If life were like Facebook, as soon as you cut yourself or your pet turned up bloody and gooey, you would rush up to a friend–even a very casual friend–and shove the gaping wound front and center into their field of vision for a reaction and hopefully sympathy. Some would run on by you aghast, while others would give you an onslaught of advice and links to Youtube and Vimeo videos with info on how to cure yourself.
If life were like Facebook, you might in a vulnerable moment share a deepest hurt, looking for encouragement and support; and on that particular day, your friends and family might walk on by, not even noticing your tears, deciding instead to focus on jokes, recipes, mystery killers, farm decor, and games.
If life were like Facebook, someone you had not talked to in over a year would jump out from the sidelines of your life with a comment and suggestion, then dart back into the shadows, making you realize that they had been spying on you from the shadows all along.
If life were like Facebook, you would play Scrabble for days and days, taking your turn without comment or connection, no celebration for the winner, no consolation for the loser. Bingoes would receive the same fanfare as exchanging tiles, and yet when the game ended, you would set up the board again without even a nod to your fellow players.
If Facebook were like life, I think we would have much smaller friends lists.
But then again, how would I know about the weddings and births and graduations from all you far-flung connections that are becoming more important to me. How could I celebrate and cheer you on, remembering that once our paths crossed in this crazy world. When the window of your world gets smaller, Facebook offers a bigger view. Just don’t threaten to unfriend me if I don’t convince you in 5 minutes or less that I really am reading your posts. And you know what? I really do love Jesus even if I don’t pass on the poster!
Excuse me . . . I need to check my status.
Okay, your turn. Any other comments? If Facebook were like real life . . .