The treasures we see. And those we miss.

We passed over the French Alps some time ago. Snow blanketed their rugged beauty as we soared high above glistening peaks. Yet now, as we reach the ocean border of France, I'm thinking of the lives of those some five and a half miles below. They are working in factories, sitting in classrooms, caring for farm animals which produce such fine cheese, and yes, they are speaking French.

Are they thinking of me and this plane load of travelers as we make our white scar in the deep blue sky? Do they wonder where we are going, or if we even notice their rural landscape? Well I, if they were able to know, am thinking not of their cheese or schools or language. I'm thinking of them.

We've seen so many incredible sites during our time in Europe, Africa and Asia. We've witnessed historical landmarks: towering basilicas, pyramids, the birthplace of Christ, and the Mediterranean glories witnessed by ancient traders, warriors and missionaries. But I think that I will never see, a photo op as amazing as...a person.

This hit home with me during a recent visit to Rome with my family. We had just seen the amazing Colosseum, walked through the ancient forum and visited many of the familiar scenes of that once world-ruling city. Our camera memory cards were bulging with shot after shot that could grace the cover of any western civilization textbook. But as we were making our way out, we witnessed a greater wonder.

An older gentleman sat at the side of the walkway. His focus, his entire world was within the beautiful music his calloused fingers charmed from his aging guitar. We stood, dumbfounded--entranced. The intensity of life vibrating from his gentle playing filled us, even encapsulated us. It wasn't the perfection of the performance, or the complication of the music which held us spellbound. It was the man, his love for the song, for the place and indeed in some strange way, for us...this is what held us in place.

I do not know how long the melody and harmony of that song danced on that street on that day. But when the song stopped sounding, and only held us still, he looked up as I dropped a pittance of appreciation into his opened guitar case. His grateful smile--grateful for our listening and our hearing--continued as his head bowed into another gift.

We saw priceless, historical treasures that afternoon. And we saw a simple musician. His worth--like that of any other human creature--was so far beyond the treasures of this earth, that words can never explain it, photographs can never capture it, and Euros or dollars in the bottom of an instrument's case will never be able to define it. And this soul, will never be able to contain it.