Harvey Ramer — Essays on Faith and Ordinary Life

I’m awake, again.

I sat down at my computer with a new business idea in mind.

My career in technology started in the early 2,000s, a time of heady optimism about the future of technology.

John the Baptist preached forgiveness of sins, the coming of the Kingdom of God, and pointed to Jesus as the Messiah.

I.

I slept fitfully last night, and it left me feeling tense.

Every day we answer the question, “What’s next?”

My self-image has always been defined by my work, and I know that needs to change.

It was October 31, 1517.

Early this morning while finishing my coffee, I read a chapter called Turning the Corner in the insightful book, The Art of Slow Writing, by Louise DeSalvo.

After moving to Florida in 2022, our family visited dozens of churches.

In my work, I’ve often been surprised to find that some software engineers I know personally, are Wiccan or pagan practitioners.

Habit is a surprising thing.

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m at home alone.

No shame.

I didn’t want to write anything today.

“I’ve gone to sleep, but I’m wide awake.”

“Wow-wow-wow-wow-wow!”

Kneeling on the hard ceramic floor of our rented home in Tennessee, sobs wracked my body.

“Why do I have to buy a car to get a job I will have to work to keep the car?”

For the past two decades, I’ve followed a meandering career path that combines graphic design, an interest in marketing, and software engineering.

Homo economicus.

I got up, walked to the bathroom, and took a quick survey of the news on social media.

On Sunday mornings, the brown frame building that housed the tiny Mennonite church burst at the seams with the sound of voices raised in song accompanied by an acoustic guitar.

This morning, I’m thinking of Rick, one of my oldest and dearest friends, whose genuine kindness without condescension or judgment has left an indelible mark on me.

The brisk fall air felt like needles pricking my skin as I removed my life jacket and stood up to take the long step from the small outboard-powered boat.

After months of wrestling with what felt like an impossible AI project, I learned something about the limits of technology and the necessity of grace.

I was seven years old when I started the first grade.

I’ve had a few days off, and I’m grateful for them.

I dozed in and out of consciousness.

The late summer wind had a bite in the shade, but the sun felt warm on my skin as I rounded the corner of my home and caught sight of our pretty neighbor girl.

Why am I reading this?

That sounds so beautiful!

Dad warned me about a smooth granite outcropping near our house.

Today would be different, I was sure of it.

After dinner this evening, I was unable to relax, so I wandered into my office.

It’s 7 AM, and my work day is rapidly approaching.

I just opened an article analyzing the current AI adoption penetration in the market, the ongoing investment level from major tech companies, and the potential upside for investors despite worries about the future.

A pattering rush of wind and rain lashed against the window of my office rousing me from my work.

At five years old, I banged away on my parents’ typewriter, convinced I had something important to say.

I’ll do that when I have more time.

Beside me are books filled with business advice and technological innovations.

People are not alike.

Software engineers spend most of their time sitting and thinking.

May of 2018 was an exciting month.

As my preschool fingers banged the keys of my parents’ ancient manual typewriter, I watched the black indentations appear on white paper with a mixture of fascination and satisfaction.