So(ul)journ!

I’m trying to make a point of introducing myself.

It’s not an activity I’m necessarily comfortable doing. For most of my life I hung around people I already knew, and it would have seemed silly to greet someone and offer them my name. But those days are, in many ways, behind me. Now that we’ve been on the road for a week, people I know are a rarity.

So I’m trying something that COVID taught us not to do: reach out my hand to a total stranger, put a smile on my face, and say, “Hi, I’m Malcolm.”

And inevitably they reach out their hand and tell me their name.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not running around the street or walking down the sidewalk greeting random people. That would be strange and probably a moment to seriously question my boundaries. No, I’m talking about people we run into because of the circumstances of the moment.

We visited a pretty cool little town along Interstate 70: Casey, Illinois. The town is easily accessible from the highway, and they have capitalized on making big things. I mean really big things—a four-story rocking chair, a mailbox that towers over the town, and all sorts of other oversized attractions.

Well, Jacki decided she wanted to pick up a T-shirt from a local store, and that’s where we met a very nice, almost bubbly salesperson. She showed us around, explained their process of printing the image of our choosing and ironing it onto the T-shirt color of our choosing. We picked up the compulsory sticker for the camper refrigerator, and as we were getting ready to leave, because she had made such an impression on us, I asked her for her name.

“Breanna, but most folks just call me Bre.”

I responded, “Great. I’m Malcolm. Nice to meet you, Bre. You made our day!”

Okay, in this case I didn’t offer my name first, but the circumstances were similar. I might never see Bre again, but it was nice for a moment to meet her along the way.

Yesterday we visited the Shrine to St. Frances Xavier Cabrini. Born in Italy in 1850, she took holy orders and was eventually sent to the United States, where she and six other nuns sought to better the lives of poor and often-discriminated-against Italian immigrants.

We found the shrine to be a peaceful resting place along our journey.

I was standing at the counter in the gift shop waiting to pay for the compulsory refrigerator sticker when a clerk came from the back room to help us. As she rang us up, I introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Malcolm.”

Holding out my hand, which she took in hers, she replied, “Hello, I’m Jill.”

She smiled and asked if we had been up to see the chapel, the relic display in the lobby, and the mosaics. Then she began describing how amazing the mosaics are when the light hits them. It’s almost as if they change every time you visit them.

She was a fountain of information and seemed genuinely eager to share her love for the shrine. She wanted people to experience it the way she did.

All that from Jill the sales clerk—a story I never would have heard if I hadn’t introduced myself.

We met Bryan, a cocktail maker and clerk. Nicholas, who oversaw the work on our tow vehicle while it was in the shop. And Chad, the host at our very first Hipcamp experience. People who may not remember me, but people who made an impression on me as kind, decent folks.

There was one encounter that I regret not getting a name for.

While we were sitting in the mechanic’s shop, we were faced with a decision about some additional work on our vehicle. I turned to Jacki and asked what she thought. She responded with one of those “you decide” answers. As I returned to my seat, wondering how we were going to sort it all out, a young man across the room paid us a compliment.

He told us what a blessing it was to watch our conversation—not one person dismissing the other, but two people genuinely wanting to hear each other’s thoughts on a weighty financial decision.

It was a simple observation, but it was offered with such kindness.

I wish I had gotten his name.

It’s one of those moments that made me realize I don’t want to miss out on that type of exchange again.

What I’m discovering is that there are some wonderfully decent people in this world. Often, we don’t know how wonderfully decent they are until we slow down, chat for a moment, offer them our name, and let them offer theirs.

They become more than a clerk, a salesperson, a waiter, or a stranger sitting in a mechanic’s shop.

And I’m no longer just a customer or a sale.

“I’m Malcolm, and it’s good to meet you.”