It's the Little Things that Define Life

Life is often defined by small acts of goodness, kindness, love.

When I was a boy, I had reoccurring bouts of tonsillitis. My tonsils were large and they seemed to be always getting inflamed. Each time, the doctor would prescribe an antibiotic in capsule form. I hated trying to swallow those things. So my maternal grandmother, whom I called Momo and who with my grandfather lived a few blocks from us, would come over each morning that I was sick, open the capsule into a tablespoon, mix in a little honey, and give it to me. “Here, sweetie,” she would say. “Swallow it all at once.” It went down so easily.

In one of the early congregations that I served as a young minister, there was a dear church member, an older woman slightly mentally challenged. Her life had been sadly difficult. Never given a proper education or help with her disability, she floundered but somehow made a life for herself. Every now and then she would bake a loaf of homemade bread for me and my wife. She would walk across town and bring it to us. It was warm and fresh and with butter on it, was simply delicious. We would chat with her and then she would leave. I considered those loaves of bread gifts of love.

After my divorce, my life sort of fell apart. I lost my career. No one wanted to hire a single 40-year-old man as their pastor. I worked retail at minimum wage and struggled financially every day. I had had a busy, fulfilling life as a minister. I loved researching and writing out my sermons. I served on community boards, published a book, and had a column in the local newspaper. I missed all of that so much. And, I missed the people. During this lonely time, every month my Mom would send me a little card with a hundred dollars in it. She never knew how much that check saved me or how sometimes I opened it and wept at the care in it. The card always had a scripture verse on it, and she would write each time saying she was praying for me and loved me. The deep affection in that small act moved me to keep fighting to restore my life.

One year my son Caleb and his wife Kameron flew me out to Los Angeles to celebrate my birthday. Kameron had earlier planned time away with some girlfriends so Caleb planned a night with just him and me. We ate dinner at a small, quaint restaurant with white tablecloths. Then we walked down the street to a hotel where Caleb had reserved a place on the lovely garden patio at the back. We smoked cigars and sipped bourbon. Kameron Face timed us and we all three chatted, laughed, and had the best time. I will never forget that night.

I have spent so many amazing times with my son Luke on the ranch. We have ridden around the 2500 acres in the gator, over roads Luke has carved out of the trees and brush. Sometimes we just rode in silence, and sometimes we have had great talks about the good days when he was young and we were all still a family unit. We have had great discussions on those rides about God, life, and friends. I can’t tell you how much those long rides have meant to me. Just the two of us in the gator, with the dogs, the wind coming through the windows, the smell of the ground, the trees, and sometimes the rain. Beautiful simple moments of warmth and love.

My refrigerator has on it pictures Ingrid drew when she was little. There are notes, too, she has left me, and small cards she has made. I see them each time I open the fridge and I smile and sometimes touch them with affection. She came to me as a tiny child late in my life. But those small treasures remind me of the joys she has brought me.

I think of calls from old friends. Laughter with my buddies on the golf course. Deep, personal conversations with those I love and care about and whose company I so enjoy, discussions about religion and heartache and loss and love. Those times are golden.

In the complex movie, Vanilla Sky, Tom Cruise plays David Aames, a handsome young highly successful New York City publishing executive. He has it all. But then, after a disastrous car accident, his life is demolished. His face is disfigured and he languishes in anger and despair. But after a long, desperate, and even bizarre journey, he finds his soul and reclaims the life left him. Near the end, in one moment of clear insight, he tells a mysterious tech support person, “It’s the little things. There’s nothing bigger.”

I hold those little things in my heart. They are enormous.

© 2019 Timothy Moody