Cherishing life's ‘little' moments

By Gracie Bonds Staples

The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

In another tearful interview earlier this month about her missing son, Desiree Young told "Good Morning America" that it’s the little moments with Kyron Horman that she and his father miss the most.

The 7-year-old Oregon boy has been missing since June 4.

“That's what life's about -- the little moments," Young said. "That's what life is and that's what you hold on to and cherish every day.”

Those moments kiss us on almost a daily basis but many let them pass unnoticed -- or simply take them for granted -- until faced with a life-threatening illness, death or a similar tragedy.

Jay Chaskes, a sociology professor at Rowan University in Glassboro, NJ.,  has done this himself.

“The bottom line is all those normal things that drive your daily life …  all of a sudden aren’t important,” Chaskes said. “We’re reminded of what’s really important and what’s often important are the little things.”

Chaskes recalled the time six years ago when he nearly died of a staph infection.

“That immediately upended my family’s world,” said Chaskes, who lingered eight weeks in an induced coma.

When Chaskes woke up, he was paralyzed from the neck down. He now navigates Rowan's campus in a motorized wheelchair.

Now 67, he said it is eventslike this that cause us to reassess our priorities.

“If you think about the end of your day, it was tiny things that added up to create a day. What we like to hold on to are those little previous moments that come and go,” Chaskes said. “When your kids or grandkids say something funny, or you’re at work and something upsets you and a colleague puts his hands on your shoulder and says ‘I’m sorry'.

“The core of our humanness is not about acquiring things, it’s about creating things, about how we deal with the people we interact with every day. Smile, talk, touch, these are the crucial things that get us through the day. It’s how we sustain who we are.”

And so we asked some metro Atlanta residents to tell us about a small moment they hold dear, one among the moments that sustain them. Here’s what they told us:

Laura Snyder, 40, Marietta:

Watching my 9-year-old son, Griffin, dance in the dugout this summer after coming off the bench and hitting a 3-RBI (runs batted in) double to give the Sandy Plains All-Stars the lead in a district tournament.

Griffin, a fourth-grader at Rocky Mount Elementary, isn't the best player with the baseball team, she said, but he loves to play the game and plays it with heart.

Ruben Brown, 46, Atlanta:

I’ve worked for the Red Cross for 14 years, and I've always been proud of the fact that we help people to surmount the challenges that they face. But until my Aunt Liz was diagnosed with leukemia, and chemotherapy rendered her unable to produce an adequate number of platelets, even I had taken that work for granted. After three anxious days, my aunt got the matched platelets that she needed, thanks, of course, to the Red Cross. Although Aunt Liz would pass some nine months later, I will never again look at the job we do the same because so often what we do makes the difference between life and death.

LaCresha S. McKinney, 30, Atlanta:

Growing up, my sister and I spent almost every summer with Grandmother.

We slept in the middle room, where I could faithfully hear the sound of the train running along the tracks from outside her window. By now Grandma was always awake. I loved spending time with her and this was always my chance (while others were asleep) to get as much of it as I could. Now as an adult, I don't visit my grandma as much as I'd like, so as if by habit, I listen for the sounds of the train where ever I am or where ever I live, hoping once again to relive those fond memories of summers past and the sweet moments I spent with Grandma.

Mark Reed, 63, Lake Lanier:

In 1952, my dad took me to visit one of his best friends, Mr. Cherry, a transplant from Texas. I had no doubt he loved me because he'd always bounce me on his knee, take off his Stetson and cover my head with it. He died soon after that visit. After the funeral, my dad presented me with Mr. Cherry’s 10 gallon Stetson hat. I had cried when I learned he died, and I cried again when I got his hat.  I treasure that moment with Mr. Cherry. I think of him still, every time I put that hat on, which I’m going to do right now.

Terri Thornton, 54, Decatur:

When my son Matt was a toddler learning to talk, my husband Alan surprised me by teaching him to say the nickname he gave me in college: "Terrilee." Of course in babytalk it didn't sound anything like that, but I understood it right away and my jaw dropped. It was such a sweet thing to do; I'll never forget it. Matt was no more than a year old then. He’s 13 now.

Thomas Player, 70, Buckhead:

George was probably my best friend and golfing buddy. Sometimes he would bring his older boy, Sam, along to caddy. Occasionally, his younger boy, Jack, would tag along, so I got to know his boys, too. Like a lightning bolt, George got cancer and within a very short time it took his life. As an emerging sculptor, I was asked to do a life-sized bronze bust of George. It was an honor and a gnawing responsibility. The day came for the unveiling of the portrait. Jack and Sam were front and center. What would they think? What if they didn’t feel it did justice to their dad? I was on edge. As the drape was taken away, I saw recognition, approval in their eyes. For me: relief.  “We gotta get Grandma down to see this!” they said to me.

Col. Peter C. VanAmburgh, 44, Roswell:

Last October, I served in Uganda as commander of a Joint and Multinational Task Force. Our mission was to conduct humanitarian and civic aid in Kitgum, a region devastated by famine and civil war. We rebuilt two schools, three medical facilities and treated over 11,600 local Ugandans. In the midst of a rain-soaked celebration, a woman, covered in mud and dancing with tears of joy in her eyes, grabbed Command Sergeant Major Lance Rygmyr, hugged his face and cried, “This is the best day of my life.” “This is the best day of my life…” I think she summed it up for us all.

Charles Peace, Alpharetta:

When our son, Korbahn, was 5 years old, our family was sitting around his grandfather's breakfast table in Duluth, having a good ol' country breakfast.

Korbahn was seated between his grandfather and his father enjoying a biscuit when Grandfather put him on the spot.

My father asked my son whom did he want to be like when he grew up, his grandfather or me? Korbahn, whose name means a gift devoted to God, took a quick look at the both of us and without missing a beat replied, "I want to be like myself." And that's why we didn't name him Charles Webster Peace IV! From the mouth of babes!