“Life is not measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the number of moments that take your breath away. ”
This line in the movie “Hitch” took me by surprise. Tangled within a 21st-century romantic comedy complete with all the requisite sins of modern romance, these 22 words challenged me. I was lost for a few minutes as the high-definition screen of my memory filled my thoughts, superimposing itself on my consciousness.
These are the moments – – in random order – – that took my breath away.
Leslie Phillips opened for Petra at the first concert I ever attended. She, somehow, lay atop a monitor while singing. I couldn’t stand her music. I’d never heard of her. Her screeching voice irritated me at the Fox Theatre that night in Atlanta. But then, I lost my breath when Petra’s music began, and the curtain ascended, revealing a stage, lights, fog, risers, ramps, and a keyboard rig bigger than my house.
When our first child was born, I couldn’t be in the delivery room. I paced the small waiting room, forcing myself to breathe. “Beaches” played on the television in the background. I don’t think I took a deep breath until a nurse placed a pink bundle in my arms. Elisa’s been taking my breath away ever since.
Every Christmas, my grandfather gave me a gift that took my breath away. But it wasn’t until I was 16 that I fully comprehended it’s value. The man had a 9th grade education, was victimized by the great depression, and earned a pension under the alphabet soup of FDR. Yet somehow, he scraped together enough money every year to buy me 12 – – one a month – – $100 US Savings Bonds for Christmas every year.
It snowed as I walked home breathless from Melissa’s house after my first kiss.
I couldn’t breathe when Mr. Huppuch asked me to recite the Scout Oath at my Eagle Court of Honor, but it was the medal that stole my oxygen.
I practically suffocated when my college history prof announced that we would be reading 12 books written between 1941 and 1969 instead of using a textbook. But at the end of the term, when I saw the 89 posted next to the last 4 digits of my Social Security number, the satisfaction of the hardest-won “B” of my educational career choked me.
When our son was born, I passed out in the delivery room. I sensed the dizziness and sat down, only to slide out of the metal folding chair onto the floor. I skipped a few breaths ,I’m sure.
Just a few months ago, I ventured upon a wreck only to recognize one of the vehicles involved—my wife’s minivan. I don’t remember going breathless, but I do remember breathing again when I saw my wife and daughter standing outside the vehicle.
I sucked in a ragged breath on my wedding day. I was rehearsing a song in the sanctuary when my bride-to-be walked through the door. We both gasped and covered our eyes, wanting to savor the moment a few hours later when we would see each other in a different light. I sucked in another ragged breath as the congregation stood, the doors parted, and she stepped into the light. The organ swell covered the awkward sounds.
Cleal died on the track during practice one Thursday, a victim of a heart defect undetected during his 17 years of life. Our entire high school and community were breathless for a week as we mourned, asked “Why? ”, and searched for meaning in our grey stone hallways.
When our third child was born, she didn’t cry right away. I held my breath as the doctors cleared her airway so she could breathe.
Homesick from school, I sat speechless when they interrupted a song on the radio to announce that the Space Shuttle exploded.
As an engaged man, I traveled to Korea on a short-term missions trip. My nerves about leaving my culture, family, and fiancée caused me to say a few words on the phone the night before I left. I spent most of the flight struggling to breathe thinking I’d lost her.
I performed an original song for the first time in the great hall in Montreat, North Carolina. My lyrics bounced off the stone floor and worn wooden pews. And when I was done, it was as if the earth shook from the applause. I ran off stage, shocked by the reaction, and knelt breathless in a backstage room asking God to let the experience linger.
Making love for the first time . . .
Simply Romantic Nights, a resource I wrote published by FamilyLife, was featured on Focus on the Family and “FamilyLife Today” during the same week. I fought to breathe during my bleary-eyed iMac vigil, clicking refresh every five minutes. I watched the amazon.com ratings for the book climb from obscurity to #23.
I wished I could stop breathing as I watched my dad struggle to breathe during his fight with pulmonary fibrosis. I felt cursed by my lungs inflating and expelling air, fueling my red blood cells with life-giving oxygen. My dad gasped 110 times a minute to get enough air to stay conscious.
I can’t wait for the moment when we’re introduced to our fourth child whom we are adopting from China. She will steal our breath at the same moment she steals our hearts.