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The thought nearly stopped me mid-stride. I say nearly: mid-stride was also mid-street, and my survival mechanism kicked in to guide me safely across. . .
I’d forgotten my cell phone!!
The sense of dread: What if no one can reach me?
The sense of irresponsibility: What if no one can reach me? (Teamed with: Where in the world is it?)
Is now a good time to mention I was on my way to church?
The sense of humor—and humility: What, God was going to text?
In that moment, I resolved that the dratted thing is staying home next week, too. So often, during the first hymn, I’m reaching to see that it’s silenced. So I’m not.
Silenced, that is.
Our cell phones allow us instantaneous access to one another in even the most inconvenient places. No, I will not, shall not, cannot answer the phone in the bathroom—though others apparently do not share this compunction. Maybe (and I say this with no sincerity whatsoever) restroom exchanges could be best reserved for less-than-flattering portrayals of ex-spouses; sorry, there was NO way to miss the list of his alleged faults—it was painful. And embarrassing—for me, evidently not for the conversationalists (at least the one I could hear).
Technologies, like the wheel and fire, have found ways to become everyday. The devices some of us began to carry for emergency calls morphed for many to become telephones—making us simultaneously available and totally hard to find. (Have you ever tried to locate the phone number of someone who has only a cell phone?) I am usually quick to point out that we were not at our parents’ beck-and-cell-phone-call twenty-four hours a day as twenty-somethings; however, when my adult children do not answer their phones after a reasonable number of attempts to reach them, I do admit to worrying. (My husband is not to know; I want him to think he’s the only one who does this—only his worry masquerades as irritation.)
That cell phones have saved lives and provided a convenience is evident. But, we also need freedom from one another. We need quiet within ourselves to think and be. And, sometimes, simply muting the phone isn’t enough.
How can we seek more of that everyday silence?
Margaret Samuelson Unruh is Crookston (MN) born-and-raised; her life’s journey has taken her from farmer’s daughter to college student to teacher to wife-and-mom now living in North Dakota.
