The murmur of their voices gently sounded through the hallway. There I stood, pausing. Hesitance sent waves through my nerves. I wanted to tell them, but I wished it wasn’t true. Life as a young one panned through my mind– all those other moments I had lingered on this side of their door frame.
Waiting breathlessly for a response.
It’s a life-worn pattern.
Courage grabbed a foothold and I stammered out the unchanged introduction…
“Mom and Dad…”
Since I’m older now, there’s this way of putting on an outward armor. We learn how to set a face over fright. Outward calmness told the sorry accident, while inside shook with remorse.
…I had looked in both mirrors, but the dumpster was positioned just close and center enough for the mirrors to miss it. Now “Tour’s” back door had taken a little dent. Ouch….
The story spilled while they listened in silence. And when it came their turn to respond, that familiar lump was beginning to form in me. It was because of my own regret, not their words. They spoke gently.
Puddles poured out when I was back in my sheets. My thoughts were drawn to all the mindless dents we make, the way we plunge reckless through life and fail to realize.
Sorrow goes extinct in calloused hearts.
It burns the throat when we recognize how hardened we’ve become. Sensitivity needs spilled and studied and turned over in our hands every day. Our hearts have got to break or they’ll become rigid and cold. It’s the breaking that makes them whole.
Sorrow paves a path for change to walk on.
But too often we admire ourselves too much to admit. We somehow ignore the loud damage we’re leaving in our trail, and hope to escape the consequences. We fail to realize that admitting our fault is what enables us to admire God’s unblemished character.