The Moment Before a Sunset
.
Every once in a blue moon, we’re privileged to witness something.
Something that we unexpectedly find that moves us.
That inspires us. That shapes us.
One of those happened to me this morning.
It wasn’t a grand speech by a national leader; it wasn’t an astounding film or television show.
It was something right in my own town’s backyard.
It was a third-grade musical at a grade school in town.
It wasn’t the quality of their singing, or intricate dance steps, or great lighting or sound. None of that.
It was in a second-floor, most-of-the-time classroom—absolutely jam-packed with parents there to watch their kids.
Many of the moms and dads, heading off to their work or home offices right after the musical, were peeking down at their chirping phones—pulling them far away from that room.
Then, out on the stage, twenty kids appeared. All spread out. Like chess pieces on a chessboard. Twenty of the most beautiful, unique faces you could ever imagine. All scanning the room for the loving blanket of their parents.
There is just something about that age. That five-to-nine-year-old, once-in-a-lifetime sweet spot, where they don’t think much about tomorrow, and they don’t think much about yesterday.
They’re in the right now.
They hear, and they see, and they feel everything in the now.
It’s that treasured small window of our life’s journey where we’re shooting stars with incandescent light.
The intro of the music came from a rusty, out-of-tune upright piano off the side of the stage. Then something absolutely marvelous happened.
They sang.
They sang in a tone and a style and a voice so pure, so real, so emotional that no pop singer could compare.
As the kids looked out at all of us, we were swept away. What they were feeling, we were feeling.
For all of us adults in that room, the politics and divisiveness of the news, anything—was suddenly gone. All those things that wander into your head—about checkbook balances, health issues, stress about careers—weren’t in the room.
Everyone was just there. Just there.
When the final song finished, and with everyone in the room singing along, the parents cheered. They cheered, and they cheered, and they cheered.
They cheered for who their kids were, who they are, and who they dream to be.
They cheered for the wonder of that muse that whispers in the ear of a child to trust their own voice.
They cheered for the privilege of sharing that moment with their friends from their parish who will be a part of their lives and their stories forever.
I watched the parents finding their third-grader in the stir and the joy of the “backstage” celebration.
With no words, they hugged their kids a bit longer, trying to hold on to this moment just a little more.
Sunsets.
Many of my pals just can’t get enough of ’em. I’m not really a sunset guy.
The moment I love happens somewhere in the time before that. It doesn’t have a name that I know of.
It’s that maybe seven-minute window when the sun brushes over the water, transforming it into this kind of aqua blue that can’t possibly have a word that describes its beauty.
It’s more than any color. It’s not even a color; it’s a feeling.
And at that moment, the sun illuminates every face, every thing. The lapping water on the sand paints momentary masterpieces. The white cusps of the waves frost the warm sea. The islands and mountains in the distance sing.
And then, in just an instant, it goes away.
The sky darkens just a bit as the earth spins just enough to lose sight of its mothering sun.
Back to our story.
Along with all the parents in that room, I walked down the flight of stairs, through the piazza of the school, and to the parking lot.
As we headed to our cars, like the shifting sky, all the tasks, all the worries of the day seeped their way back smack to center stage. My phone buzzed and beeped, reeling me, like a fisherman, right back on the hook.
No matter what, I’m going to visit the beach tonight before sunset.
To see it again.
And, at that moment, I’m going to give thanks for what I saw today. For what I was privileged to feel. For the gift I was given by those children.
I’ll imagine those parents tonight, looking across the dinner table at their third graders talking about their day.
And I’ll give thanks for how lucky I am to live in such a beautiful town where flowers like these have such a chance to bloom.
With a color too beautiful to even have a name.
.
Yours,
