Do you ever stop to think about what you may be missing since the arrival of such technological devices as the smartphone? Certainly you aren’t missing a call, text or email. Not a facebook status or tweet. But maybe you are missing something more. I think I am

Yesterday as I stood in line at the grocery store, I experienced that familiar itch. The one I get these days whenever there is a dull moment, an empty space, a lull in the conversation. That irresistible urge to get lost in my smartphone with its constant beckoning to new information, as inane and unnecessary as much of that information may be. Never mind the fact that I had checked my phone just before coming into the store, that urge was as strong as ever. And yet I resisted.

I refused to pull my phone from my pocket, forcing myself to look around. To be present. In the moment. Present in the grocery line. It may sound silly, but honestly, how often are any of us truly present any more?

As I stood there taking in the sights and sounds of carts and customers, I couldn’t help but notice the people in the line next to me. An elderly woman, her husband and their teenage granddaughter. The white-haired, able-bodied woman was unloading her cart. Her husband was behind her, slumped at the shoulders and seated in a wheelchair. Their long-haired, pony-tailed granddaughter who radiated innocence was commandeering the wheelchair.

I noticed as the young girl picked up a specialty chocolate bar from one of the racks near the check-out. “Look Grandpa!” she said. “This chocolate bar has bacon in it!” She smiled and laughed.

Her grandfather didn’t react; or if he did, it was so slight as to be unnoticeable. Instead her grandmother turned around after hoisting a bag of corn onto the checkout belt and said, “Bacon?!” She too laughed then shook her head.

My turn came, and I lost track of them as I unloaded the contents of my cart. But as I left the store, I saw them again. Grandma and granddaughter were working together to the get the stiffened old man into the front seat of the car. Working together to collapse the wheelchair so it could fit in the trunk.

And what stood out to me the whole time was the young girl. She didn’t look irritated about spending the day at the grocery store with her grandparents. Didn’t look distracted. She looked perfectly content, like there was no place she’d rather be and nothing she’d rather be doing than pushing her grandfather around, pointing out odd chocolate bars and folding up his wheelchair.

I saw a glimpse of myself in that girl. A glimpse of myself in days gone by when my only concern was doing simple things to help the people around me. Before life became more complicated. Or else, before I allowed it to become more complicated.

What I witnessed in that store was a simple moment. Nothing about it screamed for my attention. Yet it was beautiful in its simplicity. Had I given in to the “smartphone itch” I would have missed it.

As I turned the corner of the parking lot toward my car, I saw another woman, shopping bag in one hand, smartphone in the other. She held the screen in front of her face and was squinting into it, trying to read its secrets despite the bright sunshine. She smiled and laughed to herself, unaware of the myriad of stimuli around her.

How many times have I been that woman? And how much have I missed because of it?

Of course, I thought these things right before dropping my bags into the trunk, getting inside my vehicle, turning on the AC and doing what? You guessed it — checking my smartphone. Lord, have mercy on me!

I have a lot to learn, a long way to go, but for a moment, I was free. Free to see. I long for more moments like that one. Do you?