Mac vs. PC

I love Macs. I became converted in the early 90s when I produced a magazine-format student journal on one of those early Macs with the tiny screens (what were they? 9 inches square?). Now I work on a MacBook Pro with a 15 inch screen plus an external 23-inch, very bright flat screen. I can't imagine laying out a magazine on a tiny 9-inch black and white screen. But that's what I did, and I came to love Macs.

Today, however, I have been setting up our new home computer. And it's not a Mac. It's a Sony Vaio (we've suddenly become a Sony family, incidentally; in the past month we had to buy a new portable stereo and a new DVD player and a new computer... all Sony... bad experiences with noname brands compelled us).

Anyway, the Vaio is cool, and I'll admit that Windows Vista seems pretty slick (from what I've seen so far). But it's just not a Mac and there are little things that annoy. Like all the stickers, for one. I had to peel three brand stickers off the laptop that were placed there rather firmly (I noticed once that my sister never removed hers) to advertise that Microsoft and Intel and some other company I'd never heard of were important partners with Sony in the creation of this computer. PCs are like that: they are cobbled together from a million different suppliers. Every different component and piece of software came from someone else, and Sony just put it all together.

With Macs, you know it's all (or at least mostly) Apple. Sure, the processor is now Intel, but it's only Intel; when buying a PC, you've got Intel and AMD and who knows what other processors to consider--and then there are 10 different kinds of Intel processors for your PC (what's the difference between dual core and core duo? I couldn't figure it out)... with Mac it's all Intel and there are only a handful of options, clearly comparable for speed, etc. Aside from the Intel processor, the bulk of the hardware on a Mac is Apple and all of the software is Apple. Hence, it all works together smoothly and it's sooooo much simpler.

On our Sony today I discovered a couple different music-player programs already installed (and I plan to ignore them and install iTunes instead). Why do I need two music programs? And I have endless options for photo editing systems and virus protection and on and on. And with hardware peripherals, I already have five different brands involved with this little laptop: the keyboard, mouse, web cam, USB hub, and printer all come from different makers.

OK, it's really not that big of a deal. I've actually been pleased with how easily the computer adjusts itself for each new piece of hardware. But it's just so much more complicated in general. With a Mac, life is simple. You look at five choices of machines, you buy one, you turn it on, and away you go. With a PC, you study computers for weeks before you can finally find the right one. And that's just the beginning. The hardware customization and software choices go on and on and on.

In a way, I guess it's like the war over agency in the preexistence. PCs offer choice, challenges, trials of faith, and the opportunity of failure. Mac is the equivalent of Satan's plan: few choices and everyone is guaranteed technological exaltation. You can imagine Steve Jobs singing, "You won't have to choose, not one will lose, and give all the glory to me (give it to me)" (apologies to the creators of My Turn on Earth).

Hmmm... if the pre-Earth plans had been presented in terms of computers, I may not have made it here.

The License of Age

When I was a student, a faculty member I was working with put me in touch with another faculty member who had written the manuscript of a novel and wanted it edited. I'd never edited text that long, but it seemed like a good experience and the author was willing to accept my review.

Over the next several weeks I got to know the author in an unusual student-professor relationship. I would regularly give him portions of his work with my editing scrawled all over it. I criticized everything from his punctuation (I still remember his somewhat ascerbic comment about my editing of his comma usage) to the logical structure of elements in his work. He accepted this review with a bit of a continual scowl, and when I later took a creative writing class from him, he gleefully remarked that it was his turn. I was never really sure where I stood with him, and somehow I think he still resents my editing of his commas.

The professor was old then—somewhere near traditional retirement age—and in recent years I have been surprised to see him still on campus, some 15 years later. Today he gave a lecture, and I, curious, attended. He's at least 75 and has been teaching writing for 50 years now. At one point, he revealed that his father was 12 years old when Brigham Young died in 1877 and that he had two half sisters who were born in the 1890s.

Someone that old, I guess, has a right to scowl when a wet-behind-the-ears undergraduate starts zealously correcting commas.

After I left the lecture, incidentally, I wandered into the library to work for a while and passed another former professor, similarly aged, brilliant white hair rimming his bald head, seated at a table with a rather text-heavy magazine or journal in front of him. I've previously observed that professor seated in about the same place in the library, reading. He was a professor of physics and astronomy, and he taught me things about the stars that I still remember. I am impressed that, though retired, he still frequents campus and, especially, the library. That he's still studying, that he's still learning.

Singing to Grandma

This evening we visited Christine’s 89-year-old grandmother in her nursing-home apartment for a few minutes. When we opened the door to her room, all the lights were off, and it was apparent she was in bed asleep. We’ve been told in the past to go ahead and wake her up when we come for a visit. She’s in bed much of the time these days. So we turned on a lamp and Christine sat by her bed and talked to Grandma for a while.

Grandma didn’t talk back; she hasn’t talked much when we’ve been to see her in recent months. Tonight, she gazed at Christine and drifted in and out of sleep. In the other room, I helped Lizzy finish her Valentine’s Day card for Grandma while Christine attempted to keep a conversation going. After a few minutes, I heard Christine singing.

Singing, we’ve decided, is a good way to attempt communication with someone who can’t carry on a conversation. Some people can conduct one-way conversations with noncommunicative people for a long time, but both Christine and I have a hard time sustaining a monologue like that. (Heck, we’re not all that good at maintaining conversation when the other party can talk.) So we sing when we visit Grandma, and we sing to Caroline a lot—especially when she’s in the hospital and we’re trying to comfort her or entertain her when sitting by her bed for hours on end.

I first realized the value of this when Caroline was first born. After all the immediate life-saving sort of activities that kept us all frantic for the first several hours of Caroline’s life, there was a lot of time of just sitting by Caroline’s bed in the ICU and waiting for her to heal and wake up. She was mostly unconscious for the first two weeks of her life, really. [vv Lizzy with baby Caroline the day she came home from the hospital.]

At first, I remember, I tried to talk to this little child. I told her all about her mom and her sister and so on, but that didn’t seem terribly effective to me. Then I remember thinking that she might recognize music. We sing primary songs a lot at our house—especially at Lizzy’s bedtime—and I wondered if Caroline would have heard those songs while still in the womb and if the melodies would be familiar and comforting. So I began singing primary songs to her. I sang the bedtime songs, in particular, over and over, but I also went through all the other songs I could think of.

Lizzy’s main bedtime song is “I Am a Child of God,” and I sang that song to Caroline many times during those first couple of weeks. After a few days of this had passed, I remember one day sitting next to Caroline’s hospital bed—with numerous tubes and wires pumping life-preserving stuff in and relaying life-monitoring info out—and singing “I Am a Child of God.” Again. As I sang, looking down at that little motionless child, the words I was singing suddenly struck me with a bit of a jolt: “I am a child of God, and so my needs are great.”

I thought, “Wow, is that ever true of this child of God.” Her needs at that moment were indeed great. She needed machines and medications and blood and tests and nurses and doctors and phlebotomists and parents. But more intimidating to me at that time was her future needs, which were slowly becoming clear. The doctors were starting to figure out how much damage had been done to her brain by the lack of oxygen, and a picture of her difficult future was starting to take fuzzy shape, though there were still many questions.

But I also thought about the other verses of the song. “I am a child of God, and He has sent me here” goes the first verse. This was perhaps the most profound thought for me as I pondered its application to Caroline. He had sent her here, in this form, at this time, to us. As I sang that verse, I was comforted by the knowledge that God was not only in charge of the big things in the universe, He was also in charge of the little things, like Caroline. And He sent her here, and He must know what He is doing. And I just need to let go of some of my fears and trust Him a little bit more. Whatever happens with Caroline, it will be OK because God is in control.

And then the last verse: “I am a child of God, rich blessings are in store.” As Christine shared the news of Caroline’s birth and disabilities with some of her friends who are not members of the Church, the importance of our eternal perspective became clear to us. If you don’t believe in a life before this one or a life after it, Caroline’s mortal condition is terribly devastating: this disabled, troubled life is all there is to Caroline’s entire existence. But with our perspective, with the knowledge that she was a glorious child of God before this life and that “rich blessings are in store” for Caroline after this life, then you are filled with so much hope and peace and joy and your love and care for Caroline is so much more complete. You know that somewhere inside that damaged physical form is a brilliant and awe-inspiring spirit, of which we are just the temporary custodians, and there is so much to look forward to in your association with her in the next life.

I was also struck as I sang that song by its application to my life. I am a child of God, and He has sent me here. He is in charge of and is guiding my life and I can trust Him to know what He is doing, especially when challenges arise. And my needs, though very different from Caroline’s, are oh so great, and I need His help with those needs. And for me, as for Caroline, rich blessings are in store if I live worthily.

Tonight among the songs we sang to Grandma was “I Am a Child of God.” It applies to her every bit as well as it does to Caroline and as it does to me. We also sang “Abide with Me” and “I Know My Father Lives.” Somehow when you are singing songs like that to someone who can’t sing with you, but who gazes at you intently as you sing—as Grandma did at me tonight—the song’s meaning is deeper and clearer and more personal. And for a moment, at least, it seems that you are actually communicating, or, more accurately, communing, with each other.

We also sang “Teddy Bears Picnic,” because Grandma has a lot of teddy bears around her apartment. That song took on absolutely no new meaning. :)

Ambassador Blog

I'm working today on a list of ambassadors that we're putting on the magazine's Web site. It's rather tedious work: doing Google searches to make sure all the names are spelled correctly. Most are, but I've found a few minor corrections (accents, upper/lowercase).

[Incidentally, I've decided I need an accent in my name. All sorts of cool people around the world have fun accents in their names, but we English-speaking folk typically don't, and I think that's sad. So from now on, I'm Jéfe. :)]

Anyway, while checking ambassador names, I ran across this blog maintained by the Syrian ambassador to the U.S. it's rather interesting. I just skimmed it, but I found it enjoyable. And I was a bit stunned that someone as busy as an ambassador maintains a blog (fairly regularly, actually).

So, I'm inspired. If Syria's ambassador to the U.S. can take a break from diplomacy to write about poetry and grandchildren and the ostentatiousness of Dubai, certainly I can post a blog or two a week...