Waiting in a line. We all know what that’s like. Maybe it’s the ride at Disney World, like Guardians of the Galaxy or The Force Awakens. Or standing at Walmart, waiting for another register to open, the cashier taking her sweet time, counting change in a meticulous fashion. Frustration paints every face the same color.

Angry. Red.

Sometimes life grabs you by the collar. A diagnosis from the oncologist at Mercy Cancer Center, the one on South Mount Auburn. A phone call from your sister about moving Betty Jean to Lutheran Home Hospice on Bloomfield Road. It’s that pivotal moment, when life gets serious enough to warrant your full undivided screenless attention. You tell yourself you’ll pay attention when it matters, instead of giving the scraggly-looking old guy with greasy hair and worn-out clothes a couple of dollars or a hamburger from the DQ he’s standing outside of.

So you grab your bike and go.

Then you hit the brakes, nearly hitting an armadillo scurrying across the bike path, inches from your front tire. The abrupt stop forces you to straddle the frame, pausing long enough to feel the hot wind in your face, the smell of barbecue from across the park, a short stout man holding a brown bottle in one hand, tongs in the other.

Now you’re hungry.

It’s every moment forcing you to stop. Big ideas and plans are important. But the sudden stops force you to see what’s been there all along. An armadillo. A couple of dollars you kept in your pocket. Barbecue across the park. A short stout man who has no idea he just saved your afternoon. A hundred small things, waiting.

You are in the moment.

He is too, probably still waiting outside the DQ for a handout.

And you pass him, going inside and ordering a $7 meal deal, cheeseburger, fries, drink, and a small Blizzard.