Really good conversations are rare these days. In my life, anyway. I had them with my dad often when he was still here. I had them with my friend, Dale, when we were both single and had nothing to do but ride our bikes and talk.
When I was a kid, I might have told you this before, I often wandered away from the play of my fellow kids, preferring to sit and listen to the discussions of the adults.
My daughter and her young friends talk about God the way my friends and I talked about God, back when we were young and single.
But conversations change as life progresses. They become about wallpaper and curtains and upholstery swatches. The men talk about cars and sports. About things that grow boring after a second or two.
Perhaps old age will circle them back ’round to God.
I want to talk about God in all His glory, beauty, kindness and grace.
And then, when someone says something that scratches the surface of True and Deep, I want to be by myself.
So I can think.
So I can plumb the depths.
It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? That the best conversations are the ones I can’t wait to leave.
Because I need to think.