“I’m fine. You?” [james]

Fingers on the chalkboard: Ugh. Biting in to an apple and seeing half a worm: Eww. Bill O’Reilly: Cough, Gurgle, Barf.

Worse than those, the following conversation might possibly send me in to a coma so deep that even Dr. House couldn’t revive me:

Person A: How are you?
Person B: I am fine. You?
Person A: Good, good.
Person B: Cool. See ya.
Person A: Have a good day.
Person B: Thanks! You, too.

Here’s another one that isn’t so far from reality:

Cashier: Did you find everything ok?
Customer: Well, no. I couldn’t find
peppercorns in brine.
Cashier: Oh, sorry about that.
Customer: Yeah, I was going to make a...
Cashier: Will that be cash or credit?

Both of these conversations left a funny taste in my mouth. (The second one more so than the first because I used capers instead of peppercorns. But that’s another post.) These exchanges have something in common: one or both of the parties involved didn’t care what the answer to their question was.

And that stinks. Pretending to care is worse than not caring at all. It’s fake, it’s rude, and it’s not how you yourself would like to be treated.

I traverse a flowchart in my head when someone asks, “How are you?”

[click to enlarge]

I admit it. I’m a sinner. I, on purpose and all too regularly, enter in to conversations like this one without regard for the other person. My intentions are often simple as much as selfish: show someone that I care, score a few social points, and then escape before he can call my bluff.

Perception determines reality, right? Bollocks. We can do better than that.

Do we really know people? Do we want to know people?

Back in the day, we had a family friend, Jim. He was more than a friend; he was who we wished our uncles would be. He owned a farm and reared horses. He was classically trained in music, and he would play cello for special music at our small country church. He encouraged us kids musically and came to our band concerts. (He seemed mildly offended once that I didn’t invite him to drive 3 hours(!) to attend a college Christmas concert.) He genuinely cared about us as a family and about us kids. He brought a surplus computer from his office to our home one week, and I was hooked (first programming experience: Word Perfect 5.1 macros). Jim played no small part in influencing my career.

I was home from college on Christmas break when we received a package that Jim sent. It contained some Christmas gifts, including checks for all of us kids. Classic Jim: always generous; always thinking about us.

The next day I took a call that tore a hole in our family’s heart: Jim died. He killed himself.

Even though we no longer lived in the same town as Jim, we still thought we knew him well. But, wow... we didn’t see that one coming. That was one of the saddest days.

Just because we love or are loved by someone doesn't mean that we know them. Knowing people takes time and dedication. It requires an emptying of ourselves that we’re usually not prepared for. It takes practice to care without being consumed. It requires diligence to guard ourselves so we can love the sinner without falling in to the sin. It’s hard work that doesn’t always have an immediate reward. And sometimes it really hurts.

Knowing people requires more of us than a flippant “How are you” as you pass them on the sidewalk. If we care, we should be constantly prepared to handle the honest response no matter if it’s dark, if it’s heavy, or if it requires emotional effort on our part.

The fun part of this is that our friends can just as easily be joyful and cheery, and it’s our joy to join them in that. It’s all the more genuine to share the good stuff when you’ve been there lugging the burden through the rough parts.

Could I have helped Jim? Who can know. The best I can do now is to learn from that sad episode in our family’s life: I can’t take people for granted; I must make myself available if they are in need. In this way, I might be God’s instrument of healing or joy or help.

Love your neighbor as yourself. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.

And for goodness’ sake, mean it.