Glenn Adsit and his family spent years as missionaries in China. During the Communist regime change, they were under house arrest. One day a few Chinese soldiers came to their house, and said, "You can return to America."

The Adsit's were celebrating, when the soldiers told them, "You can take only two hundred pounds with you."

Well, they had been in China for years. Two hundred pounds? They found the scales and started the family arguments. Each--wife, husband and the two children--had an opinion. Must have this vase. Well, this is my new typewriter. What about my books? What about my collection? And they weighed everything, took each item off the scales, weighed and re-weighed until finally, right on the dot, they had two hundred pounds.
The soldier asked, "Ready to go?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you weigh everything?" 

"Yes." 

And in a moment, the special vase, the new typewriter, the collections, all of it, became "trash."   

Just stuff.

This is not an easy story. And using it to nurse regret is a waste of time. Even so, it's still a necessary question for us today: "Did you weigh the kids?" 

Did you weigh the things that really matter?
I have read a lot of articles, sermons, books about the few things that matter, and the lists and opinions vary. So I cannot presume to make that list for you.

But here is what I can tell you for certain: 

One, we are all pushed and prodded and pressured and obligated and easily out of balance. And we attach value to stuff that in the end, weighs us down.  

And two, we can't know what really matters, unless we slooooow down. Only then can we see. Only then can we pay attention.

I remember a conversation I had with my son Zach when he was 9 1/2 years old.
"You know Dad," Zach is talking with his mouth full of cereal,

"Really?" I say to my son. 

No, son, not bad. Even better that you see it that way.

At the bookstore, a magazine caption "Life Aspiration to be a Millionaire" caught my attention. I shake my head, mystified. Not because I don't daydream about having a few million set aside (especially now the way things are, and I just finished a book called The Number about the amount we need to have in order to "retire the way we want;" and yes I'm still shaking my head, mystified).  It's all about the measures we have by which we gauge the progress in our lives. And our perspective about success is not too subtle. 

It's all about size isn't it?  

What are you worth? 

What did you accomplish? 

How much bigger (in value or bank account or faith for that matter) are you than the next guy?

As a result, we put each moment through its paces, evaluating it, judging it for significance and worth. We want to know if it measures up, and

then, and only then will we embrace it, and make it a part of our lives. It is not surprising that many of us live lives based upon comparison, and in the end, shame or regret.

"We teach children how to measure, how to weigh," Rabbi Abraham Heschel reminds us. "We fail to teach them how to revere, how to sense wonder and awe. The sense of the sublime, the sign of the inward greatness of the human soul and something which is potentially given to all men, is now a rare gift."

 

On a recent trip I'm at a pub in the airport. (Not atypical... name the airport I'll tell you the best pub). I have an hour before my flight departs. My papers are spread out. It is Sunday, I have preached three services, and I am trying to write this Sabbath Moment. (Yes, of course it is last minute. Deadlines and chaos motivate me. I have a book idea on Sabbath for ADHD Procrastinators.) 

I have just reread the story about weighing the kids. And what I want to know, is how to practice this--you know, giving weight to those things that really matter--today?

"Sitting at a bar, eating and working and answering your cell phone," the bar tender is saying to me (while I'm doing my best to ignore him and think of something meaningful to write). "Either you're dedicated or slightly crazy." 

"Crazy comes close," I tell him, "But you know how it goes. I have stuff to do, and too little time to do it. I have deadlines and I'm on my way home." 

"Say no more," he says. "This beer's on me. But only if you put your papers away, and just enjoy it." 

"Thanks," I tell him, "but I've got to finish this, so I face my family in a good mood." 

"Ok," he says. "Just don't forget the flowers." 

"Thanks," I tell him. I write his inspiration on the back of a bar napkin, double his tip and head for my plane.

As long as success is measured by keeping score (weighing or honoring the wrong stuff), we lose track of most everything that makes us human and therefore, glad to be alive: 

--small gestures of kindness 

--acts of inclusion or community to someone left out, or someone on the fringes (extending a hand of healing or acceptance to someone who hurts)  

--reveling in the gifts of the senses 

--resting in a moment of gratitude 

--sharing laughter, a smile, camaraderie or joy
--finding a friend, a family member, or someone important to you... and not forgetting the flowers.

The garden is in full passion. Spring perennials exuding hope--white bleeding hearts and lavender Hyacinth. I don't want to miss a single flower. And yet... it happens every year; the very season(s) we wait for arrive and then race by, making it so easy to miss the moments of magic; like the great Magnolia trees--during this Easter Season--flourishing blooms of flushed pink flames.

Note: (1) The Adsit story is adapted from Fred Craddock's book Craddock Stories.
(2) In the glad to be alive department, I am grateful for notes from Sabbath Moment readers who are juggling life, and finding solace in the permission to sit still and hear a voice of grace. Just so you know, your notes mean the world.