Dear Facebook,
I don’t exactly know how to tell you this – so I’ll just say it.
I’m breaking up with you.
I know I owe you an explanation. It’s me. Really. It’s not you.
You see, at first I was enamored with you. You were my ticket to an exciting social life. Being an introvert, you gave me over 100 friends. Think of that. Me, a bookish middle-aged homebody collecting over 100 friends in just a few weeks! I finally felt popular, cool and hip.
I loved you for that.
Of course, most of the friends I collected were nieces, nephews, sisters, brother, my husband and old college friends I haven’t talked to in 20 years. But hey, it made me feel good that so many people “friended” me.
I loved spending hours with you. In our honeymoon phase, I couldn’t get enough of you. I wanted to know what my friends were doing every minute. I would read the latest update from that guy I barely knew in college, and see photos documenting my friends’ seemingly perfect lives. I stalked my friends’ walls to find out what was going on in their worlds. I no longer had to pick up the phone to find out. I just had to click on their wall, and I’d know how they were feeling, what they were doing, and what time they were going to bed.
In the first months of our love, I wrote and rewrote my status, trying to come up with something witty and smart. I carefully edited and cropped the photos I posted. I didn’t want anyone to see me at a bad angle. Maybe if I cropped the photos just right, I might bear a slight resemblance to Tea Leoni and acquaintances I hadn’t seen in years would think, “Hey, she’s really aged well! She looks happy and successful!’
I craved comments. They reminded me that people were noticing me. Little ol’ me! They were interested that I just had oatmeal for breakfast. And they cared that I had survived a hellish commute on the train. Never before had anyone been so interested in the mundane details of my life. It made me feel loved.
I thought about you constantly. Even at work. I logged on in-between projects, hoping none of my colleagues would notice I was updating my status instead of working. I couldn’t get you off of my mind.
But then everything changed.
I started feeling empty and bad whenever we were together. I realized that my friends seemed interested in my photos and status updates. But often, that was the extent of our friendship. It was my fault just as much as theirs. I was just as guilty of merely trading status updates instead of picking up the phone and asking someone to meet me for coffee. But still, I felt vaguely bad that our friendship didn’t go beyond our virtual walls.
And I realized I felt jealous. I started comparing the carefully selected photos of my friends with my own carefully cropped photos. And guess what – I didn’t measure up. I started feeling like I needed to be something more – more successful to impress that old college friend. More beautiful, so that I would get more comments (and the right kind of comments) on my photos. More witty in order to prompt people to react to my status updates. And more financially stable so I could post pictures of a wonderful beach vacation.
I just can’t do it anymore, Facebook. You’re slowing stealing my soul and making me dissatisfied with the life God has given me. Spending too much time with you caused me to want to be someone different than who God has created me to be.
I think I deserve to spend time with someone who likes me for who I am, and knows the real me. The me who is more complex that what could ever be expressed in a 10 word status update.
All of those hours I’ve spend browsing the photos of my 100+ friends, and reading their wall postings? Those are hours I could have been writing a novel, or spending time with my husband, or knitting or painting or having coffee with a friend getting to know them and all of their joys and struggles and disappointments – not their Facebook persona.
I’ve decided I’d rather have real, deep, meaningful friends than the kind you offer. I want real community. Not brief, status updates. I want real, live flesh and blood hugs, not a little icon placed on my virtual wall.
Don’t get me wrong. You’ve given me a lot. A chance to connect with old friends. A way to see photos of my nieces and nephews. A way to keep up to date on the latest news.
But I don’t think that’s enough to keep us in a long-term relationship. I will miss you, and remember the wonderful times we had together.
I need to find myself again. And find my community.
And you know, God doesn’t even have a profile on Facebook, so I have to log out in order to be friends with him. I think I owe him some status updates.
So, goodbye for now, Facebook.
Don’t try to contact me or send me status updates. I will be busy living my life.
Monday, March 09, 2009
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Unemployment: Day 9
I suppose I'm typical of most people who get laid off. There's a whole bunch of emotions -- anger, fear, shame, sadness, panic, loss of control, self-doubt. At first, after a day and a half of crying and panic, I felt a surge of hopefulness and calm. I started enjoying sleeping in, got a few leads on freelance projects, was distracted from my panic by furiously updating my resume and web site. Decided to trust God.
But that only lasted a few days. Then I started once again thinking about our situation. David's in school fulltime, has an internship, and a fellowship. He doesn't have enough time in his days to work more than 15 - 20 hours a week. So it's up to me to fill in the rest of the income gap. With the economy the way it is, I'm imagining thousands of resumes, like an email tsunami, crashing simultaniously into the inboxes of the HR departments of the various companies I'm applying to. I email resumes, or follow up on a freelance lead, and then stare at my computer, waiting for a response. It's really enough to make one as CRAZY as a cat chased by a vacuum cleaner.
I try to create order in my day. Get up, take shower, check email, look for jobs, send out resumes, revise resume to make it sound more "creative and hip", wait. And wait some more. Try to think of people I can contact. Rinse, repeat.
At some point, I pry myself away from my computer and go to the gym. I'm doing everything I can to remain sane. Working out helps. I might be unemployed, but damn, I'm going to be the best-looking, svelt unemployed person to walk the streets of Chicago. It's sort of like seeing an old boyfriend and wanting to look hot so he'll regret ever dumping you. I'm imagining myself bumping into one of my old co-workers 20 pounds lighter, with a glowing tan, and casually saying "Oh, getting laid off was the BEST THING that's ever happened to me!" As they trudge back to their dark, dank cubicle.
I've noticed something good in all of this. It seems like people are becoming more compassionate. Many have lost jobs, or lost money in the stock market, or know of a friend or relative who lost a job. In our mutual economic panic, we're becoming more human, I think. Our downstairs neighbors, who we rarely see, invited us out for breakfast last Saturday. An incredibly shy classmate of David's stopped him in the hallway at school and hugged him. A freelance contact of mine, whom I've worked with but don't know well, sent me a compassionate email, vowing to help me find work. We've taken our eyes off of our money, work, achievements, things, and started looking at one another. Instead of buying that HDTV, we're helping each other through this difficult situation.
It's a good thing.
Now excuse me while I go check my email again.
But that only lasted a few days. Then I started once again thinking about our situation. David's in school fulltime, has an internship, and a fellowship. He doesn't have enough time in his days to work more than 15 - 20 hours a week. So it's up to me to fill in the rest of the income gap. With the economy the way it is, I'm imagining thousands of resumes, like an email tsunami, crashing simultaniously into the inboxes of the HR departments of the various companies I'm applying to. I email resumes, or follow up on a freelance lead, and then stare at my computer, waiting for a response. It's really enough to make one as CRAZY as a cat chased by a vacuum cleaner.
I try to create order in my day. Get up, take shower, check email, look for jobs, send out resumes, revise resume to make it sound more "creative and hip", wait. And wait some more. Try to think of people I can contact. Rinse, repeat.
At some point, I pry myself away from my computer and go to the gym. I'm doing everything I can to remain sane. Working out helps. I might be unemployed, but damn, I'm going to be the best-looking, svelt unemployed person to walk the streets of Chicago. It's sort of like seeing an old boyfriend and wanting to look hot so he'll regret ever dumping you. I'm imagining myself bumping into one of my old co-workers 20 pounds lighter, with a glowing tan, and casually saying "Oh, getting laid off was the BEST THING that's ever happened to me!" As they trudge back to their dark, dank cubicle.
I've noticed something good in all of this. It seems like people are becoming more compassionate. Many have lost jobs, or lost money in the stock market, or know of a friend or relative who lost a job. In our mutual economic panic, we're becoming more human, I think. Our downstairs neighbors, who we rarely see, invited us out for breakfast last Saturday. An incredibly shy classmate of David's stopped him in the hallway at school and hugged him. A freelance contact of mine, whom I've worked with but don't know well, sent me a compassionate email, vowing to help me find work. We've taken our eyes off of our money, work, achievements, things, and started looking at one another. Instead of buying that HDTV, we're helping each other through this difficult situation.
It's a good thing.
Now excuse me while I go check my email again.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Top 10 things about getting laid off
1. You get to sleep past 6:30 a.m.
2. No more commute on the smelly EL
3. You can start dreaming of a whole new career
4. Two-hour lunches with friends
5. You can watch Oprah
6. You realize that things are so bad and out of your control that that only thing you can do is surrender
7. Forces you to trust God (see above)
8. Makes you realize what's really important in life
9. You lose weight from the anxiety
10. Can wear the same outfit every day and no one will notice
I'm finding ways to laugh at our situation. The comments in response to this NY Times article, "You're Fired! But your outfit's great," had me rolling on the floor. Especially comment #4 re: pleated pants. Maybe it's because I was reading it at 4:00 a.m.
What I wore when I was canned: Jeans that were tattered at the hems, a cool sweater and kickin' red cowboy boots. Glad I wore the red boots. But really wish I had washed my hair that morning. Dang.
Tuesday I woke up and washed my hair. Fresh start....
2. No more commute on the smelly EL
3. You can start dreaming of a whole new career
4. Two-hour lunches with friends
5. You can watch Oprah
6. You realize that things are so bad and out of your control that that only thing you can do is surrender
7. Forces you to trust God (see above)
8. Makes you realize what's really important in life
9. You lose weight from the anxiety
10. Can wear the same outfit every day and no one will notice
I'm finding ways to laugh at our situation. The comments in response to this NY Times article, "You're Fired! But your outfit's great," had me rolling on the floor. Especially comment #4 re: pleated pants. Maybe it's because I was reading it at 4:00 a.m.
What I wore when I was canned: Jeans that were tattered at the hems, a cool sweater and kickin' red cowboy boots. Glad I wore the red boots. But really wish I had washed my hair that morning. Dang.
Tuesday I woke up and washed my hair. Fresh start....
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sunday morning worship
Today we didn't go to church. Instead, David studied and I took a walk by the Lake. It's 17 degrees. But the sun is out. This time of year, that's a big deal.
It's been a hard winter, and it's only January. I won't lie to you. I've been fantasizing about moving south. I hate to admit that, since I've always taken pride in being a "hearty Midwesterner" who can take these grueling arctic blasts for four months. But the past two winters have been humbling. I'm getting too old for this. Too weary to dig the car out of a snow drift one more time. Too tired to trudge to work from the train in 2 feet of snow. To disgusted with one more pair of boots ruined by the combination of snow, salt, and melted "sludge" that collects in the street gutters.
No one cares how they look when go they to work in the morning. Typically stylish and sophisticated Chicagoans who work in the Loop now waddle down the streets in full-length black down coats, snow boots that are more practical than fashionable, and layers and layers of scarves, hats, mittens, ear muffs, and ski masks. I even saw one guy wearing ski goggles. He's smart. That wind that whips off the river as I walk to work feels like straight pins stabbing my face and makes my eyes water and nose run.
We are hearty, but human. And we're already tired of winter.
But today we got a reprieve. The sun was shining brightly. It felt warm -- even though it was only 17 degrees. I drove to my favorite coffee shop, which is two blocks from the lake, and on a whim walked to the beach. I had my camera and took these shots. Then I just sat on the pier and felt the sun on my face.
It felt like God's grace warming me in the midst of this brutal season. And I gave thanks, and prayed that Spring, and along with it, Easter, would come quickly.
It's been a hard winter, and it's only January. I won't lie to you. I've been fantasizing about moving south. I hate to admit that, since I've always taken pride in being a "hearty Midwesterner" who can take these grueling arctic blasts for four months. But the past two winters have been humbling. I'm getting too old for this. Too weary to dig the car out of a snow drift one more time. Too tired to trudge to work from the train in 2 feet of snow. To disgusted with one more pair of boots ruined by the combination of snow, salt, and melted "sludge" that collects in the street gutters.
No one cares how they look when go they to work in the morning. Typically stylish and sophisticated Chicagoans who work in the Loop now waddle down the streets in full-length black down coats, snow boots that are more practical than fashionable, and layers and layers of scarves, hats, mittens, ear muffs, and ski masks. I even saw one guy wearing ski goggles. He's smart. That wind that whips off the river as I walk to work feels like straight pins stabbing my face and makes my eyes water and nose run.
We are hearty, but human. And we're already tired of winter.
But today we got a reprieve. The sun was shining brightly. It felt warm -- even though it was only 17 degrees. I drove to my favorite coffee shop, which is two blocks from the lake, and on a whim walked to the beach. I had my camera and took these shots. Then I just sat on the pier and felt the sun on my face.
It felt like God's grace warming me in the midst of this brutal season. And I gave thanks, and prayed that Spring, and along with it, Easter, would come quickly.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
From Wendell Berry
I know that I have life
only insofar as I have love.
I have no love
except it come from Thee.
Help me, please, to carry
this candle against the wind.
-- Wendell Berry
only insofar as I have love.
I have no love
except it come from Thee.
Help me, please, to carry
this candle against the wind.
-- Wendell Berry
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Glimpses of the Kingdom
I remember several years ago, in the early 90s, when I was hanging out with a bunch of people from my former church, a few who were theologians. Up until this point, I was going along in my faith, stuck in a theology that wasn't really working for me anymore. I'd been questioning for a long time....I think I emerged from the womb questioning. I remember when I was about 6 or 7, asking my mother: "How do we know the Bible is true?" My poor mom. She never really knew how to deal with me, and the question probably shocked her a little. She answered: "Well, we just KNOW...!" I remember her hard emphasis on the word "Know" -- I can still hear it 35 years later. Maybe for my mother she did "know" in her own way. She had been through enough in life at that point that maybe her experience of God brought her a confidence that yes, it's real. We can trust it.
But to my 7 year old soul, that response probably appeased me for about 5 seconds. It also taught me that there was something wrong with me. That maybe I shouldn't question. That I should just go along and BELIEVE.
Well, obviously that didn't work. I had questions. I had doubts. And for most of my childhood I stuffed them down into my tender, young soul. There was nowhere else to put them. And then when I turned 30 I started spending $100 a session spilling them to my therapist.
But there have been a few people along the way who have created a safe space for my doubts. And a new way of looking at faith. And let me know that my questioning was okay. And that not having hard, simple, answers is actually a good thing. An "aha" moment for me was when I realized that faith isn't about answers -- it's about mystery. And when I embraced that mystery is when my faith started to emerge again, like the tiny green crocus plants in front of our condo that poke up through the snow in March.
Another "aha" moment was in the early 90s when my theologian friends started saying that the Kingdom of God is here. Now. Right now. Here. Really? NOOO! It's in the future, I tried to tell them. You know -- when were all raptured. Right now we're just biding our time. Waiting. Until the future, you know.
But slowing I started getting that yes, the Kingdom is here. Maybe not in all of its fullness, when everything will be made right. But God is doing something here, now, to heal our souls and to give us glimpses of how things can be made right. It's Now, Not Yet (thus the title of this blog).
Richard Rohr writes:
"Jesus clearly says the kingdom of heaven is among us (Luke 17:21) or 'at hand' (Matthew 3:2, 4:17). One wonders why we made it into a reward system for later, or as someone called it, 'a divine evacuation plan' from this world. Maybe it was easier to obey laws and practice rituals for later reward than to actually be transformed now."
I've been humbled recently at the privilege of getting to participate in seeing other people start understanding this message that the Kingdom is here -- now, and you can be transformed. There is hope!
Last fall David and I attended The Beloved Retreat. This year, I was asked to help be a part of the team that leads it. And I saw glimpses of the Kingdom. The NOW part of the "Now, not yet."
So we met at the Seminary at St. Mary's by the Lake in Mundelein, Illinois. I saw lives transformed. I saw people finally understanding that Christ came so that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. I was reminded once again that in order to have that life, we need to let go of some things that aren't working anymore. I saw salvation happening. Oh my gosh -- what an exciting thing.
On Sunday morning that weekend, I got up early and walked to the lake. It was so quiet. The sun was coming up. I was freezing. The lake was frozen and Canadian geese were honking quietly, or roosting on the ice with their beaks tucked into their wings to keep warm. I saw a 6-point buck lazily wandering off into the trees. I waited for the sun. And waited. And waited. It felt like it was taking forever and I almost gave up and walked back to my dorm room to get warm. But the colors in the sky kept changing, and I was mesmerized. Often, I've discovered, the colors of the sky just before sunrise or sunset are more beautiful than the colors of the actual event. Maybe the same is true when we're waiting for Christ to come. In the "now" we can be mesmerized at the beauty of the transforming sky, and our transforming lives.
But to my 7 year old soul, that response probably appeased me for about 5 seconds. It also taught me that there was something wrong with me. That maybe I shouldn't question. That I should just go along and BELIEVE.
Well, obviously that didn't work. I had questions. I had doubts. And for most of my childhood I stuffed them down into my tender, young soul. There was nowhere else to put them. And then when I turned 30 I started spending $100 a session spilling them to my therapist.
But there have been a few people along the way who have created a safe space for my doubts. And a new way of looking at faith. And let me know that my questioning was okay. And that not having hard, simple, answers is actually a good thing. An "aha" moment for me was when I realized that faith isn't about answers -- it's about mystery. And when I embraced that mystery is when my faith started to emerge again, like the tiny green crocus plants in front of our condo that poke up through the snow in March.
Another "aha" moment was in the early 90s when my theologian friends started saying that the Kingdom of God is here. Now. Right now. Here. Really? NOOO! It's in the future, I tried to tell them. You know -- when were all raptured. Right now we're just biding our time. Waiting. Until the future, you know.
But slowing I started getting that yes, the Kingdom is here. Maybe not in all of its fullness, when everything will be made right. But God is doing something here, now, to heal our souls and to give us glimpses of how things can be made right. It's Now, Not Yet (thus the title of this blog).
Richard Rohr writes:
"Jesus clearly says the kingdom of heaven is among us (Luke 17:21) or 'at hand' (Matthew 3:2, 4:17). One wonders why we made it into a reward system for later, or as someone called it, 'a divine evacuation plan' from this world. Maybe it was easier to obey laws and practice rituals for later reward than to actually be transformed now."
I've been humbled recently at the privilege of getting to participate in seeing other people start understanding this message that the Kingdom is here -- now, and you can be transformed. There is hope!
Last fall David and I attended The Beloved Retreat. This year, I was asked to help be a part of the team that leads it. And I saw glimpses of the Kingdom. The NOW part of the "Now, not yet."
So we met at the Seminary at St. Mary's by the Lake in Mundelein, Illinois. I saw lives transformed. I saw people finally understanding that Christ came so that we might have life, and have it more abundantly. I was reminded once again that in order to have that life, we need to let go of some things that aren't working anymore. I saw salvation happening. Oh my gosh -- what an exciting thing.
On Sunday morning that weekend, I got up early and walked to the lake. It was so quiet. The sun was coming up. I was freezing. The lake was frozen and Canadian geese were honking quietly, or roosting on the ice with their beaks tucked into their wings to keep warm. I saw a 6-point buck lazily wandering off into the trees. I waited for the sun. And waited. And waited. It felt like it was taking forever and I almost gave up and walked back to my dorm room to get warm. But the colors in the sky kept changing, and I was mesmerized. Often, I've discovered, the colors of the sky just before sunrise or sunset are more beautiful than the colors of the actual event. Maybe the same is true when we're waiting for Christ to come. In the "now" we can be mesmerized at the beauty of the transforming sky, and our transforming lives.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Whew!
Anyone out there still reading this? Sorry for the absence. Life has been a little crazy here, and won't be letting up any time soon.
We knew going into this month that it would be a little mind-numbing. We've had lots of visitors -- LiJen (niece) and Josh (her new boyfriend) for a day (the little love-birds), and then my good friend Sheri was in town the evening of the election (GOBAMA!) We drank wine while sitting on the couch watching the happenings in Grant Park. I guess we could have been down in the park, but we didn't have tickets and wondered if we would even hear the speech if we were too far away. So we didn't want to take a chance. Plus, I hate crowds.
Then, we had our wonderful fundraising concert on November 9. It was amazing how well everything came together. We raised about $4,500 -- more than enough to get our homestudy done! That was our goal, because once we finish the homestudy, we can apply for adoption grants. You can read more about it here.
Then last weekend we took a whirl-wind trip down to Atlanta for the wedding of David's long-time friend, Stephen. It was great to get away for a little while and spend time with friends.
This weekend I'm staffing the Beloved Retreat. For the past 6 weeks our team has been meeting to plan for the weekend, and write our "narratives." The whole weekend is about stories -- the stories we tell each other about God working in our lives. And the more I'm around these Old St. Pats friends I'm more and more convinced that they're "my tribe." I don't feel like an outsider anymore (since I'm not catholic). The way they are living out their faith is very familiar to me. I'm grateful to have this opportunity to help others experience the retreat like I experienced it last year.
I will post photos of all of these events soon, and will try to update more frequently...!
We knew going into this month that it would be a little mind-numbing. We've had lots of visitors -- LiJen (niece) and Josh (her new boyfriend) for a day (the little love-birds), and then my good friend Sheri was in town the evening of the election (GOBAMA!) We drank wine while sitting on the couch watching the happenings in Grant Park. I guess we could have been down in the park, but we didn't have tickets and wondered if we would even hear the speech if we were too far away. So we didn't want to take a chance. Plus, I hate crowds.
Then, we had our wonderful fundraising concert on November 9. It was amazing how well everything came together. We raised about $4,500 -- more than enough to get our homestudy done! That was our goal, because once we finish the homestudy, we can apply for adoption grants. You can read more about it here.
Then last weekend we took a whirl-wind trip down to Atlanta for the wedding of David's long-time friend, Stephen. It was great to get away for a little while and spend time with friends.
This weekend I'm staffing the Beloved Retreat. For the past 6 weeks our team has been meeting to plan for the weekend, and write our "narratives." The whole weekend is about stories -- the stories we tell each other about God working in our lives. And the more I'm around these Old St. Pats friends I'm more and more convinced that they're "my tribe." I don't feel like an outsider anymore (since I'm not catholic). The way they are living out their faith is very familiar to me. I'm grateful to have this opportunity to help others experience the retreat like I experienced it last year.
I will post photos of all of these events soon, and will try to update more frequently...!
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