The Missing Cymbal Crash

I was about 13 and playing in a band concert. My assignment was pretty simple: just follow along and play the cymbals at the right time. Being somewhat "musically challenged," however, I got hopelessly lost. No matter, I thought; cymbals can't really be too critical in the grand scheme of things. But in a gradually swelling crescendo, the music soon reached an intense climax ... only to be filled with a moment of dead silence. Not until all eyes turned on me did I realize that something vital was supposed to have been there -- my cymbal crash.

We tend to be known for the things that we do, but the things we leave out of life can mark us as well. And sometimes those "left outs" can have more significance than we might imagine. May I share a couple of examples?

Several years ago we decided to completely forego television in favor of more personal family activities such as reading and playing games. Once saturated with its absence, unforgettable, climactic "literary moments" punctuated many of our evenings.

The Count of Monte Cristo's escape from prison was a cliffhanger; the revelation of Pip's benefactor in "Great Expectations" was equally thrilling. It's no wonder that "Read, Mommy, Read!" was a nightly appeal. As a family, I believe that we have been greatly enriched because of what we left out, and I've never questioned the decision. Another "left out," however, has been the cause of more serious reflection.

Years ago I came to a career crossroads. Since it appeared impossible to meet my job demands and also have time for some intense family needs, I changed jobs. As you might guess, the job I left paid a lot more than the new one. But I could be home with my family almost every night, and that's what we needed.

The extra money could have been put to many worthwhile uses, and there are times when I wish that I could put my hands on some of it. But sensing that our days as a close family unit were numbered, I counted time together to be of greater value than money.

My feelings really haven't changed. Simply put, I don't want to find myself thrust again into the uncomfortable position I was in when I was 13. I don't want to be so distracted that I lose track of what's important and my part in the grand scheme of things. I don't want to look back through tears of regret and realize that the moment for my "cymbal crash" of fatherhood has come and gone... and there was nothing there.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

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