Beauty for ashes

Regret is universally regarded as one of the worst things with which to live. It fairly screams failure, missed opportunities, wasted time, unrequited love, lack of courage -- all the things that leave a person feeling somehow slightly incomplete.

Interestingly, if regret is acknowledged and examined it can also transform us in ways we didn't think possible.

That's right. Regret can lead to redemption. The catch is that we have to be willing to own the misstep, the lost opportunity, the failure to act, and to figure out what we might do differently next time.

If we're blessed enough to get a second chance, we have an awesome chance to bless someone else and that, in turn, takes away some of regret's sting.

I was talking with my children's piano teacher today. She's worked with my kids for two years now and her policy has always been that students come to her house for their lessons.

In our case, she comes to us. We pay her a little extra for her gasoline, but friends who know me and know about this arrangement have been miffed when they've requested a similar setup and have been told no.

On this day, I felt obligated to tell her that while it used to be imperative that she come to us because when we started I had two very little, very energetic boys who would've been hard to corral in her nice, neat home for an hour while their older sisters took a lesson, now everyone was older and likely more manageable. My oldest son, in fact, has recently been added to her student roster, so now it's just his little brother who needs tending. I told her I knew her arrangement with us was unorthodox in that it deviated from her usual practice and that I was willing to pack everyone up to come to her if need be. (She's an awesome teacher, and while it would be a chore to get everyone up and dressed and going, I'd do it.)

That's when she told me why she really made the exception for us and, no, it didn't have anything to do with hosting rowdy little boys in her nice, neat house.

It's a classic story of regret.

"Several years ago," she said, "I had a mother call me whose son wanted to take lessons. He was eight years old and she told me he had Asperger's Syndrome (high-functioning autism) but that he really wanted to learn the piano. So, like I did for other students, I had them come to my house. After a few lessons he had to quit. He suffered from a lot of fear and anxiety about leaving his house and he kept saying he needed to be home."

She said the day I contacted her about lessons for my girls and told her upfront that my oldest has Asperger's Syndrome a light bulb went on in her mind. "I suddenly remembered that boy and thought about how he might be playing the piano with me today if only I'd agreed to come to his house," she explained. "That's why, not knowing how Asperger's affects different kids differently, I made an exception and came to you. I hated to think of another child missing a chance to learn the piano."

Her regret over one lost student compelled her to bless another, and our family has benefited tremendously.

I could write a book about the regrets in my own life that I've taken and turned into something useful and positive. One of them has to do with friends lost and found.

Years ago when I was working for the daily college newspaper I got to know a guy who covered sports and used to do his work at night. His name was Brian and he sat at the computer next to mine. While I edited copy, he wrote his stories for the next day's edition. He smoked -- a habit that annoyed me to the point of finally telling him to either put out the cigarette or be willing to eat it. He graciously complied. Sometimes he made snarky jokes about the people in the stories I was editing, or he'd read over my shoulder and comment about how I should rewrite this or rearrange that. He was friendly enough, though, so while he could be like the pesty fly at the picnic, he also ended up being a dear friend.

Time passed. I graduated, went on with my life, eventually got married, and had my first child. I kept up with Brian through another mutual friend of ours, so I knew that he, too, had married and was now a father.

When my oldest daughter was a toddler, Brian and I met our mutual friend one night for pizza and a reunion. It was fun to reminisce about the silly things we'd said, done, and worn many years before when we were in college and a bit full of ourselves. We shared pictures of our children and promised to stay in better touch.

I never saw Brian again. He shot and killed himself about two years later. A troubled marriage and eventual divorce proved to be too much.

When I heart the news, I was stunned and then I felt myself going under wave after wave of regret. Suicide is particularly devilish because it always leaves people with more questions than it answers. What if I'd really done my due diligence and stayed in touch? Would my friend have confided in me? Could I have somehow prevented this terrible, tragic outcome? Did I say everything I wanted to that night at the pizza place? Should there have been something more?

I struggled for a long time to make sense of Brian's death, but now after so many years I accept that I never really will. Every time September rolls around, I wonder how his two sons are doing and I think about our mutual friend who was, for all purposes, Brian's best friend and who was also caught off guard by the abrupt and permanent departure.

What could I learn from this, I kept asking. Something useful had to come out of something so awful, and I knew if I looked hard enough I'd find it.

Eventually I did. It came in the form of an opportunity to reconnect with a dear friend from my childhood whose adult years have been plagued by chronic illness and a retreat into near seclusion. After much thought and conversation with his family, I summoned the courage to call and reestablish a tie that has been broken for far too long.

He's never said so, but I hear tell from others in his family that our renewed friendship has been a blessing in his life. I know it's been a blessing to mine.

Regret can eat you alive by teasing you with things from the past you cannot change.

Why not gain the upper hand instead and use those same things to change the future?

A letter came from far away . . .

Awhile back, my family decided to participate in a project called Any Soldier that connects civilians directly with U.S. military personnel stationed overseas. The idea is to make sure that soldiers who may not get much (or any) mail from home get mail from those who appreciate their sacrifices.

Some of the soldiers have special requests. Others just like to get cards or letters.

Out of more than 1,000 soldiers who are signed up to be liaisons between their units and civilian supporters, we picked a name at random and read what the soldier and his men wanted most.

Coffee. Lots of coffee.
Snacks.
A dartboard set.

The girls and I went to the sporting goods store and picked out a dartboard set. We all went to Walmart and bought lots of snacks and my mom bought lots of coffee, creamer, sugar packets, and tea.

We packed five boxes in all and sent them off with the hope they'd arrive in Afghanistan intact. My girls both made several cards to include with the food and coffee, the idea being that there would be a card for every soldier in the chosen unit.

Today, my younger daughter got a letter in the mail postmarked Afghanistan. She said it was more exciting than getting a letter from someone famous, like the president.

(I'd explained to the kids that folks in the middle of a war might not have time to write back, so to get a letter at all is huge.)

The soldier who wrote to her is from North Carolina and he has a son her age. The tone of the letter is like that of any father to a child. It's poignant in its simplicity, paternal, kind, and not a little bit wistful.

He tells my daughter about the things his little boy likes to do and says if his son and my daughter could meet they'd probably get along real well.

He drew a smiley face near his signature.

As my daughter read the letter aloud to her own father, I couldn't help but note the irony -- a child of eight reading to her father about a child of eight whose father is far away in such a dangerous and unforgiving place. Both fathers are obviously proud of their children, but only one of them is able to show it in person.

Christians are taught how we were bought for a terrible price when Christ went to the cross. As Americans, we are also bought every time one of our men or women in uniform goes to the mat in the name of our country.

I want my children to understand -- and I do well to be reminded myself -- that behind every single one of those soldiers there's a story, a family, and a sacrifice either temporary or tragically permanent.

Somewhere in North Carolina tonight, a young boy who loves to read and play video games is going to bed without his dad to tuck him in.

The small, quiet sacrifices are often the greatest, and we are humbled by the price Major S. Williams' family has paid.

Moments to make a mother proud

I've got good kids.

No, really. I mean, they are really GOOD kids.

Sure, they squabble, they don't always cooperate or do as they're asked. But in spite of those unpleasant episodes, deep down they are really good kids. My older two are unfailingly helpful and often polite without being asked or reminded. My younger two are usually dependable when it comes to hauling groceries, helping their dad dig up the yard for planting, or vacuuming the floors (they love to operate the vacuum cleaner).

But sometimes, my kids really go above and beyond the call of duty and they leave me and my expectations for their ages and stages in the dust.

This week, it was my oldest son's turn to shine.

Our family was hit full force by some sort of nasty illness. As we worked to recover, some of us got better quicker than others. My 6-year-old was the first to rally.

As I lay on the couch trying to summon the energy to do anything -- after being up all night before with my youngest child and my dear dependent husband -- I watched my son happily playing nearby.

"Hey," I said. "I'm sure glad you're feeling better. Do you think you could help me out?"

He came over to me, put his little hand on my cheek and said, "Sure, Mom. What do you need?"

I asked him if he thought he could make me a peanut butter sandwich and peel me a clementine. My appetite was finally returning, but my body was just too tired to act on it.

"I can do that!" he exclaimed. "Stay there and I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, my little boy emerged from the kitchen with the sandwich and fruit in hand. "I put everything on a paper towel so you wouldn't have to wash a plate," he said. "I think I did a good job with the sandwich."

If I'd had any money on me, I'd have given him a tip.

Later, I heard him going up the stairs to ask his sisters, who were both still droopy in bed, if they needed anything. No one asked him to do this. Next, I heard him come back down, go into the kitchen, and then run water in the sink.

When I asked him what he was doing, he said his dad wanted some more iced tea. He was rinsing out Dad's glass before putting in the ice and tea. "His glass looked dirty so I am cleaning it out first," he said matter-of-factly.

Whose kid is this? Where did this little man, this little responsible, capable, self-directed, compassionate little man come from? How did I get so lucky?

This is the same child who my longtime 'blog readers may remember acted so rotten that he got his 5th birthday party cancelled. The same child who carved his name irreverently in my expensively painted and refurbished staircase. The same child whose peeing contest with a friend resulted in the replacement of a $200 mattress. The same child who, every time he was fussed at between the years of four and five told me he wished he could have a different mother. The same child who is single-handedly responsible for 80% of my gray hair.

He told me things would get better when he turned six. That was last November and amazingly enough, his prophesy has been spot on.

Amidst the temporary misery of illness and the subsequent swift recovery of us all, I remain struck by the vision of my son lovingly caring for his mother, his dad, and his siblings. If this is a hint of things to come, then all the grief, gray hair, and damaged furniture has been worth it.