Elderberry bush blossoms, Frenchman's Reserve, Jupiter, FL
20 Apr 2011
I have been on the computer this evening, deciding what I want in my new iPad. I call the 1-800-MY APPLE help line to find out how delicate an iPad would be. The Apple specialist can't answer my question--since she can't assure me that carrying the iPad would be safe in my book bag with my other books and school papers. I've spoken to other Apple specialists who were wonderful and kind and very helpful. This poor girl must have just begun working there--what people who have spent hundreds of dollars for the "Apple Care" program want is to be reassured and gently taught so that they don't feel stupid for asking their questions.
What has really kept me from sending in the final order for my iPad, though, is the question of what I want to have engraved on its back. The company allows the buyer two lines of print. How do I sum up my philosophy of life; how do I distill what I always want to remember; how do I compose my soul--all in two lines?
In Family Home Evening one night--long ago when Meg and La were young teenagers and Nathan was still in middle school--the lesson proposed that the teacher ask each family member what three words s/he would want engraved on his/her gravestone. I've got all of them written down somewhere--but I remember my three words to this day. I also remember Nathan's answer because he could not be bound by the three word limit. When he died, he wanted on his gravestone: He found out what Jesus wanted, and then he did it. His sincere choice rattled me a little bit then--and still does today. I am constantly impressed and surprised by just about everything that Meg, La and Nate do and say.
So, these two lines are not my epitaph, but they will remain on the back of a pad that I fully expect to carry with me to school and Church and on my photographic explorations and on the plane when I fly and in the car when I drive, type my notes into, record my thoughts as they occasionally come, even use to see and talk with my children and my grandchildren for years to come. Technology has sped to the point where I fully expect to see and use devises I cannot even begin to imagine right now. And it is now at the point where I feel lost if I don't have my cell phone with me--or my laptop in my school bag--or my big screen desktop glowing with my downloaded photographs. I am comforted by the fact that I can call Brent whenever and where ever he might be. I love hearing the voices of my two daughters who live hundreds of miles away from me. Anyway . . . this iPad, this new part of my life, has two lines of print that I can, if I choose, put down in solid, archaic letters, a couplet to remind me of who I am, of what I believe in.
A lot of fuss for something that's to be written on the back of an over-grown iPhone. I know, though, because it has happened with iPods and iTouches we've out grown, that Meg or Lauren or Nathan will someday be using this iPad. I want them to know that it was mine, and a part of me remains with it.
After days--into weeks--I have finally ordered my iPad. On the back will be engraved:
Carolyn loves Brent.
Brent loves Carolyn.
THAT sums up my philosophy, my belief, my motto.
Weird that it took me so long to realize and capture in words what has upheld me and cheered me and comforted me for the last 28 years. Whew. Wow.
