The Hill of Regret

As Jon and I prepare for marriage, we’ve discussed whether we should be concerned that after a year and half of dating we’ve not had an argument. We’ve asked ourselves if we just repress things or if we just have good communication. We think the latter. Sure, we’ve been frustrated with each other at times, but not so much that it led to a fight- or even a passionate disagreement. The truth is, I just don’t think there are many things worth arguing over. To me, having peace and kindness in our relationship is more important than where we go to dinner, or what movie we see, or any number of other insignificant decisions. Jon has a similar approach I think. He often uses the phrase, “that’s not a hill worth dying on.”

People argue over anything, but the cause is always one thing- we want to be right… we want to have our way. Our selfishness becomes so powerful that suddenly our pride is of more value than the person facing us. Most of the time arguments get resolved… peace prevails… hurts are healed. But sometimes… sometimes learning the lesson is more painful.

I was eight when my stepbrother left to go deer hunting one morning. Some details of that day are vague, some are as vivid as yesterday. Like me being angry with him because I wanted him to stay home that morning, I remember that. I don’t remember what I did most of the day, but I was at my daddy’s house that afternoon when the phone rang. He picked it up and I remember every detail from that moment on. I remember his words on the phone. I remember knowing what was wrong before he told me. I remember every word, every hug, every tear, every regretful feeling of my last interaction with my stepbrother, and every pain in my heart.

I wish I could say that eight-year old girl learned a lesson that day. I wish I could have buried my pride and selfishness along with brother, but difficult lessons are learned through experience… the kind that repeats itself.

I can still see her standing on the porch, her hand placed sassily upon her five-foot frame. She had a level of feistiness for every gray hair on her head. She was my grandmother. We were exchanging snide remarks as I was getting in the car to leave. I don’t remember why exactly. I was eighteen and I suppose the years of her meddling had accumulated, and in that one moment the straw came down. There was no yelling, no fighting… just that passive, cold-shouldered sarcasm. If it were over something significant, I’d remember. But again, we argue over nothing all the time- never knowing when it’s the last time. A few days later, I was standing in my friend’s kitchen on a Saturday night and they called. It was a heart attack- in more ways than one.

Tragedy isn’t kind. It doesn’t let you know it’s coming. There’s no time to clean the house and prepare for its arrival. We just live, going about our daily routine… you don’t hear the car in the driveway, or the steps up to the door… there’s no knocking- the door just comes crashing down and it storms through your heart and your soul and leaves you disoriented and numb… and feeling every ounce of pain possible at the same time. And tragedy isn’t selective. It doesn’t pass you by just because it’s ravaged you before. I know.

I wish tragedy had just not noticed me the last time… had not turned down my street… or stopped in front of my life again. I wish tragedy had not caught me in my self-centeredness. If only I’d known it was coming, I wouldn’t have been unkind to my sister when she called that Saturday morning and woke me up. But I was. It didn’t matter that she just wanted to know what time I was coming home from college that day. She just wanted to know when she could see me. But I was tired… and sleepy… and unkind to her on the phone. She didn’t come to see me, so I went by to see her before I left home. But, she was tired then, and asleep on the couch. I didn’t wake her. I didn’t wake her and I would have given anything if the next voice on the phone had been hers. But it wasn’t. As I dropped the phone and collapsed to the floor, I didn’t think about all the times I had hugged my sister, or told her I loved her, or had spoken kind words to her, or laughed with her. Those aren’t the things that come to mind. It’s those last words. The words I never knew I couldn’t take back… the words that conveyed that something as petty as my sleep was more important to me than she was… the words that teach the cruelty of regret.

So, Jon and I haven’t argued yet. We will, one day. And, I hope it’s not over what to wear, or what to eat, or where to go… but if it is, I hope and pray that I recognize… and remember… and walk down that hill in love and kindness with him- because that "hill worth dying on" means something more to me.