The Program I'll Never Forget

Four years ago during college, I did technical gigs to pay the bills.

It was a cowboy's life, a life for someone who wanted no boss.

What I didn't realize was that it was also a ministry.

Because I had classes and homework, I programmed at night; my computer became a compiling confessional. Clients would email me, sheltered by the anonymity of the internet and tell me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me, enobled me and made me laugh and weep.

But none touched me more than a woman who emailed me late one November night. I was responding to a craigslist ad from a quiet part of town. I assumed I was going to do somebody's homework or implement the new hybrid search-engine-online-auction-house-community-social-network.

But when I got the specifications at 2:30am, the document was sparse except for a single diagram and a few notes.

Under these circumstances many freelance programmers would just send one or two emails asking for clarifications, wait a minute and move on.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on freelance programmers as their only means of getting things done.

Unless a situation smelled of danger or illegal activities, I always tried to call my clients. This client might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I dialed the number and somebody picked up. "Just a minute" answered a frail elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, I heard the phone being picked up again. And an elderly woman started talking to me and sounded like somebody out of a 1940s movie. She excused herself for making me hold as she had had to get a chair because she couldn't stay standing up.
"It’s nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat my clients the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you’re such a good boy", she said. When she was settled in her chair, she gave me a list of requirements and specifications, then asked, "Could you walk me through your solution? I used to work with computers during the war..."

"It’s not the fastest way to finish this project," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don’t mind," she said. "I’m in no hurry..."

I listened. Her voice was choking.

"I don’t have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don’t have very long."

I quietly reached over and turned off the timer to keep track of the time spent working on a gig. "Shall we start?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we went over the project and over computer science. She told me how back when she was "just a girl" output was done to IBM punch cards which could be used to produce printed output offline. She talked about the history of computing hardware and I told her about design patterns, turing completeness, Moore's law, algorithmic complexities, and the different kinds of datatypes. Sometimes she’d ask me to slow down and explain a concept once more while she must have been sitting staring into the darkness.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I’m tired. I like what you came up with."

"How much do I owe you?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other clients".

Almost without thinking, I told her it was great talking to her.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I said goodbye, then walked out of my room and into the dim morning light. I was reliving the click noise of her hanging up; it was the sound of the closing of a life.

For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. I didn’t do anymore gigs that week. I browsed the internet aimlessly, lost in thought. What if that woman had gotten an angry programmer, or one who was impatient and only looking to get paid? What if I had refused to wait for her email and not called her?

On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.