In all the shifting of bedrooms as little kids have become big kids and living space has been reshaped to accommodate a changing family, we repurposed one small room of our home into a library. Three walls are now floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and they are a child’s dream … and a mama’s dream. I spent this past Sunday afternoon in there, sifting through the shelves with a list of books in hand, searching for our fall school term. Like standing at the edge of a stream on a hike, I could breathe deeper up there. Life felt simple; wonder was within reach. I could touch peace, not just name it.
In the previous twenty-four hours, my internet searches were for things like “which Degas pieces are in The Art Institute of Chicago,” “how long does a tooth extraction site typically hurt,” “is the musician Jewel still producing music,” and “what is mandolin rain.”
Long gone are days of hardcover Encyclopedia Britannicas lined up in a row on family room shelves — proud volumes collected month by month — and yet still: the happiest place in my home remains our library.
These last seven months have been an intentional pilgrimage of slow, mostly an observational study with myself as both control group and experimental group. Some months, I have undertaken intentional measures to force slowness into our daily lives, and in others I have merely observed the present inertia and its impact on my heart, my relationships, and the way I see God. (Observation is a potent antidote to a reactive world.) Some months, I’m integrating new strategies and rhythms … and others I’m only journaling and talking to God about my speed.
Resoundingly, one ingredient has emerged month after month after month. I didn’t go into this year looking for the biggest clue, but I did find it. The problems are all many-layered, but one consistent clue at the top of all of them is undeniable.
It is my phone. And yes — fears, buried anxieties, and that constant thrum for control — these are the true source of my (our) unrest. But they’ve found a ready outlet in my phone, and it is a consistent culprit in my lack of peace.
I’m not even a scroller; perhaps before seven kids, I likely would’ve been, but time hasn’t afforded that luxury. I am, however, a tasker. I check boxes, complete lists, and I organize — a beautiful gift some days and a reach for false peace on many others. My phone is my accomplice. I pick it up to text a neighbor, only to see four other alerts waiting to distract me. Seventeen minutes later, and I’ve forgotten the neighbor and lost track of what’s in front of me and myself. I could spend whole days in this kind of frenzy … and I have.
Many days in a row existing within this sort of disjointed living, and I notice my brain moves as if through sludge, my body feels heavier (there’s a world of life updates on my phone — if not taken in doses, they consume me and I forget that I have to live my own life, too), and my heart is sluggish on the days with constant connectivity to my phone. I began to mark my general outlook on my day (and on Him) after days of unbroken phone usage, and it was consistently low. My perspective, my peace, my hopefulness were all more fragile on those days when I was available to the entire world and my every whim through this kryptonite.
And then there were the days when I set my phone aside for long stretches,
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.