Recently over lunch, some friends and I were discussing social media and how online interactions are akin to what went on in the barbaric games of the ancient Roman Coliseum.
In my opinion, social media is a misnomer, it should be called unsocial media, or even anti-social media. I know that I have whined about this in the past, but social media interactions have not improved.
Growing up in Canada, my first taste of pineapple was from a can.
Those perfectly sliced rings of gold, floating in juice, looked enticing, but they tasted a lot like the can. Pinning them to the side of a Sunday ham and immolating them in an oven did little to improve the taste.
“God showed up!” a colleague’s Facebook post announced regarding a particularly moving worship service at his church.
“You’ve got that backward,” I remarked to myself, “it is you and your congregation who showed up.”
Over the past three decades, my library has become almost completely digital.
When I admit this to colleagues, they wax fondly on the tactile experience of turning pages in a real book hoping, I guess, to spark in me something lost.
On a recent flight to Indiana, I was only half-listening to the safety orientation, that is until the flight attendant said a word that made me pay closer attention.
The word itself was not provocative, it was her pronunciation that captured my attention. “To tigh-en your seatbelt belt,” she informed, “simply pull on the strap.” Tigh-en? What happened to the “T”?
I am writing this from my father-in-law’s living room in rural Indiana here to celebrate his 106th birthday. I marvel at the grace of God in granting him a long life.
Our perspective on aging is a curious thing. As children, we proudly marked our years in fractions, proclaiming, “I’m 4 ½ years old!”
Last week, I was pondering the expression, “work out.” I wasn’t actually working out, just pondering the expression; pondering doesn’t make you sweat.
“Work out” is a curious expression. If someone says to you, “I worked out this morning,” you assume they exercised. People follow a “workout regimen,” a plan to get in shape.
I occasionally have a troubling dream of the kind students have during a school year.
You know the kind, in your dream you arrive at school late and learn that you missed an important exam, or you were to give a presentation that day in class.
I follow a Florida-based jazz guitarist on Facebook. I learned about him through my online search for other guitarists who play an archtop guitar made by a little-known luthier.
This guitarist has one, and we corresponded briefly about our love for these guitars.
I have now joined the growing ranks of people whose Facebook account has been hacked.
One Saturday morning a few weeks ago, I received a notification from Facebook that my paid ad was now approved and running. I had posted a paid ad for COMPASS Church where I am pastor, but that ad had been running for several days.
