Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

February 23, 1997

Forrest Church, minister of All Soul's Unitarian Church in New York City, tells the story of the man who kept coming to him for counsel about whether or not to marry the woman he had been seeing for some time. Time after time, the man would come and plop down on the sofa in Forrest's office, and anguish over his decision. Finally, Forrest said to him, "Look, you have four ways to go. You can decide not to marry her and regret it. You can decide not to marry her and be thankful that you didn't. You can decide to marry her and regret it, or you can decide to marry her and be thankful that you did. My advice to you is, be thankful."

Maybe it's not so much the decisions we make, as it is how we feel about the decisions we make. Imperfect as we are, surrounded by much more darkness than light, longing for clarity and beset by complexity, we try our best, and sometimes we blunder. We need to be forgiven. And we need to forgive.

When I chose this topic, I thought to myself, "I have no regrets." But as I began to reflect and go deeper, I came to understand that I do. I do not regret those major decisions which came to sit on my plate and stare at me until I made a move--decisions like my marriage to a man that I needed but could not train my heart to love, like the choice to have two children and no more, like the choice to divorce, with all its reverberating pain through the years, like the decision to leave my boys with their father while I went to seminary--I do not regret these decisions, though at times they brought suffering to me and to others. We do not long remain innocent, and we learn that to live is to suffer and to cause suffering. Such is the nature of life. I do not regret the decisions.

What, then, do I regret? I regret the times I refused invitations from the universe, gifts laid at my door, because I thought I was unworthy. I remember when I was a young woman going to a fancy party across the street from our home in Lexington, Kentucky. I even remember what I wore that evening--a white satin blouse and a long deep red velvet skirt. I knew hardly a soul there, so while I was standing there trying to look inconspicuous, a beautifully groomed older woman came over to me and said, "My husband would like to meet you. Would you be willing to spend some time with him?" She guided me over to a bench which was occupied by a man I instantly recognized: John Jacob Niles, the ballad collector and folk singer, the man who wrote, "Black is the Color of My True Love's Hair." Quite an elderly man by then, he looked splendid in his tuxedo and his white hair and beard. I sat down with him, and he regaled me with stories of WW II, and made me laugh, and I in turn told him how much I admired his art, but that I had never heard him sing in person. Then he reached over and touched my hand and said, "My dear, why don't you get together a group of your friends, and I'll come over to your home and sing for you. Call Mrs. Niles and make the arrangements."

I thanked him and said that I would call. But the days drifted by, and I never did. I just couldn't believe that John Jacob Niles would come to my home and sing for me. Every once in a while, I would consider calling, but then I would tell myself, who was I to have such a gift. Then one day I opened the morning paper onto the breakfast table, and there was a large colored picture of John Jacob Niles on the front page, with a headline, "John Jacob Niles Is Dead." Time had overtaken possibility. The gift would forever remain unclaimed.

What else do I regret? I regret those occasions when I have been unkind, usually in the name of truth, those occasions when I should have softened and let love lead. I remember a time in my twenties when my father was reminiscing, and he asked me, "Sometimes when you were growing up and you asked for something, I acted like I wasn't going to give it to you, but that was just to make you appreciate things more. I always gave you what you needed, didn't I?" Now it's never a good idea to ask a kid in his twenties if you were a good parent--but I remember my response and his reaction. I thought back to the days when every request filled me with guilt, and anger rose in me, and I said, "No, you always made me feel that I was asking for too much, whether it was new glasses or a new dress for the prom . . . I always felt I had no right to ask, and I hated to ask." And I saw the hurt in his eyes, and bitterness came into his voice, perhaps the only time I ever heard bitterness in his voice, and he said, "You will see. You will understand when you have children."

And now this past Christmas, my son Madison, who is 24, says to me over his breakfast pancakes, "I hate splitting up our holidays, one with you and one with Dad! So why did you have to leave Dad? He's such a great person. Why did you have to do it?" I sigh, and note once again that every decision has consequences. I say to my son, "You will see. You will understand when you are older. I hope that when you marry, you will marry forever." And the circle comes round again.

Speaking of my former husband, Frank, I have a regret or two concerning him. Now this seems to be a little thing, but somehow it has stayed with me over the years. Why, I ask, is this memory so tenacious, so poignant, for me? Long after we were divorced--four or five years, I suppose--and I was living in Berkeley, I used to pass a little antique shop when I went out for my daily walk. One day I saw in the window of the shop a chess set, carved of green stone. I thought it was a magnificant set, and it reminded me of Frank, who dearly loved to play chess. I walked by the shop day after day, and each time I walked by, I said to myself, "That's Frank's chess set." This ritual went on for months: "That's Frank's chess set," I would say to myself, and smile. Then one day I looked, and the set was gone. It had been sold. I was incredulous! How could it have been sold? It was Frank's chess set. I felt sad and empty. Of course there were reasons for not buying the chess set. I was a student with little money. And what would his new wife think about my sending him a gift? As a matter of fact, what would he think? You know, now when I recite all these perfectly logical reasons, I know that none of them really matter. It was Frank's chess set. I wish I had bought it for him. It would have said, "I love you." And it's all right to love people even when you don't want to be married to them. I should have listened to my heart.

Another regret of the heart. I regret not going when somebody really needed me. A call came late one night, from a man I cared about. We had been in a relationship for seven years, and he had seen me through seminary. But then we parted. He went off to Japan to make a lot of money, and I stayed in Berkeley finishing my Ph.D. and ministering to a tiny church. He never cried, this man, but that night on the phone he was weeping. He said, "My father just died. The funeral is in L.A. the day after New Years. Can you come and join me there and be with the family?" I knew his mother and father--though they were Taiwanese and knew no English, they fed me wonderful Taiwanese dishes and smiled at me and touched me with their warmth and gentleness.

I wanted to go--my heart told me to go--but I had made other plans for that time, plans with a new man, and I wanted to forget about my Taiwanese friend, I wanted to make a "clean break." Besides I was mad at him for dating a new woman, even though I had broken up with him. I want every man I have ever loved to love me and only me until his death! How foolish! Is there any such thing as a "clean break," in the sense that we move ahead, without memory, without the past as our companion into the new? And so I let him go alone to grieve, I his best friend and truest companion. That I regret.

I'm realizing that all these stories share a common theme--they're about loving, about giving love freely, without fear; about receiving love, without judgment of self or others. These stories tell us that the earth turns, and there before you is an opportunity--the apple is ripe, take it from the tree. Bite into its sweet flesh and be thankful for it. These are the moments for which the rest of life is made.

One thing I don't want to ever regret is failing to say "I love you" when I had the chance. Don't ever underestimate how much pain exists in every life; don't ever underestimate how isolated people can feel in their pain. Yes, even people that you think have everything, who want for nothing. To be human is to suffer, and every human being suffers more than you may guess. Why do we hesitate to say the words, "I love you"? Do we feel that it's awkward? Or maybe that people will misunderstand? Or that it's smaltzy and unsophisticated? Maybe we're afraid we won't be loved back. But when we say, "I love you," it must be given freely, with no expectations. It requires no response. Not only do these words bless the one who receives them, they liberate the one who speaks them. The one who says them realizes, "At last I've told you the words that are the riskiest to say, the words that rattle my bones!" They are words of courage and simple truth. They are gifts without price.

But what do we do when we don't say the words in time, and the opportunity slips away? When the invitation comes, and we reject it? When love reaches out, and we turn away?

Let me tell you the story of two sisters, Nan and Gayle, young women with families. After their mother's death, they began to draw apart. Fearing that they might become strangers, Nan had flown to California to see Gayle's second child and to take part in his baptism. As the end of Nan's visit drew near, she said to her sister, "Take me to some place really exotic to eat." And Gayle did. They went to a tiny Eastern European restaurant where hardly any English was spoken and they could recognize few of the dishes. They waited on the patio under an awning for a table to become available. It began to rain a little. As they sat sipping glasses of cool white wine, they began to talk--they talked of celebrations, of babies, of recipes. And they began to talk of their mother. Nan said, "I wish she had been with us for the baptism."
"It has been four years," said Gayle, "and I still miss her so much." She drank deeply from her glass. "I've spent so many hours trying to work through the pain of not being there at the end."
"Has it helped?" Nan asked.
"The guilt is the worst," answered her sister. "I still have such remorse."
"But Gayle," Nan said, "I was right there taking care of her, and I have guilt, too. The things I didn't do for her. The things I never said."
"But I was not there at all. If only I had been, even for one night."
"You needed to keep vigil."
"Yes, I did. I do. I missed her death. That's the pain." Gayle began to cry, and the rain fell steadily now. Lights began to come on, and cars and buses rushed past as the two sisters moved closer together against the chill of the evening.
Nan took a deep breath and said what she had needed to say for years. "In some ways, Gayle, it was my fault that you didn't make it in time." Her sister looked at her. "The doctor told me to call you and I didn't. If I had, you would have been with mother when she died."
"I never knew that, but I knew she was dying."
"But you didn't know when it would be. It took a long time."
"I should have been there to help you care for her."
"That never troubled me. But I have ached, needing to say I'm sorry for not calling you in time. Gayle, I am so sorry."
Faces and buses and lights were all a blur amidst the rain and tears as the two sisters held each other.
"I forgive you, Nan," Gayle said. "I forgive you." And Nan believed her. Gayle leaned back and looked squarely into her sister's eyes. "Sometimes I feel Mother's strength inside my skin," she said.
"Oh yes, so do I. What does it feel like to you?"
"It feels quiet and sure and it centers me down."
"I know," I said. "Between the two of us we probably have the best of her."
She smiled. "I'm so hungry now," she said.
Then their name was called, and they went into the warm interior of the restaurant. In the midst of their exotic meal was the sharing of simple bread and red wine, and there was between Gayle and Nan thanksgiving and, after a long absence, there was much laughter.¹

For every regret, for every secret hurt place in the heart, there is forgiveness, there is healing, simply by the sincere acknowledgement of the brokenness. Sometimes having a witness helps, sometimes hearing the words of forgiveness helps. But whether or not, the forgiveness is there once the heart is opened to it.

When I think about it, I wonder at some level if these decisions that we agonize over really matter, when all is said and done. I wonder if it is not the thrust of a life that counts, the learning, the movement of the spirit toward light. Remember Roethke's words: "I learn by going where I have to go." We are not called to be perfect; we are called simply to love God, and do the best we can. And perhaps in that larger calling, we are set free--free from this blunder and that failing.

I love the film Babette's Feast, and I saw it recently for the third time. If you have seen it, you will remember at the beginning of the film the young soldier falls in love with a beautiful young woman who feels obliged to remain at home and care for her elderly father, the patriarch of the local church. Her suitor leaves her with words of despair: he says, "I have learned that life is hard and cruel and in this world some things are impossible."

But when he returns 35 years later as a general to her home for the feast that gives the film its title, he stands toward the end of the dinner and makes a speech, really a theological treatise, to the gathered company. He says, "Man in his weakness and shortsightedness believes he must make choices in this life--he trembles at the risks he takes. But no, our choice is of no importance. There comes a time when your eyes are opened and you realize that mercy is infinite: we need only await it with confidence and receive it with gratitude. Mercy imposes no conditions. And lo, everything we have chosen, everything we rejected, returns to us. Yes, we even get back what we rejected, for mercy and truth are met together, and righteousness and bliss are wed."

And when he leaves that evening, he kisses the hand of the old woman who was his young love and he says to her, "I have been with you all of my life. Tell me you knew that." She says, "Yes, I know it." And he continues, "You must know I'll be with you every day that is granted me from now on. Every evening I will sit down and dine with you, not with my body, for that is of no importance, but with my soul. I have learned that in this beautiful world of ours, all things are possible."

Perhaps, my friends, we are held by a loving presence that is larger than we can know, by a mystery beyond our kenning. Maybe what we lose will return to us in forms we could never imagine, could never think to hope for. Maybe God does not so much need our remorse as our compassion, not so much our guilt as our love, not so much our self-judgment as our thanksgiving and celebration. Maybe when we are tempted to dwell in regret, we might consider turning from that impulse and instead giving ourselves to songs of ceaseless praise.
So be it. Amen.

¹Story adapted from Nancy Fitzgerald, Women and Language, v. 16, Sp. 1993, p. 58.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Dr. Marilyn Sewell. All rights reserved.