I don’t know how people lived before mobile phones. It’s embarrassing to admit, but when mine isn’t with me, I feel like something essential is missing. It’s not just a device for calls anymore; it’s my journal, my news source, my Bible, my music, my entertainment, my little portal to the world I love but no longer live in.
Because I know this attachment isn’t entirely healthy, I’ve
spent years pruning the things that keep me glued to the screen. Some social
media apps had to go. I didn’t like the version of myself that reached for the
phone before my eyelids were fully open.
These days, my mornings look different. I silence the alarm,
whisper a small selah of gratitude to God, and sit quietly with my
thoughts before the rhythm of work begins. Working from home gives me that
luxury or temptation, depending on the day. And because I’m not a morning
person, breakfast rarely happens before noon. The term brunch was probably
coined for people like me.
But this isn’t a food post. It’s about my love‑hate
relationship with the phone and how that relationship was tested today.
Every night, I put my phone on airplane mode. With loved
ones scattered across time zones, it’s the only way to sleep without being
startled awake. So, each morning, once I confirm nothing urgent is happening at
work, I switch it back on and scan through WhatsApp. That app is a lifeline for
those of us whose families live oceans away. Without it, staying connected
would not only be inconsistent but cost an arm and a leg.
This morning, January 13th, the messages from my people in
the pearl of Africa were to the tune of “Keep safe.” “See you soon.” “Pray for us.”
Short, urgent, unfinished sentences like people were speaking from the edge of
something.
Uganda is heading into national elections on January 15th.
And in the name of “free and fair elections,” the government shut down the
internet. I’m not here to write a political analysis; this is still a phone
post but the impact was immediate. By the time I read the messages at 7:20 a.m.
PST, it was already evening in Uganda. All the messages I sent back were single
ticked, they had crossed back to analog before I could respond.
The silence felt eerie. Not because of what might unfold in
the coming days, but because of the sudden, heavy aloneness. Not lonely but alone.
A word that doesn’t quite capture the feeling of being cut off from the people
who make you feel tethered to the world.
I’m not on the phone with my loved ones all day. But knowing
I can reach them matters. Knowing I can laugh with them, hear their
voices, catch the small jokes and daily chaos that matters too. When the
internet went off the silence was so loud, the suddenly the distance seems
wider. The miles feel heavier.
And this, I suppose, is part of my ongoing journey, my
sojourning in America. Living here while my heart beats in two places. Learning
how fragile connection can be, learning to trust the process in the places I
cannot control learning that even when the lines go quiet, God is not quiet.
And neither is hope.
I don’t know if the living between worlds ever stops, the distance
on days like this is even more real, but so is the grace that carries me
through it.
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