Probably 15 or 20 years ago, I read a bit of a story that treated on this subject.

And since then, more or less consciously and sometimes subconsciously, I’ve done like that little boy did.

The little boy was settling in for night and his dad asked him, as he tucked him in, what his golden moment of that day was.  If I remember right, it had something to do with a sand eel.

Now I know some of you are thinking I’m going down the line of thankful therapy.  That definitely has its place.  But selecting your golden moment takes a bit longer and gets a fair bit more personal.  You can rattle off ten things you are thankful for in sort of a mad huff, if that’s how you are feeling right then, and be done with it.  You might have even picked several thankful things that really didn’t mean a lot to you, just to get it over with.

Some days, because of all that we scrape through, we might struggle to find a golden moment. 

But, if we are really honest, even on bad days there is usually at least one golden moment.

And that’s what makes it worth doing, for me.  Because then I have to go through and decide, really, really, what my golden moment was.

What actually meant the most to me, in the day I just came through, the trip I just took, or the hour I just lived?

The process the other day was decidedly difficult.

And I suppose by the time I tell you what my golden moment was, you will call me presumptuous.

Go ahead.  Because I know what I know.

The uncured bacon, sprinkled with freshly ground black pepper, fried up and paired with a couple of donuts was a real humdinger of a deal.  I didn’t need lunch at all after that breakfast, which may or may not indicate how much of that bacon I ate.

When Sir Bozar the Bull yielded all of his 1,400 pounds to me and let me scratch his ears, slap his huge neck, and gently pat him all around his eyes and tousle his forelock made for another moment.

Seeing 80 head of black calves splattered out across hock deep triticale for the first time came pretty close to topping the list.  Like my friend Glen and I say, it’s visual therapy.  (Seeing 15 head bust through the fence in total disregard to me and the fence, wasn’t so cheesy, but they came back soon enough.)

Stepping out of my car at the disc golf course and having Bryce hand me a cold Dew could have sealed this up, right then and there, but there was more day left.

Tossing what was my longest throw and watching it float on in total abandonment to care and worry left a nice impression.

Eating blackened Florida catfish, paired with grits and slaw, then finished off with pie needs to be reserved for a whole ‘nother post in itself.

Watching my faithful ole Boola get up and walk on an obviously smashed foot after getting stepped on the day before by a 6-weight calf was cause for great rejoicing.  I was afraid this one might take him out, with his age and all.

It was the 30 something year old dad with his kids in the park that made gold.

They had these big frisbee’s that his children, the oldest of which might have been in fourth grade, were trying to throw.

And they were trying, so kindly, to get out of our way so we could play.  We waited some on them, and at one of our throws I heard the dad say, “Let’s stand here and watch how they throw.”

Luckily, both Bryce and I had decent throws right there.  I tossed one of my discs to the fourth grader and said, “Try that for a throw.”

He did and was massively impressed with how easy it threw compared to what he had been throwing.  He trailed us at a respectful distance, watching all along, until we turned to work our way back to the 9^th hole.  Then the dad told his family it was time to go home. 

I tossed my putter to the fourth grader and said, “Take that home with you.” 

His incredulous look still puts a bit of a lump in my throat right now.  And his little 2-year-old sister’s sweet, “Me present, me present?” capped it off perfectly.