I’ve never been great at small talk. Even less so when it’s unexpected, and lesser still when there is a lot of history that is far from being water-under-the-bridge.
And I stand there wondering what’s wrong with me. What’s wrong with me that I can’t say the things that need to be said? That I can’t even point out that, of course, my kids will be a lot bigger after so many years of not seeing them?
And I stand there feeling torn…between this old anger rising up alongside the familiar ache in my poorly mended heart from a hurt that really and truly left me broken, and this prompting in my soul to not be harsh or unkind. So I respond with halting words and a lump in my throat and fail to communicate anything at all.
If only I could take a few hours to think things through and write out all of my responses. Though, in this case, I still might not know what to say…and it might not matter even if I did. I don’t know what is in another person’s heart or mind. Maybe anything I could say is already known and considered unremarkable…or has been confused into something worse…and interactions are merely to appear friendly. Or maybe, somehow, there’s ignorance of how deep these scars run. It’s even possible, however unlikely, that there is some hope of repairing this long-standing breach. But small talk will never reveal any of this, and written responses to random small talk aren’t really a thing…no matter how much I sometimes wish they could be.
So, instead, I spend hours after the fact alternately kicking myself for being so inept at conversation, and trying to figure out why I even care, all while feeling like God is nudging me to prayer about the whole thing when I wish I could just forget. I would hope for reconciliation, but my faith just isn’t that big right now. Still, if God can use any of this, I pray that He will.
