We’ve been coming here for years. Life slows down, the cycle of the moon is traced, the belt of the Milky Way is marveled at each night. But this year was different; it was the Year of the Christians.

That’s a broad term, of course. I’m referring to Christians of a Bible-thumping nature, the kind who meet and worship regularly — beyond the every-Sunday format — and would like nothing more than to convert a troubled soul into embracing the fold. I’m talking about those who believe that God is a higher power who sits above, making decisions and creating havoc upon those who deserve it and/or who need their faith tested in some way. Those who think Their Way is the Only Way.

My saga starts in the trailer. For the first time, we’re assigned the doublewide trailer at the resort we stay at each year. The doublewide is a dream I didn’t know I had come true. Plenty of room, paneling, an intercom system, a TV that features static on every channel, plus prayerful homilies on plaques throughout its expanse.

Unfortunately, we have to leave the trailer at the end of the first week, so we pack up and move to a smaller cabin nearby. We have a recycling sack in the trailer. As part of our move, I take it to the area where the recyclables can be separated into containers.

I’m surprised, though, to find a plaque in the sack, nestled among the beer bottles and pop cans. It’s about 3-by-6 inches and it says, “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.”

I’m not a Christian, but no matter your denomination or belief system or spiritual choice, it’s a pretty cool thought, a way of putting trust in the mystery of existence. I return the plaque to the trailer, locating its empty nail hanging just above the recycling sack.

A couple of days later, I’m driving with my 13-year-old son. I see a basketball friend riding a bicycle. He and his son, who live in the southern part of Wisconsin, are very talented and I feel a b-ball kinship with them. I introduce him to my son, chitchat a moment, then drive away.

The next night, at basketball, the following conversation ensues. Him: So, can I ask you a personal question? Me: Sure. Him: I met your son. Would you say he’s rebellious? Me: He’s 13. Him: Let me suggest something to you. Have him read the Book of Proverbs. Me: Um. OK. Him: Don’t bug him about it. Just ask him if he’s read it and if he has any questions.

Fortunately, the game begins. Later that night, I tell my son about the incident. To my surprise, he says, “Sure, let’s read it.” So we do. There’s a Bible in the cabin — you know, one of those Gideons-placed Bibles. I crack open Proverbs.

Before long, I am in Chapter 3, Verse 6 and here is what it says: “In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.” I stop, stunned. I’m fond of saying that synchronicity is the spice of life, but I’m not accustomed to my synchronicities being sparked by Christians.

The next day I take a bike ride. Inevitably, I’m thinking of the verse, letting the road unfold before me. I enter an area of the island I’ve never explored. Seeking a drink of water, I find a park and walk my bike into its tiny environs.

There’s a young man sitting at a picnic table, wearing a sweatshirt that says Venice Beach Lifeguard. I ask him if he’s a lifeguard. He laughs and tells me no, he bought it for 10 bucks. I notice, then, that he’s reading the Bible. Knowing the answer, I ask him anyway if he knows the father and son with whom I play basketball. “Sure,” he says. “We had a bonfire at their place last night.”

A few moments later, I tell him where I’m staying. He beams. “We’re coming over there after worship this evening!”

The Christians are coming, I’m thinking. Coming to where I’m staying. Coming to get me. We say good-bye. I pedal home and await the Christians. They arrive at last, play volleyball, hang out at the fire on the beach. The basketball son is there, but not his dad. My lifeguard friend is there, too, spiking the volleyball.

My saga has no slam-bam climax. I decided not to be afraid of the Christians. I was not proselytized and the ones I talked to were nice. My dispute with them, other than political differences, is mainly spatial. God is a bottom-up phenomenon to me, not a top-down one. God is in the details, the minutiae that intertwine on visible and invisible planes in ways I will never understand, but seek to experience.

Despite this, the Christians and I can walk the path, sensitive to the signals, always arriving alert to the destination. It’s not the same path, but its discoveries may share similarities.