"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." I was fortunate enough to fly to Atlanta over the weekend with my daughter, Cristina, who is eleven, to attend the wedding of my former choir director from Miami. We were both so excited we could hardly sleep the night before. The thought of seeing all of our old Miami friends--as well as a dear family from Kentucky who had since relocated to Atlanta--was almost more than we could bear. Saturday night I walked into the church as the harp, violin, and flute had just begun to play. The candles were lit, and the church was slowly filling up. I was surprised as an usher grabbed me from behind; he was none other than the gentleman from New York who had arranged our choir's Carnegie Hall trip of that Spring. He escorted me right down to the second row, where all of my Miami friends were already seated. As the church was not yet filled--although it was certainly quiet enough--we made quite a scene as they jumped up and engulfed me with generous hugs and kisses. And then Kathy, one of my travel buddies to New York, said "Oh dear! I've just gotten lipstick all over your gorgeous suit!" And sure enough, on the sleeve of my granny-smith-apple-green (my obsession for the color deep enough to practically warrant medication) suit was a pale pink lipstick smudge. It was an Escada suit, bought at a consignment shop and, even at consignment prices, not inexpensive. She felt horrible about it. But what could I do? No matter. I got to thinking--as I sat quietly in my pew listening to the strains of the harp--about the number of people who would gladly trade a lipstick smudge on an expensive suit for any one of those slobbery hugs I so enjoyed. I thought of folks sitting in other pews who might have recently lost their lover, their husband or wife, their child, their best friend, or their betrothed. How fabulous would a hug from them have felt that night? How many times do we--as mothers--forego a hug from our little ones because strawberry jam is sticking to their fingers, or food remains on their tiny wet lips? Are we worried that we'll get our new t-shirt dirty, that we'll ruin the make-up we so carefully just applied to our freshly scrubbed face, or that the interruption of the hug will make us late to an appointment? Perhaps I have gained perspective over the years. Call it rarely getting a hug from my sixteen-year-old son, or even from my teenage daughter, Cristina, for that matter. Call it worrying about my sixteen-year-old when he has almost exceeded curfew, and rejoicing when I hear the garage door screech up on its chain. Call it realizing with unhappy certainty that my eight-year-old's goodnight squeezes will in the not-too-distant-future be a thing of the past. So forget clothing. Forget your perfect make-up. You can always deal with dirt. That is, afterall, why drycleaning was invented. Steal those hugs and kisses like there's no tomorrow. And see how many moments you can add to life by the number of breaths it takes away. |
