Textual Healing


My husband and I cannot agree on the proper use of text messaging.

I think that text messages should remain purely informational.  Honey, we are out of milk. OR  BTW (by the way), no matter what he tells you, our son must wear underwear EVERY day. OR even  Hey there, our daughter attempted a triple back flip over the dog . . . will call you from the ER . . . and the vet.

Jason, on the other hand, considers texting conversational.  Most days, it is his primary form of communication.  The wife of one friend even calls him “the other woman.”  When my phone lights up with a new text from Jason , I usually find myself longing for a sarcasm font.

Honey, he’ll write, what do you think is the true meaning of life? OR  BTW, I went to the car dealership today, would you mind if I traded in your car for something else.  OR, the simple but classic, tell me all about your day.  When I explain that the answers to his questions require more words than I am willing to type on a number pad, he responds with an lol.  “I know,” he’ll say, “that’s why I like texting.  I get the short version.”

Still, short version or long, Jason and I do use texting as a  way to maintain contact.  We see each other twice a day.  I see him first at 4 am when I am leaving for work and our conversations consist of nods, slurred words,  and a few snores through the nasal cavity.  He sees me at 1:30 am when he gets home from work and our conversation usually revolves around  the dog stretched out on his side of the bed.  The rest of the day we keep one another in check and up to date via texts.

So then, one must understand his frustration with my lax care for cell phones.  I posses the unusual talent of destroying phones in ridiculous ways.  One phone, I dropped into a cup of coffee.  I remedied the damage by soaking the parts in a bowl of dried rice.  The phone revived, with the exception of the “7” button.  A bit of a challenge when you live in an area where the first three  digits of all phone numbers begin with 7.  An even greater texting predicament considering two of the most commonly used letters (at least according to Wheel of Fortune) reside on the 7 key. 

Another phone I took on a long bike ride, only to realize the jacket I donned had no pockets.  I thought quick and shoved the phone into my sports bra.  By the time I finished the ride, my sweat infiltrated the motherboard and the phone went haywire sending obscene texts to people in China. 

Other phones dropped seven stories to their death, got run over, or simply disappeared into the black hole that lies between the seat and console of my car. 

Jason finally decided that I must have the as advertised indestructible phone.  I, obviously, had already used all my upgrades  leaving Jason no choice but to check out Craig’s List.

He wanted to surprise me, so he didn’t mention when he found a steal.  Twenty-dollars for the phone that won’t break, scratch, sink, drown, shock, explode, implode, self-destruct, or rust. 

It came in the mail on a Monday, and addressed to me.

I opened the package to find the “indestructible phone” with a giant crack on the face (not a shipping problem).  The camera on the phone experienced some sort of trauma and cried error any time I attempted to use it.  This phone did not make the sound of bells or play the William Tell Overture.  Instead, the ringer played  the same series of tones you hear when you dial a wrong number. Halfway through those tones an Operator spoke, saying “at the beep the time will be 4:20.”  I laughed til I cried the first time it rang.  Then I realized the ring tone was stuck in that position and it would always be 4:20. It wasn’t funny anymore.  My seven-year-old somehow cracked the code into the music playlist already burned into the phone.  I had to act quickly when she started to read aloud all the song titles . . . at church.   And the true topper: one of the prongs on the charger sat inverted enabling me to charge the phone long enough to last through a thirty-second conversation . . . or to send one text . . .   the short version.  I began to wonder if this phone was not so much a steal as just stolen.

I gave Jason a lot of grief for that obscenity playing, not-so-indestructible phone.  But I did appreciate it.  I daily give him grief about his over zealous texting habits.  But I do appreciate every one he sends.

You see, our lives run parallel to one another, coincide only on weekends, and not even all of those.  It can be very lonely.  So every text that comes in is like a brief  reminder that I am not alone.  Though our paths may not cross physically on any given day, our lives are always intertwined.  Out of sight, does not mean out of mind. 

God says his thoughts towards us are greater than every grain of sand on earth.  In other words, He thinks about us a lot.  Which made me wonder:  is God texting?  He says that His voice is not in the mighty thunder, but in a whisper . . . the chime of an incoming message?  Our hearts are graffitied with His law  . . . a text?   Are there moments in my day that God is reaching out to say that I am on His mind?  Is He placing in my heart bits of information to guide me through the day?  Is He trying to strike up a conversation?

 My husband cannot help but to send annoyingly long and conversational texts. How much more must  God be longing to talk to me. My husband went to great lengths (or at least to Craig’s list) to ensure our line of communication remained open.What must God be willing to do in order to ensure that I hear Him.  God MUST be texting.  Am I receiving?

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