My thumb has muscle memory.

Muscle memory is also called motor learning. It happens when we perform the same task hundreds (some say thousands) of times and muscles become pre-programmed to a task. No thought is needed. It turns out that what we practice incessantly is what we do for life. Our bodies are simply mimicking our innate preferences. No surprises here—we are creatures of habit.

Back to my thumb. It has muscle memory.

*sigh

Smartphones have made this opposable appendage indispensable. My thumb goes to work before I even get out of bed. Without thinking (cue muscle memory soundtrack) my thumb touches an icon on the face of my device. Before I have time to wipe the gunk out of my eye or my feet have hit the floor my thumb knows what I want.

Email. News. Weather. Back to email.

I’m still not out of bed and my thumb determines how I will be feeling today.  Do I feel encouraged and affirmed by what I have read? Does the weather app convince me that today will be gloomy? More news on the president . . . stupid thumb!

I am a slave to something that weighs 10 grams. It controls me. I am in the car and it itches to remind me I have not checked social media in 12 minutes. It caresses my phone case. The thumb knows best. At a stoplight, it opens my phone.

I can breathe again.

It’s in these moments that I am jealous of apes. They lack this fifth finger. Thumbs, among other unique traits, make us higher beings. You might say not having a thumb has kept apes in cages for millennia. I say having a thumb keeps me in a cage all day long.

Chained to people’s opinions.  Caged in the world of people-pleasing.  Looking through the bars into a world that is free.

I hate my thumb.

Jesus said (ok, this is a paraphrase), “If your thumb offends you, cut it off” (Matthew 5:29). I need to cut this thing off and get it out of my life. I have trained this adjunct instructor too well. He must go.

We have a little box in our house. It hangs on a chalkboard by the door coming in from our garage. Amy writes encouraging axioms or Bible verses on the chalk board.  Currently there is a phrase from Dallas Willard scribbled on it. We hang our keys on the hooks and are supposed to drop our phones in the box.

I don’t do that very often.

My wife is wise and put the box there because she wants me present, at home, fully engaged. She is tired of being overruled by two bones and a knuckle. I get it. Most nights, however, I shrug my shoulders and let my thumb boss me around.

I’m tired of being bullied though. Tonight I will turn my phone off and lay it in the box. This is an act of rebellion, I know. But I don’t trust my thumb to get amnesia.