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March came in like a lightning bolt—or perhaps more accurately a defibrillation volt.

One minute the sun was shining and we were planning spring ground work, and the next storm clouds were circling viciously, pelting the ground with sleet and hail.

At least that’s the way it felt after receiving the text from my mom that an ambulance was at their house and my dad was unconscious. It was like stepping inside the house from the bright midday sun and having your vision go dark for a minute while your eyes adjust—I felt my surroundings darken while I stumbled to sit down.

My dad spent several days in the hospital while they ran alphabet tests on him (CT, MRI, EKG, etc). Then he flatlined. After he was revived, the doctors said he needed a pacemaker.

I was stunned. My dad has always been so healthy. One of his favorite pastimes is running marathons. How can someone so physically fit need a pacemaker?

But there were no other options. He wouldn’t survive another episode like that one, and within two hours he was in an emergency surgery.

Like the flip of a switch, life had changed. The outcome wasn’t the most dire by any means, for which we were all so thankful—but it had still changed.

Shortly before my dad’s “shocking” experience, we had had our kitchen measured for granite counter tops—for which I had been really excited. But everything had changed.

A week after my dad’s surgery, we were playing on snowmobiles in the mountains enjoying the rapidly disappearing snow. I watched my boys emulate the stunts of others in our group, while I relived moments of the past week—my dad lying gray and lifeless on the kitchen floor, spending the night with my mom in the parking lot of the hospital, getting the phone call that he needed a pacemaker, learning his condition is hereditary, and later seeing him out of the hospital laughing and with normal color again.

Those moments all flashed through my brain, not in pictures, but in intense feelings of emotion.

This weekend could have ended very differently, and I was so grateful it hadn’t.

It’s funny how life keeps one’s priorities in check. Just weeks before, all I could think about was how my Coca-Cola canisters would look against the black granite—and now? Were new countertops going to make my cookies taste better? Would they make the conversations shared over cups of cocoa more memorable? 

I am reminded of a fable I read years ago. A rich businessman takes a vacation to the South Pacific. He has worked hard all his life and has decided it is now time to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He is excited because he has heard there is incredible fishing on the island and he hasn’t been fishing since he was a young boy as he was so busy working toward his retirement.

 On his first morning he heads to the beach where he spots a fisherman preparing to leave with a large bucket of fish.

“How long did you fish?” he asks. The fisherman grins and says he only fishes about three hours every day. Dumbfounded the businessman asks the fisherman why he doesn’t spend more time catching more fish.

The fisherman shrugs and says, “I have caught all I need. The rest of the day, I’ll spend with my family and friends, maybe drink a little wine, then relax on the beach.”

The rich businessman explains that if the fisherman were to spend more of his day fishing, he could catch more fish, use the extra money to buy bigger boats, and hire other workers. If he keeps at it, in 20 or 30 years, he’ll be a rich man.

The fisherman looks at the businessman puzzled and asks what he’ll do after he becomes rich. The businessman smiles, “You can spend time with your family and friends, drink a little wine. Or maybe just relax on the beach.”

One who knows how to enjoy life doesn’t need riches. In some of best church services I’ve attended, we sat on mats on the floor and felt the wind blowing through windows without glass. It’s rarely about how new the carpet is, or how nice the parking lot is paved.

It’s about the people. It’s about the family. It’s about the friends.

Leo Tolstoy wrote one of my favorite short stories, “How Much Land Does a Man Need?” If you have a few extra minutes, it’s a story worth reading.

In the end, it’s rarely about the objects obtained. And when someone you love flatlines, some objects become even less important. For me that means those granite countertops are going to have to wait until we retire—oh, who am I kidding—we’re going to retire on a boat in the Caribbean and run a dive shop.

I’ll get my granite when my future pacemaker fails—and they’ll carve my name in it. Until then, it doesn’t matter the size of my house or the material of my countertops—so long as the memories are fond and the love is overflowing.

Brianna Walker is an eastern Oregon farmer, mom and author who contributes regularly to the Malheur Enterprise.

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