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I want my life back!
Danny and I have always had critters in our world. When dogs or cats were prohibited, we had hamsters. Most of our critters were castaways, desperate for a home and grateful to find one with us. VanDyke was thrust upon us by the same family that had introduced Danny and me years before. Blanche, the matriarch, had brought him home after finding him, hungry and desperate, trying to eke out a living behind a grocery store. He was more work than Blanche could handle, so Danny offered to take him home and thus began 14 years of almost pure joy. I say almost, because VanDyke had the wanderlust and we had to retrieve him from the authorities more than once. (He ran from us because "chase" was his favorite game, however, if the dog catcher called to him, he was more than happy to make a stranger's acquaintance.)
We apparently passed this rescue legacy onto our children because it manifested itself early in their lives. Ben first noticed the tee-tiny black and white kitten when I dropped all three children off for swim practice. It was mid-October and the first really cold night of the season. When Ben finished practice, he saw the kitten again, still mewling around the building, sniffing every corner, and when I pulled up to the pool, he had her snuggled up in his jacket.
"Can we take her home, Mom?" they all pleaded with one voice. I put up the usual parental arguments about bringing strays home, but I had already touched her and heard her deep, rumbling purr, much too loud for such a small bundle of fur.
Their counter arguments, "It's cold. She'll freeze. She'll die,"and that purr proved too much for me. She stayed tucked in Ben's jacket while we went to the grocery store to buy Kitten Chow and kitty litter. She was a great cat. TC (short for tea cup) chose Lisa and took up nightly residence in her room, far from the aforementioned VanDyke and our black Lab, Archie. They had chosen the boys and slept downstairs with them. As the years went by, TC developed an affinity for the night life. She would exit through a slightly open window in Lisa's bedroom and return the same way when her nocturnal rounds were accomplished. Years later, summer came to a close as summer must, and one night in early fall, Lisa closed her window against the cold night air, supposing TC was already safely inside. Deep in the night, we all heard it. TC let out one loud howl amid ferocious barking. I was up like a shot. So was Lisa. We raced to the front door, and returned, immediately subdued, holding a nearly still, though apparently uninjured cat. Danny took one look and said, "Call the vet, I'll start the car," and we were off. TC lost her battle with internal injuries somewhere between our house and the veterinarian's office, but holding onto hope, we continued our mad rush. Hope fled. After giving us the bad news, the vet left the room to give us some privacy. He came back out of the examination room moments later, holding the bath towel I had wrapped TC in, and said, "I thought you might want this back."
I responded with a sob, "I want my cat back."
The one thing I wanted was the one thing he couldn't give me. In that moment, however, his expression defined the word "compassion."
TC wasn't our first good-bye to furry friends and companions. Nor would she be our last. But her leave-taking was so poignant, made more so I think by our vet's compassion, that I doubt I'll ever forget that night, those tears, or my own plaintive cry, "I want my cat back."
How many moments in our lives echo that sentiment? To lose something lovely, precious and irreplaceable, with no way to reclaim it, though we would give all to do just that, is a heartache understood by everyone.
Certainly Esau understood. Having willingly traded his birthright to satisfy his temporary hunger pangs he experienced no small amount of deep regret, especially as he learned over time just how much value that birthright held.
And, I can almost taste the ashes of regret in the words spoken by the rich man arriving in a place of torment after his physical death, every time I read, "Then I beg you, father, send Lazarus to my father's house, for I have five brothers. Let him warn them, so that they will not also come to this place of torment." (Luke 16:27)
Wandering spouses, who risked all for a temporary thrill, cry, "I just want my family back!"
Stellar reputations, lost because the lie served the moment, evoke the cry, "I just want my good name back!"
Young girls, believing the lie that sex really does equal love, cry bitter tears, "I just want my virginity back."
There is no end to the potential for regret in our lives, and so many of our mistakes, though not unforgivable, are irrevocable. We cannot -- try though we might, cry though we might -- turn back time and undo what has been done.
Nevertheless, the cry of regret, which comes to all of us, may yet open the doors of redemption. To miss that open door would bring about everlasting regret.
"Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death." 2 Corinthians 7:10 (NIV)
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