Regret for time wasted can become a power for
good in the time that remains, if we will only stop
the waste and the idle, useless regretting
ARTHUR BRISBANE
My one regret in life is that I am not someone else.
WOODY ALLEN
When our children were barely done toddling, we had an agreement that any of them at any moment could go limp like a noodle when they passed within a foot of me. It was my job, of course, to catch them before they crashed to the floor, or the sidewalk, or into the pool. This was great fun for all of us. Apparently, however, they thought this agreement lasted for life, because although two of them have reached my height and are closing in on my weight, they still play Noodle, which is a big bundle of laughs for everyone but me.
As I write, I regret inventing that game.
I have strained muscles in both calves, and my lower back is throbbing. Thankfully, laughter eases my pain. And I am glad we’ve done our share of it. But man oh man, I think I may have pulled some fat in my left arm.
If we’re honest, most of us have regrets. And chances are, they’re larger than some silly game we invented.
I mentioned to Mom one night that I wished I had handled their aging better. She seemed startled. I confessed that I hadn’t always known what to do. She took my hand and spoke these wonderful words: “How could you?”
Erma Bombeck called guilt “the gift that keeps on giving.” Surely there is no other occupation so guilt-ridden as parenting, with the possible exception of raising your own parents. Some of our parents have worked for decades as travel agents for guilt trips. We long for the days before the invention of the telephone when parents could not dial our number to nag, “It’s Mother’s Day. You’re the only one of the children who hasn’t called yet. Are you okay? Did you fall down a well?”
Recently, I received a hand-scrawled note:
Dear Phil,
You talk about your parents with such warmth. I wish I could. Mine lived a short drive up the Interstate, but I never visited them. I was too busy, too stressed, and too selfish. Now I guess it’s too late.
SP
I wish SP had left her name and address because there is something I’m itching to tell her.
There is not an honest one among us who won’t admit to falling short. I have not walked in your shoes, but I’ve walked in mine, and they pinch a good deal of the time. We are—all of us—flawed creatures who make mistakes. Those who don’t look like it are usually just craftier hypocrites. We live in a broken, fallen place among broken, fallen people. There is not a family that isn’t dysfunctional, not a one of us that doesn’t need forgiveness. Furthermore, there is not a shred of hope apart from the goodness of God, His grace, and the restoration He promises and provides.
Syndicated columnist Sydney J. Harris wisely wrote, “Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.”17
Oh I know that regret is 96 percent useless. Wallow in it, and life is yours to miss, they say. And they’re right. Regret is painful and paralyzing—like shooting yourself with a tranquilizer dart right before the big game. But we can learn from the regrets of others. I asked a few thousand people about regret. Seventy-six percent admitted to having their share. Here is a sampling of their honest responses:
“I regret wasting money playing the lottery.”
“I regret marrying because I was lonely.” “I’d like to have played more golf.”
“I wish I’d been more patient with my children and my parents.”
“I regret not telling others of Jesus when I had the chance.”
“That I didn’t take time for my daughter. I was too busy with housework.”
“I regret that I’m not close to my dad. My parents divorced when I was five. All those years I saw him every other weekend.”
“Building a house that is far too big.”
“Not listening to my father and marrying someone who had no relationship with God.” “Drifting apart from my wife after we lost a son.”
“I regret being so involved in committees at our church that I may have shown my kids I loved the committees more than them. I wonder if that’s partly why they don’t attend church now.”
“That I didn’t learn of Jesus Christ sooner.”
I must be honest and admit that I have a few regrets too. Let me put them this way.
If I Could Raise My Kids again
If I could raise my kids again I wouldn’t be so uptight this time.
I’d let them jump on beds in hotels.
And pick the cat up by the tail.
That way they’d figure out a little sooner
How life works.
If I could raise my kids again I’d be a little goofier this time.
I’d stand on the chair in our kitchen,
And play the harmonica with my nose.
I’d play more jokes on them too.
Ones that involve expired milk.
If I could raise my kids again I’d ask more questions and listen to the answers.
I’d teach them to give by giving, to love by loving.
They’d see me on my knees
Praying more often.
Not just looking for the remote control.
If I could raise my kids again I’d relax a little more.
I’d cut spankings by about 50 percent.
In number. In length. In enthusiasm.
I’d place more importance on good character than good grades.
I’d prepare them for life by letting them argue.
By letting them fail.
As it is, I’m glad I talked to them early about God.
About money.
About sex.
I’m glad I spent way too much money on vacations,
Necked in the living room with their mother,
And took them to church.
But if I could raise my kids again, I think I’d be better at it this time.
I wouldn’t care so much about clean walls or clean feet.
I wouldn’t celebrate nice grass, I’d celebrate grass stains.
I’d tuck my children into bed each night
Without checking my watch.
The doctor tells me that it’s not about to happen.
That I’m halfway to ninety.
That we won’t be having children anytime soon.
So I guess I’ll get to practice these things
On my grandchildren.