The Power of Paying Attention

Some moments speak to us. Perhaps not when they unfold, but later in life, those moments gain significance, like a snowball picking up volume and velocity rolling down a hill.  They are often the quiet moments of no significant celebration or life event. They are everyday gems we store in our memory without knowing they will present themselves at the right moment. We pay homage to their significance. In our present, they are guideposts. And in the future, they will be part of our legacy. 

A guidepost of my life is one of those moments. My father, Stan, had been divorced, sold his business, and struggled to rebuild his life in California with his second wife. His finances were tight, and his long-standing Type 2 diabetes was taking its toll. He was sixty-five. I was a young mom, age thirty-five, with two children, ages ten and six.  I was juggling my career, my husband’s demanding schedule, and keeping an eye on my mother after their divorce.

He planned a brief five-day visit to celebrate my son’s tenth birthday and spend time with his sister, who was flying in from St. Louis. I knew the trip would be difficult for him, especially given his health and financial burdens. He took the red-eye flight from Oakland to Chicago. I picked him up at O’Hare Airport at 5:00 a.m. I spotted him as I pulled up to the arrivals curb. Dad looked old and tired. He looked up from his newspaper and saw me. 

His eyes lit up, and for a brief second, time froze. He was a man alone on a drizzly September morning, showing up for his family. When he hugged me, I said, “Dad, you look so tired. You didn’t have to make this trip. We would have understood."  

He smiled and said, “Lynnie, nothing is more important than family bonds. The lines of communication must stay open.” I held his arm as he stepped into my Chevy Van.  

He seldom offered advice to our counsel.  The moment wasn’t just about the reunion; it was a torch being passed. I felt something profound was in his message, but I did not know what it was. It reminded me of another time—a memory buried deep but suddenly clear.

When I was seven, my father and I took a trip to visit family in St. Louis. One afternoon, we stopped by Aunt Margaret and Uncle Phil’s modest house with dark, musty furnishings. It was my first time meeting them. 

"Stanley!" they greeted him warmly, embracing him at the door. They invited us in, and offered us soda and butter cookies. They spoke about relatives I didn’t know.

As the conversation waned and the polite smiles became more challenging to maintain, my father made our excuses, and we left. Uncle Phil patted me on the head and hugged my father tightly. Aunt Margaret stood behind him, quiet.

As we drove away, my father spoke softly, almost to himself: “They lost their son in the war. He was my age. My cousin.”

I was too young to grasp the layers of grief and love in that brief visit. But even then, I sensed the weight of my father’s insistence on showing up—for them, for me, for a connection that had to be honored, no matter how uncomfortable.

My father was not a man of grand speeches or frequent advice. But he modeled something essential through his actions—in that visit long ago and his trip to Chicago years later.

It’s not always convenient. Showing up for family, for those connections that tether us across generations, is how bonds are built and maintained. I learned that it’s not about the length or comfort of the visit but about making the effort, even when you’re tired, even when you’d rather not, even when the weight feels heavy.

That cold night at O’Hare, when he stood on the curb looking older and more fragile than I had ever seen him, I felt the quiet passing of something sacred—a torch, a responsibility.

Family bonds matter.
Showing up matters.
Paying attention matters.

Now, I am older than he was that night. I might not be standing on a curb at O’Hare at 4:00 a.m., but I try to honor him in my way. Whether joyously being there for my family, staying connected with distant relatives and long-time friends, or simply paying attention to the small, fleeting moments where love shows itself quietly, I hold onto his advice.

Ultimately, those bonds are our lifeline across generations. Sometimes, honoring those connections means writing the stories so that we connect with future generations.