But you’re wrong

The first time I cried in public came upon me suddenly. I walked up the stairs of the balcony of a church well before the service started. I was alone. Well, nearly alone. One other person was sitting down near the front of the balcony. He was bald, with dark hair encircling a shiny dome, and a dark mustache. He cleared his throat recognizably.

It was my father.

When I saw him, a thought came to me that I never had before. At some point, my father would be gone. My time with him was finite. It would come to an end.

I’m not sure why I had that thought. But the emotion of it overcame me. In that moment I missed him. I felt a deep loss — one that had not yet happened but still felt real.

I started crying as I sensed the future loss. No one else was there — just me and my father at the top of the balcony. Someday, he would be gone. The emotion of the future void overtook me.

That was the first time I remember crying in public. Those tears help me remember that we don’t last forever.

There’s a time limit on everything.

. . .

Facing the Forgotten Dream

When I was 17, I told a high school classmate that I wanted to write a book. We were supposed to interview another student and then write a short article about the interview.

I only remember this because my mother saved my classmate’s article and included it in a scrapbook. I opened that scrapbook 18 years later to find the article and realize that a dream that I had 18 years prior had never come true. I still had not written a book.

It’s hard to face the forgotten dream that never came true.

Good intentions aren’t enough, sadly. Years ago, I wanted to write. I started projects, but never finished them. It might have felt good to dream about being an author when I was 17, but it felt terrible 18 years later when I realized that it hadn’t happened.

I decided to turn the forgotten dream into a renewed one. I turned the dream that never came true to the one that had not yet come true.

I started writing seriously after I found the scrapbook. I remembered the dream of a teenage kid, and I realized that I was running out of time to make it come true. I didn’t want late to turn into never.

I didn’t want late to turn into never.

. . .

The Best Type of List to Make

The experience with my father and also with the scrapbook changed how I approach my life.

I used to make all types of lists: to-do lists, follow-through lists, dream lists, lists of people. They all can be helpful.

But my favorite and most useful list is this one: a regret list.

It’s not a list of current regrets, but possible future ones. What, if I don’t do it this year, will I really regret?

What, if I don’t do it this year, will I really regret?

I know that many people embrace the idea of having no regrets. I do have regrets, though. They haunt me. Just a thought and I feel the tightening of my chest.

I felt too occupied to say goodbye to a mentor at a meeting. So I didn’t. The next time I saw him was in a casket. I didn’t get to say thank you one last time.

My chest tightens as I type. Regret.

I delayed reaching out to a sick friend. By the time I did, it was too late. I still have the email from his wife, bearing the bad news that my friend passed away the week before. The email is a reminder: I don’t have 1,000 years to get everything done.

I just have right now. And that’s it.

To-do lists are nice, but they don’t capture the sense of loss that I’ve felt. So each year I make a regret list. I only put items on that list that meet one criterion: if I didn’t accomplish this goal this year, would I regret it? Would I feel anger? Would I be pissed off? Would I feel the tightness in my chest? Yes? Then it goes on the list.

Regret is real. Sometimes we can atone for our mistakes, but we can’t always fix them. We can’t go back. We run out of time. Or someone else does.

. . .

The Warning in His Last Words

I recently heard about the death of a friend’s husband — and I’m haunted by the man’s last words.

His disease lingered in the shadows, then struck suddenly. In a matter of weeks he was gone. I hardly knew the severity and only found out through a Facebook post.

My friend posted a beautiful tribute to her husband after he died. She shared beautiful moments and moments of sweet sorrow. Then she recounted his very last words before he died.

“You always think you have more time.”

You always think you have more time. He must have had that thought recently, and he was revisiting it right before he died. Yet it struck me as admitting a mistake, and also something else: a warning. It was more than a regret, and it still haunts me.

Implied in his last words is the warning. You always think you have more time, but you’re wrong.

You always think you have more time, but you’re wrong.

Am I making the mistake that he used his last breath to warn us all about? Am I living like I always have more time? I cried when I saw my father. I revived an old dream. I feel not just emotional but also physical pain from the arrows of regret. But am I still not heeding the warning in this man’s last words?

You’ll Be Dead Much Longer Than You’re Alive

More likely than not, you will be dead a lot longer than alive. Life is finite. We don’t have forever.

All opportunities in front of us will die when we do. At some point there’s no more potential — we either did it or we didn’t. How do we live a life that does not mistake an unknown end for an infinite one?

Each moment can affect someone well beyond the current time. R.C. Sproul writes that “right now counts forever.” It’s true. Our actions in a moment can have an impact that never ends. The impact could be positive or negative. We may feel pride for our behavior, but regret is possible, too. A moment can live much longer than we think.

There are no ordinary moments. My kids need that extra hug and laugh. My wife needs affection one more time. I don’t want to forget about calling back my friend. It’s okay to say “I miss you” or “I love you” or “I cherish our friendship.” Opportunities are vapors that appear and then dissipate.

You always think you have more time, but you’re wrong.

. . .

Learn the one lesson that has changed my life more than any other.