Give my regards to regret

Sometimes I plant regret in my past like a flag, claiming a portion of my life or any number of decisions as regrettable. Sometimes I use the word regret as a sword, a flank attack on anyone who has hurt me. What better vengeance than to audibly dismiss someone as a regret? And what words could better echo the tone and tenor of my heart?

Regret is a sweet poison. It almost tastes like nostalgia going down, but it erodes the heart in the end. It’s a toxic balm applied to wounded memories. It’s passivity cloaked as responsibility.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is accept past decisions. Life is full of choices, and barring blatant immorality, my choices are right because I made them.

Much of life is gray, not black and white as I would prefer, and I’m learning how to trust past Mike. The way he felt. The decisions he made. Which means regret is pointless, at least in the long term. In the short term, regret, better called conviction, can be healthy as long as it leads to repentance, growth, etc.

I have the freedom to choose and to fail, to trust and be betrayed, to love and be let down. We all do. And that’s the beautiful thing about this life. We are not marionettes, and God is not a puppet master. He is a loving, empowering father who is bigger than our failures and the healer of our wounds. Are the implications of our freedom still scary? Yes. But it’s even more exhilarating.

More Than

I need more than just my words to talk to you.
I need love.
Otherwise,
I’ll never say a word,
and I’ll waste my future regretting it.

Reality Like A Brick

I was inspired to post this after reading Onethousandsingledays’ “I promised i would write about him someday.” Hers is a compassionate, real, and encouraging post, and I hope you feel similarly different towards mine.

Cruising.  Just cruising.  The iPod caters to my every whim.  Thousands of songs narrowed down until the perfect melody is chosen to match my mood.  And for an easy $1.29, without a thought, I can add any tune to my musical wardrobe.  Simple.  Mindless.  Chatting with a friend and dragging on a butt, I cruise.  Just cruising down the streets of New York until our next exit.  Worries seem to fly away, caught up in the wind howling past our open windows.  Anticipating our destination, excitement wells up within my gut. A pleasant feeling that foreshadows the good times yet to come.  And all the while the music paints a serene background to our conversation.  Cruising.  Careless and free.  Just cruising.

Heavy traffic halts our road trip’s progress, and the static noise of rushing wind is replaced with the bustling life of the city around us.  Ascending up the exit ramp, inch by inch, it’s impossible not to notice the man on the sidewalk.  He’s sitting on the curb, mere feet away from the cars crawling by.  His only companion is a ragged, gray cat sitting by his side.  A beard just as scruffy and splotchy as the cat’s hair covers his jaw line.  Grimy jeans, old leather work boots, and a San Antonio Spurs jersey adorn his frame.  In his hands and resting on his feet is a bent and smudged piece of cardboard.  The nearly indistinguishable words read “Homeless Please Help.”  As the minutes creep by – counting down our approach – his posture remains the same.  Never changing.  Hunched back.  Eyes fixed in a forlorn gaze, refusing to meet the eyes of the passersby, even as the occasional hand reaches out towards the man with a dollar bill.  Shame.  Utter shame.  But even so a “thank you” is always returned.  I see it all, taking it all in.  The mood changes abruptly.  I can no longer hear the music. It must have understood the milieu and stopped, or maybe my narrow focus has drowned it out. Meanwhile the butt becomes litter in the road, conversation stills, and reality like a brick collides with my skull…I could give him a twenty.  It’s all I have in my wallet. I want to.  I want to hand him that money with words of truth that are worth infinitely more than the number written on the bill.  I want to open that door separating us, put my hand on his stooped shoulder, meet him at his humility, and tell him of a love that never fails.  But I’m frozen by indecision and uncertainty, thinking far too much when action would have been so simple.  The traffic continues forward, and the man is left in my rear view, along with the opportunity – fading away, further and further away.  Regret.  Damn regret.

Soon the traffic lightens.  My foot presses down on the gas, the music kicks on automatically, and the wind whisking past my window drowns out the reality of desperation and despair all over again.  Cruising resumes.  Cruising towards our destination. An amusement park.  Entertainment and rollercoasters.  Too much food at an excessive rate.  Lines and water rides.  Spending.  Laughter and frivolity.  But until then I’m cruising.  Just cruising, while one man is sitting, begging in bumper to bumper traffic.