[mashshare]

The first text message from my sister hit my phone just after 9 a.m. EST: “Uncle Lynn died. Please tell your brothers.”

I sat stunned and alone in my small office in Woodstock, Va. Uncle Lynn is one of my 11 aunts and uncles and would be the first to leave this world for the next. My father died more than 20 years ago, and my first thoughts were grateful prayers. I whispered, “What a joyous reunion.”

I texted a reply to my sister. “How did you hear?”

“It’s on Dani’s wall.”

In today’s vernacular, of course, I knew she meant the news had broken on my cousin’s Facebook page. My mind swirled. I knew my uncle had struggled with a few health problems, but this still seemed sudden and shocking. I wondered how his sweet wife would cope.

The tears that began tucked between memories turned to fat drops in my eyes. When I pictured my father and grandparents greeting their brother and son in the light of remembrance, the tears multiplied into streams on both cheeks.

I went to my cousin’s Facebook profile and found a status update about the shock and sadness of the day with a promise of more details to come. I felt comforted by a few condolence posts, some generic, some specific to her beloved father and my uncle. I added a comment of my own, telling cousin Dani how sorry I was at the news and how I knew he had family waiting for him with smiles on their faces.

My sister sent another text saying she’d spoken to our mother and she was working to get more information, but my two older brothers and their families probably didn’t know yet. I sent a simple email to everyone at once.

Next, I punched out a text to my wife, who was a hundred miles away on a wedding photo shoot. She regretted being so far away and reminded me how much she loved my family.

I opened my online calendar to check my schedule for the next week and began to strategize about plane tickets and how I could be in two places at once. I loved my uncle dearly; this was a funeral I could not miss.

Back on Facebook I sent a note to one of my cousins in Arizona. I knew he was likely online and would reply quickly. “Have you heard about Uncle Lynn?”

He hadn’t, and I took a second to marvel how in just a few minutes and with the power of technology the news had now traveled from Utah to Virginia to Maryland to Arizona and countless digital points in between.

He excused himself, virtually, to get more information, and I pulled up a family photo from a family reunion not long before my father passed. I smiled at how much my dad’s brothers look alike.

I was reminded how my aunt and uncle had recently returned from a mission to Montreal, Canada. What a blessing! I wondered with how many he’d shared his testimony and love of Jesus Christ over their 18-month adventure. How proud his wife and children must be at the long, righteous, noble life of their father.

I also thought how unfortunate my siblings and I were to have grown up on the East Coast. Oh, how I wished we’d been in the same room with him more often.

Then came another message via Facebook from my cousin in Phoenix. “He’s fine.”

“You sure?”

“Very,” he replied. “My dad just talked to him on the phone.”

I thought, huh, wow, well this is awkward.

A simple call had confirmed what 21st-century technology could not: Uncle Lynn was alive.

Another five minutes of research solved the mystery. There had been a death and there was, indeed, reason to mourn. My cousin’s former husband had passed away from a sudden heart attack overnight.

I still felt sadness because I knew others, particularly his children, were suffering. Admittedly, however, it’s a much different feeling than what raced through me for the 30 minutes I thought otherwise.

Uncle Lynn was – is – alive. He’s not a casualty of illness or some tragic accident; he’s simply the victim of a digital misunderstanding.

I recall how when my father died in 1987, the news spread by phone, painful calls from one loved one to another.

Some 150 years earlier, the news would have traveled by letter on tear-stained sheets of stationery carried, perhaps, by the Pony Express.

In 2011, the news goes on Facebook, and a global community can know and forward the news — good, bad or incorrect — in milliseconds. It’s indisputable that Facebook can be a valuable tool, but it’s surely no replacement for human contact, and heaven and my uncle know that Facebook has no fact-checkers.

In the days since, I’ve wondered what lesson I’m meant to learn. Perhaps it’s time to slow down and try to understand what’s going on around me instead of jumping to conclusions. Maybe the experience is just a fresh illustration of how I need to “stop and smell the roses” and a reminder to make sure I pay a little more attention to those people who really matter in my life, so when they truly aren’t with me any longer I’ll have real memories, not regrets.

So what if? What if after hearing the news I’d first thought to call my aunt and uncle’s home?

What if I’d avoided passing the news along until confirming with complete certainty that my uncle had, in fact, perished?

What if I’d read the online posts more closely and realized that none said he’d actually died? Our condolences were based on assumptions and knee-jerk reactions.

What if I wrote a column chronicling the experience and dangers of relying on digital communications for such weighty news?

I should really call my uncle.