We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

–Thorton Wilder

I’ve been known to overthink, overplan, overworry–generally to live outside of myself during any given moment as both spectator and critic intent on making the next best move and saying the next best thing. Oh, to be one step ahead, hoping the future will unfold more generously, more gloriously, more certainly! For too much of my life, I’ve taken for granted single moments, regarding them as necessary foreplay for something bigger and better. I’d have done well to heed the words of Rose Kennedy, who cautioned that [l]ife isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments. Moments are the hummingbirds of time, flashing quicksilver wings through the duties of the day. Too often, much too often, I’ve missed them.

Just the other day, I was telling my grandson, Griffin, about my family’s annual 4th of July picnics at Ft. Kearney Recreational Center. The day began with donuts, juice, and coffee at the picnic area and progressed to swimming and sunbathing on the beach. But the highlight of the day–the pièce de résistance–was the annual Don Welch spastic run from the bath house down the beach into the water. My dad, whose legs only saw sunlight once a year, donned his swimming trunks and waited at the top of the beach as the family–and soon other swimmers–turned their eyes to the spectacle that was about to unfold. We held our breath until he began to run down the beach, his arms and legs flailing in classic Jerry Lewis style, his face contorted and his eyes crossed. For 30 glorious seconds, we laughed until we could no longer stand and fell bent over into the water. Each year, the spastic run grew in popularity, and the Don Welch fan club burgeoned.

I like to think that I was fully present in each of those moments when my dad put aside his respectable teacher persona to become a fool for a few precious and utterly entertaining moments. I like to think that I wasn’t dreaming about the brownies I knew my mom had packed or the teenage boys playing frisbee near the water. I do know that these moments have only become clearer and dearer over the decades. And for this, I’m more grateful than I can say.

So, when Griffin donned an assortment of dollar-store 4th of July accessories and leapt from the pool deck, flashing a goofy smile and double peace signs, I was fully present. Oh, how my dad’s legacy lives on in the heart of his great grandson and his spastic leap! The fact that his photographer mother captured this moment for posterity? Even better. For during the dark days of winter, I can pull this photo out and relive this moment just when I need it. Playwright Thorton Wilder claims, we are most alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures. This moment, like those lived on the beach at Ft. Kearney Recreational Area, is a treasure.

The marvelous paradox of a single moment lies in the fact that it contains all moments, according to writer and theologian C. S. Lewis. Or as American writer Henry David Thoreau maintains, you can find your eternity in a moment. A moment may be small, but it be mighty! The other day while Griffin and I were in the pool, he urged me to dive in. Generally, I just float around while he swims beneath me. So, I rolled off my floatie and swam the length of the pool underwater. This isn’t a great feat in a 15 ft. pool, but it’s enough to delight a 9-year-old. In those brief moments underwater, I was transported to all those afternoons I spent at the Harmon Park Pool in Kearney, Nebraska. I can still recall the wonder of lying on the bottom of the pool, submerged and suspended in a sea of blue chlorinated water. It was magical. It still is. There’s something about that kind of weightlessness, that feeling of otherworldliness and timelessness that comes from being under water. A single moment in my little backyard pool contains just that kind of mystery and eternity.

Martin Luther King, Jr. writes:

Occasionally in life there are those moments of unutterable fulfillment which cannot be completely explained by those symbols called words. Their meanings can only be articulated by the inaudible language of the heart.

I suspect in everyone’s life, there are those moments which defy description or explanation. As an amateur birdwatcher, I often struggle to find the words to describe to others what I’ve seen and experienced. I’ve yet to find words to adequately describe the color of an indigo bunting. But when I see one in the honeysuckle bushes that ring the timber, I’m transfixed in a moment of unutterable fulfillment. Momentarily, I’m struck dumb. And this is exactly how it should be.

Each time I read the Sermon on the Mount, I’m moved by Jesus’s admonition to stop worrying about tomorrow. His words are a clear and present reminder to seek first the kingdom of God, to submit to the present moment, and above all, to trust:

So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. [Matthew 6: 31-34]

I continually remind myself that the moments of my day are gifts. And I hold fast to the assurance that tomorrow will worry about itself. And so, I’d like to tell you that I no longer overthink or overplan, that I’m fully present in every moment. But I can’t. Still, I’m making progress–one marvelous moment at a time.