the Great Fears: the culture of texting and crashing patients.

the culture of texting and chatting. i'm not quite old enough not to claim it as my generation but as the rebellious continent-confused nostalgic francophone Lebanese, i never quite claimed it or enjoyed it.

to be truthful, texting does appeal to me as a means of conversation, avoiding all the necessary polite tournures de phrases before addressing the issue you just wasted seven minutes of your life introducing. i find it hard to relate, empathize and love over the phone so: straight to the point and saving precious minutes here and there, minutes used to knock down other essential items on the to-do list.

saving time, using time, sparing time, for the sake of…? what am i doing with all this time? worrying about time. do i know that i sound crazy? yes, but this is how most of the great philosophical debates and spiritual revelations probably started in history. at least this is how they start for me.

they sound even crazier when God sits me down to type them, or hand write them for the sake of further time saving 

when i was still using a computer that required ten minutes in its two step start up: turn on. three minutes later: hard disk not found. press hard on turn off button. wait two minutes. turn back on. your system shut down unexpectedly, would u like to proceed. yes. 

it was the system of deliberate un-expectation. 

just like waving the image of the man you like out of your brain to trick the Lord who made your brain into giving you what you're not really asking for. because the dark twisted portion of your brain believes that God is whitholding what you want. but i digress.

in the days of the old metal square that believed itself a computer, the typing the beginnings of my great spiritual debates was done with two thumbs on the instantly gratifying screen of an iphone.

all that to say that i fully enjoy the benefits of introverted conversation through  the veil of technology. never through a computer screen surprisingly, but i haven’t had enough time yet over the past six years that this specific symptom has manifested, to elucidate that non-inclination.

back to the main doleances and the intended topic of this post.

perhaps it is my french-nurtured-endless-sentences-with minimal-punctuation-and-twelve-jumbled-thoughts-literrary leanings.

i do not understand, tolerate or forgive multiple small texts sent in a chat-type fashion, in a systematic morse-like pressing of send, like that poor soul you see in catastrophic movies, pushing on his small beeping button, sweating his brain off, in an attempt to save humanity, through the frantic pressing and beeping.

it must be the stuff torture devices are made of. and it makes me almost cry of frustration as i hear more beeping  drilling into my soul in the five seconds it takes me to reach the phone in my tiny (but extremely well-decorated) apartment.

perhaps it is the most commonly unimportant topics usually addressed in chatting-qui-se-veut-texting, i thought. maybe i should address the selfishness in my heart for wanting to love people on my own terms, in my own time, and only on topics that i deem worthy. maybe it has nothing to do with the beeping.

but really if they.were.just.written.in.one.paragraph.

read in one sitting.

one continuous thought.

one nice large blue rectangle on my screen rather that ever appearing new bubbles, making the screen flicker, my brain startle and my heart sink ever so sligthly

and only.one.beep.

yes, i DO have tried changing the ringtone, thank you very much for the suggestion. maybe the same musical note, if repeated so very often, would have driven even Haendel to eradicate it from his Hallelujah all together.

maybe if changed to a traditional ring, the way God and Alexander Graham Bell intended it. #fail

maybe its an undiagnosed lack of affection for specific people communicating. tried and tested. most are deeply cherished face-to-face. or when they send a appropriately sized cyber-communiqué. so it's not the people, it's the bip.

i pray to be someone who loves people, who is quick to repent and willing to serve.

but i really do.bip.not.bip.believe.bip. that the intellectual trauma and the emotional breakdown caused by.bip.the.bip.incessant.bip.beeping. bip.of.bip.multiple.bip.small.bip.texts. is a heart issue.

en passant on the heart issue: if life-giving communication was meant to mimic the heart beat of life, we would have all been speaking in one.word.sentences.like.the.robots.with.the.nasal.voices.in.eighties.movies.

one of the godly women i look up to whole-hearteldly hates group messages. and she loves Jesus. there you go. justification through the spiritual mentor. Jesus never had to deal with group sms and the incessant exasperating bip. nothing to learn there so i'll take the next best example to follow.

 (Although we could arguably analogize that the most certain interruptions of his frequently irritating disciples to the dreaded bip. which disciples he didn’t turn off with a mighty smack of his hand. have i ever mentioned how thankful I am for the faithfully recorded irksomeness of the same disciples who were loved and sent to make similar disciples of all nations? but I digress again)

my inner therapist truly believes this is related to The Great Fear.

Of Getting Paged, that is, about a Crashing Patient.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while standing in line with other sleep-deprived people-studying-to-help-people, in the cafeteria twelve floors below, for the first meal in 10.5 hours, trying to grab the last stale salad before the grumpy lady at the cashier’s station decrees closing time.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while on an excruciating elevator ride with a bored- and confused about disease and death in a fallen world- child pushing every floor button.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while returning the last six pages of the last minute and the half.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while trying to softly communicate your medical point of view on a landline, all your senses helplessly witnessing the sinister beeping and the flashing arrows of multiplying unreturned calls grow increasingly bright and terrifying on the tiny pager screen.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while trying to phonecall a hello to your mother 3000 miles away (preaching to yourself that an eight hour time difference makes being awake at 3:49 am allright), pretending to call her to check on her while truthfully really just needing to hear a friendly loving voice on your seemingly eternal terrifying cold and eerie night.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while wrapped in a plastic sterile tent, because the hospital only carries extra-large sterile gowns, trying to focus on sticking a two millimeter wide vein in someone’s father’s neck through your blurry eyes and scratched eyeglasses.

The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while running in a reception-free hallway trying to return a page from ten minutes ago on your cell phone, while the terrifying beeping continues on the machine of death strapped on your waist, its radiations dangerously close to your ovaries-the kind of thoughts that penetrate your exhausted brain at 3:52 in the morning.

and to alleviate the drama and terror of the above descriptions for non-medical personal, The Great Fear Of Getting Paged about a Crashing Patient while trying to empty your twelve-hour-full bladder while simultaneously-and precariously- trying to hydrate for the first time in said hours.

if The Great Fear is the root trauma behind the trauma of the texting bip, la boucle est bouclée and brings us to the explosive knot in the vicious circle.

why don’t i just silence my phone. and stop complaining, and wasting analytical power and people's time. 

because The Great Fear is above all missing a text about someone crashing. in my life that is. because buried in the midst of all the blue bubbles and important-but delayable-topics may be a truly emergent message. unlikely you say, but not in my conditioned brain. not in the volatile middle east. (cf:explosive 3 lines above). not in a hospital's operating room for a last chance to say goodbye.

the unexpected chronicles of singleness part two: the statistical significance

are you tired of running inside the house at the last minute to put mascara on because you might run into him at the grocery store?

are you tired of the frustration of not running into him at the coffee shop after you just spent two hours pretending to read while glancing at both doors every time they squeaked? sitting on your judiciously positioned seat, stolen after the near-tackling of an old lady, with your bible sitting on the table but partially covered by a french essay on neo-impressionism, to broadcast how godly-with-a-hint-of-cultured you are?

are you tired of probing through every tainted car window, every restaurant patio, are you tired of probing through every piece of information and building a crumbling tower of certainties?

are you tired of running through the list of why this time, this one, it fits right, this has to be it.
the pieces fit. the pieces you know of fit. the pieces you may have made up fit. the pieces you are not choosing to ignore fit. the pieces minus the red flags fit.
this has to be it right? i mean you have overshot the quota of not-the-one a while ago. you are holding on to the statistical light at the end of the tunnel. your turn. your reward for being patient.


if there is a #guynumber(?) for you, God doesn't need to find him, God has already made him. If there is a #guynumber(?) for you, God can direct his steps to that café, or that art fair, or through that church pew. if there is a #guynumber(?) for you, God will place the desire to pursue you in his heart. if there is a #guynumber(?) for you, you don't need to manipulate his way into knowing you, God will make him learn you

God can choose from a trillion scenarios that you cannot even imagine, in perspectives that exist beyond your awareness, in colors you cannot fathom and words as clear and soft as a stream in the sunshine of a middle eastern summer day.

so stop. rest. exhale. turn off the turbines. recover your 15% of brain power from unlikely imaginary scenes, where your identity wobbles between a variety of women who are not you.

you know how they tell you to look-up-from-your-phone-facebook-stalking of  #guynumber1 because you may be missing your true love right around the corner?

as it seems i have committed to pursue this terrible and manipulative advice into the realm of truth, I would tell you. brutally. truthfully. lovingly.

#guynumber(?) may never happen

#guynumber(?) will not be your true love
your true love is not around the corner.

your true love is right here beside you
your true love is sitting across from you on that lonely manipulative table at the coffee shop.
he whispers poetry that pierces your soul and sings words of comfort that delight your heart and only in the embrace of his arms-stronger and softer than any embrace you've ever imagined- will you finally sigh in relief and safety and joy.
your true love loved you first, before you ever acknowledged his existence, before every disdainful look you threw at him as you were getting ready for your dates.
your true love has pursued you through valleys of death and darkness and has slain every dragon.

your true love has his jealous eyes on you, and he wants you.
you, all of you, without your makeup, without your flirty act and your personality adjustments.
your true love is zealous for your good.
you are loved, you are wanted, you are cherished, you are deeply known. you belong.

so trust His plan
trust Him who holds all your tomorrows.
even when it feels like it's not the story you would've written

after all, this is not your story.



many thanks to the women who have heard my stories, who have shared their stories and whose wise counsel was adapted above





 

the unexpected chronicles of singleness

yes i'll believe the Lord
His every word is true
and when i hear His voice
i will come close
i'll follow Him
and what He says i will do


how i wish my heart was less fickle. more true to my emphatic musical proclamations.
how thankful i am that He made this song stick in my head as i my brain drowns in a swamp of thoughts and doubts.
every season in which i fall in the auto-congratulatory mode over growth, obedience, and maturity, He is faithful to remind me how much i need the shelter of the cross.
He unrolls the scarlet carpet and gently reveals how i am ever running from Him in a weak remake of the same scenario. each clever attempt more hypocritically pathetic than the last. thankfully pathetic. praise be to Him who brings me back. pouty, ungrateful and irreverent child, stomping over her unfulfilled list of demands.

i run and tackle and hide and fall, and fall, and fall, and hurt: knowing that with one breath, He appeases and comforts and re-focuses the whirlwind. when he ever so slightly turns my face to look at Him, i forget the last two sleepless nights and the cyclone of my imagination. the happiness and hope that i have failed to find all afternoon on social media, are but fading shadows when my heart is filled with His gift of grace and joy.

how long do i have to wait, Lord?
i ask again because the jaded-attitude-of-a-busy-successful-career-woman did not bring the comfort it promised. (surprise!)
i ask out loud, because trusting you means i can forego my pride.
resting in your plan breaks the patterns of despair.
and if i've been silent about struggles to protect my self-confident, self -sufficient reputation and
avoid the aw-s and oh-s and empty words of comfort of the world, i now also ask on behalf of other single women.

if we single women who understand each other's struggles well, if we who just get it, if we don't point each other to Christ, to his sufficiency, to his eternal nature, to his extravagant love, to his finished work, to the example we should be looking for, to the God we are cherished by, and are being made perfect for; to the joy of worshipping Him, to the passion He enflames in our hearts when we look at His glory. to the single God-man who joined our sorrows, the single head of household who toils and weeps with us and is Himself the answer to this particular pain. who else will?


God's plan for you and me, is not about about you or me. i really am not equipped nor created for the weight of all creation to be revolving around me. and when i try to twist an atom of the world to revolve around me or fit the plan that i haven't double-checked with God, i become the twig that snaps.
He may have a man in store who may speak arabic or not know what the mediterranean basin is.
who may have dreads or be bald, drive a harley or an escalade (hopefully not, really. please).
who may love haitian kids or dream of climbing everest ( i wont be going with).

he may this or that: insert all your lists and bulletpoints and dreams and imaginary weddings and ring sizes, career options, musical preferences, physical appearance, geographical boundaries, food restrictions, spiritual gifts, clothing choices, parenting skills, worship styles, and the countless items on THE list we all keep editing, adding to and crossing from, depending on the level of hope placed in the list.


this list does not work. it produces anxiety, endless hours of analysis over maybe's, and shallow relationships defined only by the feeling of accomplishment in laser-ing off the "SINGLE" branded on your forehead.  it is tiring and disappointing and scary.
let's trust the One who made us, who made the world, who made them. let's trust His list.

and let's trust his plan for our lives, man or no man, list or no list. let's work for Him and obsess over Him because that's what we are made for. no wonder other obsessions leave us defeated and empty and exhausted. let's not believe the lie that we are alone or abandoned or forgotten. let's not believe the lie that a created being will love us and understand us better than He will. let us admit that there are things we crave that are missing but that He knows what we need. let us not believe that being single is our biggest problem and that a relationships will fix everything. let us pray to believe He is what we need most. let us not believe that something is wrong with us.
let us laugh together and struggle together and accept together that we don't and won't believe His promises every minute of every day. and let's encourage and point each other towards Him, every time we fall.
let us wish for a wedding waltz but let the ultimate hope always be the wedding waltz in heaven with Jesus.