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It began four days ago. The doorbell rang, followed by a brawny lineman wearing a hard hat who attached black placards to our front door knobs. We learned that –

“AT&T is bringing our fiber network technology to your neighborhood! With AT&T fiber, the future of the internet is here!”

We also learned that with this technology, we can expect: “Ultra-fast internet starting with a 1000 Mbps connection, speeds 20times faster than the average cable customer, a reliable connection with less waiting or buffering, and a better Wi-Fi experience with expanded coverage and support for all your devices.”

On the flipside of the placard, we learned that crews would need access to easement areas in our back yards.

With the placards in place, bucket trucks, pick-ups, and other trucks with hitches rolled into our neighborhood and the work began. More linemen from Universal Communications scaled ladders, mounted bucket trucks, attached more power lines to the existing poles. Grunts and shouts accompanied the work, with frequent adjustments to their hard hats.

All of this wearies me. True, information is valuable, however we receive it, but who says it must is be continually accelerated? Already, the globe suffers from psychic and physical constipation—a frightening engorgement of the psyche that buries spirit, the wellsprings of life. No matter that EMFs fry us, as well.

Yesterday’s AT&T telemarketer underscored this condition. Ostensibly offering me still more services, her voice wobbled with exhaustion. She, too, was weary.

 

 

 

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August 2016

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February 2017

This is the same house that is located in our neighborhood.

The derelict one, like a face, manifests malaise, exhaustion: the loose guttering, yellowing shades aslant in the windows, ill-fitting screens, overgrown shrubs and weeds, worn roof shingles, and the sprung screen door. For several years the only sign of life was the whirring of the air conditioner located at the side yard. But last summer that changed with the arrival of the paramedics and the fire department.

For several weeks, the air conditioner continued whirring, until silenced, rendering the house even more forelorn.

Interesting that over the winter a woman contractor bought up the house and gutted it: replaced the roof, the front door, the shutters, the windows, and the front steps and walk; cut down the overgrown tree and re-shrubbed the front gardens with stone borders; seeded the lawn; and removed the sagging chain-link fence in the backyard. Structurally sound, the house awaits new owners, perhaps parents with spirited youngsters.

On a deeper level, this house has become a vessel for fresh life; its renovation suggests the deep care of God, restoring who or what has become exhausted. Pslam 127 speaks to this issue: “If Yahweh does not build the house, in vain do the masons toil.”

As a Senior I trust this process is underway within the depths of my psyche.

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