for transformation. And His compassion drew them closer, not just to Him, but to the life they were created for.
I don’t know anything about that woman at the gas station except what I saw in those few minutes. I don’t know if she’s a Christian. I don’t know her story. But I know she had trained herself to see differently from me. To see need before threat. To see an opportunity for connection before an opportunity for self-protection. And when she did, something shifted in that space. The atmosphere changed.
The kingdom of God is built on seeing through a completely different lens. Being born again means training yourself to see the way Jesus sees. To look at people and let compassion be the lens you view them through first, not just the action you take after you’ve assessed the situation.
The world is full of knowledge, fear, and distrust. It’s teaching us to see threats everywhere, to protect ourselves constantly, to keep our distance. And it’s not all wrong—wisdom and caution aren’t the opposite of compassion. But when suspicion becomes our default setting, when we can’t even watch someone pump gas without assuming the worst, we’ve let the world reshape how we see.
As Christians, we follow someone who received people in the darkness. Who met a Pharisee sneaking around at night and gave him room to grow into someone who would show up in broad daylight with 75 pounds of burial spices.
And who’s still inviting us to do the same.
Compassion isn’t just about what we do, it’s about what we see. And how we see people has the power to change everything about how they see themselves, how they see the world, and eventually, how they move through it.
Let’s start seeing through Jesus’ eyes first so that a glimpse of His kingdom can break through anywhere, even at a gas pump on a Tuesday evening.
Valeria Ramirez is a South Florida-based writer who currently serves as a storyteller and strategist for OneHope, where she helps communicate the importance of reaching the next generation with God’s Word.