Let me tell you about the bug that made me doubt myself more than any other in this series. I’d fix something — say, a misheard word in a transcript. I’d save the corrected file to the server. I’d open the app on my phone to admire the fix. And the old, wrong word would still be sitting there. So I’d fix it again. Save again. Still wrong. I started to wonder if I’d forgotten how to edit a text file. ...
In the last post I handed an eighty-year-old man a tablet holding his life’s work — every recorded teaching, transcribed and searchable, in a box he could hold. It was, I thought, a finished gift. It wasn’t, quite. And the reason taught me something about what “giving” really means. The tablet was in his hands. But the web address his teachings lived at was registered to me. The account that kept the whole thing reachable from the internet was mine. So in a quiet, hidden way, it was still my server — just sitting in his living room. A gift isn’t really given until it’s owned, and to finish, two hidden things had to change hands. ...