Social

In the spring of our senior year, Jon and I were driving along the country roads of Indiana, hemmed within vast fields of corn. It was a high spring day, with the sky stretched out in crisp, blue brilliance. Everything lovely it was.

Until we hit a deer.

The poor creature was gracefully loping: legs slender, shoulders broad, rack magnificent. It sprung airborne– up, up, from a low ditch. As it catapulted toward us, I scarcely had time to gasp.

The beauty collided with the front right fender of the car. Jon braked hard and we came to a jerking stop.

Are you okay? he said.

I nodded and flung open the door, leaping out. The magnificent buck was alive but suffering, his eyes perfectly round; terror-filled.

Jon, do something! I sobbed.

It’s okay. He guided me back to the car. I will take a closer look.

As I climbed back inside, legs shaking with a rush of adrenaline, a beater of a pickup pulled up behind us and a shaggy fellow stepped out. I stared in the rearview mirror and noticed a wad of tobacco bulging grotesquely beneath his lower lip. He repositioned his tattered ballcap over his matted hair, and after spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice into the grass, grabbed his rifle out of the truck bed and approached Jon.

Mind if I take the buck’s head? he grunted.

Before Jon could answer, the man aimed and fired.

And just like that he ended the creature’s misery, country style.

***

I cried most of the way back to our university’s campus, thinking:

The poor creature!

and

We could have died before our wedding day.

Once back in my dorm, my suitemates gathered, wanting to hear every detail, so kind in their gestures, hugging and inviting me to repeat the story. They had never seen me cry and they seemed surprised. One girl microwaved popcorn and shared. We munched our way through conversation, everyone sharing personal stories of scrapes and close calls, of animal deaths and accidents, of broken hearts and broken down cars.

In time, we dipped into the hard questions together: If God is good, then why the accidents, the hardships, the pain? I was poorly versed in biblical answers at the time and became painfully aware that I was more thin soup than a rich stew.

But God is always working. The close call with the deer cracked the door of my heart a sliver wider, prompting sturdier thoughts of the Lord.

Those were good days of intimate chats. Crockpot conversations– slow and tender and well-seasoned.

Twenty-nine entire years have passed since we tossed our mortar boards into the air, whooping and grinning, believing that anything was possible, our shadows stretched long in the midwestern sun.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that smart phones and social media would rise tall and engulf the delight of authentic community and conversation and slow musings.

***

Present day: I am seated across from an acquaintance, our conversation edging toward the deep riches of God. We are plucking at our salads when her phone pings. Placing one finger in the air while shielding her lips with the opposite hand, she crunches hard on a crouton and with a mouthful says: Hold that thought, Kristin.

She then disappears into the shallows of Facebook and Instagram, scrolling like a woman parched. I gaze out the restaurant window and notice a gentle puff of cloud, moving lazily in the summer sky. Cars roar by and a motorist honks aggressively, three times over, while another tosses up his arm in outrage.

The cloud remains unhurried, delightfully fluffy, taking its sweet time to sweep across the eastern sky. I suddenly wish to be outside, walking my morning path, counting bluebirds and rabbits and chipmunks. Treasure hunting for fragile robin’s eggs, cracked and broken.

Instead, I stifle a sigh and turn back to my remaining Romaine and iced lemon water. The goblet is heavy and perspiring, the glass wonderfully solid and cool beneath my fingertips. At that moment I consider what might change if I call the phone company and hire them to install a rotary phone on our kitchen wall, and pronto.

I am warmed by the mere thought. Perhaps I could go all out and even fling my cell phone into the pond during my next walk? Good riddance.

But alas, I will do no such thing–no Luddite here. The iPhone is my connector with my dear family, who are my greatest earthly treasures, gifts from God. Texting and Facetime and WhatsApp are blessings, allow me to keep in touch.

These thoughts dance through my mind as my friend eventually returns to reality, eyebrows furrowed as she waves her hands, upset over someone’s social media rant. I listen but have no idea what she is talking about, and quite frankly do not care. We had been on a narrow path, but that conversation has whimpered and perished.

In a small way, I am thankful. This scenario has painted a foreboding mural that I needed to see, once again. A mural that serves as teacher:

Kristin, there is a better way.

***

A few weeks later I arrive at another friend’s house. I leave my phone in the console of our truck.

This is a large gathering, and several people are playing on their phones, off and on, all afternoon. Rather than judging, I choose to instead pay attention–simply notice– the social and the unsocial. I deleted all social media over a year ago, and have been awakened by calm clarity. My thoughts, my faith, and my relationships have grown sharper, more refreshing–much like a moving stream rather than a still and murky pond.

Despite such goodness, I have grown lazy and complacent with my phone consumption come evening: checking email and texts and reading blogs through the little bite-out-of-the-apple device that I absentmindedly carry to the coffee table after tidying and hushing the kitchen, come nightfall. With an empty nest, it has become easy to slowly fade as my husband opens his laptop or phone after dinner.

The impetus for change begins with noticing and honestly naming a concern in order to intentionally alter course and chase a better outcome.

So on the day of this particular get-together, my friend has likewise abandoned her phone, and we are fully present. Two normal, middle-aged women swimming against the tide. It sizzles, alive. A throwback to my college days, as we strike up fun and meaningful conversations. Oh, it isn’t all serious…we gather our people and play raucous card games at the dining room table followed by tossing beanbags for cornhole in the scorching heat, sweating wildly with the best of them. We feast liberally on smoked chicken and salad and fruit and chips and icy water, undone by waves of laughter, springing up from our depths.

And here is what I know: a whole lot of simple, happy living happens, organically, when no one cares one whit about staging pictures to make things appear special and cool and fun. I am sorry, but that is not fun. It is work–and pressure– to pretend.

Hours later it is time to head home and my soul is full to the brim. I turn and hug my friend goodbye.

Kristin, she says, eyes dancing. What a day! No pictures, no phones, no posting.

I smiled and nod.

But it’s better because it is all right here. She touches her head.

I drive away, hand to heart, thinking Yes, it is all right here.

***

C.S. Lewis once said:

“It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

Indeed, we are half-hearted creatures, ignorant children making mud pies in the slum, favoring screens over living.

Like addicts, tethered to our devices, we curl inward, unwilling to admit that our insatiable consumption maims not only ourselves but withers our heart connections with the people God has gifted to us.

May God’s voice lead us:

Look carefully then how you walk, not as unwise but as wise, making the best use of the time, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the will of the Lord is. (Ephesians 5:15-17)