A group of grandpas huddle around a picnic table, engaged in an intense discussion. From nearby, high-pitched squeals of toddlers bounce around the park. I glance over. A grandma, wrapped in woollens, pushes her granddaughter on a swing. A group of energetic little boys kick a football while exchanging animated words about whose goal it was. Mamas in groups of three or four chit-chat while trying to get their 10K steps in. A few people walk their dogs. (For some, the dogs walk them.) A younger couple stops to speak with the grandpa gang. Rays of golden sunlight filter through the trees. This idyllic setting is about five minutes from my sister’s house in the suburbs of California, where I’m spending a few weeks.
As I people-watch from my park bench, I see something. Or more specifically, I don’t see something. Conspicuously absent from the park scene are phones. The grandpas, the footballers, the mamas on their walks, the grandma at the swing—all of them are device-less and hands-free. They aren’t living life through a screen.
As I click away on my laptop, sitting solo in the park, one thing became evident: people crave connection. Not with devices. But with other people.
It might be a park in California, but this also happens to be desi-central (as some parts of the US are.)
For these immigrant Indian families far from home, this neighbourhood park is a place of belonging.
It’s a place of community.
It’s a place of conversation.
It's a place of connection.
As these real connections evolve, an unplanned, organic disconnection from devices unfolds.
The only person connected to a device at the park is yours truly. For the purpose of this post, I’m issuing myself a valid excuse. But if I’m being real with you, I’m full of “valid” excuses for why I need to be constantly on screens. My phone is now an extra appendage. I feel incomplete without it. I’m dependent on it.
If we thought we were merely distracted by our devices, we’re now realising that we’re drained and depleted by our dependence on them.
We’re engorged and glutted on an overload of information, like being in a “food coma” after a too-extravagant buffet. Paradoxically, the more content we consume, the weaker we become. A dullness of mind and dryness of emotion set in.
We all recognise the urge to draw boundaries around our content consumption.
We often come across the sentiment that we need to disconnect from our devices in order to connect with people. That’s true. Without question. But can we also approach the problem of scrolling from a different angle?
Instead of trying not to scroll, what if we intentionally forged meaningful real-world connections? Wouldn’t disconnection from our devices be a natural outcome of that?
Here are some life lessons I picked up at the park this evening.
Get out: We've become increasingly insular. Maybe it’s the lingering effect of COVID, but I often choose my own company or the convenience of messaging over making time to meet people. But God didn’t create us to live in isolation. He made us for community. Can we choose to get out of the too-convenient and get into spaces where there is community?
Get walking: I recently came across an article on The Gospel Coalition where the author challenges us to “Spend less time scrolling and more time strolling. Outside. Unmediated. Just you and your walking shoes.” While I’m admittedly in love with my recliner at home, I also greatly enjoy my early morning walks. I spend the first few minutes just breathing in deeply. I don’t plug in my AirPods—not even to listen to worship music. This is a special time to observe God’s spectacular handiwork as I walk around my apartment building: the ginger cats who meander around, the artful curve of the palm branches, the serrated edges of leaves, the shocking pink of the bougainvillea . . . Strolling gives us a chance to quiet our hearts and connect with the Creator—rather than our devices. I long to not just be amused by online memes. I long to be astounded by the beauty of creation.
Get talking (and listening): We’re constantly reading about the dopamine hits from scrolling. But let’s not forget the serotonin and the happy hormones that come from real-life conversations and sharing side-splitting, tears-down-your-face, awkwardly loud laughter with friends, or from getting a bear hug from a loved one instead of a one-dimensional thumbs-up from a virtual "friend." Like the grandpas at the park, I long to have long conversations about inane things, uninterrupted by beeps that compete for my attention.
No, we don't have to live in a la-la land of no devices. Our worlds are increasingly virtual; we can’t pretend otherwise.
But instead of just focusing solely on boundaries for our devices, can we consider the boundless connections in the real world?
Can we engage in real and raw conversations so we are not enslaved to our phones?
Can we participate in social commitments and church life so we don’t pander to digital distractions?
Can we give God our attention so we are freed from our addiction to screens?
Even as our phones compete for our attention—and often win the game—may we echo David’s prayer in Psalm 27:4:
One thing I ask from the Lord,
this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the Lord
all the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the Lord
and to seek him in his temple.
The digital world loosens its grip over us as we grow nearer to God and His people. May we relearn the art of connecting so we can disconnect from digital depletion.
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