The City Beyond the Window
The train ran south out of Porto, and for the last stretch, the river came out to meet us.
It widened beside the tracks until it seemed to forget it was a river at all. It was broad and silver, wrinkled by the wind, holding the whole afternoon sky. Terracotta roofs crowded the far bank. A gull hung over the water without moving its wings.
I leaned my forehead against the glass, cool against the carriage's warmth.
Lisbon.
I had seen the photographs. Everyone has. Pastel houses stacked up the hillsides like boxes of sugared almonds. Walls dressed in blue-and-white tiles. And those little yellow trams, climbing streets far too steep for anything on wheels.
But a photograph has no smell. It has no sound. You can’t feel a photograph under your feet.
The brakes sighed. The doors opened.
And Lisbon stopped being a picture.
It greeted me with hills.
Not polite hills. Proper ones. The kind that make you wonder whether whoever laid out this city had ever been introduced to a pair of human knees.
The pavement was a mosaic of small white stones, polished by centuries of footsteps, slick as soap where the sun struck them. I walked like a woman crossing a frozen pond and laughed at myself.
Everywhere, staircases. Everywhere, color. Buttercream, faded rose, a blue so soft and tired it looked like a sky someone was remembering. Laundry hung from iron balconies: a red tablecloth, a row of small white socks, someone’s Sunday shirt, lifting and settling in the breeze.
And something in me loosened. I knew this rhythm. Unhurried coffee, neighbors calling across the street, life simply happening. It was the Europe I had grown up in, before life became something to manage.
And the air.
Coffee, dark and roasted. Bread somewhere close, still warm. The cool breath of damp stone in the shade. Something sweet and caramel-burnt drifting from a doorway I couldn’t see.
Then, above the footsteps and the voices floating from open windows, ding-ding.
A bell. Bright and a little impatient.
I turned.
It came around the corner the way a small dog enters a room, perfectly certain it belongs there. Yellow and cream, wood and glass, swaying on its rails, squeezing between buildings that seemed to lean back to let it pass. Overhead, the wire hummed and spat one tiny blue spark.
Tram 28.
I watched it grind uphill, wheels squealing on the curve, and disappear.
Well. There was no question about it. When the next one came, I climbed aboard.
Inside, it smelled of old varnish, warm metal, and the faint perfume of the woman ahead of me. The wooden benches had been worn into gentle hollows by the better part of a century of other people’s sitting. The brass handrails were rubbed bright where hands had held on. Up front, the driver stood with one hand resting on a big brass lever, as calm as a man stirring soup.
I slid onto a bench by the open window and settled my guidebook on my lap. I had carried it all the way from home. Its pages were soft from turning, its corners folded, its margins full of my little notes.
And there, beside me, was Jesus.
“You look rather pleased with yourself, Beloved.”
“Wouldn’t You be? Look at this darling little thing!”
The tram lurched. I grabbed the seat in front of me, and the guidebook nearly slid to the floor.
“Good heavens!” He laughed. “A peaceful afternoon, you said.”
“Very peaceful. Provided we survive the corners.”
Lisbon began to slide past the window, like a painting someone was unrolling just for us.
A woman leaned over her balcony, calling down to a man carrying a bag of oranges.
An old gentleman sat outside a café with a cup no bigger than a thimble.
Geraniums blazed red in tin cans.
A cat slept in a doorway, utterly unbothered by the century rattling past its nose.
Then I saw a café.
It had a blue door, two small tables under a striped awning, and a glass case full of golden pastries in the window, their tops scorched into little dark blisters.
“Oh, Jesus, look at that one.”
“Shall we stop?” He smiled.
“Later. I want to see where this goes first.”
The tram climbed into the oldest streets, so narrow I could have reached out and touched the tiles. Cool shadow. A sudden slab of sun. Shadow again. Through a gap between the roofs, the river flashed silver and was gone.
I opened the guidebook and found the page. The oldest quarter of the city. Survived the great earthquake of 1755. Note the narrow lanes and the original tilework. I ran my finger along the lines, nodding, learning, underlining.
Outside, a woman was watering flowers on her windowsill. A drop of water fell, darkening the stones below. I didn’t see it land.
“Beloved.”
I looked up.
He nodded toward the page, then toward the window. “You’re reading about the street you’re on.”
I looked down at the guidebook. Then out at the street. The very lane in my book was sliding past me, warm and alive, and I had been studying it in black and white.
I laughed, a little embarrassed. But I didn’t close the book.
The farther we went, the older everything became. Crumbling plaster. Doorsteps worn into soft curves. Walls that had stood through earthquakes and fires and centuries of other people’s afternoons.
I grew quiet.
“You’ve gone somewhere,” He said.
“Backward, I think.”
He waited. He is very good at waiting.
“I’ve spent so many years riding in this direction,” I said slowly. “Back into my past. Trying to understand everything. Why that hurt so much. Why I react the way I do. Why certain things frighten me.”
I traced a groove in the wooden windowsill. “And I needed that, Jesus. Truly. Some of those streets had to be walked. Some of it healed me in ways I can’t even put into words. I’m so grateful.”
“But?” He turned and looked at me.
“But there was always another street. Another memory. Another book. Another layer to peel back.” I smiled a little. “I think I believed that if I could understand it all, resolve it all, then I could finally live freely.”
The tram shuddered to a stop at the end of the line. People gathered their bags and stepped down onto the stones. The car sat humming, waiting to go back the way it had come.
I didn’t move.
I’m not sure I knew how.
I looked around, then glanced at Jesus. “Well, I suppose we could go back the other way.”
“Is that what you’d like?”
I paused. “Why not? We might see something we missed.”
And so, after changing direction, we found ourselves traveling back through the city.
The same streets. The same tiles. The same cat, still asleep. Everything was only slightly different from the other side, like a familiar room in a mirror.
And somewhere along the way, my mind turned around with the tram.
“This is the other direction,” I said.
“Which is?”
“The future.” I laughed, not entirely happily. “How can I prepare better? How do I make sure I’m never hurt like that again? How do I become healthier, wiser, more secure? How do I see everything coming before it arrives?”
The wheels screamed on a curve. I held on.
“If I can just improve enough,” I said, “then I can finally live safely.”
And then I saw it.
“Jesus. Look.”
The blue door. The striped awning. The blistered pastries in the window. The same café.
It slid past my window, close enough that I could smell the coffee. And it slid away.
I turned in my seat to watch it go. “I’ve passed it twice now,” I said softly.
“You have.”
“Going one way, I was looking back. Going the other way, I was looking ahead.” I swallowed. “And both times, I rode right past it.”
Neither of us spoke.
Outside, a little boy walked beside his father with powdered sugar on his chin. Two women laughed over coffee at a tiny table. A shopkeeper stood in his doorway with his face turned up to the sun, eyes closed, doing absolutely nothing at all.
And the understanding came. Not like thunder. More like a door swinging quietly open.
“They were different trams,” I said. “But they were running on the same track.”
He turned toward me.
“Both of them told me the same thing. There was something I had to settle first. Understand first. Heal first. Prepare first. And then, only then, could I really live.”
I looked down at my hands. “One looked back for the answer. The other looked ahead for it. And both of them kept me away from today.”
“And the riding itself?” He asked gently. “The learning, the healing, the planning?”
“Oh, those were never the problem.” I shook my head. “I needed them. I still do. The problem was that I made life wait at the station until they were finished.” I almost laughed. “I never even decided what finished would look like.”
The tram swayed. Warm wind came through the window, carrying the smell of bread and something sizzling in olive oil.
People were walking past little shops, stopping for coffee, disappearing into narrow alleyways, and climbing staircases that led to places I couldn’t see from my seat.
I watched a woman leave a bakery carrying a paper bag. She stopped to greet a friend, and the two stood talking beneath a flower-covered balcony.
The tram carried us away.
“Jesus, do You know what’s funny?”
“What is it?”
“I keep looking at all these places and thinking how lovely it would be to visit them. But here I am, still sitting on the tram.”
“You’re enjoying the ride.”
“I am. Very much.”
He looked at me for a long moment, the way only He can, as if He were reading the page I had never written down. “Is that why it’s so hard to get off?”
The question went straight through me.
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I had stayed on because I wasn’t ready, or because there was still so much to understand. All of that was true.
But it wasn’t the whole truth.
“Every round felt like I was getting closer,” I said quietly. “Another book. Another class. Another sermon. Another tool. Another teaching. Another better way to think about it. Every time, it felt like something was about to open.”
I ran my thumb along the worn edge of the guidebook.
“And every one of them was good. Some of them changed my life. That’s what made it so hard to see. It kept me busy. It made me feel full. It gave me purpose. I truly believed that if I just kept going, kept improving, I would finally have the life I was longing for.”
I hesitated.
“I think I got attached to the ride itself. Somewhere along the way, I couldn’t stop going around.”
“And if you got off?” Jesus turned toward me.
I didn’t answer right away. The bench creaked beneath me as the car leaned into another corner.
“Then I’m afraid it would all feel...” I searched for the word. “Ordinary.”
“Riding through Lisbon,” He said softly, “and living in Lisbon aren’t quite the same thing, are they?”
“No,” I whispered. “They aren’t.”
Somewhere below us, the bell clanged twice. A group of passengers stepped down onto the pavement.
“Look at them,” I said.
Jesus followed my gaze.
“They’re getting off. They’re going somewhere. Perhaps to work, perhaps to meet a friend, perhaps just to walk around. They might get lost. They might have a wonderful afternoon. Something might go wrong. Something unexpected might happen.”
“And then?”
I laughed. “Then they’ll deal with it!”
I turned toward Him.
“That’s what I’ve been missing. Life doesn’t need to be completely understood before I can take part in it. I don’t need to know every street in Lisbon before I can enjoy walking through it.” I paused. “And if I get lost, I can ask for directions.”
His eyes were bright. “That sounds rather reasonable.”
“Doesn’t it?”
We laughed.
For a while, we rode in comfortable silence. The tram swayed gently, and the city kept passing outside our windows. Then another thought came. I could feel it beneath the rest, the way you feel a pebble in your shoe before you find it.
“Jesus, I think I had it upside down.”
He waited.
“Life was supposed to be the thing I was living, and the learning, the healing, the improving, the growing were supposed to happen inside it. But somewhere along the way, I turned it around. Fixing and improving became my life, and living got squeezed in around the edges. Whatever time was left over.”
“And joy?”
“Joy felt like something waiting for me at the end. Rest too. Even feeling close to You. Once I had done enough.”
I swallowed.
“And honestly, an ordinary day frightened me. It felt small. As if a life that mattered had to be intense, always purposeful, always reaching for something bigger. I’ve been like a woman who tends a vineyard her whole life and never once sits down to taste the grapes. Or if she does, it’s only to check whether they’re good enough yet.”
My throat tightened. I couldn’t look at Him.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look surprised. He rarely does.
Sunlight slid across His hands and was gone.
He was quiet for a moment. Then He leaned back against the worn wood. “Do you remember the older brother?”
“The one who stayed home?” I grew quiet.
“He worked in his father’s fields every single day. Faithfully. And when the feast began, he stood outside in the dark, listening to the music. He thought joy was something you earned.” He looked at me. “Do you remember what his father told him?”
I did. I had underlined it years ago. “ Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”
“It was always his, Beloved,” He said softly. “He only had to come in.”
He took my hand.
“And it has always been yours. My love. My presence. Joy. Rest. Your life. You were never earning them. You’ve been living from the next round. What if you lived from what you already have? From who you already are? From what you already know? That I love you. That I see you. That I hear you.”
My breath caught.
I did know that. I had known it for years. I had underlined it, studied it, and taught myself to believe it.
I just hadn’t been living from it.
“Will you trust Me with today?” He asked.
My eyes filled.
All these years, I had been changing direction. When the past grew heavy, I turned toward the future. When the future grew exhausting, I turned back toward the past. Back and forth, back and forth, as though the answer must be waiting at the end of one line or the other.
It had never occurred to me that a third possibility existed.
The tram began to slow.
Jesus rose.
And it struck me that He had ridden every round with me. Every direction. Every loop. Not once had He hurried me or scolded me for staying on.
He stepped to the doors as they folded open. Sunlight poured in around Him, and the sounds of the street came with it: voices, footsteps, the clink of cups somewhere close.
“There is a time for riding, Beloved,” He said. “It was good, and I was with you in it.”
He held out His hand. “But this is the time to step off. Come.”
Come. The same word He once spoke across the water to a fisherman standing in a boat.
I looked at His hand. Then at the street behind Him. Then down at the guidebook in my lap.
“What if it’s just ordinary out there?” I asked.
“Then it will be ordinary with Me.”
He looked out at the street, at the woman with her paper bag, the old man with his coffee.
“Beloved, do you think life is only meaningful when you’re improving yourself, your life, or your relationships? A day you spend baking bread is as precious to Me as a day you spend studying. Working. Sitting in the sun. Laughing with a friend over coffee. Curling up with a movie. That isn’t time away from Me. That is life. And I am in all of it.”
I closed the guidebook and started tucking it away.
“Bring it,” He said. “It’s a good book. Just don’t read about the city instead of walking in it.”
I laughed and slipped it into my bag. Then I stood, straightened my dress, and put my hand in His.
“We’ve been looking at Lisbon all afternoon,” I said.
His eyes were shining. “Then let’s go and see it.”
And I stepped down.
The stones were warm through my sandals. The city welcomed us with all its sounds and colors. Behind us, the bell rang, and the tram ground away up the hill, still carrying its passengers, still running in both directions.
There was nothing wrong with the tram. It had carried me through beautiful places. It had shown me streets I might never have discovered on my own. And if I needed to ride it again someday, I could.
But I hadn’t come to Lisbon merely to spend my days looking through its windows. I had come to experience the city.
I looked up at Him. “Do You know what I find so interesting?”
“What?”
“I didn’t need to change the direction of the tram.” I smiled. “I needed to get off.”
We walked. And for the first time all day, I wasn’t steering anything. The streets led, and we followed. Down a crooked staircase where someone had set out pots of basil, sharp and green as we brushed past. Past a little shop of painted tiles, their glaze cool and glassy under my fingertips. Past an open window where a radio played something mournful and lovely in a language I only half understood.
Then I saw it. The blue door.
“Jesus! Look!”
He turned. “The café?”
“Yes! The very one!” I laughed. “Can You believe how many times I passed this place, thinking how lovely it would be to sit here?”
“And now?”
“Now I’m going to find out.”
We chose a little table beneath the awning. The waiter set down two small cups of coffee, black, strong, and bitter. Beside them came two pastéis de nata on a white plate, with little shakers of cinnamon and powdered sugar. I dusted mine with both.
Of course I did.
I lifted it, and before it reached my lips, I caught myself. Was this really the best one in Lisbon? Was it too sweet? Would the bakery down the hill have been better?
Jesus leaned across the little table, His eyes dancing.
“Beloved. Just taste it.”
So I did.
The pastry was still warm. When I bit into it, the crust shattered, a hundred thin leaves of butter crackling between my teeth. Then came the custard, soft and trembling, sweet as a Sunday morning, with that scorched caramel crown that tastes almost like smoke. There were crumbs everywhere. On the plate. In my lap. One on my chin.
I closed my eyes. “Oh, my goodness. This is absolutely delicious!”
His smile widened. “Was it worth getting off the tram?”
“Every bit of it.”
Jesus laughed. “So that’s what the grapes taste like.”
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the rest of my pastry.
For a while, we simply sat together, watching Lisbon unfold around us. No urgent questions. Just the warmth of the sun, the sweetness of a pastry, the sound of conversation, and the pleasure of being together. The coffee steamed. A pigeon worked hopefully at the crumbs near my foot.
Down the hill, the tram bell rang again, faint now, like something from another life.
Across the street, a woman shook a rug from her window, and the dust turned to gold in the light.
Jesus sat across from me with His coffee, perfectly content, looking at nothing in particular.
Sometimes a beautiful afternoon is simply a beautiful afternoon.
I looked at Jesus. “You know, I think I remember how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Live.”
He smiled, and His eyes were warm.
“I came here to enjoy Lisbon,” I said. “I didn’t come looking for some grand revelation.”
“And yet?”
“And yet I learned something.” I laughed softly. “That’s the beautiful part, isn’t it? I live. And sometimes, as I live, I learn.”
I glanced toward the street. “There will still be things to understand. Things to heal. Plans to make. Books to read. Sermons to hear. Questions to ask.” I looked back at Him. “But those things belong inside my life. They were never meant to replace it.”
Somewhere in the distance, the little yellow tram rang its bell. Still traveling. Still carrying passengers through the city. Still moving in both directions.
But this time, I wasn’t aboard. I was sitting in a café, enjoying an ordinary afternoon with Jesus.
And nothing needed to be resolved for that moment to be beautiful.
I hadn’t stopped learning. I hadn’t stopped growing. I hadn’t stopped loving God or wanting to know Him more. I had simply stopped making living the reward for everything I still needed to learn.
I am living from who I already am. And from Who He already is.
I am living from what I already have. From what I already know: I am loved. I am seen. I am heard.
Not from fear. From trust.
It felt like coming home. To myself. To my life. To Him.
Life was already happening.
And He was already here.
Whispers to the Heart
Dear Heart, perhaps you’ve been riding a tram too.
Maybe yours runs backward, into everything that happened and everything you’re still trying to understand. Maybe it runs forward, into everything you’re trying to prepare for, prevent, or become.
Maybe, like me, you’ve ridden both, back and forth, believing that at the end of one line or the other, life would finally be ready for you.
Your tram may look nothing like mine. It might be books, or health, or ministry, or simply the endless work of becoming better. But the question is the same: what has quietly become your life, while living waits at the station?
If you are just beginning to heal, please hear me: this is not a call to stop. Some streets need to be walked, and some memories need tending. Ride as long as you need to. Jesus is right there beside you, and He will never hurry you.
To everything there is a season. My riding had its season, and it was good. I simply missed the moment the season changed.
Listen to the difference:
I study how to live. I live, and sometimes I learn.
Life is whatever is left after I work on myself. Learning, healing, and growing are part of the life I’m living.
I must grow spiritually to live correctly. I live, and I grow.
An ordinary day is too small to matter. An ordinary day, lived with Him, glorifies God.
Joy, rest, even His presence are rewards I earn by getting it right. They are gifts I’m already invited to receive.
The tram was never the enemy. Learning is good. Healing is holy. Planning is wise. The tools, the sermons, the Bible studies, and the books on our nightstands are gifts, and each has its time and place.
But we can get it upside down. We can turn the work of becoming into life itself, and fit living in around the edges. We can tend the vineyard and never taste the grapes. Like the older brother, we can stand outside the feast, still working, while the Father has already said: All that I have is thine.
Baking bread. Laughing with a friend. Eating chocolate. Sitting in the sun with a cup of coffee. These are not interruptions to a meaningful life. They are life, and He is in every one of them.
Perhaps we don’t need another direction. Perhaps we simply need to hear Him say, Come.
And then trust Him. Trust that who we are and what we already have is enough. That we are already loved, seen, and heard.
We can step off. Not because everything is finished, but because we were invited in long before it was.
From The Little Yellow Tram:
Where in my life am I watching through the window, waiting to be ready?
When did I last sit with Jesus and let it be enough to simply be with Him?
A few verses to sit with:
Psalm 118:24, Psalm 34:8, Luke 15:31, 1 Corinthians 10:31, Ecclesiastes 3:1, Ecclesiastes 9:7, Matthew 14:29, 3 John 1:2
