Reconnected

Reconnected Plot Summary

Introduction

The phone notification appeared on my screen: "7 hours and 23 minutes average daily screen time this week." My thumb hovered over the dismissal button, as I had done countless times before, but something stopped me this time. I decided to do the math. Seven hours a day meant 49 hours per week. That's two full days out of every seven spent staring at a small glowing rectangle. Extrapolated further, it meant nearly 100 days a year—a quarter of my life—and over the next 25 years, it would amount to nearly seven years spent on my phone. There is no way we were created for this. This moment of clarity launched an extraordinary journey. What would happen if I stepped away from screens entirely? Not just for a day or week, but for seven full weeks? What might I rediscover about genuine human connection, about the rhythms of life that existed for millennia before our devices? The experiment would take me from a monastery where I'd live with twenty Benedictine monks to an Amish farm in rural Ohio, and finally back home to my family—all without a single screen. I wasn't running away from technology permanently, but seeking to remember what it means to be fully human so I could bring that wisdom back into our digital world. Because the problem isn't that we're connected—it's that somehow our hyperconnectivity has led to a profound disconnection from ourselves, from each other, and from the world around us.

Chapter 1: The Experiment: Stepping Away from the Digital World

Standing in the scorching heat of the Southern California desert, I watched my best friend Brian drive away with my phone, laptop, and all my digital devices. I was now digitally naked—no safety net, no escape hatch, no way to numb my mind with endless scrolling. Father Patrick, an elderly monk in a simple brown robe, greeted me and pointed to a small cabin at the top of a nearby hill. "That's where you will be staying." As I followed him up the path to what would be my home for the next two weeks, I stumbled through my first awkward conversation with a monk. "So, how long have you been a monk? What's your monk job? I mean, do you have jobs? Like, besides praying and stuff—I know that's your job. Not that you think it's a job or anything. I know you enjoy it, so it doesn't really feel like a job. Right?" Father Patrick simply replied, "I'm the retreat coordinator," and continued explaining practical matters about my stay. When we reached the cabin called Mount Carmel, I was immediately struck by its beauty. The view was magnificent—the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance, green lawns and ponds below, and a vast blue California desert sky stretching infinitely above. I felt a momentary sense of peace before panic set in. The reality of what I'd committed to suddenly hit me. By day's end, my emotions were overwhelming. I sat at the kitchen table and wrote in my journal: "I can't." I began packing my bags, planning to leave the next morning. I even called my wife to tell her I was coming home. "I don't need to be away for weeks and weeks to figure out that we need to be off our phones more," I told her. Her response was gentle but firm: "You aren't there to learn how to have a better relationship with your phone. You are there to remember what it was like to have relationships with yourself, others, and God before the phone." The first days of detox were brutal—night sweats, heart palpitations, and an almost constant urge to reach for a device that wasn't there. Our phones have become more than tools; they're extensions of ourselves, and severing that connection felt like losing a limb. But once I pushed through the initial withdrawal, I began to notice something remarkable happening. My senses awakened. I noticed squirrels spiraling up trees, ducks quacking at dawn, the quality of light as it illuminated the monastery grounds one tree at a time. Even my morning coffee tasted richer, more complex. I wasn't just consuming life; I was experiencing it fully for the first time in years.

Chapter 2: Monk School: Lessons in Presence and Solitude

The monks filed into the chapel two by two, their robes swaying like bells as they moved rhythmically to their places. I watched in fascination, suddenly aware of something I hadn't noticed before: I was moving at the wrong speed. The pace at which I normally lived my life was nothing like the deliberate, measured pace of these monks. This was God speed. A Japanese theologian named Kosuke Koyama once wrote a book called "Three Mile an Hour God," suggesting that perhaps the speed at which God moves is the speed at which humans were designed to move—three miles per hour, our natural walking pace. Jesus conducted his entire ministry at walking speed. His disciples walked with him everywhere. There were no high-speed chariots, no rushing from appointment to appointment. Just the steady rhythm of footsteps and conversation. This realization made me question everything about modern life. If I call myself a follower of Jesus, yet I'm moving at one hundred miles per hour while he moves at three, who exactly is following whom? We often say that life is speeding by, but perhaps it's we who are speeding life by. The monks had preserved something essential that most of us have lost—the ability to move through life at a human pace, at God speed. During my time at the abbey, I began intentionally slowing down. I walked more and walked slower. I noticed how different it felt to be present in my body as I moved through space rather than rushing from one moment to the next. When I did walk with the monks, I saw how they used this time for conversation or contemplation—never wasting the journey by mentally racing ahead to the destination. Each step was its own destination. As I adapted to monastery life, I discovered that walking wasn't just about transportation but about reconnection—with my body, with the earth beneath my feet, with the world around me, and ultimately with something greater than myself. In our screen-filled world, we've forgotten that we were designed to move slowly, to notice, to be present. The simple act of walking at God speed became a form of prayer, a way of honoring how we were created to be in the world.

Chapter 3: The Lost Art of Wonder: Rediscovering Awe

We were halfway through morning prayers when I grabbed a pen and started scribbling calculations on the back of my prayer sheet. These monks prayed about three hours every day—that's forty-five full twenty-four-hour days of prayer each year. Why so much prayer? I wanted to google it immediately, but I couldn't—and that itch of not knowing was surprisingly uncomfortable. I realized I had lost the ability to wonder. In our digital world, when a question arises, we immediately seek the answer. Within seconds, we can know nearly anything. But what happens when we can't scratch that curiosity itch? What happens when we have to sit with our questions and let them linger? After prayers, I followed a monk and asked him directly about their prayer schedule. He referred me to a pamphlet in the bookstore—a letter from Saint Jerome from the year 385 CE. When I found it, I learned that the tradition of "praying without ceasing" led to establishing fixed hours for prayer throughout the day to ensure consistency. But this answer only led to more questions: Do some monks pray even more? Do they get bored? Do they pray the same things repeatedly? This experience helped me recognize something profound: we don't wonder anymore. And because we don't wonder—that feeling of curiosity that leads to questions—we've also lost our sense of wonder—that feeling of awe and amazement. We've sacrificed both at the altar of immediate information. The space between curiosity and discovery has collapsed to seconds, robbing us of the rich cognitive and emotional territory that exists in that gap. Think about it. When was the last time you wondered about something for days or weeks? When was the last time you allowed yourself to sit with a question, turning it over in your mind, following wherever it led rather than immediately searching for the answer? For most of human history, this was the normal way to engage with the world. Now it's practically extinct. The loss of wonder diminishes us in two significant ways. First, we lose the ability to say "I don't know"—one of the most honest and humble phrases a human can utter. We feel we must know everything, turning us into superficial experts on everything but masters of nothing. Second, we lose creativity. Creativity flourishes in the space of not knowing, in the wrestling with questions that don't have immediate answers. The greatest innovations, the most transformative ideas often emerge from extended periods of wondering. In my time at the monastery, I began practicing wonder again. I allowed questions to linger, discoveries to unfold slowly. I found that wonder creates space for awe—that feeling of being overwhelmed by something greater than ourselves. Whether gazing at stars, listening to monks chant, or watching a sunrise, these moments of awe reconnect us to our humanity in ways that scrolling never can.

Chapter 4: Amish Life: Community Over Technology

"Willis, I need you to help me," I said as we were tending the sheep. "What's the deal with you and technology? Why some technologies and not others? Who decides? Why are we taking a fifteen-passenger van to Golden Corral in Canton? Is that because the horse and buggy would just take too long? What gives?" Willis, my Amish host, didn't hesitate: "Community, Carlos. The community is more important than anything else. Community is more important than individuality. Community is more important than technology. So we just want to make sure that anything we do enriches the community." This simple answer transformed my understanding of Amish life. It wasn't that they viewed cars or phones as inherently evil. They simply recognized that certain technologies would fundamentally alter the fabric of their community—and that was the line they wouldn't cross. "Think about it," Willis continued. "Who lives four houses down from you in Nashville?" When I couldn't answer, he drove his point home. "If Mrs. Yoder's house burned down, we would rebuild it in four days flat—which we did. If we all had cars, and we were spread all over Ohio doing different things, we would never have been able to do that. We would be too far apart from each other." I was struck by how intentional the Amish were about fostering community. Every technological decision was filtered through one question: Will this bring us closer together or push us further apart? The e-bikes they used could travel about as far as a horse and buggy on a single charge, keeping their community geographically compact. Different Amish orders made different decisions—some allowed e-bikes, others only electric scooters—but all shared the commitment to community over convenience. As Willis explained their healthcare system, I was astounded. "If someone is sick, we all pitch in to cover the bills. Nobody has to worry about it. And if we don't have enough money, we will have a community auction, and people will donate personal belongings to auction off so that the person in need is taken care of." What struck me most powerfully was that there wasn't a single person in their community who had to worry whether their needs would be met. In our hyper-connected world, many of us have hundreds or thousands of online "friends" yet struggle to name our neighbors or know who we could truly count on in a crisis. We have traded deep, reliable community for broad, shallow connectivity. The Amish weren't perfect, but they were intentional. They evaluated each technology not on its efficiency or convenience but on its impact on human relationships. They showed me that it's possible to be selective about technology—to embrace what serves our values and reject what undermines them, even when that means swimming against the cultural current.

Chapter 5: The Table: Reclaiming Meaningful Connection

I had been with my Amish friends for less than twenty-four hours, and already I'd discovered something we've lost as a society: we've forgotten how to have meals together. I had eaten two meals with them—dinner the previous night had lasted four hours, and breakfast that morning forty-five minutes. The meals were cooked at home, enjoyed together at a table, and savored slowly. This was nothing like the rushed eating I was accustomed to. When I asked Willis about their lengthy meals, he responded with Amish wisdom: "The question I'd ask you back is, What actually is a long time? Maybe you take way too short of a time to eat, and we are taking the correct time." He was right—I was asking the wrong question. The real question wasn't why they took so long; it was why we take so little time. The answer lies in our frantic pace of life. We eat on the go, slam down our meals in minutes, or skip them entirely. According to research, the average American meal today lasts about twelve minutes, compared to ninety minutes a century ago. Nearly half of families struggle to eat together regularly, and when they do, it's often in front of a television. We've sacrificed one of our most powerful contexts for connection on the altar of busyness. The table is one of the most intimate settings we have for sharing our lives. The act of eating together creates a unique space for stories to unfold and relationships to deepen. It's where crucial conversations can happen, where understanding can grow, even among those who disagree. The shared enjoyment of food establishes common ground in a way that text messages and social media posts never can. In the Amish household, I noticed that meal preparation was a family affair. Everyone participated—men, women, and children all had roles to play. This collaborative effort made the meal itself more meaningful. When we invest in creating something together, we naturally savor it more deeply. This approach stands in stark contrast to our efficiency-oriented food culture, where convenience often trumps connection. Research confirms what the Amish intuitively understand: shared family meals reduce stress, improve nutrition, strengthen relationships, and even predict better academic outcomes for children. The simple act of gathering around a table without distractions creates a foundation for healthier families and communities. What might happen if we reclaimed the table as a sacred space in our homes? If we turned off our devices, slowed down our pace, and truly engaged with those sharing our meals? The transformation might begin with small steps—everyone helping with the meal, no technology at the table, eating at an actual table rather than scattered throughout the house. These simple changes could reconnect us to one of humanity's most ancient and meaningful rituals.

Chapter 6: The Unplug Effect: What Changed in My Brain and Life

"Carlos! How was it?" Dr. Amen asked as he walked into his office and took a seat across from me. After seven weeks without screens, I had returned to the neuroscientist's clinic for my follow-up brain scan, both excited and nervous to see if there were measurable changes. "Oh, Dr. Amen, do you have a few weeks to help me unpack it all? It was incredible," I replied, though secretly I worried: What if my brain showed no difference? What if the profound changes I felt weren't reflected in the scans? "Well, I don't have a few weeks, but what I do have are your brain scans. Do you think your brain looks different?" he asked. Before I could respond fully, he continued, "Well, it does. There's a difference." Dr. Amen pointed to various regions of my brain on the screen, showing notable improvements. "The thing that had me sort of concerned was this asymmetrical cerebellum... See how much better it is? I mean, it's a very marked difference." He explained that the cerebellum, containing half the brain's neurons, is crucial for motor coordination, thought coordination, emotion, cognition, and behavior—and mine showed significant positive changes. "Your emotional centers are actually up, and it's sort of a big difference. With meditation we often see an activation, and the right lateral temporal lobe is often called the 'God spot,' so maybe you're more in touch with it." He continued analyzing various aspects of my brain function, noting improvements in multiple areas. While he acknowledged that we couldn't pinpoint exactly which aspects of my experiment—the monastery's silence and prayer, the physical labor on the farm, or simply the absence of screens—had created these changes, the results were undeniable. "But we know your brain changed. And I know I'm a neurologist, but I don't have to look at your brain to see the change in you. You just seem lighter." After leaving Dr. Amen's office, I faced the moment I'd been dreading: turning my phone back on. I walked around in circles in the courtyard, staring at my device, unable to bring myself to press the power button. When I finally did, the screen lit up and notifications began pouring in—1,492 text messages waiting for me. Without hesitation, I did something that would have been unthinkable before my experiment: Select all. Delete. I didn't even read them. Then I posted a single photo to Instagram and jumped back into the digital world—but as a fundamentally changed person. The experiment transformed nearly every aspect of my life. I now walk more and more slowly, noticing things I previously missed. I spend time in silence rather than filling every moment with podcasts or music. I look people in the eye during conversations. I savor meals and no longer bring my phone to the table. I've moved from seven hours of daily screen time to five and a half—not perfect, but a significant improvement. Most importantly, I regained my sense of agency. Before the experiment, my phone had been controlling me, dictating my attention, shaping my thoughts, and fragmenting my presence. Now I controlled it. I recognized that the richness of life exists beyond the screen—in deep conversations, in noticing beauty, in silent contemplation, in shared meals, in physical labor, in wonder and awe.

Chapter 7: Practical Steps: Creating Balance in a Screen-Filled World

Standing nervously at the edge of a busy highway with my bike, I reviewed Willis's directions to the tractor store one more time. "Turn right at the first road, go about a mile and a half down a country road, turn left at the four-way stop..." It seemed simple enough, and I set off confidently. Twenty minutes later, I was completely lost. I had taken several wrong turns and found myself on an unfamiliar road with no idea how to get back. The worst part? I had no phone to navigate with. I was genuinely disoriented in a way I hadn't experienced in years. When was the last time you were truly lost? With smartphones constantly mapping our routes, we rarely experience disorientation anymore. But as I discovered during my panic-inducing bike ride, getting lost isn't all bad. A farmer eventually gave me directions, and I made it to my destination—where the storekeeper remarked, "Getting lost is good for ya. We are getting dumber, ya know. Getting lost makes you smarter." He was right. Studies show that using our internal navigation systems rather than relying on GPS actually strengthens our hippocampus—the brain region responsible for direction—potentially protecting against cognitive decline. When we outsource our directional abilities to technology, we lose more than just the occasional adventure; we lose neural connections that keep our brains healthy. This principle extends beyond navigation. Our phones have become external processors for many cognitive tasks that our brains once handled. We no longer memorize phone numbers, recall dates, or store directions. We don't practice mental math when calculators are always available. We don't rely on intuition when algorithms can predict everything from the weather to what we might enjoy watching next. During my time with the Amish, I witnessed the power of intuition when Willis decided to cut hay despite threatening storm clouds overhead. "It's not gonna rain," he said confidently. "There's dew on your boots, and my daddy always said, 'If there's dew on your boots, it's not gonna rain.'" I was skeptical until, remarkably, the rain fell everywhere except on the Miller farm. Our reliance on external data has crushed our trust in our own intuition. Why rely on gut feelings when you have reviews from 345 strangers on Google? Yet intuition, built on accumulated experience, remains vital for navigating life and making quick decisions. Reclaiming this innate wisdom means occasionally setting aside our digital crutches. Creating balance in our screen-filled world requires intentional boundaries. Start by establishing phone-free zones—perhaps your bedroom, dining table, or car. Try digital sabbaths where you disconnect completely for 24 hours. Use "dumb technology" like alarm clocks and point-and-shoot cameras to reduce dependency on your smartphone. Turn off notifications for all but the most essential communications. Most importantly, cultivate alternative sources of connection, information, and entertainment. Spend time in nature. Read physical books. Have face-to-face conversations. Cook meals from scratch. Practice wonder by allowing questions to linger unanswered. Create space for boredom, which often sparks creativity and self-reflection. The goal isn't to abandon technology but to put it in its proper place—as a tool that serves our values rather than a force that shapes them. By establishing healthy boundaries around our devices, we create space for the richness of unmediated human experience to flourish again.

Summary

The extraordinary journey from monastery to Amish farm revealed a profound truth: our hyperconnected world has paradoxically disconnected us from the essential elements of human experience. We've traded depth for breadth, quality for quantity, presence for distraction. The monk's deliberate pace showed me how rushing through life prevents us from truly living it. The Amish commitment to community demonstrated how technology decisions should be filtered through our deepest values rather than convenience or efficiency. The transformation wasn't about rejecting technology outright but rediscovering what makes us human beyond our screens. It was about reconnecting with wonder and awe, cultivating true presence, savoring meals together, embracing solitude, trusting intuition, and building genuine community. These capacities haven't disappeared—they've merely been overshadowed by the constant glow of our devices. When we step away, even briefly, they begin to reawaken, bringing with them a richness of experience that no digital simulation can match. The invitation isn't to abandon our digital lives but to reclaim our agency within them. To set boundaries that protect what matters most. To recognize when technology enhances our humanity and when it diminishes it. We don't have to choose between digital connection and human connection—we can navigate a middle path where technology serves our deepest values rather than undermining them. The question isn't whether we'll use screens but whether we'll use them intentionally, making space for the unfiltered, unmediated experiences that make life worth living. There is so much life waiting for us on the other side of "Do Not Disturb."

About Author

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Carlos Whittaker

Carlos Whittaker is a best-selling author and expert storyteller to all kinds of audiences– from parents to corporate America to the non-profit sector. No matter who you are, his message is for you. Carlos uses his vast and varied personal life experience to captivate and engage audiences in ways that few else can.In his books, How to Human, Enter Wild, Moment Maker, and Kill the Spider, Carlos reminds us that when we are connected to God and good to ourselves, we can be even better for others. Humans do not exist in a vacuum, so when we address every facet of our lives, we create a greater capacity for relationships, ministry, work, creativity, and patience.Carlos excels at encouraging people to to show up for their neighbor, regardless of who they are and what they believe. Join Carlos and countless others in the pursuit of being human together.He and his wife Heather live in Nashville, Tennessee, with their three amazing children, where you can find them working on the family farm, planning trips around the world, and preparing to be empty-nesters.

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