These Moments


What are these moments, these ineffable moments that come to us draped in the seemingly small, these moments when the guard comes down and something light-filled shines through – and touches everyone in the room?


I turned my head when I heard their voices. Snow-white hair, aged arms extended so her freshly-manicured hands could rest under the lights, an elderly woman was sitting patiently in her chair. She reminded me of Betty White.

“Do you like it, Mom? Does it feel good?” a middle-aged blonde seated next to the woman was saying, scanning Mom’s face as she asked.

“Ohmyyes!” Mom exclaimed. “It feels so good.”

Mom turned to her daughter, and I saw the side of her face. There it was – an expression of joy, of wonder. 

A manicurist was massaging Mom’s shoulders. Mom lifted her arm, fingers bent with arthritis, and rested her wrinkled hand lightly on the manicurist’s soft, smooth hand, just for a moment, before returning it to the lights, saying impulsively,

“It feels so wonderful. I don’t have anyone to do this for me…anymore.”

It was ever-so-slight, but it was there, a pause before “anymore,” and I tried to imagine the person who once filled Mom’s pause. But joy was carrying the day for Mom, and she was beaming. 

They were done now and walking to the front of the salon. Daughter called out, “Be careful of the carpet, Mom!” and Mom replied, “I’m watching the carpet!”

And when they were paying for their services, Daughter prompted, “It’s $130, Mom, you got that?” Mom didn’t answer, but proceeded to calculate the tip and sign the receipt. 

Daughter looked at me and giggled. “Sometimes she hears me but ignores me,” she offered.

I couldn’t stop looking at them, Mom with her light-filled face, and Daughter with her caring expression and easy laugh. I watched them through the glass window as they left the salon and climbed into a black SUV. As they pulled away, I saw Mom in her place as front seat passenger. And there it was again, that look on her face. Now she was talking and laughing, her hands animated and moving through the air as she spoke.

She was beautiful, and I felt inexplicably uplifted.

The receptionist was watching them as well, and I had the feeling that Something Good was lifting her up too. She turned to me and said, simply, 

“She’s 95.”

Ninety. Five.

Ohmyfriends, our big-picture world can look rough and rugged sometimes. But if you look at the little things that present themselves, you will see that these moments, these moments of love and laughter, joy and happiness, these moments of God

They are still shining through.