Growing up one of my favorite movies was Hook, the story of Robin Williams as a grown-up Peter Pan who forgot who he was. He married Wendy’s granddaughter, moved to the U.S., became a lawyer, had kids and got so bogged down with life that he forgot what mattered. On a trip to visit Wendy, now an old woman, Peter’s wife confronts him. He is on a conference call and has just snapped at one of his children who is trying to tell him something silly. She warns him, “You are not being careful, and you are missing it.”
Friends, we are missing it. Ironically, in an effort to catch it all and make it last forever.
In the last two months, I’ve had the good fortune to attend two baseball games in two cities, both featuring post-game fireworks. And at both I encountered a strange phenomenon: the person sitting directly in front of me texted, took selfies, and posted to and scrolled through Facebook throughout the entire game. In the case of the first game, an Orioles game in Baltimore, the seats were gifted to us for our anniversary. They were not cheap. I wondered why anyone would pay $50 for a ticket only to stare at her phone.
Friends, we are missing it. Ironically, in an effort to catch it all and make it last forever.
In the last two months, I’ve had the good fortune to attend two baseball games in two cities, both featuring post-game fireworks. And at both I encountered a strange phenomenon: the person sitting directly in front of me texted, took selfies, and posted to and scrolled through Facebook throughout the entire game. In the case of the first game, an Orioles game in Baltimore, the seats were gifted to us for our anniversary. They were not cheap. I wondered why anyone would pay $50 for a ticket only to stare at her phone.
This most recent game was this weekend in Norfolk. I’m not sure the girl in front of me saw a pitch the entire game. To be honest, neither did I. I was up and down the stairs, always with one child strapped to my chest and at least one other child in tow. I missed the game too, instead taking two trips to the bouncy house, three trips to the bathroom, two trips to a face painting clown, one stop at a souvenir shop, a chat with the people handing out free glow sticks, and general meandering to try to get the fussy baby to sleep. I missed what I thought I had gone there for, but as I walked hand in hand with one daughter at a time, relishing my ability to say yes to so many breathless requests, I realized I would gladly trade what I got for the price of admission.
It’s so easy to be judgmental, and that is not my intent. It’s not that I’m never on my phone, and I recognize to casual observers in public it may appear sometimes that I am ignoring something important—my children, for example—while I text or check my phone. And that may nor may not be true. On Thursday I happened to look down and see the girl in front of me pleading for her boyfriend not to break up with her over something she liked on Facebook. I watched her after she texted this. Her body language was relaxed. She gave no indication to the friends she was sitting with that anything was wrong. I was perplexed at how many of us appear to be with the people around us when we are actually far away. I make an effort, as part of my ongoing commitment to being here now, to focus on the person in front of me, but I don’t always succeed. I think the ramifications of all of this perceived connectedness is not just blatant rudeness to those we’re with; it also masks deep loneliness.
Daniel has chosen not to play in social media—no Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, nothing. He also doesn’t have a (very) smart phone. So he often chides me and our friends when we are together and some of us are looking at our phones, whether it’s to edit and share pictures of something that just happened or whether it’s because we’re giving in to distraction. It’s easy to judge when you’ve never been there, but he’s also not wrong.
It’s so easy to be judgmental, and that is not my intent. It’s not that I’m never on my phone, and I recognize to casual observers in public it may appear sometimes that I am ignoring something important—my children, for example—while I text or check my phone. And that may nor may not be true. On Thursday I happened to look down and see the girl in front of me pleading for her boyfriend not to break up with her over something she liked on Facebook. I watched her after she texted this. Her body language was relaxed. She gave no indication to the friends she was sitting with that anything was wrong. I was perplexed at how many of us appear to be with the people around us when we are actually far away. I make an effort, as part of my ongoing commitment to being here now, to focus on the person in front of me, but I don’t always succeed. I think the ramifications of all of this perceived connectedness is not just blatant rudeness to those we’re with; it also masks deep loneliness.
Daniel has chosen not to play in social media—no Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, nothing. He also doesn’t have a (very) smart phone. So he often chides me and our friends when we are together and some of us are looking at our phones, whether it’s to edit and share pictures of something that just happened or whether it’s because we’re giving in to distraction. It’s easy to judge when you’ve never been there, but he’s also not wrong.
Something about social media is deceptive. It’s not on purpose. It’s not sinister. But I think it’s easy to start to believe if I haven’t captured (and shared) pictures of an event, then it never happened. With young children, this is a double-edged sword. I truly do want to remember every moment. I want to be able to picture every nuance about the way my six-year-old looked with her hair tucked into a too-big baseball cap, smudged Sleeping Beauty painted on her sweaty face, balloon animal in hand while she ate every drop of her bubblegum snow cone and chatted with me about the game. But I can’t. And try as I might to capture the essence of that moment and so many others, they never look the same through the lens as they do in the moment. So often I stare at these gorgeous children with a lump in my throat, willing it all to slow down, trying so hard to memorize every contour, the way my four-year-old’s sweaty curls look in late afternoon light, the first freckles of summer on her cheeks, the way her lisp and raspy little voice sound. But I can’t.
After both baseball games I was astounded to see people from a wide variety of age groups watching the fireworks through their phones as they recorded video. I could not understand. There the fireworks were, larger than life, completely unobstructed, entirely too loud, and countless people chose to watch them on the 4-inch screen in their hands. Why, I wondered. So they could watch it again later? They probably won’t. So in the meantime, in an effort to preserve a moment for the future, they’ve missed it entirely in the present.
How often do I miss it? How often am I preoccupied with worries about the future or hassles of the everyday that I miss the beauty of the fistful of clovers my daughter proudly brings me? The scribbled I LOVE MOMMY I find on papers throughout the house. How often do I ignore “Mommy, look!” because I hear it so often. These days are so fleeting. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed and to long to be alone, and there should be time for that. But my babes are growing before my eyes; I know I’m meant to prepare them to grow and to go. It will happen in a blink, whether I’m present or distracted. The newborn that I just brought home turned six months today, his big sister I consider a toddler is four, and the girl who is a preschooler in my mind starts first grade in the fall. That first date with their father that doesn’t feel so long ago is nearly ten years in the rear view.
No amount of recording or snapping will ever be able to capture the life in these moments, the joy in this life, right now. Tomorrow will have sorrows and troubles and joys of its own, but that’s where they belong, tomorrow. So I will capture what I can-- there is no condemnation here-- I photographed and shared whatever moments I could over our wonderful holiday weekend. But there will never be enough. I will purpose throughout every day to be fully present. I’ll take pictures when I’m able. I will often get it wrong. I will try to be like Mary and “treasure up all these things and ponder them in [my] heart.” (Luke 2:19)
I can’t slow it, but I refuse to let it go by while I’m looking down.
No amount of recording or snapping will ever be able to capture the life in these moments, the joy in this life, right now. Tomorrow will have sorrows and troubles and joys of its own, but that’s where they belong, tomorrow. So I will capture what I can-- there is no condemnation here-- I photographed and shared whatever moments I could over our wonderful holiday weekend. But there will never be enough. I will purpose throughout every day to be fully present. I’ll take pictures when I’m able. I will often get it wrong. I will try to be like Mary and “treasure up all these things and ponder them in [my] heart.” (Luke 2:19)
I can’t slow it, but I refuse to let it go by while I’m looking down.
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