Uber looked over at me from his side of the bench. “I feel kind of guilty.” We were enjoying a few minutes of down time this morning in a picture-perfect courtyard outside a picture-perfect 19th century Episcopal cathedral. There were cobblestone pathways below us and ancient oaks overhead. The wind was stirring just enough breeze to remind you there was a touch of spring still in the air. From our vantage point on the courtyard bench, it could have just as easily been a Saturday morning in 1890 as one today. Except for the two of us. Uber had his head buried in his Nintendo DS, and I was busily typing away on my portable keyboard.
I looked up long enough from my work to see that hangdog look on his face, and I sighed. Guilt is so annoyingly contagious. “I suppose you think we should be sitting here enjoying the peace and tranquility, huh?” I asked him.
“Well, doesn’t it just seem wrong to be looking down at our screens, when there is all this around us?” Uber replied.
It’s my own fault. I had the outlandish notion to raise my children with respect for creation, and acknowledgement of beauty. I wanted them to literally learn to stop and smell the flowers, and even stare at them long enough to see the miraculous composition that went into each one. I hoped they would rise above the materialistic, and learn to appreciate the abundance of natural treasure that freely surrounds us daily. And I prayed they would never take any of these wonders for granted.
And wouldn’t you know, just as I was in the middle of writing an important paragraph, all that would come back to bite me in the butt. Hmph….kids.