I read an article a while back that conducted a survey on conversations.  Supposedly, the article claimed a deeper, more connective conversation can be had if the small talk is skipped and searching, difficult questions are asked instead.

An example is if you stepped up to me at some gathering and we are total strangers to each other.  You ask without preamble, “What is the most difficult heartache you have experienced in your life?”

More than likely, I would mumble something about not commercializing my heartaches in reply. 

But I guess for the folks who stepped up to the challenge in the survey, it brought about great results.

I will take a stance against such conversations right here and now.  I don’t get a gathering where, as I make my way around the room, I am actively hearing about people’s most private moments. 

Please. No.

Because what happens when you are done with that gathering?  Everyone goes home as a bunch of bug-eyed emotional blurbs and warm fuzzies. 

Pretty soon, you would be addicted to emotional baggage and warm fuzzies and that would be the norm at any function. 

A bird’s eye view of participants shows all with furrowed brows, tears dripping here and there, and slumped, heavy shoulders. 

Give me a break.

A while ago, I was against small talk as such. 

Like the time the school board entered my room with pasted on smiling faces.  We talked about the weather and all sorts of small stuff.  I was screaming inside at them to “Get to the point, boys.”

But lately, and for sure after reading that article, I’ve seen a fair bit of value in small talk.

Of course, it needn’t be the main, or only, course in a conversation.

Small talk seems to give a sense of time and place that I think is necessary to human beings. 

I know we don’t remember half the stuff we talk about in small talk.  And I suspicion we probably never even think about three fourths of the stuff we say in small talk before we say it. 

If I ask you how you are, you will say, “Fine.”

Every time, whether you are or aren’t.

Am I getting too repetitious trying to prove my point?

My point is this. 

We are getting a few Christmas letters sprinkling into our mailbox. 

I like Christmas letters, but if you look at them, they are really a bunch of small talk. 

And that’s exactly what they should be.  They give me a sense of time and place about your life. 

Sure, I guess if you want to broadcast to all the folks on your Christmas letter list your latest and deepest private moment, you can.

But, unless I know you really well, I’ll run the thing through the paper shredder in respect of my feelings for you.  Perhaps would even if I do know you quite well.

So, this is sort of a Christmas letter.

We started out the year building up a new homesite for Austin.  At that point, he had no plans of marrying, although he knew who he would like to marry. 

But God works in the form of coffee cups that arrive in the mail, and a little note that happened along with it. 

And today, he is married to Lindsey Brooke, the one whom he had hoped for, and they are residing in the homesite he started.  And I daresay his cup of joy is full.

We had hardly caught our wind from his wedding and getting him settled when Bryce and I had a visit one day.  It seemed that a meeting I was planning on attending was standing a bit in the way for plans he wished to pursue.

Many miles had separated him and the one he thought fondly of, as she went to Africa, and he to India.  And the space of two years absence didn’t seem to decrease the feelings of affection that the two had shared before leaving for their respective destinations.

So . . . three months after we married Austin- Jan, Lexi, and I landed at Pensacola Florida Airport.  And driving in to pick us up was a western Kansas Ford truck with Bryce and a blonde southern belle named Roxanne. 

But I prefer to call her Doc.  Seems to fit somehow.

Life has settled back some, now that both boys are gone.  The change is good, although it has been thought provoking.

And it gives me a good chance to play disc golf with the sweet daughter.  At least with her, I have a decent chance of winning, whereas with the boys, my whole playing career flashes before my eyes as I watch the long, level throws they make, and I realize that I shall probably never win against them.

And, you’ve probably heard enough from me, via this little blog enterprise, that I don’t need to go on and on.  But I do wish to thank each of you for reading what I write.  It has made this hobby worthwhile, and I hope I can continue for some time yet.

Oh.  My good wife and sweet daughter are doing well, in spite of me, in case you wondered.

Merry Christmas to each of you. 

Enjoy the small talk.