It was an ordinary day. Benjamin had gotten dressed in his suit, dragged the trash bins to the street, and finished his cornflakes. By the time I was ready for church he had watched his favorite scenes from Beauty and the Beast. We climbed in the car and he began to sing. From joy.

I like to arrive in ample time to set up mikes and music stands when I am songleader, and could easily have rushed right past the moment. But I was not too busy to hear the sweetness, and turned off the ignition.

"Ben, start the song again," I nudged, clicking on the ridiculously easy video camera on my phone. I am old enough to remember years of childhoods that never made it to a little screen. The ordeal of remembering to bring the camera, making sure it had batteries and a tape, and trying to hold it steady while my toddler plunged down the slide was too much for me. Those memories floated away like the words to the songs I once knew.

He was not camera shy, as he sometimes is, and belted it out completely on pitch. I guess the word "parfait" is not commonplace in our household, so he knows it mostly from memorizing the words as they are written. He clearly enunciated the t.

I have watched the thirty second clip about a dozen times already, and sent it to his sibs. I even posted in on Facebook and two hundred people said it made them smile too.

It is hard to figure out if the appeal is more about the contrast to six months of Benjamin screaming, or simply the way a miracle comes sandwiched in between brushing teeth and tuning my guitar.

Probably your kid sings in the car too, and smiles at the satisfaction. Or if not your child, the girl next to you in line at the store. People are singing all around us, as are the birds. And the leaves.

Poignant moments are as ubiquitous as the air, and yet like the air, we forget to notice.