On What's Important

Many years ago, while working for a major corporation, a colleague sat me down for a "wisdom" conversation. For more than an hour, he shared the story of his family- and career. Then in his late fifties, his past was ripe with regret, filled with foolish choices, incomplete relationships, and precious time lost.

Perhaps the nineteenth century American poet, Henry David Thoreau, best summed up his feelings, when he wrote...

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them."

In the case of my friend, early in his career he had made decisions that he felt were best for his family; decisions at the time, when viewed from thirty-thousand feet, appeared to be prudent and wise. With his goals set upon promotions, career ladders, corporate perks, travel, and a rising income, he would be able to provide the "important" things for his family. A large home...luxury vehicles...summer vacations...college tuition. In and of themselves, not necessarily harmful objectives. Indeed, in our day and age, some or all of these would be viewed as welcome additions to any family store.

And yet, for him, they brought not happiness; only great remorse. In his words, these "material" targets were nothing but elusive chasings. As the second home was purchased, then came the RV, sailboat, and the need for larger and larger bank and investment accounts. None offered lasting satisfaction- only the desire for more. All the while these accomplishments and gatherings were realized, something else happened. Time passed. His children grew up and moved away. He and his wife grew apart.

And on one Saturday morning, something else happened, too. While walking in his yard, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Fortunately, on that morning, his wife was nearby and able to call for help. Within thirty minutes, the paramedics arrived, and shortly thereafter, he found himself in a hospital, being treated for a heart attack. And in his mind, he told me that he had flashbacks of years ago- especially of his children. He remembered their births, for he was physically present at each of those life giving moments. But for the other "significant" events of their childhood, he was not. He noted that while laying on that hospital gurney, he wished for a return of the school plays, evening baseball games, Girl Scout cookie sales, Halloween parades, Christmas parties, and precious time spent with each of his children. But they remained just that- wishes. Wishes that would never come true. For their time had passed. And in their passing, all that was left for him were echoes of his children's small voices, boxes of photographs, fingerprints on bedroom walls that were meant for perfection, and great emptiness. While stillness and quiet set upon his hospital room, all that he was left with was a feeling of quiet desperation; an inability to change the past, and remnants of past decisions weighing heavily upon his heart.

As his children arrived, each walked toward his hospital bed, kissed him, held his hand, told them they loved him, and sat with him. After nearly losing his life that day, he once again regained the gift of health. And from that day on, his life was different. More appreciative. More caring. More loving. While not able to retrieve the past, our Lord had given him a new today- and tomorrow, as well.

Life was indeed- a gift.

And as he began to open that gift, albeit many years later, what's important in life became very clear.

For me, too.