Many Christmases ago, my family visited a nursing home to present a singing program. This year my mother requested a repeat of that experience. It took many calls to find a facility that would agree for us to come. Surprisingly, my request was not received with a grateful welcome but rather a weak, apathetic okay. 

 On the day of the event, we rounded up the kids and all who had agreed to perform which was about 20 of us total. Now, you may be thinking, this must be a musical family who does this all of the time. But, no, just the opposite. Our family met at my mom’s house, we had a 5-minute review of the program with no practice, and off we drove to the facility. Our only ace-in-the-hole was two nephews who are musically gifted. The rest of us sing in church and haven’t been kicked out yet.

 When we arrived, the receptionist pointed to the gathering room. There was no welcome from staff, no guide, no announcement overhead that the program was about to begin. Just the nonverbal message, “go do your thing.” There was a nice stage, a piano and lots and lots of empty chairs. We waited and waited and slowly five residents arrived one-by-one in wheelchairs, walkers or leaning on each other. This doesn’t count the two men doing puzzles in the corner who were so intent on the puzzle they completely ignored us. At this moment the clear thought ran through my mind, “Now, why are we doing this?”

Finally, we just went for it. There were 20 of us on the stage, and five audience members. We proceeded through the program with more enthusiasm than I imagined my family could have mustered for this so-called Christmas program. And then my nephew, Charlie, began to sing a solo of “Oh Holy Night” accompanied by his brother on the piano. As Charlie’s sweet tenor voice filled the room, he noticed one of the women who was all alone in a wheelchair, begin to shed tears. While still singing, he moved toward her, leaned down and hugged her. She grasped his arm and held tight, even as the song came to an end. This sweet and tender scene filled all of our hearts, and as tears fell down my face, I recognized this as a “worth it” moment. 

“Worth it” moments come after effort, work, sacrifice and hassles. They can be seen, heard, or felt. A still, small, voice whispers, “Yes. This was worth what it took to do this.” These moments aren’t predictable, and they can’t be forced. You don’t want to miss them. 

When was your last “worth it” moment?