I was thrilled. Mother was finally getting a new cell phone and she’d acted a tiny bit interested in a computer. Maybe even an iPad. But there was one problem.
I’d be teaching her.
A few weeks ago…
“I’m not sure if you need wireless–”
“Wallace? I don’t know anyone named Wallace,” she said.
“Wire-less, Mother. You may need a router.”
“What kind of rider?”
I took a long, deep breath.
Yesterday I made a house call.
“This is how I write. See my thesaurus?”
(We write for Daily Guideposts and edit each other’s devotionals.)
I moved her Easter centerpiece and set up my workspace. Neat. Tidy. Efficient.
“Doesn’t this look simpler?”
She didn’t respond.
She handed me one of her marked-up devotionals to read.
I felt tired just looking at it.
I typed a few sentences on my laptop. “If you got a computer, look, no more Whiteout. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“I love the smell of Whiteout. This is how I edit.”
I tried my best to keep a straight face.
To keep her on task.
I was there for a purpose.
To give iPhone lessons.
She’d already mastered phone calls. I took a selfie and showed her how to send a picture.
Next we sent a practice text.
“This sure is a lot of work. Why not just call someone?”
“Texting saves times. Write short texts. Like shorthand.”
“I don’t see the benefits.”
I felt like I was shoving a load of bricks, but she was smiling, so proud of her red cell phone. “At least I’ve gotten started,” she said.
“True. I think that’s enough work for today.”
She fixed us a Pepsi. Laughing with her, an old truth came to me.
You can’t change someone.
And you can wear yourself out trying.
I hugged her and replaced her Easter centerpiece.
Can you relate?