Month: December 2024

Red-flag warning on kids and smart phones long overdue

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We have smoke detectors that warn of fire, dashboard icons that warn of low fuel and dying batteries, and health hazard warnings printed on every pack of cigarettes.

In 2024 we were given a clear and resounding warning for smart phones. It came in the form of a thick book titled “The Anxious Generation” (How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness) by Jonathan Haidt. The book has been tagged a top book by the Wall Street Journal, Washington Post and New York Times, and awarded the Nonfiction Book of the Year by Goodreads.

When I read the book, I underlined paragraph after paragraph and tagged page after page with Post-it notes. I became hooked on underlining and tagging in a book about becoming hooked.

Haidt thoroughly—and chillingly—connects the dots between the horrific rise in mental illness among adolescents and teens, and the rise in popularity of social media on smart phones. He makes an iron-clad case that social media is inappropriate for children and that puberty is a vulnerable and impressionable time, particularly for girls.


Social media platforms are designed to be addictive. A dopamine rush kicks in when users receive likes, comments and new followers. Like Pavlov’s dogs conditioned to salivate at the sound of a bell, users keep coming back for more.

Haidt points out that the problem is not just what social media does, but what social media keeps people from doing. Compared with their counterparts in the 2000s (prior to the common use of all the screens), today’s teens are less likely to go out with friends, less likely to get a driver’s license, less likely to play youth sports and more likely to be alone on their phones. Some teens sleep with their phones, texting throughout the night.

It starts early. Who hasn’t observed toddlers, in airports, grocery carts and strollers, mesmerized by moving screens. Not that the tykes are scrolling on TikTok, but the brain patterning for rapid flashing, constantly changing images is being imprinted.

Not long ago, I saw a clip of a basketball game featuring a halftime contest where mothers lined up on one end of the court and their babies, who were still crawlers, were lined up about 10 yards away. It was a race to see which babies would get to their mothers first.

How did the mothers entice them? By waving their cell phones. The little critters’ eyes lit up, they smiled from ear to ear and laid tracks.

What sets Haidt apart from simply screaming “Fire!” is that he identifies concrete ways to douse the flames:

Say no to smartphones before high school. Flip phones are fine in middle school for safety and staying connected, but no smart phones.

Say no to social media before age 16. Our friends down under in Australia just passed a law to that effect. Once kids are through adolescence and capable of more mature decision making, they are less likely to become addicted.

Haidt also makes a case for phone-free schools. Finally, he points a finger at adults. Warnings to kids have no power if they are of the “Do as I say, not as I do” variety. Adults of every age and generation are powerful influencers when it comes to cell phone use.

Haidt is the giant red flag on the beach, snapping in the wind, signaling the presence of dangerous and life-threatening tides.

We would do well to heed the warning.

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The little house that sat empty and alone

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I haphazardly closed up the little house this year. I hurriedly swept the floors, took out the trash, checked the windows, pulled the Dutch door shut and whispered, “Thanks for the memories.”

Not long after, a fierce night wind pushed the door open. Blowing snow drifted in and nestled in the corners.

Tiny hand-shaped footprints crisscrossed the front porch. With the door ajar, raccoons let themselves in and ransacked the place. They tossed plates and cups, knocked the fry pan on the stove to the floor and clawed at the tablecloth in search of crumbs. So uncivilized.

The little house really is just that. It measures 6 feet by 6 feet and has a ceiling that will graze the head of anyone over 5 feet 2 inches tall. The front porch, which usually holds a red geranium and child-size wicker chair, runs the width of the little house.

We built the little house 35 years ago. It was how we spent a summer vacation not long after we moved back to the Midwest. The husband drew meticulous plans, hauled in supplies and was assisted by a work crew that played with the hammer, colored all over the blueprints and littered the work site with empty juice boxes and yogurt pouches.

Despite all the help, the little house was eventually finished and soon hosting tea parties, secret clubs, bank robberies and foreign invasions.

The years flew, the children grew, the gatherings tapered from often to occasional, and the little house was visited less and less frequently. The life and laughter that once shook the walls quietly disappeared.

More than a decade passed before a second generation brought the little house back to life. Red, white and blue garlands on the Fourth of July, small bouquets of freshly picked herbs in the summer, a pumpkin on the porch at Halloween and every pot and pan filled with maple leaves and acorns in the fall.

A VRBO listing would read like this: Small, aging, rustic cottage. No ‘fridge, heat or running water. Nearest bathroom 20 feet away in the big house. Kitchen fully stocked with plastic food. Decrepit dishware for four and a pink teapot missing the lid. Large chalk wall; no chalk. All you need is imagination.

Now, after a busy summer and beautiful fall, the mercury in the thermometer plummeting and the wind howling, the little house stands bare and alone.

Just when it appears forsaken and forgotten, a small voice asks to use one of those orange electrical cords in the garage. The plan is to lug a space heater to the little house.

And could they cut some evergreens?

And could they use that lantern with the candle in the hall?

And how soon could I deliver a round of hot chocolate?

Once again, the little house bustles with laughter and warmth. At least for one more season.

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Searching through the Christmas lost and found

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The kitchen becomes my primary place of residence the week before Thanksgiving and continues straight on through New Year’s Day. I should probably file a change-of-address card with the Post Office.

The kitchen counter is littered with crumpled dish towels, soiled hot pads and towering stacks of dirty cookie sheets and mixing bowls.

Pots bubbling on the stove have all been seasoned with two shakes of harried and a dash of exhaustion. Cold dirty dishwater in the sink formed a film an hour ago.

I’m looking for something, but I’m having difficulty finding it. It’s not in the kitchen, that’s for sure.

A top-to-bottom search of the family room turns up empty as well. It isn’t dangling from any of the Christmas tree branches. It isn’t wedged between Christmas sheet music in the piano bench or buried beneath the sofa cushions—although I do find a sock, some caramel popcorn and two candy cane wrappers.

I shake a few gifts under the tree and hold them to my ear when nobody is looking. Pretty, but not what I’m looking for.

As the hunt continues, I’m feeling frustrated and flushed. I can’t be the only one who thinks it’s hot in here. I throw open a window and a blast of cold rushes in. The night sky is plastered with diamonds. The constellations are singing and surely the earth is trembling. The magnificence of such beauty is overwhelming. This is what I have been searching for – wonder.

It is the jaw-dropping wonder of a night long ago. The wonder of a peasant couple taking refuge in a manger. The wonder of a young girl giving birth to the King of Kings on a stable floor strewn with straw and air filled with the stench of animal waste. It is the wonder of God stooping low, taking on humble human form.

This newborn baby, fresh from His mother’s womb, cradled in her arms and feeding at her breast, would be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

He also would be called the Good Shepherd, Redeemer, Savior, Friend of Sinners.

So many powerful names gracing one tiny baby. It is beyond the scope of imagination.

The wonder of Christmas is not in fabulous meals, piles of gifts, or dazzling decorations. It’s not in parties and festivities or the serenade of Dickens carolers.

The wonder of Christmas is found in the sacred moments of a still and quiet heart. I wish you wonder this Christmas season.

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Think twice before you cancel Christmas

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The following column was first published in December 2000. Last year, two days before Christmas, Scott from Illinois mailed a copy of the column to me. He said the piece had meant a lot to him when he read it 23 years ago. He has shared it with others in hard places and thought I should share it again because someone might need it. So, here it is.

As of this posting, it is uncertain if Bethlehem will be celebrating Christmas this year, 2024.

Think Twice Before You Cancel Christmas
Lori Borgman

They’ve canceled Christmas in Bethlehem.

The Christmas tree in Manger Square stands bare and unadorned. There will be no candlelit walks to the manger, no festive Christmas concert.

The Royal City of David, normally packed with tourists and pilgrims, is deserted. Had Mary and Joseph been traveling this season, they would have found plenty of room at the inn. They wouldn’t have a prayer of getting anywhere close to the manger, though. Armed police guard the Church of the Nativity that shelters the tiny stable where Christ was born.

There won’t be any aerial camera shots of the streets of Bethlehem on the 11 o’clock news come Christmas Eve. No mellow voice over proclaiming, “Peace on earth, good will toward men.” For weeks, Bethlehem has been the site of violence, mayhem and destruction, which is why Christmas has been canceled.

You say you’ve canceled Christmas, too—not in Bethlehem, but in your heart. You’ve suffered your own mayhem and destruction. You’ve had your fill of Silent Night. For weeks, the nights have been so silent and long you could hear mice snoring three states away.

This is for everyone outside of the Holy Land who is contemplating canceling Christmas.

Maybe you’re exhausted from caring for a sick family member. Maybe you’re weary and frustrated from fighting your way back from an illness or injury. Maybe this was the year you enlarged your vocabulary with words like malignancy, stem cells and bone marrow.

Maybe your marriage feels like it’s gone flatline. You’re wondering what attracted you to each other in the first place.

Maybe it’s been months since you spoke to a certain friend or family member who betrayed you. If you saw them tomorrow, you’d just as soon pelt them with fruitcakes as to utter a civil “hello.”

Maybe you’ve been devastated by divorce. Maybe you fought a knockdown drag out custody battle over the kids and then went a second round over worthless junk like silverware and power tools.

Maybe, like scores of people in Bethlehem, you are grieving the loss of a loved one this year. Maybe the holiday reds and greens are colorless because the lens you see through is dirty dishwater gray.

Think twice before you cancel Christmas.

That baby in the manger didn’t come to make sure that retailers had a robust season at the cash register. Nor did he come to put frost on our windows and pink in our cheeks. Christ didn’t come to create a picture-perfect Currier and Ives memory.

Christ came for three dimensional people—people with thin skin, blind spots and pent up anger. He came for people who hurt and suffer and struggle. He came for people who get depressed at holiday time. He came for those who have everything but feel empty inside and are scared to admit it. He came for human beings who mangle relationships and turn priorities upside down.

The essence of Christmas is that God sent his Son, not to punish or condemn mankind, but to offer a helping hand. Christ was sent for every man, woman and child who can admit they’re less than perfect and need the help of someone who is.

Some say when people open their heart to Christmas, the Son of God works wonders. He eases the pain and suffering. Some say He’s been known to yank the knot right out of a chain. Others say He has gently dried tears, softened hearts and sat beside them in the dark. Still others claim, when they have opened their hearts, that He has showered them with priceless gifts—treasures like faith, hope and love.

Think twice before you cancel Christmas. This may be the year you need it most.

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Hard to Buy For people make the naughty list

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We have officially entered the “Hard to Buy For” season of life. I am reminded of this every time someone asks me what we’d like for Christmas. No one has said we are hard to buy for in so many words—it’s more the looks—the eye rolls, the raised eyebrows, the barely suppressed expressions of shock and horror.

“We like those little books of car wash tickets,” I say.

“Mother, I thought we agreed a car wash is not a gift.”

There was no agreement on anything. Someone just announced that a car wash is not a very exciting gift and BAM! there went the free car washes.

“We like gift cards,” I say. No, make that “love” gift cards.

We must love them because our wallets are fat with them. I have a gift card so old that the theater it was for has closed. I keep the gift card because it is a sweet memory of the person who gave it.


Judging from her face, she is not enthused about the gift card suggestion.

“We give big box hardware store gift cards to your husband, your sister’s husband, and your brother, and they all like them.”

“Yes, but when we give you gift cards you use them to buy things for others.”

“What can I say? We like treating.”

Silence.

“I could use a new bundt pan,” I say.

“We just gave you a new bundt pan when you said you needed one a few years ago.”

“You have me mixed up with someone else because my bundt pan is quite possibly a health hazard. The last coffee cake tasted like Teflon.”

She’s still not writing anything down.

“How about trash bags?” I suggest.

No response.

“Batteries? We can always use batteries.”

“You’re fun people, aren’t you?” she says.

“We try,” I say. “Stamps! We’d like stamps.”

“Stamps are not a gift.”

You’re right,” I say. “With the last price hike, they’re a luxury item.”

It’s not like we didn’t see this coming. The Hard to Buy For season of life was bound for a head-on collision with the Getting Rid of Things season of life.

“What about Dad?” she asks. “How about a shirt?”

“I’ve got a shirt!” he yells from the kitchen. “I have so many shirts, I could wear three at a time and not run out for a month.”

You know what I’d really like?” he says.

“What?” she asks, with a surge of hope.

“A new bundt pan!”

She’s looking despondent now.

I put my arm around her and say, “You know what we always say – your presence is our present.”

The poor thing looks depleted and utterly exhausted. We do that to people. So do the holidays.

“Let’s go get a coffee,” I say. “I’ll treat. I’ve got a gift card.”

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Screen tests aren’t just for movie stars

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I had an identity crisis yesterday. It was the fourth one this week. Online accounts keep questioning if it’s really me.

I have the same thought a lot of mornings when I look in the mirror.

The bank insisted I confirm my identity before I could access our account—all because I made one teeny tiny typo entering the passcode. Flustered and in a hurry, but not one to ever make the same mistake twice, I made a different typo on my next try. I was automatically routed to the 3-question “How Good is Your Memory?” game.

Where did you and your spouse first meet?

What was your favorite pureed vegetable as an infant?

What was your great, great, great maternal grandfather’s blood type?

I failed that, too. I guess carrots was the wrong answer.


I had to go to the bank in person to unfreeze the account. The teller asked if I had any additional identification. Just so you know, the bank will not accept an appendectomy scar from when you were a child as additional identification.

The verification requests that I don’t mind are the ones that ask me to enter a code sent by text or email. I like these. They are good memory tests to see if I can flip between screens and still remember a six-digit number. So far, so good.

The Walmart app recently asked me to verify my identity when I arrived for a grocery pickup order. Seriously? There are 32 pickup spots in the parking lot and I was the only single solitary car out there. It was 7 a.m and still dark. Yes, it’s me. Now please bring out the milk and laundry detergent.

Of course, there’s always facial recognition identification that simplifies logging in, but do I want to go down that road? What if I have a good night’s sleep (unlikely), the bags under my eyes disappear (virtually impossible), and the app can’t recognize me?

What if I decide to have plastic surgery, have everything on my face pulled, tightened, puffed and fluffed, and wind up looking so young that the app doesn’t recognize me? That is also highly unlikely, but a woman of a certain age likes to keep her options open.

The only thing I know for sure is that I always experience a wave of panic whenever I see the message: “Failed to verify your identity.”

The upside of all this identify verification business is that the CAPTCHA security checks that once required you click on the all the boxes with power lines, bicycles or traffic lights, now simply ask you to check the “I am not a robot” box. As improved as that is, I still believe that CAPTCHA should be renamed GOTCHA.

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