Talking to Strangers

Like most children, I was told not to talk to strangers. I was a reserved child --- ok, pathologically shy, so I didn't really want to talk to people who I knew. Don't talk to strangers? No problem.

But what do you do when strangers talk to you? All the time. Not just creepy strangers, but perfectly nice strangers. Even some of the creepy strangers were really perfectly nice.

When I was in high school and still pathologically shy, I went to a debate camp at Georgetown University. Because of my severe anxiety, I left the dorm and stayed with my aunt and uncle. They had a shop in Georgetown that my aunt drove to each day, so it was not a big deal. Yeah, I know, I missed all kinds of opportunities to not talk to my peers and the debate coaches. Yada yada.

One day as I was walking from Georgetown University to my aunt's shop, a man started walking with me and talking to me. He was maybe in his twenties, I don't know --- old. He had long hair and a beard and scars around his wrists as if he'd been tied up. He told me that the Salvation Army kidnapped people and sent them to work camps. He told me about his life and some of the things he'd been through. He might have been crazy but I couldn't get rid of the idea that he might be Jesus. When I turned to go to my aunt's shop, he left me. I don't think he asked for money. If he did, I probably gave him some. I don't remember.

"Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." Hebrew 13: 1-2

Recently, I listened at length to a woman in the doctor's office tell me about her life. I didn't know her, which I guess made her feel brave. She told me about her failed marriages and difficult children, one of whom was getting therapy for a broken leg. She'd struggled herself and was trying to do right by her kids. Her kids were ok, in the end, she said. Better than she was, she said. I listened. I told her a little about my family, enough so she felt safe, but not so much that she didn't have room for her story. It wasn't dueling sob stories. And her stories were of grief, but also of triumph. Her son finished his therapy and she left. I read until my son finished his. We had passed the time and told stories.

Do I have a tell me a story face? I guess so. I think that's a good thing. I don't want to have a "Don't tell me a story" face. And waiting in line is always interesting.