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The Art of an Informal Greeting...?
I cannot socialize, at all!
For those of you who know me well, you know that balancing a conversation, speaking face to face, is not something I am able to do with any amount of grace. I'm not sure why, but speaking, in any form, does not come naturally for me. It never has.
Before I became a writer, I worked in the screen printing industry and managed a small-scale production crew. How I was chosen for the promotion I'm not exactly sure, but somehow I found myself in a position where I was required to converse on a minute-by-minute basis. For seven years I managed that crew, and over the course of those years, I learned, more or less, how to communicate.
I have never enjoyed conversations, but sixteen years ago, I found myself in the midst of an imperative one and I readily admit, I was in a state of panic."There are some things in life she would never forget," is one of my lines from Waves of Sorrow, and I'm going to borrow it now: There are some things in life I will never forget, and that conversation is, most certainly, one of them!
The year was 2002, the place was Nasuli, Philippines, and my seat was the top of a picnic table.
My father is a preacher. I don't say this to endorse myself in any way, it's merely a fact: He is the one who gave my faith its foundation. In 2001, God placed a calling on his heart to minister to the poorest of the poor--the Bajau people of the Philippines. He packed up my mother, my youngest sister, and myself, and we flew across the Pacific Ocean to the city of Davao, where we would live for the next seven months.
Thus, a pair of sixteen-year-old mountain-raised girls lived in a city of one million people. We were American and therefore, a phenomenon. The majority of those around us, although most spoke English, were quite literally, foreign, and we knew no one. To make matters even more difficult, our parents couldn't afford for us to attend Davao's school for missionary kids, and their solution was this: we would accompany the other MKs, the kids from the school, to a week-long camp on the other side of the island with the hope that we would make friends.
For a fearful child such as myself, this was terrifying, and as I sat upon that picnic table next to one of the school's teachers, I began to panic. She loved to talk, and I quickly became unnerved. As I said before, I do not converse face-to-face very well, and as I remained upon that table, ashamedly silent as she talked, fear engulfed me. Suddenly, she fell quiet, and as I realized that it was my turn to say something, my mind went blank. I was frantic as I attempted to think of something to say, but my brain was unable to jump-start itself, and our silence reigned indefinitely. But as she sat, she turned to gaze across Nasuli's small lake, gave a gusty sigh, and said:
"Julie, its nice that you're so quiet. You don't know how pleasant it is to be able to sit next to someone and not have to worry about what you're going to say next."
I learned something imperative that day as I sat panicking, frantic from my incompetence, and that lesson is one which I will never forget: the ability to sit quietly is a talent; God has given it to me, and I should never take it for granted. Thankfully, although I can't properly engage in a conversation to save my life, (trust me, my husband will win, and has won, ALL of our arguments) God has for some reason granted me the ability to communicate through words on pen and paper -- or rather, keyboard and screen.
The question mark in today's title is not a mistake. "The Art of an Informal Greeting" is a concept which is foreign to me, and as I take the time to write my first post on this blog, I am taking the time today to greet each and every of my you, my readers. Whether you're reading this on June 4, 2018 or at any point thereafter, hello and welcome.