talk talk

Some of us feel more at home in "deeper" conversations -- the talks where we bare our souls - where we excavate the depth of life's meaning, of love, of music lyrics, of unicorns, of faith, of personality profiles, of political theory, of metaphysical aspects of trees and how they sometimes speak to us. 

But it's the "small talk" many of us disdain. 

Small talk: the informal discourse about nothing seemingly important. It's the 'how's the weather' and the 'how's your week going?' or the 'it wouldn't feel so cold without this wind' sorta chatting.

Small talk can seem like the air in a bag of unopened potato chips. Small talk is the kiddie pool when we want the high dive. It's the appetizer when we're hungry for the main course. It's that little pocket on our jeans, you know ... the one behind the right front pocket. Does this even have a use anymore?

This is not how God thinks of small talk. This is good news for us, even if we don't like small talk. It's not that God sees "small talk" as more or less important than 'deeper talk'; it's that nothing about our lives so boring to our Lord as to is wear him out.

When we engage in small talk (even when we feel like we stink at it) we acknowledge this truth: God regards all aspects of our lives as worthy of his attention. Therefore, when we likewise show similar interest about the 'little stuff' in each other's lives, we reflect something of how God first loves us.

Think about it: the people you trust most were, at one time, strangers to you. You shared a class in high school, or you worked together, or you went to the same church, or played on the same team. Eventually, you started talking about something "seemingly" trivial. Maybe you discussed about a mutual love of tacos, or why you love the smell of paint (admit it, some of y'all do -- there's no way that's just me), or your favorite music when you were a kid, or the particular way you eat a roll of Smarties (yes, there are particular ways).

The innocuous chats lead to deeper ones. We can't swim the ocean without first wading in the shallower water at the shoreline. We almost always learn to trust others with the weightier parts of ourselves by first discussing the lighter parts. And it's not like our talks with trusted friends only swim in deep water once they reach that point: they meander from deep to shallower, from sad to ridiculously funny, from plain to joyful, from amusing to endearing.

It turns out that small talk works more like mortar between bricks. It's the cartilage situated around our body's joints. It's the marinade for the steak. It's the (environmentally-friendly) straw that stirs the drink. It's the echo that comes after hearing a joyful noise. And we get better at it (and it gets easier) as we keep at it.