Domestic Dramedy: Family Group Chats Are Just Digital Crime Scenes

Every family has secrets. 

Some families keep them in old photo albums, tucked away in closets, or buried deep in stories nobody is supposed to repeat at Thanksgiving. 

My family? 

We keep ours in group chats. 

And let me tell you, if those chats ever see daylight, somebody’s future presidential campaign is over before it begins. Not mine, obviously, because my political platform would mostly be cheese sticks for supper, affordable throw blankets, and mandatory nap time for women over forty. 

But still. 

Reputations could be damaged. Public statements would need to be issued. Somebody would have to stand behind a podium and say, “That video was taken out of context.” 

My run for President may be over, but I may still have a shot at being elected Grand Marshal of the County Fair Funnel Cake Committee. 

And honestly? I’d wear the sash. 

The problem is, I am not just in one family chat. 

I am in three. 

And I use the word “chat” loosely because sometimes it is a group text, sometimes it is Facebook Messenger, and sometimes it is just a digital holding cell for poor judgment, blurry photos, questionable memes, and relatives who should absolutely know better. 

Let’s start with the least damning one. 

This chat includes me, my sister Sabrina, her mother-in-law, her sister-in-law, and at least one or two numbers I still cannot confidently identify. For all I know, one of them could be a neighbor, a cousin, or a Verizon employee who accidentally got added in 2018 and is now too scared to leave. 

This is the polite family chat. 

The one that could probably survive a courtroom subpoena. 

Mostly. 

Sabrina’s Beautiful Decorating

In this group, Sabrina is the Chatty Cathy and somehow manages to make Martha Stewart look lazy. She is always painting something, redecorating something, remodeling something, or moving one dragon from one shelf to another because apparently the first shelf did not honor the dragon’s emotional journey. 

Her poor husband must love her deeply because Sabrina will say things like, “Babe, I want to do this, and this, and this, and it will only take six weekends.” 

Six weekends! 

That is not a project.  That is a seasonal commitment. 

But here is the annoying part: she pulls it off. 

She has visions, and somehow those visions become real. Her home always looks beautiful, cozy, and thoughtfully put together, while mine looks like someone lost a fight with laundry and snack wrappers. 

The same chat is also where we get family updates, holiday plans, food pictures, home projects, and the occasional medical mystery. 

Like a face rash. 

Now, to be clear, I love my sister. I worry about her. I want her healthy. 

But I am also the younger sister, which means if she sends a picture of a rash, I am legally and morally required to be a little childish about it. 

Those are the rules. I did not write them. Birth order did. 

The second chat is where things get a little more dangerous. 

This one includes me, Sabrina again, because apparently, she really does love being all up in my business, and my uncle. 

I will not use his real name, so for the sake of this blog, we will call him Crandell. LOL. 

Crandell is my mom’s younger brother, and if you ever wonder where I got my dry, sarcastic, occasionally dark sense of humor, the answer is simple: 

It is all Crandell’s fault. 

Homecooked Meal

Sabrina Likes to Show Off

These chats usually start with Sabrina casually bragging about some homemade meal she made from her husband’s garden. She will say something like, “I made roasted vegetables and fresh tomato sauce from scratch.” 

Then I chime in with, “I threw two packs of cheese at Scott and called it supper.” 

Cheese

Supper of Champions

I See Your Veggies

And Raise You a Chicken

Then Crandell enters the chat like a man who has been waiting all day to insult my culinary skills. 

He and Sabrina can cook. Not just follow-a-recipe cook. I mean real cooking. Garden vegetables. Homemade sauces. Meals with layers and herbs and dignity. 

Meanwhile, I can cook when I want to. 

Sometimes it is good. Sometimes Domino’s gets involved. 

We do not need to discuss the ratio. 

Crandell, being the loving and supportive uncle that he is, will gently imply that my cooking is best done by phone. Or that one of my meals may require ipecac syrup. 

Naturally, I respond by calling him an old fart who is losing his mind. 

This is love. 

I genuinely love the banter. I love the back-and-forth. I love that he keeps me on my toes. And when I talk to him, I feel connected to my mom’s side of the family in a way that still matters deeply. 

He has always loved me and Sabrina. He has always looked out for us. 

And even when he is insulting my imaginary casserole, there is warmth underneath it. 

Smart-mouthed warmth. But warmth. 

And then there is the third chat. 

The most dangerous chat. 

The one that could end political careers, church committee appointments, and possibly a few respectable reputations. 

This chat includes me, Scott, and his sister Laura. 

I do not even know where to begin with this one. 

If the first chat is a family newsletter, and the second chat is a sarcastic cooking show, this third chat is a digital crime scene. 

At any given time, one of us may send something so completely off the wall that the other two immediately respond with some version of, “You are banned from sending videos.” 

You’re Welcome

Sorry, not sorry.

Which is ridiculous, because who among us does not want to see an old man in cut-off shorts and red high heels dancing? 

Exactly. 

Culture is important. 

Scott once made the mistake of goofing off, grabbing my eyeglasses, and striking a pose that should never have been photographed. 

So naturally, I photographed it. 

Then I sent it to the group. 

Because marriage is sacred, but comedy is also a calling. 

Please forgive me . . .

But I had to . . .

That picture now lives on as Laura’s contact photo and as a ringtone picture for Scott. He brought that on himself. There are consequences to posing dramatically while wearing my glasses in front of a woman who has access to a phone. 

This chat is where questionable thoughts are shared. Bizarre ideas are born. Photos appear that should probably be deleted but absolutely will not be. 

Someone makes a joke. 

Someone takes it too far. 

Someone threatens to put it on a personalized T-shirt. 

And by “someone,” I usually mean Laura. 

Laura has the tools. 

Laura has the technology. 

Laura has the motivation. 

This woman could take one bad sentence from a group chat and turn it into a Christmas ornament, a photo book, a throw pillow, or a shirt that gets worn to a family gathering without warning. 

We live on the edge. 

There are times when I sit back and think, “What on earth did I marry into?” 

And then five seconds later, I jump in with my own bizarre take and realize: 

Oh. 

These are my people. 

These are the people you can be completely ridiculous with. The people who know your humor is a little crooked but your heart is in the right place. The people who will roast you, defend you, screenshot you, and possibly use your worst angle as a contact photo. 

Family is not always quiet and polished. 

Sometimes family is a group chat full of blurry pictures, inappropriate timing, sarcasm, dramatic remodeling updates, cooking insults, and threats of public annihilation through personalized merchandise. 

And honestly? 

I would not trade it. 

Because underneath all the chaos, I see how blessed I am. 

I have Sabrina, a sister I used to fight with constantly, who has become someone I admire deeply. She raised two kids, works her butt off, keeps climbing the corporate ladder, and still somehow finds time to decorate, cook, remodel, and make the rest of us look like we are barely surviving with a laundry basket and a dream. 

I have Crandell, an uncle who has always loved us, looked out for us, and kept us laughing with the kind of dry humor that makes you wonder whether you should laugh or call a therapist. 

I have Laura, a sister-in-law who makes me laugh until I cry, whose opinion I truly value, and who absolutely cannot be trusted with photographic evidence. 

And I have Scott, a husband who loves me unconditionally, cherishes me in ways I did not always know husbands could, and understands that sometimes the most romantic thing a man can do is bring his wife ice cream and not ask follow-up questions. 

That is love, people. 

Not the polished kind. 

The real kind. 

The kind that shows up in grocery runs, sarcastic texts, inside jokes, dumb pictures, family updates, late-night laughter, and group chats that should probably be password protected and sealed until 2087. 

The older I get, the more I realize family is one of God’s strangest and sweetest gifts. 

He does not always place us in picture-perfect circles of calm, soft-spoken people who drink tea and resolve conflict with gentle nods. 

Sometimes He gives us loud people. 

Sarcastic people. 

Dramatic people. 

People who remodel six weekends in a row. 

People who threaten to put your bad decisions on a T-shirt. 

People who love you by making fun of your cooking and then checking on you when it matters. 

And maybe that is the beauty of it. 

God puts the lonely in families, but He never promised those families would be normal. 

He gives us people who sharpen us, stretch us, humble us, annoy us, love us, and remind us that we are not walking through life alone. 

Even when the group chat gets weird. 

Especially then. 

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” - Ephesians 4:2

And some days, “bearing with one another in love” looks like not posting the group chat screenshots. 

You’re welcome, family.