My Friend, My Phone
I do not journal, not like my mother did, but I do continually write. Yes, I have written a book but sometimes I scold myself for not recording my life like my mother did with pen and paper. Since the publication of my book I have also blogged a bit on my website but the posts are few and far between. Through Facebook I have chronicled the last decade of my life with photos, travel logs and random but meaningful thoughts. But what I realized this morning, as I sat down with the intention of writing, is that my phone is my very intimate friend. In one way or another my phone is the recipient of my innermost thoughts. As I listen and read, I take notes and jot down things I want to remember, explore or expand on… possibly on paper, but more so, on my phone.
In the quiet space between my morning devotions and deciding which book to dive in to, I picked up my phone and scrolled through my “Notes” app. This seems to be where I scribe the things I don’t want to forget – not a grocery or a to do list, but words in which I find meaning. I found 60 notes dating back to April 20, 2017 where I recorded a quote from Steve Jobs where he said, “Your time is precious so don’t waste it living someone else’s life!” Eight months later I wrote another note, the original post that catapulted me into a writing career. I gave an honorary “ME TOO” for my mother and began to use my voice in telling her story.
In 2018 I found several quotes from the funeral of George Bush. One hits me hard in my present day stating, “Hatred corrodes the container it’s carried in.” That same note says, “Always preach Jesus, if necessary, use words!” What a gracious reminder of the love-hate paradox. I urge you to think deeply on both of these.
My phone allows me to write or journal perfectly. Perhaps not what you think of as perfect statements, but allowing the ability to put thoughts and experience into words, pause, change, ponder and edit until I’m pleased. Thinking back to my first 30 years of life, I believe my need for acceptance created in me a sense of perfectionism. If I could keep a perfectly clean house, if I could cook the perfect meal and write the perfect words, then maybe… Maybe what? Maybe my mother would see me differently or love me more? But she already did and I know that in the caverns of my soul. She knew who I was, even in the midst of my worst mess. In 2019 I found a Mother’s Day post, eighteen years after she passed, telling her to keep watching me because I was not done yet!
I could go on and on about the words I have written with my thumb, mostly beautiful but occasionally ugly. Some of them made it to Facebook or my website but some did not. As with my mother’s journals, no one has read them all except me, but I will not erase or destroy them. Some are equivalent to scribbles while others have been edited, perfected and transferred to other locations possibly for public consumption or maybe to remain more hidden. I am a Sunday morning note taker where important phrases, quotes and scripture are typed in my hand and then later transcribed in my sermon journal in ink. These electronic entries are then dumped in the trash can with the knowledge that they are now on paper pages that require turning, reflection and contemplation.
None of the pages of Her Words, My Voice were written on my phone other than an almost exact variation of the final paragraph (written 18 months prior to publication) beginning with “Entangled is what he called it…” referring to the words my father used to describe the intricacies of my relationship with my mother, how we are still completely woven together after 50 years, how her story bleeds into mine and mine reflects back to her. How her words became my voice and one that the world needed to hear.
I’ve been thinking about writing for months now as my soul has desired an emotional yet creative outlet. Aside from a few social media posts, I have written one sermon (albeit my favorite one) and one blog post about my onset of middle age and situational anxiety, another thumb-typed creation. My sermon was heard by nearly 800 ears and my blog by read by less than 50 eyes. As I reread my blog this morning, still in my notes app, I’m grateful for the smaller viewership (although it received comments of gratitude) as I realized I had not been fair to myself. I had been realistic about the things I can no longer do as well now that I’m 54 and not 35, but I had misjudged my gut and not given myself compassion for legitimate discomfort and emotion that led to anxiety. I discounted my fears and wrongly referred to them as unfounded. It’s been a difficult year, likely my worst ever, and instead of seeking honesty and giving myself grace to trust my instinct, I sold my soul to believe what I wanted and needed to be true. In retrospect, how interesting to read my own words six months later, knowing sadly that I had sold myself short and not given the appropriate weight to my innermost thoughts. Hmmm…
One more thought about my friend, my phone. From 1986 to 2001 my mother wrote almost daily. She recorded important passages from what she was reading, dialogued about her journey through trauma restoration, depression, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and cancer, plus had thousands of conversations with God. She was verbally savvy but rarely picked up the phone for long intimate chats. As most of us usually have a phone at our fingertips, she had a notebook and pen. What just struck me was the idea that while I have her unabridged words in a canvas bag, I have mine in my hand. While I have her cries and pleas to God on paper, in text messages I have both sides of my conversations. In my phone I have written sentences detailing to my inner circle my best days and my most destructive fears. I have documentation of lies and manipulation, messages begging to be seen and heard, but I also have prayers of truth and encouragement from the best friends one could ask for. While I may never need or want written proof of intentional hurt, for my story is MY story, having reminders of kindness and specific prayers of comfort and healing that I can read over and over again might be the best reason to have a phone. Truly, honestly, I HAVE chronicled my life and as I have encouraged my readers to not destroy their private journals, I will delete very little from my phone. This is me, this is my heart, these are my most precious words. Someday, someone might find them meaningful, perhaps useful, possibly life changing.
