I remember our first family computer as a mauve, clunky, fascinating piece of machinery with a pixilated Windows logo on the screen. And on the other side of that screen was a world of opportunity limited only by imagination.

My father would show me this world, a world he learned the language of by teaching it how to play games as simple as Pong or as complex as Tomb Raider.

Then, my mother showed me the worlds hidden behind words and song. In particular, she showed me Bible verses and hymns jumping off the printed papers.

“Can I borrow this?” I asked her, holding out the pamphlet of the day’s planned sermons and songs, tucked in the pew.

“Borrow it? What for?”

“I want to copy these,” I said, and set it on the computer desk at home with the large, mechanical keys under my fingers.

“Okay, but you have to bring it back.”

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