 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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