Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d write: I talk to strangers now. Like… willingly. With intention. Without Erin bribing me. Without it being part of my job description or leadership duties.
This is concerning to my family.
Erin blinks at me slowly — like a cat checking if I’m okay.
Abbey and Sadie whisper,
“Is… Dad alright?”
Because in my previous life, I talked to people mostly because I had to. Hundreds of conversations a day, none of them mine.
Talking wasn’t connection. It was obligation.
But now? I talk to people because I actually want to. This has startled everyone, including me.
✧
It began on a dog walk… Surprise I know.
A man strolled by with a tiny white dog wearing booties that definitely cost more than my college textbooks. This dog wasn’t just dressed — she was styled. She looked like she had opinions about wine pairings.
Before I knew it, I said, “That dog isn’t walking — she’s supervising.” The man laughed. The dog gave me a look like, “Correct”. Rosie and Benji stared at me like I’d just spoken fluent canine diplomacy.
Erin’s face when I got home? A mix of alarm and admiration. “You… talked to someone?”
“I… think so?”
She checked my pulse like I’d experienced a mild medical event.
Then it snowballed.
✧
At Trader Joe’s — Erin’s personal Disneyland — I found myself next to a woman staring at a mountain of avocados like they were SAT questions she never signed up to take.
Before I could stop myself, I leaned in and said, gently, like some sort of produce whisperer, “Okay… these avocados all ripen at the same time. If you don’t need them today, grab the ones with a little give. They’ll be ready when you are.”
She looked at me with the kind of gratitude usually reserved for firefighters and people who hold the elevator door.
And then… I felt it. A presence. Erin.
Standing beside me, holding a loaf of sourdough like a prop from a courtroom drama, staring at me with a face that said:
“Who are you? And where is the man who once treated small talk like a contagious disease?”
I shrugged, like a humble hero among produce. She blinked slowly, like she was recalibrating our entire marriage around the fact that I had just given unsolicited avocado wisdom to a stranger.
Honestly? I think she was a little proud. And also deeply confused.
✧
At Abbey’s game, I chatted with other parents. I said things like “Great hustle out there,” like I hadn't spent 20 years avoiding sideline small talk like it was radioactive.
At church, instead of making my usual post-Communion sprint to the parking lot, I stayed. I mingled. Abbey watched me like, “Should we call a doctor or let this play out?”
At the library, I whispered hello to a man in a cardigan. He reacted like I’d recited the Declaration of Independence at full volume.
Worth it.
✧
Here’s what surprised me: People lit up.
It was like offering someone a small, unexpected sunrise.
That’s when it hit me: Talking to people as part of my job was never the same as talking to people as part of my heart.
One is duty. The other is delight.
It’s the difference between “I must connect because it’s required,” and “I want to connect because you’re a human and we’re alive in the same moment.”
✧
Now… Every time you talk to someone you don’t have to talk to, it becomes a tiny spiritual act. A micro-blessing. A reminder to both of you that kindness still exists.
The woman with the avocados.
The guy with the dog socks.
The parents at games.
The cardigan whisperer.
Maybe the people God sends aren’t always the ones we already know — but the ones we finally slow down enough to notice.
I see talking to strangers didn’t just soften the world. It softened me. It made me look up. Open up. Show up.
And the more I talk to strangers, the more convinced I am that…
God hides in the small hellos.
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