My phone rang while I was at work.
It was my mom.
She wasn’t calling to chat.
She sounded frustrated.
“They keep telling me I need an apps.”
An apps?
I smiled for a second because I knew exactly what she meant.
“The app,” I said.
“No,” she replied. “They keep saying I can’t get the discount without an apps.”
What followed wasn’t really a conversation about groceries.
It was a glimpse into something much larger.
There was a time when saving money at the grocery store meant sitting at the kitchen table with a Sunday newspaper, a pair of scissors, and a stack of coupons. Clip what you needed. Put them in your purse. Hand them to the cashier.
Simple.
Today the process looks very different.
Download the store’s app.
Create an account.
Verify your email.
Reset your password because you forgot it.
Connect to the store Wi-Fi because the cell signal is weak.
Find the item in the app.
Scan the shelf barcode.
Locate the correct version because there are six nearly identical products.
“Clip” the digital coupon.
Hope it synchronizes before you reach the register.
Pay with the right account.
Then, after all that, hope the discount actually applies.
It didn’t.
Even after I eventually walked through the process myself, I found it surprisingly confusing.
From an IT perspective, I could imagine why it had been designed that way. Databases, promotions, loyalty accounts, analytics, inventory systems—all of those pieces probably fit together beautifully somewhere behind the scenes.
But standing in the grocery aisle, none of that mattered.
My mom didn’t need a lesson in software architecture.
She wanted to buy cereal.
That phone call has stayed with me.
Not because of the app.
Because of what it revealed.
We often imagine the digital divide as something far away. We picture villages without internet service or schools without computers.
But sometimes the digital divide is much closer.
Sometimes it looks like an ordinary person standing in front of a shelf, unable to access the same price as everyone else because the rules of participation quietly changed.
Nobody announced it.
Nobody voted on it.
The newspaper coupons disappeared.
The app became the coupon.
As someone who has spent more than three decades working in information technology, I usually stand on the other side of these systems. I understand why they exist. I know the engineering challenges. I appreciate what modern software makes possible.
But that phone call reminded me that every new convenience creates a new threshold.
Some people step across it without even noticing.
Others never realize there was a doorway until they find themselves locked out.
That realization has led me down a path I didn’t expect.
Over the next several months, I’m going to explore a question that has quietly fascinated me for years:
What is the minimum technology required not merely to survive in the digital age, but to flourish with dignity?
I’m not asking that question because I dislike technology.
Quite the opposite.
I love technology.
I’ve built computers from bargain-bin parts. I’ve worked with enterprise systems. I’ve watched artificial intelligence transform what ordinary people can accomplish.
But I’ve also watched the cost of participation quietly rise.
The question isn’t whether technology is good.
The question is whether we are making it easier—or harder—for ordinary people to participate in modern life.
This series isn’t about finding the cheapest laptop.
It’s about discovering the thresholds that separate people from opportunity.
Sometimes that threshold is a computer.
Sometimes it’s confidence.
Sometimes it’s knowledge.
Sometimes it’s simply having someone patient enough to stand beside you and say, “Let’s figure this out together.”
I don’t have all the answers.
In fact, one reason I’m beginning this journey is because I don’t.
I’m going to experiment with older computers, simpler tools, and lower-cost technology. I’ll report honestly on what works, what doesn’t, and where modern digital life still places unnecessary obstacles in front of ordinary people.
I have a feeling we’ll discover something together.
Maybe the most valuable technology isn’t the newest device.
Maybe it’s whatever lowers one more threshold and helps one more person participate with dignity.
10 Minutes For God 