I live a busy life.

I rush from moment to moment, always planning ahead, always focusing on a goal. I’ve always been like that. I can’t think of a time in my life when I wasn’t thinking of the next step. The next moment. The next item to check off on my perpetual to-do list. I would say, without a doubt, one of my greatest weaknesses is forgetting that life is constantly swirling all around me while I’m busy making future plans.

Thankfully, sometimes I’m lucky enough to be hit with a moment so stunning that it knocks the breath — and all of my plans — right out of me.

At the bottom of a steep dirt road at a camp in the heart of Texas Hill Country, a sign spells outs odd, if not amusing, directions. Yes! You drive in the river, it reads.

In our case we walked.

Seventy-five screaming, giggly seventh and eighth graders and their chaperones walked straight into the water and up the road to our campsite for a three-day end-of-year camping trip.

Originally, the plan had been to haul the kids through the water on a trailer. The plan changed, and I’m so glad it did.

As we entered the icy water of the Frio River, nearly everyone around me screamed and shouted. In an instant, I was surrounded by giggling and shouting and every other kind of joyful noise I wish I heard out of my students’ mouths more often. Sometimes, teaching in the rough and tumble neighborhood in which I do, it can be hard to remember that at the end of the day, my kids are just that: kids.

Giggling, goofy, joyful kids.

There aren’t really enough words to truly describe the looks on their faces as they walked through the river that day. Every last horrible thing I go through on a daily basis at my school is worth it for being a part of that moment in their lives. As they slipped and slid all over the rocks and clung to hands and arms and anything they could use to stay upright on the slippery rock bottom of the road, I was struck by the awesomeness of it all. For many of these kids, it was their first time ever leaving Houston. For even more of them, it was their first time setting foot in fresh water.

For that one moment, in that 100-yard stretch of water, they were just kids. Not poor kids or troubled kids or delinquents or projects. But for that moment, they were what every person should be at least once in their life: perfectly filled with an overpowering happiness.

And so was I.

Take a kid into a river for the first time in their entire lives or watch their eyes when they look at the stars for the first time without the glare of the city lights and tell me anything in your important, busy life matters. I guarantee that after seeing their faces, it won’t. That walk in the river was one of those moments that if I could just capture it and play it on repeat in my mind for the rest of my life, I would be a better teacher, friend, person. There’s no doubt.

As I followed the last group of kids up the dirt road that led to our campsite, I listened to their laughter disappear over the hill and I stopped and stood in the road smiling and crying, completely stunned by the simple power of the moment.

It’s a very odd thing to realize what it must feel like to be a parent. To be standing on a hill and looking at a group of wet, hysterically happy children and just thank God for that moment. Thank God that they were able to have that moment in their lives and that you got to be there to share it with them. To watch them take it all in. I didn’t realize until right then that I have reached a point in my life where I’ve had enough of these moments to know that, for them, this was one. It’s a memory that will be there through all the ups and downs of the coming years — something to lean on and appreciate when life inevitably gets a little rough.

For all the things I chase in my life and all the moments and relationships and obligations that always seem a little less than perfect, a 100-yard walk through the river was one of the most perfect moments I’ve ever had. What’s more, for all the goals and plans and dreams I’m always chasing after every day, I would not trade one second of that walk for anything. I would not give up a single step for any accolade or achievement.

These are the moments when we’re truly alive. When laughter and holding hands are enough to sustain us through all the bad things that cloud our lives. Maybe if we stop more often and look at the faces of those taking in a first experience — like a walk on a river road — we’ll be better people for it. Maybe, at least for a few seconds, we’ll remember to live in the present because goals and dreams are nice, but what good are any of them if we’re not living the life we’ve got right now? Maybe all the worry and anxiety so many of us carry around can be lightened or even released by the voice of a truly good friend saying I love you or the smile of a stranger on the street or the shouts and laugher of a group of ragtag, messy children.

At least, for my sake, I hope it can.

I wish I wore glasses.

That may seem silly to you, but it’s true. I’ve always wanted glasses. In fact, when I was a kid, I had a pair of fake glasses. That’s how badly I wanted them.

People who actually need glasses would tell me I’m stupid, that I should be glad I don’t have to wear them. Most people who have to wear them do their best to make people think they don’t. They get little pieces of plastic and stick them to their eyeballs to correct their vision, instead of wearing glasses. The very thought of that makes my eyes water.

However, I would wear glasses just for the sake of wearing glasses, not because my eyeballs couldn’t handle contact lenses. Glasses give off a certain vibe, a kind of aura. They say that their wearer is intellectual; that he or she possesses a deep wisdom that the non-glasses wearing individual can only dream about. When I picture myself wearing glasses, and I won’t tell you how often I do this, I am sitting in a library with many shelves of books in the background, and I am reading Rene Descartes, C.S. Lewis, Aristotle and Cicero. I am sitting in a comfortable armchair; the fabric is crimson with gold cross-stitching. Sometimes there are other glasses-wearing individuals reading these same books. We have discussions about our readings, and each person enlightens the others as they share their insights with the group. Sometimes I take off my glasses and thoughtfully place one of the earpieces in my mouth; sometimes we all chuckle gently as one of the others shares a funny story as it relates to our discussion. But it just wouldn’t be the same if we weren’t wearing glasses.

I guess having a desire for wearing glasses might make me a nerd. Even if it didn’t, writing an essay about why I want to wear glasses would certainly place me into that category. My friend, Leighann, tells me I’m a nerd. That’s mostly because I like to watch documentaries, though. My brother doesn’t call me a nerd, in those exact words, but he does tell me that I think too much, and I suppose this discussion in which I am engaging right now would force me to agree with him. When I make a statement about my apparent nerdiness around my sister, she just laughs sympathetically. This effectually affirms my statement, so I just nod my head and shrug my shoulders. I’m not bothered by the fact that I am a nerd. In fact, I think it actually feeds my desire to have glasses. Wearing glasses would make me feel very smart. Not just reading and discussing books by great authors, but doing it while wearing glasses. That would make me look (and feel) smarter. Yes, that is why I wish I wore glasses.

I would imagine of all the days, Thursday is the most ordinary of the set. Monday — the most sleep-deprived day of work. This day always results in humorous ramblings or mistakes that usually occur in front of the maximum number of students possible. Tuesday — one of the my personal favorites — new movie release day at Blockbuster. Wednesday — church! Thursday — uh, the weekend is close? Friday — the weekend begins and I don’t have to dress up or set the alarm for the next day. Saturday — my one glorious day without any plans. Sunday — church and biker gang day!

And so, in an attempt to find the little rays of sunshine that make my ordinary life a collection of beautiful little moments, experiences and thoughts, I can think of no better place to look than lowly Thursday.

A small sampling of my little rays of sunshine from an ordinary day…

• Waking up at 5 a.m. to hang out with Jesus for an hour. Freaking great. Not to mention it totally trumps the previously-attempted-yet-utterly-failed routine of waking up early and working out for an hour, which, as it turns out, is the exact opposite of the aforementioned rays of sunshine that actually make life better. At least if you don’t count the “working out is good for you” argument.

• Having time to listen to my favorite podcasts before my workday starts. How people lived without the internet or iPhones is just beyond my understanding. Apple Inc., I love you.

• Walking through the hallways at school at 6:30 a.m. Such a big hallway without any people. So quiet. So empty. So nice. I like to imagine putting on my skates and playing hockey in the empty hallways. Or roller derby. I could put those empty halls to good use, oh yeah. Not to mention how much more exciting it would be if I could keep my skates on during class. I would venture to guess most any job would be better if you could wear skates while taking care of business.

• Receiving a stack of letters from several of my kids for teacher appreciation week. An excerpt from one of my favorites: “dear mr., LOL, I have no idea what to tell you. I mean seriously, words do not begin to describe how awesome your class has been this year. I mean, I actually learned stuff in my history class instead of falling asleep like I did the previous years. In a few words, you rock mr.”

• The recent realization that the teacher off-period is much better suited for leisure reading than the actual completion of work. Sitting in my comfortable chair, reclined as far as it allows, feet up on the desk, reading a book for an hour and a half in the middle of my work day. Sweet, sweet bliss.

• Leaving work at 3:45.

• Having sushi dinner plans with a close friend. Dinner plans don’t get much better than that.

• Being in love.

My grandpa’s hands shook as he threw chips — four green and two black — onto the soft green table. He waved his wrinkled, spotted hand at the dealer, signaling that he wanted his $300 on the “Don’t Come.”

One roll later, I tossed a white chip — $1 — to the center of the table.

“Ace-duce.”

Grandpa just laughed and shook his head. I knew the chances of the next roll coming up ace-duce were low, but the payoff was big — 15 to 1 — and I was almost broke.

My grandfather tells me all the time that the way I play craps reflects my age; I tell him the same thing.

For the past year or so, my grandfather and I have been making the trek to Ameristar Casino in Kansas City, Mo., about once a month to spend a few hours playing craps and taking advantage of the perks he earns by being a regular at the tables. But February 2007 was different. We had decided to forgo a February trip to Missouri in favor of a few days in Las Vegas; Grandpa wanted to play poker on TV.

His chance at “15 minutes of fame” and my luck at the tables were all Grandpa talked about. We woke early each morning (we were gambling by 11 a.m.) and stayed out way past his bed time (one night we were out ’til 9). We ate at The Golden Nugget, a casino that is almost as old as he is, and he made fun of my vegetarian meal; I teased him about having the waiter cut his steak. Each night my feet were aching; but grandpa’s pain was elsewhere… that’s why we kept two pillows stuffed into the seat of his wheel chair. Grandpa cheered me on when I held the dice and I comforted him when he lost in the preliminary rounds of his poker tournaments. We ordered matching drinks while we gambled — whiskey on the rocks— just because they were free. We were like two 21 year olds… except he was 85.

For two-and-a-half days I almost forgot about our 64-year age difference. Then, Grandpa waved at the base dealer and withdrew all of his bets. He grunted that I should go get his chair because we had to leave. Once we had escaped the clamor of slot machines and the fog of cigar and cigarette smoke, grandpa gestured that I should lean in closer; he needed to talk to me.

“We have to go change those… those things I wear instead of shorts.”

“Depends, Grandpa?”

“Yeah, shorts.”

I rolled Grandpa back to his hotel room and I spent a considerable amount of time re-learning to pay attention to his age. In the half-hour or so it took my mom and me to get him cleaned up and changed, my mindset about our trip was altered drastically. This was not just a first-time-to-Vegas weekend; it was more like a last hurrah. While I had been enjoying Sin City, Grandpa had been saying good-bye.

I don’t love Celine Dion’s music. I don’t even really like it that much. While her lyrics are catchy and she has the kind of voice that melds with yours just enough to make you think you’re good, I sing along for reasons of my own.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, it takes me back to my college years in southern Indiana. It seemed like the only place I’d ever been where every season was charming and beautiful in its own right…silent, gorgeous winters; breezy, floral springs; sunny, dense summers; and a fresh, explosive autumn, which never ceased to remind me that God appreciates beauty in its most natural form.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to singing her songs at the top of my lungs with four other girls, the windows down, the hot, balmy air whipping our hair around, and our destination always paling in comparison to the actual trip. The stops and the detours were some of our best memories as we traveled to support each other, help each other and surprise each other. Their glowing, laughing faces bubbled with life and we quickly became family during our treacherous early 20-somethings. They were much more constant than they are now. But they no less flit in and out of my mind, their features as clear as if they were standing right in front of me. We were writers, runners, jokers, dancers, singers and anything else we wanted to be together. I go back to Megan’s twinkly eyes, Kate’s fiery hair and wit, Jaimie’s reassuring and sometimes snarky grin, Laura’s carefree curls, Anna’s gentle spirit and rich stories, Ashley’s fun yet melancholy presence, Kamper’s bursting joy, and Sam’s big dreams, which always left room for us.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to Kirkwood Avenue, the hub of life in town. I go back to leisurely walks snuggled in a sweater, watching the burgundy, gold and burnt orange leaves blow around my jeaned legs. I go back to sharing Jiffy Treat with my friends, getting my favorite coffee on the corner or just sitting outside and letting the sun warm my face. I go back to the relaxed outdoor diners, the well-lit bar entrances at night, early-morning breakfasts at the Runcible Spoon and afternoons just lying in the grass, watching the activity, not thinking about what I was missing in class.

I sing with Celine because I wish I could go back to that surprise road trip to Ohio where I was given one of the best birthday gifts ever. I go back to Little 500 weekend, filled with out-of-town friends, late-night dinners and cheering on our team. I go back to sharing an apartment with two beloved girls who loved me through big decisions and not-so-worth-it boys with cookie dough and endless episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. I go back to early morning runs through a quiet campus and sleepless nights fueled by coffee and polar pops and the fear that I may not get my project done. I go back to birthday cakes and movies and grades and group projects and football games and Christmas-shopping trips to Indianapolis.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I am reminded of the tenderness and fragility of those years. I took it for granted at the time. Tears never went uncounted. Laughter was not only shared but a staple of every single day. And the priorities of life were defined for me: relationships came first and everything else would fall into place.

I sing with Celine because every time I do, I go back to that spring when I stood on the curb of the dorm driveway saying goodbye. I go back to the hugs, the gnawing sense of fear, the waves of nostalgia and the sense that life was going to be different from here on out. I go back to the journal writing and picture taking, the frantic attempt to catch every last moment and freeze time. I go back to the Sample Gates and the joy wrapped up in the congratulating and the dreaming and the breathlessness of not knowing, yet hoping for, what’s next. My teeth were clenched that day and my throat was tight, but the smile plastered on my face was to encourage them, and maybe most of all myself, that though things change, we don’t. And we can always go back.

I have two mostly dead bushes flanking the front porch of my house. They once were the pride and joy of their previous owner, who left me detailed instructions on how to water them, slowly, carefully, with the hose on just a trickle. Now, because of my neglect since about August, they are crispy and brown and look like they’re about to croak out the word “rosebud” at any minute, which is the closest they’d ever come to actually producing one.

I take full responsibility. I’ve never been one to garden; I’ve generally been one to run fleeing at the sight of bees and other largish flying insects that tend to hang around things in gardens. In college, my freshman year roommate and I managed to kill off African violets, something called an “indestructible” air plant, and bamboo. (It grew fur.)

Now I’m in a job that requires me to live where I work (along with five college students), which means I have the ultimate responsibility not just for the people inside the house, but for the leafy inhabitants outside. I’m fairly observant when it comes to other people — I notice when one of my housemates is cranky or quieter than usual or in a great mood. But I don’t notice that the grass needs cutting, our lawn is overrun with weeds, our plants are gasping for water, and the neighbors in our quickly gentrifying neighborhood are about to blame us for lowering property values. And I’d rather it be that I accidentally killed the plants because of neglect than the humans, but ideally I’d like to be doing pretty well with all of God’s creatures.

Now that the Colorado winter is finally ending, I’ve felt that I can no longer ignore the bushes with the excuse that they’ve been covered with snow. My coworkers constantly talk about gardening and expertly toss around words like “mulching” and “rototiller.” I squirm, thinking that I should really turn that hose on and trickle some water to my mostly dead bushes, hoping for a miracle.

But one morning a few days ago, I stepped outside to grab the newspaper on the kind of spring day where the air smells like damp earth and the warm sun feels like something unexpected and new. I glanced at the yard and noticed that some random tulips had bloomed through no fault or effort of my own, lending the front of the house a cheerily unkempt air. Then I looked at my poor bushes and stopped – I saw green. I peered more closely, and saw that tiny green branches were sprouting from within the thicket of brown stalks and dried leaves. I felt a tiny surge of joy that despite my complete disregard for their well-being, my little bushes still had something to give, still had life waiting to burst forth. Somewhere I couldn’t see, roots were sucking up water, cells were absorbing sunlight and making food and energy, and growth was microscopically, slowly, taking place. There’s still a chance for me not to be a complete failure at this whole lawn care thing.

And it got me thinking about other aspects of life I sometimes leave for “mostly dead” – my social life in a new town, a spiritual life that sometimes feels as parched as those poor bushes. Somehow, just at the moment when I feel dried out and brittle, a little green shoot pushes through. I moved to Colorado only about eight months ago, hundreds of miles away from nearly all of my family and friends, which made me feel literally uprooted. I didn’t know where to dig in, how to plant myself, how exactly you’re supposed to make friends and have a social circle once you’re out of college. I went through a few months where I felt, socially, a little browned and dried out – I thought I should have more friends, shouldn’t be home most nights reading a book or browsing the Internet, shouldn’t be relying on coworkers and my one best friend who lives out here to be my social directors.

Slowly and in spurts, though, the green is breaking through. I’ve begun to realize that these relationships that I’ve dismissed as crutches are, in fact, the tiny roots that are beginning to ground my life here in Denver. In the Sunday games of Ultimate Frisbee or the evenings of grabbing a beer with coworkers or making dinners with my best friend and her new husband, I’m being nourished in ways I didn’t even see or notice. But all of a sudden, I’m realizing that God and life, like my little bushes, are hardier than I give credit for. The roots burrow where you don’t see, threading and stretching in the search for water, quietly working until you suddenly notice yourself standing a little more solidly, a little more green, warmed by the sun and supported by the earth surrounding you.