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When I was 11 years old, I had the good fortune of spending a number of Friday nights at the home of my best friend, Larry.
Larry and his family had the good fortune of living right beside an active railroad line on the north side of Indianapolis.
We both loved hunting fossils, and we concluded that the best pickings in central Indiana happened to be in the crushed limestone that made up the bed of the Monon tracks.
One Friday afternoon, after we had grown bored looking for trilobites and crinoid stems, we began to speculate about the size of rock that would be sufficient to derail an average freight train. Within about 20 minutes or so we had lined up at least a dozen good candidates atop the rails.
Like 11-year-old boys who had seen too many movies, we began to imagine what it would be like for a train to splinter all the houses along a city block of Winthrop Avenue.
That, of course, would include Larry’s house. Cool.
After dinner, some TV, and a large bowl of popcorn, Larry and I settled into our beds in his room. We began to talk about the next weekend, and the weekend after that.
That’s when we heard the long, blaring horn of an approaching train. It was the freight that usually barreled down the Monon about 11:30 pm. And it was right on time.
Suddenly it occurred to us that we had mindlessly left those rocks on the railroad tracks. What swept over us at that moment was something that I can only describe as a feeling of profound regret.
The horn sounded closer. It was too late to do anything. We pulled the sheets over our heads. With a rumble and a roar, the train swept past the house, rattled down the tracks, and disappeared into the night.
Early the next morning, Larry and I clambered over the limestone bed to inspect the tracks. Where we had left our rocks there were nothing but piles of white powder. We had either overestimated the size of our rocks or underestimated the power of a locomotive, but it mattered little. All I remember is walking away that morning thinking the sun was brighter, the air was cleaner, and I was freer than I had felt in a long time.
Since that night, lying in the darkness of Larry’s room, I have been awake many times at 11:30 pm, troubled by a gnawing sense of regret – thinking of things I shouldn’t have said, decisions I shouldn’t have made, picturing people I somehow managed to hurt.
Sometimes I have wished that a magic train might come along and pulverize everything I have ever felt sorry about.
But if there are such magic trains that run down problems, they apparently don’t follow a regular schedule.
Regret is generally a miserable experience. No wonder so many rock stars, athletes, and celebrities have boldly declared, “I have no regrets about my life!” But getting a No Regrets tattoo doesn’t chase away our deepest doubts.
Regret can turn out to be, in fact – over the long run – a genuinely positive experience.
That’s because it gives us a chance to re-evaluate the past and to reset the future. Regret is a powerful teacher. It’s also a powerful motivator.
The next time I’m in that situation, the next time I’m asked to give my honest opinion, the next time I’m face to face with my fears, I will go a different way.
Feeling anguish about the past turns out to be one of the most effective weapons in our everyday struggles to lead a more faithful life. Repentance – rethinking who we are and where we are going, for God’s sake – often springs from the soil of regret.
That’s not to say that wallowing in “if-only’s” is a healthy long-term strategy. Melanie Greenberg, a clinical psychologist, points out that “regret can have damaging effects on mind and body when it turns into fruitless rumination and self-blame that keeps people from re-engaging with life.”
In other words, we must not let the realities of the past – however sad and discouraging they might be – destroy our hope for a better future.
When Atlantic columnist Arthur Brooks recently interviewed James Patterson, he asked the prolific author if he wrestled with past mistakes.
“I don’t look back too much,” Patterson replied. “I’m not a big regrets person.” While he acknowledges things he could have done better, he tries “not to ruin the day with it.” His philosophy? “It’s biscuits.” What does that mean? “The biscuits are made. Butter ‘em, eat ‘em, and move on.”
Then there’s the painter Bob Ross: “Ever make mistakes in life? Let’s make them birds. Yeah, they’re birds now.”
Some of us can embrace a biscuits or birds approach to imperfection.
But for others, the past is so painful that it seems impossible to move on.
The greatest challenge often is to forgive ourselves. What if we cannot even fathom forgiving ourselves for our most grievous sins and mistakes?
The Bible’s answer is astonishing.
Our call is not so much to accept ourselves as to accept the fact that God has accepted us and forgiven us. “As far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us” (Psalm 103:12). God’s grace extends to the darkest places where we cannot even seem to speak gently to ourselves, where we cannot imagine letting ourselves off the hook.
But that’s the very reason God put himself on the hook, so speak, when Jesus died on the cross. He bore our most aching regrets.
With a heart full of love, God has done the heavy lifting.
Have you left rocks on the railroad tracks?
You will no doubt make more mistakes in the future. But that’s not the end of your life. By God’s grace, go a different way next time.
After all, if you’re reading or listening to this right now, God isn’t finished with you yet.
Every time we realize how true that is and grasp the sheer depth of God’s forgiveness, the sun will seem brighter, the air will seem clearer, and we will feel freer than we have felt in a very long time.