I grew up in a town of 700.  Kimball, Minnesota, baby, home of the Cubs.  In a town this small, there aren’t a lot of secrets.  Not only do we leave the car unlocked while we run into the store, we leave the keys in the ignition and the car running!  When the ambulance drives by, you follow it to make sure it’s not going to your friend’s house.  Then you call everyone you know to ask what’s going on at the Johnson’s.

We also wave a lot.  A lot of the farmers do the cool thing where they just lift one finger from the steering wheel, but others will honk their horns or show you their whole palm.  I love it.  If I’m in a small town for recruiting, even if it’s one I’m not familiar with, you can see me waving at the people I drive by.  People will wave back too.  It warms my heart.

At Northwestern, the incredible university where I work, people greet each other all the time.  Even if you don’t know the person’s name, you nod and smile.  I think part of it is being a Christian campus and part of it is just the good ol’ Midwest.

But even at my apartment building, my neighbors wave.  A lot.  Jim and Peg, whose patio is just to the left of my building’s front door, greet me every day with a friendly salute.  And the man who lives across the hall from me will honk his horn in his big blue SUV in the parking lot and then wave at me like a crazy person.  “Hello dah-leng!” he shouts in this incredible accent.  “How ah yoo too-day?”

I feel blessed to be surrounded by a community of greeters and wavers.  It’s like being known.  It’s like having a name.