The "For Sale" sign went up next door and I began to dream. We'd never seen the people who had lived in that house, or maybe they didn't live there much, just used it occasionally. But soon we would have new neighbors and that meant new possibilities. I've always wanted to know my neighbors, but previous experience had made me gun shy (language barriers, party lifestyles, constant transition -- all made me question if it was really worth it).
But it was worth a try. The new neighbors were very nice and seemed to want to be friends. They already knew more about the people around them then I did and I've lived here for three years already. They wanted to exchange pet care, and know our family and although we had some differences, we also had a lot going for us.
Then came the discussion of the land. It seems that their deed measured out their plot very differently from the way it currently was parsed out, namely that they owned another 5-10 feet that currently was fenced as part of our property. That fence had been there a while and had been used as a garden by the previous owner of our house and was one of the beautiful things that drew me to the property. Room for a veggie garden of my own. Truth be told, I had spent more time in that part of my yard than any other. We moved raised beds from our previous home to that area, planted corn and tomatoes, and lettuce to feed our family. That land wasn't just sitting around being neglected, it was the land where we worked and produced and we felt heartbroken that they wanted it, that they would take it by force if necessary. Suddenly the best relationship we had going with our neighbors had turned sour and we had done nothing to offend other than work land we believed was ours.
First, we were offended. Why would they want to create all this work and heartache for us, when they couldn't possibly use the land as well as we were? Why do they want to destroy our garden? Every conversation that started with the goal of compromise led in the direction of antagonism. It got to the point where I knew I needed to talk with them, was trying to do the right thing, but I just couldn't breathe. It hurt too much and was too dangerous. Next, we decided to fight. Everyone we talked with was righteously indignant at the effrontery of these people and we should get a lawyer and battle it out in the courts. Not one person I talked to believed that we should give it up. In trying to be "helpful" they built up our resolve to fight, convinced that we were in the right. And it felt so powerful to be the wronged party, to know that we were the victims here and that it should be put to rights in the court of law where such things are made perfect.
But it also felt awful. If they only knew what good, kind people we are, they would never ask such a thing of us. If they knew how we served the poor, loved people around us, surely they would give up. But then I realized that they didn't see what good people we were because we weren't being very good to them. We delayed, we ignored, we heard their case and didn't even bother to respond with any love or compassion for their needs, what they considered their right. How in the world would they see our goodness if we weren't willing to show it to them?
And then I started looking in the Bible, to see if God wanted to say anything about this. He usually does, I just don't go asking for several months, while I weigh in with every family member, church friend, lawyer friend I could think of first. And right there in the law, where God is using Moses to teach about fairness and justice (the two things I claimed I wanted in this whole situation) is this verse, "When you arrive in the land the Lord your God is giving you as your special possession, you must never steal anyone’s land by moving the boundary markers your ancestors set up to mark their property." Deuteronomy 19:14.
So here's the deal. When the land was divided up and handed out a hundred years ago, that part of the land belonged to them, not us. Someone, no one will ever know who, moved the boundary marker by building a fence. It was a wrong, not committed by us, but we benefitted from the crime. The right, the fair, the good thing to do was to give it back graciously. But I just didn't want to.
Which is why God wrote this in chapter 27. "‘Cursed is anyone who steals property from a neighbor by moving a boundary marker.’ And all the people will reply, ‘Amen.’" Now I am cursed if I continue to fight this change? And all God's people who agreed with me before should be cursing me for taking what belongs to someone else. That's because sometimes American law is different from God's law. I had to decide whose law I wanted to live under.
It was shortly after this that things came to a head with the neighbors. We had tentatively agreed that when the spring came, we would go about removing the plants that we cared about and allow the neighbors to take over. It was April and we had done nothing and said nothing. So in frustration in our delays, the neighbor cut down the raspberries that we had wanted to save. I arrived home one day to find them piled in a heap of debris and I cried. That was it. We HAD to make this work. We needed to give up fighting a losing battle and start to be gracious.
Within a week, we met with the neighbors. We explained our emotions and our grief and also how daunting it was for us to have to re do all this work of laying out the garden. We had a plan to move things and we just needed some patience and some communication from them. We decided not to fight and finally repaired the relationship. And it worked. It was lots of hours of digging and pulling grass and learning irrigation, but we have a bigger garden in a different place. The neighbors even bought us a gift card to help cover the expense of moving things and installing new water lines. We talked about how we were progressing, let them know when the new fence sections could be built. We learned more about them and their lives in that month than in the previous ten months. And it finally felt right, not strained. And I could breathe again.
When I think about the phrase, "love your neighbor" I think of friendly chats and can I borrow some flour and summer cookouts with smiling faces. I don't think of tearing down my hard work and sacrificing for the sake of another. Which is ridiculous, because love always involves sacrifice. It is putting the desires of another, a stranger, above your own and making that stranger family. It is heartache and struggle and pain and vulnerability. It is scary and dangerous and world changing. And it is also good and right and true and just like what Jesus did for me.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Holding on to Hope
I've been thinking about hope lately, job searches will do that to you, and I realize that hope is one of those vague, mysterious words that means different things to different people, gets thrown away lots and can be easily misinterpreted.
Imagine a mountain climb. Rough terrain where you've never been before. You cannot see the way ahead of you. There are boulders in the way and you feel like giving up. Just at that moment you see a rope, a rope that will help you get over the tight spot you are currently in. That rope is hope (I know it rhymes and I'm sorry about that, but I don't have another word that works). Grabbing onto the rope will help you get to the next part of the journey. Some ropes are short and are designed to help you up a small cliff. Other ropes are longer, to guide you along dangerous ice, to lead you away from treacherous chasms.
My husband thinks that one rope is all you'll need. One sturdy line from the bottom to the top. But mountains don't always work that way. Life never works that way. The problem with that view is that when you see the end of a rope, you think that it must have been the wrong rope, because it couldn't last. Or that maybe that rope was for somebody else, not for you. Instead, take that rope, use it to get somewhere new, then look for the next one.
Following Jesus is often described as finding hope. Often times that causes confusion. If Jesus is one of these ropes, what happens when it ends? Does Jesus have limits? Does he change direction? For me, Jesus is the rope layer. He has traveled this path before me, knows where the difficult spots are and provides a way to help me through. I know that the next rope is just around the bend, even if I can't see it, because I know the one who sets the ropes in place, who made the path just for me. That's hope.
Imagine a mountain climb. Rough terrain where you've never been before. You cannot see the way ahead of you. There are boulders in the way and you feel like giving up. Just at that moment you see a rope, a rope that will help you get over the tight spot you are currently in. That rope is hope (I know it rhymes and I'm sorry about that, but I don't have another word that works). Grabbing onto the rope will help you get to the next part of the journey. Some ropes are short and are designed to help you up a small cliff. Other ropes are longer, to guide you along dangerous ice, to lead you away from treacherous chasms.
My husband thinks that one rope is all you'll need. One sturdy line from the bottom to the top. But mountains don't always work that way. Life never works that way. The problem with that view is that when you see the end of a rope, you think that it must have been the wrong rope, because it couldn't last. Or that maybe that rope was for somebody else, not for you. Instead, take that rope, use it to get somewhere new, then look for the next one.
Following Jesus is often described as finding hope. Often times that causes confusion. If Jesus is one of these ropes, what happens when it ends? Does Jesus have limits? Does he change direction? For me, Jesus is the rope layer. He has traveled this path before me, knows where the difficult spots are and provides a way to help me through. I know that the next rope is just around the bend, even if I can't see it, because I know the one who sets the ropes in place, who made the path just for me. That's hope.
Friday, May 30, 2014
A Holy Experience
Last week I was riding my bike, downhill, so it's not work. The sun was out and warm and the day was beautiful with the promise of spring. My friends and I were just talking about how God is present, all day everywhere, and the only limitation to my interaction with God is myself: my awareness, my thoughts, my intention.
I thought, "How often am I really paying attention to God's movement in my little meverse?" (That's the universe, centered around and interacting with me. I know it's not a thing, but admit it, we all have a meverse.) Sure, I see amazing beautiful things and sometimes I will stop, for a second, and thank God. In pain and crisis I cry out to God. Sometimes, when something really silly or poignant happens, I look up and say, "God, I see what you did there." We have that kind of relationship, where I point out to him the great laugh that we are about to share. But those are momentary, fleeting snippets of my day. What I really want is what Jesus called abiding -- consciously resting in and being fully aware of God in everything, every day.
Which brings me back to the bike. I was sitting there, just marveling at how perfect it was: the wind in my hair, the trees and flowers, and I thought, "This is a holy experience." And then I wondered about the word holy. Here I am a week later, still thinking about that word -- holy.
So I looked it up in the dictionary. You know, sometimes the dictionary is no help at all. All the dictionary gives is references to stuff dedicated for a religious purpose or to God. The dictionary knows that holiness has something to do with God, but has no clue what that is. I know that one of God's characteristics is holiness, that His goal for my life is holiness, but what is it??
I think holiness may be that door in our minds that we open to be aware of God. Think about it for a minute. A holy place is one where we experienced God (or someone else did generations ago). A holy experience is one in which we (for lack of a better word) "feel" God's presence. The whole key to holiness is awareness and recognition of God -- his character, his presence, his activity.
Which means that holiness is not just a mystery -- though there is plenty of mystery in the whole thing, but it's also something I can grow. Want a holy job? Choose to open the door in your mind to God while you work. Talk over tasks with Him, ask for wisdom in making decisions, or dealing with that co worker, or staying on task. Want a holy family? Choose to open your mind to including God as part of your family. Give Him a seat at the table, literally or figuratively. Go on walks to the park with Him and show Him your favorite parts of His creation. Want a holy experience?
Conscientiously choose to be aware of God.
Now, I'm not saying that this is as simple as flipping on a switch. It's more like exercising a muscle. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. Here's a simple start. David says in a poem he wrote that, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." So start there, in nature. It's a common place that religious (and non-religious people for that matter) find holiness. Look at the skies and try to see beyond them as you consider the vastness of God. Examine a flower and know the intricacies of God. Observe a sunset and marvel at the artistry of God. Watch a bug fly and think about the creativity and engineering mind of God. Make it a game -- what do I see about God from what I observe in nature.
Warning -- not everything in nature is representative of God. Remember that sin has messed things up pretty good, in humanity more than anything else. Start with what you know about God and work from there. If you don't know much about God, read about Him in the Bible -- maybe start in the Psalms. There's lots of emotions and relating to God in those. Or look at Jesus. God with skin on.
One last thought. As I look at nature I see lots of paradoxes -- opposites that are both true. Great scope and vastness, intricate detail and minute planning, creativity and order, joy in pain, and I think that's also a characteristic of God. God embraces the paradox: death to create life, spilled blood that cleanses. And when we embrace the paradox too, we can see God in a clearer way.
I don't mean to make God merely human, as we give Him traits and characteristics that we can identify with. Actually, in this process, God is making us more human. More like he designed us to be. In tune with Him and the world He put us in. In a word, holy.
I thought, "How often am I really paying attention to God's movement in my little meverse?" (That's the universe, centered around and interacting with me. I know it's not a thing, but admit it, we all have a meverse.) Sure, I see amazing beautiful things and sometimes I will stop, for a second, and thank God. In pain and crisis I cry out to God. Sometimes, when something really silly or poignant happens, I look up and say, "God, I see what you did there." We have that kind of relationship, where I point out to him the great laugh that we are about to share. But those are momentary, fleeting snippets of my day. What I really want is what Jesus called abiding -- consciously resting in and being fully aware of God in everything, every day.
Which brings me back to the bike. I was sitting there, just marveling at how perfect it was: the wind in my hair, the trees and flowers, and I thought, "This is a holy experience." And then I wondered about the word holy. Here I am a week later, still thinking about that word -- holy.
So I looked it up in the dictionary. You know, sometimes the dictionary is no help at all. All the dictionary gives is references to stuff dedicated for a religious purpose or to God. The dictionary knows that holiness has something to do with God, but has no clue what that is. I know that one of God's characteristics is holiness, that His goal for my life is holiness, but what is it??
I think holiness may be that door in our minds that we open to be aware of God. Think about it for a minute. A holy place is one where we experienced God (or someone else did generations ago). A holy experience is one in which we (for lack of a better word) "feel" God's presence. The whole key to holiness is awareness and recognition of God -- his character, his presence, his activity.
Which means that holiness is not just a mystery -- though there is plenty of mystery in the whole thing, but it's also something I can grow. Want a holy job? Choose to open the door in your mind to God while you work. Talk over tasks with Him, ask for wisdom in making decisions, or dealing with that co worker, or staying on task. Want a holy family? Choose to open your mind to including God as part of your family. Give Him a seat at the table, literally or figuratively. Go on walks to the park with Him and show Him your favorite parts of His creation. Want a holy experience?
Conscientiously choose to be aware of God.
Now, I'm not saying that this is as simple as flipping on a switch. It's more like exercising a muscle. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. Here's a simple start. David says in a poem he wrote that, "The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands." So start there, in nature. It's a common place that religious (and non-religious people for that matter) find holiness. Look at the skies and try to see beyond them as you consider the vastness of God. Examine a flower and know the intricacies of God. Observe a sunset and marvel at the artistry of God. Watch a bug fly and think about the creativity and engineering mind of God. Make it a game -- what do I see about God from what I observe in nature.
Warning -- not everything in nature is representative of God. Remember that sin has messed things up pretty good, in humanity more than anything else. Start with what you know about God and work from there. If you don't know much about God, read about Him in the Bible -- maybe start in the Psalms. There's lots of emotions and relating to God in those. Or look at Jesus. God with skin on.
One last thought. As I look at nature I see lots of paradoxes -- opposites that are both true. Great scope and vastness, intricate detail and minute planning, creativity and order, joy in pain, and I think that's also a characteristic of God. God embraces the paradox: death to create life, spilled blood that cleanses. And when we embrace the paradox too, we can see God in a clearer way.
I don't mean to make God merely human, as we give Him traits and characteristics that we can identify with. Actually, in this process, God is making us more human. More like he designed us to be. In tune with Him and the world He put us in. In a word, holy.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Garbage
I was out walking with my friend today. As we caught up on each other's lives, she told me that she sensed change coming, but she didn't know what and she didn't know how, and she most certainly didn't know when. A word from God, a desire from her heart, a change in location, a change in vocation, all these rumblings of something bigger on the horizon-- a fuzzy horizon. Full of promise and sparkle, but oh, so tricky to make out the details.
As we walked along, I noticed a discarded water bottle, laying in the grass. I thought to myself that I should pick it up. I wasn't there to clean up garbage, and there was no nearby container to place it in. I told myself that later I would come back for the bottle. We walked on, talking of choices, of leaving doors open and taking steps forward, even if you don't know where forward is exactly.
Another empty water bottle appeared in our path. This one I picked up. I can hold one water bottle while I walk. I don't want to be a garbage lady, hands overfull with the discarded refuse of the neighborhood, but I can take care of this one small thing. Do my part, so to speak, in the care of creation.
We'd been walking through the park a while, I thought we'd seen most everything. But just a moment later I saw, under the bridge, an abandoned plastic bag. When I saw the bag, everything just made sense. It's as if God set the first bottle in my path to start me thinking. Put the second one nearby to see if I would act. Once I did, God knew that I could take His hint. He put the bag in the stream and said, "Do this for me today."
So I did.
Together we delighted in the discovery of the bag (who does that, really?). My friend pointed out the first bottle we had seen and added it to the bag. We found a wrapper, a broken ring, a couple other little bits. It felt good to do something to help make the place beautiful. It was nice to see how it all came together. At the end of our walk, I took it to the trash can. No big deal.
Except it was a big deal. It is a metaphor for the very thing we were talking about. Often in life's path, God will place a little something in your path. It may or it may not change anything. But it may be a hint of what's to come. A little later you will find a similarity, maybe something small that spurs you to action.
I think God is continually hinting at us what our lives could be like if we could just see what's right in front of us. Instead of being so focused on the big picture (What career should I pursue? Who should I marry? Where should I live? How do I become famous?) what if we just looked at what's around us and took action when we notice a pattern? Embracing those patterns are the building blocks of our lives: our passions, our dreams, our attempts to make the world a better place.
And when the time is right, God will give us the bag, the piece that holds it all together. We can look back and say, "Oh, God this life is beautiful, but I don't know how I got here." And He will say, "You just followed me, step by step and this beauty is the result."
As we walked along, I noticed a discarded water bottle, laying in the grass. I thought to myself that I should pick it up. I wasn't there to clean up garbage, and there was no nearby container to place it in. I told myself that later I would come back for the bottle. We walked on, talking of choices, of leaving doors open and taking steps forward, even if you don't know where forward is exactly.
Another empty water bottle appeared in our path. This one I picked up. I can hold one water bottle while I walk. I don't want to be a garbage lady, hands overfull with the discarded refuse of the neighborhood, but I can take care of this one small thing. Do my part, so to speak, in the care of creation.
We'd been walking through the park a while, I thought we'd seen most everything. But just a moment later I saw, under the bridge, an abandoned plastic bag. When I saw the bag, everything just made sense. It's as if God set the first bottle in my path to start me thinking. Put the second one nearby to see if I would act. Once I did, God knew that I could take His hint. He put the bag in the stream and said, "Do this for me today."
So I did.
Together we delighted in the discovery of the bag (who does that, really?). My friend pointed out the first bottle we had seen and added it to the bag. We found a wrapper, a broken ring, a couple other little bits. It felt good to do something to help make the place beautiful. It was nice to see how it all came together. At the end of our walk, I took it to the trash can. No big deal.
Except it was a big deal. It is a metaphor for the very thing we were talking about. Often in life's path, God will place a little something in your path. It may or it may not change anything. But it may be a hint of what's to come. A little later you will find a similarity, maybe something small that spurs you to action.
I think God is continually hinting at us what our lives could be like if we could just see what's right in front of us. Instead of being so focused on the big picture (What career should I pursue? Who should I marry? Where should I live? How do I become famous?) what if we just looked at what's around us and took action when we notice a pattern? Embracing those patterns are the building blocks of our lives: our passions, our dreams, our attempts to make the world a better place.
And when the time is right, God will give us the bag, the piece that holds it all together. We can look back and say, "Oh, God this life is beautiful, but I don't know how I got here." And He will say, "You just followed me, step by step and this beauty is the result."
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Missed the Boat
Here it comes, tall and beautiful and romantic. The boat that promises an adventure of a lifetime. Smelling of exotic spices and warm breezes. The travelers on this boat show joy for the journey they are on, almost inviting you to join them just by their enthusiasm and contentment.
Do you even wonder if you should have climbed aboard? Let go of the fear of the unknown, the safety of the shore, the predictability of life on land? Would you be a different person? Lived in another place? Had different priorities?
Not that all boats are what they seem. Though you may think you know the destination, sailors get lost at sea. Weather can mean a detour, even an alternate end point. If you do ultimately arrive, the storms along the route can leave you feeling worn, washed up, adrift. You could get sea sick, sunburnt, or harmed by the dangers of the sea.
So why go at all?
Watching life from the shore is beautiful. The waves crash against the shore, but never overwhelm you. Boats come and boats go -- some boats you've seen more than once. They will come again. Maybe when you're ready, you can go. Maybe when you've got more money, more time, more courage.
Maybe. . .
Maybe that boat is stopping here today, just to have you aboard. Maybe the people you will meet, or the experience you have on this particular trip will give you the passion you've always wanted in life. Maybe you just need a change of pace, space and perspective that can only come from the boat. Maybe all that trouble is worth it.
So how do you choose?
When the boat arrives, all is anticipation, newness, adventure. the boat's looks can be deceiving. When the boat leaves you behind, you feel, if just for a moment, regret that you are not aboard. Discernment is knowing which boat to get on and when, and how to let the boat pass you by without despair.
Do you even wonder if you should have climbed aboard? Let go of the fear of the unknown, the safety of the shore, the predictability of life on land? Would you be a different person? Lived in another place? Had different priorities?
Not that all boats are what they seem. Though you may think you know the destination, sailors get lost at sea. Weather can mean a detour, even an alternate end point. If you do ultimately arrive, the storms along the route can leave you feeling worn, washed up, adrift. You could get sea sick, sunburnt, or harmed by the dangers of the sea.
So why go at all?
Watching life from the shore is beautiful. The waves crash against the shore, but never overwhelm you. Boats come and boats go -- some boats you've seen more than once. They will come again. Maybe when you're ready, you can go. Maybe when you've got more money, more time, more courage.
Maybe. . .
Maybe that boat is stopping here today, just to have you aboard. Maybe the people you will meet, or the experience you have on this particular trip will give you the passion you've always wanted in life. Maybe you just need a change of pace, space and perspective that can only come from the boat. Maybe all that trouble is worth it.
So how do you choose?
When the boat arrives, all is anticipation, newness, adventure. the boat's looks can be deceiving. When the boat leaves you behind, you feel, if just for a moment, regret that you are not aboard. Discernment is knowing which boat to get on and when, and how to let the boat pass you by without despair.
One day as Jesus was walking along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, he saw two brothers—Simon, also called Peter, and Andrew—throwing a net into the water, for they fished for a living. Jesus called out to them, “Come, follow me, and I will show you how to fish for people!” And they left their nets at once and followed him.
A little farther up the shore he saw two other brothers, James and John, sitting in a boat with their father, Zebedee, repairing their nets. And he called them to come, too. They immediately followed him, leaving the boat and their father behind. Matthew 4: 18-21
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Church like a stream
A dear friend of mine is hearing God's mysterious voice, telling her to move to a new country and start a new thing. A few weeks back, another friend heard God's voice, moving him to a new place. In my heart, a wave of joy and sorrow -- joy will win. I know this because we, as a church family, are moving again. And when a church moves, so do her people.
Church should be like a stream -- water flows in the same direction, moving at different speeds, but all chasing the same destination. Creeks wind their way into the current and it pushes the water places the water never even imagined it could go. Sometimes a rock, tree or branch will send water on a different path, headed the same direction, but not traveling together. And then there is the noise of the stream -- babbling, full of life and joy and peace and hope.
You see, for a long time I was in a church that felt more like a pond than a stream. The difference is small but profound. Water moves in a pond, just slowly. Discussions around church always felt like building a dam, trying to stop the flow of movement. "How do we close the back door?" "How can we bring more people in?" Good questions, but if there's no outflow, momentum slows, and we start to deposit our dirt. Algae starts to grow and the whole thing becomes stagnant. Then it starts to smell, really smell. The more and more we'd try to hold in, the more we kept finding leaks in ourselves, in the dam we built, until one day the whole thing just broke apart.
It's hard to come from the quiet pond and move to a babbling stream. Momentum is tricky, and makes a mess sometimes. It's loud and rushing and unfriendly -- it carries you along to places you may not want to go. But it makes the water clear and fresh and nourishing to people who are thirsty. So come join the stream, for a minute or for a lifetime. It's no longer my job to keep you swimming, just trust the One who is leading us to the ocean.
Church should be like a stream -- water flows in the same direction, moving at different speeds, but all chasing the same destination. Creeks wind their way into the current and it pushes the water places the water never even imagined it could go. Sometimes a rock, tree or branch will send water on a different path, headed the same direction, but not traveling together. And then there is the noise of the stream -- babbling, full of life and joy and peace and hope.
You see, for a long time I was in a church that felt more like a pond than a stream. The difference is small but profound. Water moves in a pond, just slowly. Discussions around church always felt like building a dam, trying to stop the flow of movement. "How do we close the back door?" "How can we bring more people in?" Good questions, but if there's no outflow, momentum slows, and we start to deposit our dirt. Algae starts to grow and the whole thing becomes stagnant. Then it starts to smell, really smell. The more and more we'd try to hold in, the more we kept finding leaks in ourselves, in the dam we built, until one day the whole thing just broke apart.
It's hard to come from the quiet pond and move to a babbling stream. Momentum is tricky, and makes a mess sometimes. It's loud and rushing and unfriendly -- it carries you along to places you may not want to go. But it makes the water clear and fresh and nourishing to people who are thirsty. So come join the stream, for a minute or for a lifetime. It's no longer my job to keep you swimming, just trust the One who is leading us to the ocean.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Cell Phone Pharisee
More and more lately, my big secret is coming out.
My reasons for not carrying a mobile device are many and varied. Here are a few I've said lately:
You see, in my eyes, cell phones have become a great evil in society. And I stand pure, unadulterated by the insidious, omnipresent portal to all things. I read articles and stories that back up my skewed view. Cell phones cause cancer, addict preschoolers, change our thought patterns so we cannot focus on one thing, make walking zombies out of pedestrians, and so on. I knew all along that they were trouble and I will stand against the overwhelming masses -- a pure, focused, productive member of society.
Only I'm not. I have become a Pharisee. I use my choice to not use a perfectly normal tool to make myself seem holier, closer to God and others, just because I don't give in. And other people help me distance myself when they say, "You must really trust your husband if you're not going to check on him while you're away." "You are so strong. It must be very hard."
I don't need a cell phone to tune you out while we're supposed to be talking. I want you to wait for my time to return that call/ message/ whatever cause I want to control the situation. Oh, and I want you to know that I'm too important of a person to drop whatever it is I'm doing (probably nothing) to respond to you. From the outside I look strong, independent, and holy, but it's all a façade.
And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for considering you dependent, or less of a person because you have a cell phone. I'm sorry for thinking that you don't trust your husband with your kids because you call to connect. I'm sorry for the anger that bubbles up in me when we are having a conversation and you look at your phone instead of being constantly riveted by my eyes and words. I'm sorry for this barrier in the way I think of you, or look at you.
I would love for you to look at me and not see some backward thinking, suspicious holdout. And I will try to no longer judge you. I will treat you as a real friend, who makes different choices than me because we live different lives. Unless we're stuck on the side of the road, with no where to turn. Then I will be grateful for your cell phone.
"Why don't you have a cell phone?"
"How can you manage?"
My reasons for not carrying a mobile device are many and varied. Here are a few I've said lately:
- because I don't want to be available to people all the time
- because I know my addictive nature and it's just easier to not have the temptation
- because I choose to spend money on other things
You see, in my eyes, cell phones have become a great evil in society. And I stand pure, unadulterated by the insidious, omnipresent portal to all things. I read articles and stories that back up my skewed view. Cell phones cause cancer, addict preschoolers, change our thought patterns so we cannot focus on one thing, make walking zombies out of pedestrians, and so on. I knew all along that they were trouble and I will stand against the overwhelming masses -- a pure, focused, productive member of society.
Only I'm not. I have become a Pharisee. I use my choice to not use a perfectly normal tool to make myself seem holier, closer to God and others, just because I don't give in. And other people help me distance myself when they say, "You must really trust your husband if you're not going to check on him while you're away." "You are so strong. It must be very hard."
I don't need a cell phone to tune you out while we're supposed to be talking. I want you to wait for my time to return that call/ message/ whatever cause I want to control the situation. Oh, and I want you to know that I'm too important of a person to drop whatever it is I'm doing (probably nothing) to respond to you. From the outside I look strong, independent, and holy, but it's all a façade.
And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for considering you dependent, or less of a person because you have a cell phone. I'm sorry for thinking that you don't trust your husband with your kids because you call to connect. I'm sorry for the anger that bubbles up in me when we are having a conversation and you look at your phone instead of being constantly riveted by my eyes and words. I'm sorry for this barrier in the way I think of you, or look at you.
I would love for you to look at me and not see some backward thinking, suspicious holdout. And I will try to no longer judge you. I will treat you as a real friend, who makes different choices than me because we live different lives. Unless we're stuck on the side of the road, with no where to turn. Then I will be grateful for your cell phone.
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