Hope and I took the exit indicated by the GPS: “At the end of the road, turn left.” We stopped at the light and looked around. All the stores had writing in Chinese.

We were in Chinatown in Chicago. The last time I visited was when I was in fourth grade. I don’t remember much about that visit, other than having been there. Though Hope and I only drove through, we decided we need to go back. Nancy and I talked about it the next day. Recently, she had been thinking about finding Chinatown for a visit.

Hope and I drove north on Canal Street. I looked to the left and saw the Pacific Garden Mission. They have been helping people for decades. I listened to their radio program years ago, an old-fashioned radio drama kind of program about lives being transformed.

As we drove, both Hope and I laughed about this adventure of discovery, on our way to something else. That evening, as we sat in a club, waiting for a concert, watching the L going by, watching people who actually live in Chicago, Hope said, “We’re seeing the real Chicago, not tourist town, where people live.”

That morning, I read 1 John and 2 Peter and parts of James. Just passing through. As I read John’s words, I started thinking about the first readers, people who hadn’t grown up in a culture influenced by his words. They weren’t Bible verses but words from a guy caring deeply about other people he knew. As I read Peter’s words, I heard themes he heard from Jesus.

I read these letters like I hadn’t seen them since fourth grade, like I wanted to come back and explore them, like they had changed lives, like real people lived here.

This weekend, I’m going back.