Good Monday to all of you. Hope you enjoyed your weekend. What was it like? What did you do? I would love to hear your story, maybe even have you share your story here.
An update, of sorts, I went and sent out query letters for my book. I’m starting to think I was a bit impatient and foolish, but it’s sent nonetheless. Here’s to waiting now.
Alien Cafe is still open for votes and reviews over at Inkitt. Would love to hear your thoughts on it.
Now, without any more interruptions, today’s story for Story Monday.
Communication is a concept so basic and innate to us that all of creation engages in it in one way or another, yet so complex that we can spend entire lifetimes studying it without really mastering it. Well, maybe rocks don’t really communicate. Haven’t studied rocks.
They say that our words make up at the most 20% of our communication. Some studies make it even less, perhaps around 10%. That’s beyond the point here to worry what is right. The point is that our communication lies in much more than what we say. Maybe, even more than what we do or who we are.
It was summer or fall of 1997, I can’t remember which. It was the weekend, and some friends and I decided to go hiking in a nearby nature park. The hike was good, but not too difficult. Just enough to get the blood pumping and the heart going.
We crested a hill and decided to take a snack in a pavilion at the top. As we sat there, an elderly gentleman came walking up the hill. He didn’t seem a bit winded from the climb and in fact looked quite invigorated. He took one look at my friends and me and smiled, nodded his head in greeting, and waved.
I may have left out one detail of this whole adventure. We were in South Korea. The gentleman was from the local area, and we were not. For reasons I won’t go into here, we had not learned the language other than a small – very small – amount of words.
We returned his greeting with the warmest regards we could possibly communicate to him. There was no small amount of respect we all felt toward this man who had to be older than most of our grandfathers. He stared at us, and a broad smile spread across his face.
“Christo” he said and pointed at us.
Immediately, we knew what he was trying to say. We nodded and pointed at each other and repeated “Christo”.
“Hallelujah!” he erupted. His hands flew in the air and he even jumped once.
We were taken aback at first and weren’t sure how to respond. So, we did what was natural. We repeated his proclamation. And he repeated it. Then we did. This went on for a little bit.
Finally, with a large smile on his face still, he bowed and went on his way. We said goodbye and watched as he left.
“Well,” said a friend of mine behind me on the pavilion. “I think we just had church.”
He was right. Communication was hindered a great deal, but there was a deeper conversation going on here than what we shared verbally. The Spirit in the older man recognized the Spirit in all of us. How could it not? It’s the same Spirit. The same, one Spirit. And the Spirit spoke and stirred within us a familial recognition. We were family. We were of the same body. And we could hold a conversation because we were family.
Sometimes, it’s not words or even body language that speaks from one to another. Sometimes, it goes beyond what we contribute to the conversation. Sometimes, communication is a Spiritual undertaking. And that, to me, is a great comfort. If only we would listen more to what is being said.
~Remember, this is a copyrighted creation. See my notice in the sidebar. I would love to hear your thoughts on this story in the comments below and on Facebook. ~
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