First Came Robot Boyđ¤
Iâve made a new friend.
A few years ago, I bought a cleaning robot and named him Robot Boy.
 But Robot Boy got anxious about the edge of my throw rug, and his robot fear fried his little circuit-board brain.Â
Done, dead, fried with panic.
After Robot Boy refused to charge, refused to leave home, refused to even turn on his lights, I let him sit. Like he would heal himself or something.
About then, I decided to look at reviews. Some people read reviews before they buy. Wise people. Me, I went for the adventure of guessing. I learned not to do that again.
About half the reviewers loved their little robots and half said theirs kicked the can in six months. I got a kick-the-can one.
A New One Came
I finally bought a new brand robot, well-reviewed and a brand thatâs been around for a while.
The software always wants a name for the robot and I couldnât use Robot Boy again. Too many memories
I named this one Rosie1 because, well, the Jetsons. Remember that they had a robot maid, complete with a little apron and cap? Mine had no apron and no cap, but I still thought I was clever.
There are probably several million Rosies running around households in America. Thatâs how clever we all are.
But Rosie1 is special. The â1â could mean that, if she also kicks the can, I will someday have a Rosie2. Or maybe itâs because sheâs number one. Or maybe I bumped the number-one key and didnât bother to fix the name.
My New Buddy, Rosie1đŚž
Rosie1 sends me texts on my watch. Who would guess that a robotic vacuum could communicate through my smart watch, but here we are. The Jetsons had nothing on us. Well, they had flying cars, but not much else.
One day, my watched beeped frantically, alerting me that Rosie1 ended the job stuck. And, boy, could I relate. I have the same problems sometimes, Rosie1. Ending a job stuck.
We were bonding.
Another time, Rosie1 got lost. In my house. She sent me a text of despair and I had to go search for her. She couldnât even whistle because she was exhausted. Well, she ran out of battery power, but work with me here. Thatâs kind of like exhaustion.
She doesnât have a whistle either. That would have been a handy thing for the designers to include. A hiking whistle that could be heard a mile away.
Then a day came, when I wasnât even home, that Rosie1 sent a distress code. I guess a whistle wouldnât have helped.
The Hunt For Rosie1
I hunted in every room in the house before I found her trying to make smoochies with a whisk broom.
This became a pattern. Not the smoochies. The getting lost. She needed rescued a lot. I found her hugging a flour bag on the floor in my pantry. I discovered her snuggling with my sneakers in my closet. She especially loved wrapping up in the kidsâ swim towels.Â
Her adventures have become mine. Right now, Iâm in a search of Error 14. I think that could be an avalanche on her ski slope or maybe a lightning show on her lake house.Â
Whatever Error 14 is, Iâm committed to finding out.
Because Rosie1âs life is more interesting than mine.
You Gave Me Name Ideasđ
In my last newsletter, I asked for suggestions to dub my rogue iPhone with something more clever than Rogue iPhone. Here are some that came in:
- Seri
- App(ple)
- Stray
- Ramble (Rambo)
- Rogue 14
- Rand M. Call
Got more ideas? Send them to me!
WHEN Is Your Earliest Memory?đ§ đ¤
Think about your earliest memory. About how old were you? Feel free to share what the memory was, but Iâm more interested in your age at that first memory.
My daughter remembers something that happened when she was less than 18 months old. Sheâs described it to me and sheâs very accurate. And itâs not the sort of memory that comes from hearing the story. I mean, who repeats the story of a baby lying in a stroller being wheeled around town and then having a friend lean in to say hi? Not exactly story quality. More under the boring category. But her details match what I remember.
Early memories will be vital in my novel and I’d like to know WHEN your earliest memories were. Reply to this email or go to my website and leave a comment. Thanks!
The Listening Project
Nadine Brandes, in her Self-Editing Sessions at the Realm Makers Conference this year, talked about how a story rises in our imagination because God gifted it to us. Your story is yours and only yours. Mine is mine and only mine.
And each of us is the only one to write the story that God gives, the way it needs to be told. For some of us, this will be turning our imagination into words. For some, it will be through other expression. Paintings. Photography. Sculpture. Music. You get the idea.
God is unfathomably creative. He touches our imaginations and urges us into further creativity. He teaches us how to translate into words or images what he has placed in our imaginations.
The Listening Project has become an adventure for me of trying to translate what God has placed in my imagination. Here’s another to share with you:
Cutting Through Despair: Dare to Hope
I attended two funerals of close friends in July. The emotions of those were, for me, like standing in a driving hailstorm. My brain and my body still remember my husband’s funeral just over two years ago. But a good friend pointed out to me that I have resources that restore peace to my heart – because God prepared me before Matt died to stand up in these emotional storms.
That’s what my book, written the year I lost Matt, is about: drawing close to God so that hardships and loss don’t slam us off our feet with the buffeting winds of emotions. Cutting Through Despair: Dare to Hope traces the stories of several people who overcame tremendous loss because they clung to God.
If you haven’t read it yet, consider grabbing a copy for yourself. Or perhaps for someone you know who is experiencing devastating loss. We were never meant to manage these storms alone.
