When the young man's mother finally passed away and upon hearing the news, he did not cry. He was more relieved than anything else having seen the incredible pain she had suffered. It wasn't until her funeral when the young man approached the podium to speak. As he attempted to read a passage from Romans in the Holy Bible, he was only able to get halfway through the first verse before the deluge of tears began to flow from his eyes. Knees buckling from the gripping sorrow, he was unable to continue and was eventually helped down from the stage by his brother.
In the years that followed, the young man struggled to be who his mother raised him to be: a caring, sincere, honest, and loving man toward others. Because that was who she was. Instead, he let the angst and anger of his mother's untimely death lead him down a long, dark path toward being prideful, stuck-up, and stand-offish with others. Eventually, he found himself in his late-40s, unmarried, alone, and looking back upon what he could have done differently in order to achieve the "American dream" of having a spouse and a family. The notion was sparked by seeing a couple of college friends celebrate their 19th wedding anniversary on social media, and he sat there enveloped by regret as he contemplated how his behavior after his mother's death must have alienated so many who could have been more important or significant in his life.
The regrets of his past caught up to him in that moment. He never really was one to ponder regret or curry favor with it when it wanted to rear its ugly head, but in that instance of seeing people he knew for over 2 decades announce their years of wedded bliss together, he couldn't help but give in for a moment. The words of Henry David Thoreau danced inside his head: "Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh." And yet, something felt off about the notion. That's when the words of C.S. Lewis popped in: "Has this world been so kind to you that you should leave with regret? There are better things ahead than any we leave behind."
The Return of the Prodigal Son, by Pompeo Batoni (1708-1787) is an oil-on-canvas painting of the infamous parable that Jesus gave in Luke chapter 15. With incredible attention to detail portraying the youngest son kneeling with regret and seeking forgiveness from his loving father, the moment is captured with gentleness and warmth. For those who know the story, it comes as no surprise that the father obviously appears wealthy, garnished with some of his finest clothes and jewelry. In stark contrast, the son is shirtless, wearing ragged pants, has disheveled hair, and is garnished with a rope as a belt from which a bowl hangs seemingly being the only item he owned which he likely used to peddle for money on the streets where he had partied too hard and squandered away his inheritance. It's a gripping piece and a gripping moment about a parable that means to tell a tale of great regret, and the indescribable forgiveness that follows without question or stipulation.
That's how life can be, right? In one moment, we embrace our successes and good fortune, and in the very next moment, we're looking back on some of the things we did not manage very well feeling regret and wondering what could have happened had we behaved or acted differently. Just as C.S. Lewis said, though, there are better things ahead than any we leave behind. Why? Because time is linear for humans and it cannot be changed or traversed in order to right past wrongs. To sit and embrace regret is to waste one's time and energy on the impossible. Therefore, as Thoreau suggested, taking inventory such that you don't move forward and make the same mistakes again is good, but to dwell and let regret have an influence on who you are today would certainly not be living life afresh.
As the man who is the subject of the opening of this piece is now sitting here typing these words, know that I am not without flaw. In the solitude that my past behavior likely caused, my worst enemy is my own mind. Writing, like I am now, is a lovely distraction, but most days I am forced to fend off the darkest parts of my mind in order to look forward with any semblance of optimism. I feel regret some days, and I hate feeling regret but I am also not opposed to it in order to make sure that who I am today is a lot better than who I used to be. Especially toward others. I ache with brokenness, and yet, I am glad I am broken. For how else would I know what mistakes I made and how best to hold myself accountable for them? In the end, indescribable forgiveness awaits at which time I too will kneel with nothing but myself and a heart that longs to never feel regret again.
