This is a syndicated post from Catholic Journal. [Read the original article...]
Many years ago, while working for a major corporation, a colleague sat me down for a “wisdom” conversation. For more than an hour, he shared the story of his family and career. Then in his late fifties, he was filled with regret because of foolish choices, incomplete relationships, and precious time lost.
Perhaps the nineteenth century American poet, Henry David Thoreau, best summed up his feelings when he wrote…
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
Early in his career, my friend had made decisions that he felt were best for his family. And so, with his heart set firmly upon career ladders and promotions, assets were added. A large home. Luxury vehicles. Extravagant summer vacations. At the time, their accumulation appeared both prudent and wise.
With one financial objective achieved, the “need” for a second home, sailboat, and larger investment accounts consumed his passion. Not surprisingly, however, none offered lasting satisfaction but rather just the desire for more. And something else happened, too. Time passed. His children grew up and moved away. He and his wife grew apart.
And on one Saturday morning, while walking in his yard, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Within minutes, the paramedics arrived, and shortly thereafter, he found himself in a hospital being treated for a heart attack. As medical professionals attended to his every need, he told me that he experienced flashbacks of his children. He remembered their births, for he was physically present at each of those life-giving moments. But for the other “significant” events of their childhood, he was not. While lying on that hospital gurney, he wished and yearned for a return of the school plays, evening baseball games, Girl Scout cookie sales, Halloween parades, Christmas parties, and precious time spent with each of his children. But sadly, they remained just that–wishes. Wishes that would never come true. For their time had passed. And in their passing, all that was left for him were echoes of their small voices, boxes of photographs, fingerprints on bedroom walls, and great emptiness.
As quiet set upon his hospital room, he was left with feelings of quiet desperation. Unable to change the past, remnants of past decisions weighed heavily upon his heart. One by one, his children arrived, kissed him, held his hand, and said they loved him.
After nearly losing his life that day, he eventually regained the gift of health. And from that day on, his life was different. More appreciative. More caring. More loving.
While not able to retrieve the past, our Lord had given him a new today- and tomorrow, as well.
Life was a gift. And as he began to open that gift, albeit many years later, what’s important in life became very clear.
For me, too.