Values Best Practices

Finding Perfection in Our Every Day Lives
By Andy Andrews
Published: February / March 2008

Stop.

Look around. Are you alone?

Even if there are people nearby . . . are you alone right now?

To be certain, this is an odd beginning to our time together, but stay with me. Allow me your complete and undivided attention for less than five minutes. And if you dare spend the time . . . I promise, these five minutes will change your life.

You see, my own life changed dramatically several days ago . . . let me explain.

I was sitting in a porch swing on a dock watching Austin, my eight-year-old boy, fish. He was barefooted and wore nothing but shorts and a tee-shirt. It was late afternoon and I was tired, having worked that day since early morning, but I was aware that I was comfortable. Now understand, I am not often "conscious" of comfort. Oh sure, I know when my socks are wet or when my back hurts, but I never seem to notice when my socks are dry or when my back doesn't hurt.

My son talked and fished as I became strangely tuned into the fact that I did not have a headache, that I wasn't hungry or thirsty, that a cool breeze was in my face and that I had nothing in particular pressing my schedule. There was nowhere I had to be . . . no one I needed to call. As I look back, it was indeed a peculiar moment that only foreshadowed the moment that was about to change me forever.

Austin went on about how he tied the hook on his line. He told me that the bait was squid and that if he didn't wash his hands, he would be able to let the kids in his class smell it tomorrow. He laughed, and so did I. After a few minutes of not catching anything, he said, "The reason I like to fish is because when everything is calm and quiet, your whole self is full of hoping. And whether you catch anything or not, you still get to hope. It's a great feeling isn't it? Hope, I mean. It's next best to excitement." I agreed that it was.

The sun was sinking low over the water when he said, "Dad? Let’s throw the football." "Okay," I answered, and eased out of the swing as my boy ran past me, rushing to get the ball, his feet hammering on the old boards of the dock.

"Stand over there," he directed as I moved onto the beach, "and I'll stand here. That way the sun won't be in either of our faces." For a few minutes we passed back and forth in silence. Then, he said, "I'm going long."

"Go!" I answered and he turned, running, as I arched the ball high into the air. It spiraled perfectly, hanging that tiny bit at the top of its flight, and then settling softly over my son's left shoulder as he caught it and fell dramatically onto the sand.

"Touchdown!" he yelled. He was lying on the beach, but sat up as I stepped toward him and motioned for the ball. Smiling, he held his hand out and said, "Dad! Stop! Do you see?" he asked.

I quickly looked around. "What?" I replied. He grinned widely and I chuckled as I noticed the gap where his two front teeth used to be. "Dad, don't you see?" he said again and I shook my head, mystified. No, I did not see.

He took my right hand in both of his. "Well," he began, "think about it . . . The sun went down so it's not in anybody's eyes, but it is still light enough to throw the football. The sand is soft enough to fall on and the temperature is not too hot and it’s not too cold." He shrugged. "And it’s just you and me here together." Pausing, he looked at me earnestly. "Dad," he said, "it’s just perfect." And it was.

As I sit here today in what the world calls the "middle age" years of my life, it occurs to me that I have existed for decades on this planet. And I have managed to notice every cross word or disappointed glance tossed my way. I have noticed every hurricane that forms, every fire, earthquake, and tornado. I have slowed down to see wrecks on the highway. I see every bill that comes in the mail, every flight that is delayed. I even see the spot on the fender of my car that was missed when it was washed.

I have paid attention to things that weren't true. I have spent time on things with no lasting significance. And I have worried about things that never happened. But how many moments have I missed that were perfect?

I want to live a life cognizant of time well spent. From this day forward, I want to notice the joy on a child's face, not the chocolate he left on the couch. I want to notice clean sheets, a roof over my head, and the fact that I have enough to eat. I know I will continue to question and grow and struggle and learn, but I must never again let a special moment pass without acknowledging, at least to myself, that "Wow! This is just perfect!"

Andy Andrews is the New York Times Bestselling author of The Traveler’s Gift. His long awaited follow-up book, Mastering the Seven Decisions will be on store shelves April 15, 2008. Pre-orders can be made now at www.Amazon.com or www.AndyAndrews.com.

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