The Unseen Life, Part 30

Those were the heady days of computerization. Toshiba had just announced the release of their first mass-market portable computer in Singapore, and the public waited eagerly. As we prepared to return to our overseas assignment after a medical interlude, the machine's prohibitive cost placed it firmly beyond reach. We admired it from a distance, wondering what such a pioneer compact computer might look like, and what it could do for our work in the field. We were certainly not praying for one.

​The T1100's publicity brochure described an impressive, if formidable, clamshell instrument: a 4.77 MHz Intel 80C88 CPU, 256 KB of RAM, a single 720 KB 3.5-inch floppy drive, an 80-column by 25-line monochrome LCD with 640 × 200 graphics support, an 83-key full-stroke keyboard, parallel printer and RS-232C serial ports, and a rechargeable Ni-Cd battery rated for eight hours of use. MS-DOS 2.11 ran from ROM, with no hard drive. At 4.1 kg and 6.5 cm thick, it demanded both arms to lift; nothing like what we call a laptop today. A couple of days after the T1100 became available to consumers, a large gift arrived from an anonymous source.

​In terms of blessings and gifting, reformed theology draws a useful distinction between common grace and particular providence. Common grace refers to the blessings God extends to all people, believer and unbeliever alike; rain, health, daily provision. Particular providence refers to the specific divine orchestration in the lives of His people. An anonymous gift might be understood as either, or both. What makes it theologically striking is that anonymity strips away human credit, making the divine hand more visible. And yet, God's provision rarely arrives without a human instrument. The anonymous giver was not acting instead of God; they were acting as His instrument, perhaps without even knowing it. This is the doctrine of secondary causation: God works through creaturely means without diminishing His own agency as the primary cause.

Paul writes in Ephesians 3:20 that God "is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think." One of Scripture's most consistent themes is that God's generosity is not contingent on our petitions. He is not a vending machine that dispenses only what is requested, He is a Father who gives out of the overflow of His own character. An unexpected, unasked-for gift can be a vivid and tangible expression of this reality. It is worth noting that receiving such a gift does not obligate one to any particular theological interpretation. But for someone already oriented within a Christian foundation, the question naturally arises: is this God? The honest biblical answer is that it is entirely consistent with how Scripture describes Him; generous, sovereign, and not waiting to be asked before He acts on behalf of those He loves (Romans 5:8). Grace, by definition, is unmerited. If a gift came only in response to prayer, it might subtly feel like a transaction, a reward for the spiritual discipline of asking. The unasked-for gift is in some ways a purer picture of grace: it cannot be attributed to the recipient's initiative, merit, or persistence. It simply comes. This is precisely how Paul frames the matter in Romans 11:35, "Who has given a gift to him that he might be repaid?"

The right response, within a Christian framework, is probably less about explaining the gift and more about receiving it with open hands and a thankful heart. As James 1:17 puts it: "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights." Whether or not a prayer was spoken, the giver of all good things remains the same.

One of the first practical challenges having purchased the PC was the scarcity of original Toshiba software. As was common in those days, manufacturer-compatible software lagged behind the hardware itself. What was surprising, however, was the wide range of pirated software already circulating in the market, as though it had somehow premeditated the T1100's arrival. Despite the temptation, we made an immediate and firm decision to use only legitimate, copyrighted software. This became a lifelong principled position. The PC, a compatible mini-printer, and a bundle of associated software were then carried over land and air, several thousand kilometres, to our destination.

Charging the machine proved a challenge at our mission station, where electricity was sporadic, at times unavailable for days. Mercifully, power seemed to arrive whenever there was work to be done. Wi-Fi and internet were, of course, non-existent. The PC became a faithful workhorse. It allowed us to efficiently tabulate our language-learning lessons at our remote location, transcribing sessions in the national language as we worked to document the indigenous one. It simplified the revision of each phase of our personal language acquisition notes. For Bible translation work, it proved invaluable, facilitating multiple rounds of corrections as the orthography of the written indigenous language evolved through successive reviews with community leaders. Using a simple graphic drafting tool, we designed a standard pictographic format for our bi-monthly prayer letter, stored it on a floppy disk, and reprinted it whenever needed. Official correspondence, too, became far more manageable.

​We were grateful for the timely arrival of this PC. It did its work quietly and faithfully, and in the process, it lit in us an early, embryonic interest in the world of computers.