regrets

My morning at the music store was all planned out.

I always come in an hour ahead of time to get an early start. Product to be sent to customers has to be pulled and moved to the shipping room. Emails must be checked and answered. Repaired items needing to be picked up are checked again and moved to the proper section.

When the doors are unlocked, the objects to be worked with are no longer inanimate, but human. Somehow, planning goes out the window. Phone calls are answered, problems addressed, and merchandise is sold.

Still, I hadn’t counted on the Peter and the Wolf kids. Mom wondered if I would mind too very much giving them a demonstration of the musical instruments they had heard in the orchestral composition by Mr. Prokofiev.

She had a set of picture cards, but the children wanted to see the real instruments if they could, please. That is, if you don’t mind.

I didn’t mind. I’m a good guy who loves helping children.

The first card showed a bassoon. We dragged one out of the back room and assembled it, taking care to show the two tykes the double reed which gives the instrument its distinctive tone. The little girl was surprised to see that the strange instrument was much taller than she.

The next card showed an image of an oboe, so an oboe came out of its case and the smaller pieces were shoved together to make an instrument a little smaller than a clarinet. Again, the double reed made an appearance.

As each instrument came into view, the character in the musical story was named. The bassoon had been the low, naggy sound of a fussing grandfather, the oboe—Peter’s quacky duck.

One by one, we located the characters the children had met in the recording. The pretty silver flute was the little bird, and the clarinet, long, black, and sinister, was the cat that stalked the bird. The drums, such as we could find—I’m sorry ma’am; we don’t sell many timpani—were the hunters, come to help Peter in his time of need.

Of course, we had to find as many of the stringed instruments as we could, making do without a double bass viol. Peter was represented in the musical tale by the entire violin family, regardless of size.

But, we forgot one, didn’t we? Oh yes! The French horn. What shall we say about the horn?

I’m a horn player. It was a proud moment. Surely the children would be impressed.

I’ve played it nearly all my life.

The little girl, friendly and twinkly for most of the tour of instruments, stared at me, her mouth open and eyes wide. Disbelief was written all over her face.

You’re the wolf?

Why, yes. No!

Wait a minute! I’m not the wolf! I just play the instrument that represents him in the symphony. I’m not really the wolf.

The children are gone. That was hours ago.

I’m still a little shaken.

Am I the wolf?

Am I?

Thoughts swirl in my head. The horn is forgotten for the time being, but other things are not. Memories of acts committed, never to be undone, are mixed with the cacophony of voices that have filled my ears.

All have sinned—there is not one righteous person—whoever breaks one law is guilty of breaking all—those who live like this will not see God. (Romans 3:23, Ecclesiastes 7:20, James 2:10, Galatians 5:19-21)

There are times—perhaps only for a moment, but often for days—when the memories of what I have been and done haunt my waking hours. They even stretch my waking hours, leaving me restless in my bed, denying sleep.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always.

Always, finally, the reality of grace hits home. Always. Click To Tweet

Do the voices not speak truthfully, then? Am I not a sinful man?

They do. I am.

I was the wolf. Was.

And, just like the wolf in Peter’s tale, I deserved death but found instead life.

While I was still doing damage to Him, grace was offered. To an enemy, He offered comfort and safety. (Romans 5:8)

Grace is stronger than the wolf.

I am not who I was.

I’ll play my horn again in the morning. I know I’ll smile as I remember my little friend, mouth agape and eyes opened wide.

No, my dear. I am not the wolf.

Not anymore.

Grace is stronger.

Such were some of you; but you were washed, but you were sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God.
(1 Corinthians 6:11 ~ NASB ~ Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation)

I have many regrets, and I’m sure everyone does. The stupid things you do, you regret if you have any sense, and if you don’t regret them, maybe you’re stupid.
(Katharine Hepburn ~ American actress ~ 1907-2003)

I’m still sad.

I got the note on New Years morning. The note said he had died just hours before.

I guess you could say New Years Day wasn’t that good of a day for me.

I would have just breezed past the three-quarters of an hour I had to stand on the roof in the cold, running a plumber’s snake through the waste water system of the house. The hours I spent counting merchandise in the music store, as awful a fate as that is, I could have overlooked.

But, my friend died.

Before I go too far here, I want to be clear; I hadn’t seen or communicated with him in over forty years.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

But I have to ask myself the question: Why does this news hurt more than others who have also passed? There have been many over the years. I have felt each one, but none like this one.

All morning on that day, as I called out prices to the Lovely Lady, sitting with her pencil poised to tabulate, my mind wandered.

Over dusty paths long since paved over, along drainage ditches filled in decades ago, I rambled again with my friend. Cold summer nights—colder than ever I had imagined closed up in my sweltering bedroom—we spent in the tent in his backyard. Pool games in the den, sneaking out from the back yard in the dead of the night to wander the neighborhood, milk and cereal at the dining room table the next morning—grinning at each other over the milk glasses when his Mom or Dad asked how we had slept.

All the scenes played through my head as I struggled to focus on the job with the Lovely Lady. After so many times of my voice cracking as I called out the price of one music book after another, I suggested we might as well go home as soon as we got to the end of the row.

She, wise companion that she is, agreed. We went home, she to visit with her sister and nieces, and I to sit by the fire and follow my memories all that cloudy, gloomy day.

He was a friend when I didn’t have any.

I’ll admit it; I was a strange kid. Skinny—no social skills—acne covered face. It was a horribly awkward time. Junior High School is like that. If you weren’t an athlete or a brainiac, life was hard. We were neither.

He was my friend when I desperately needed one.

Oh, we fought—wars of words, and even a time or two with fists. We always got over it and were ready to go sit at the ball game the next week and make trouble together.

Except that once.

I read over the words I’ve written and wonder if anyone else will want to read them. I wonder why I can’t say what I really want to say.

Maybe I’m afraid to admit that I’ve thought about my friend many times over the years. I wanted to see him again, but not just to visit with an old buddy.

It has been nearly forty-five years.

I always thought I’d get to apologize. I recall clearly the words I said to hurt him, words I have wanted to take back.

I always thought there would be another chance.

In my mind, as I have remembered him over the years, I always dreamed we’d get another chance to sit in Shakey’s Pizza, around the corner from his folk’s house, and drink a coke together and laugh about the stupid things we did and said. I’d tell him I was sorry, and he’d say he didn’t even remember the words I had said.

Sometimes, dreams die.

And suddenly, in a rush, it comes to me. The sadness I feel isn’t just for my friend’s passing. Not just for him.

Dreams don’t always come to fruition. We hold them close and tell no one about them. They are seldom written, but never forgotten. And then, the day comes when there is no chance they will be realized.

No chance.

This one hurts. I’ll admit it. It’s going to take some time to get over it.

Funny. I don’t think I want to get over it. Some lessons are too important to forget the pain involved in the learning.

This is one of those.

In relationships, sometimes tomorrow won’t come.

Say what you need to say today.

I still believe that I love you are the three most important words in the English language, but I’m absolutely positive there are two more which are very close runners-up:

I’m sorry.

Don’t know where the person is you need to say either of those two phrases to? Find them.

Do it today.

And, keep dreaming.

It’s how we fly. Or run. Or crawl along.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(Matthew 5:4 ~ NASB)

Hold onto dreams
For when dreams die
Life is like a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
(Dreams ~ Langston Hughes ~ American poet ~ 1902-1967)

Hang on to your hat. Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White ~ American author ~ 1899-1985)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Grace and the Wolf

Dreams Die