second chance

It’s midnight again. It often is as I begin to write. I’m not sure why that fact should be of any importance at all.

Midnight is, after all, just a position of the hands on a clock (at least it was on the clocks I grew up with). Oh, I’m sure there are scientific reasons for midnight being the beginning of another day—a rational “mile marker” for each new time period. I’m just not sure it deserves the gravitas we ascribe to the hour.

Having said that, I was already thinking about the ends of some days and the beginnings of others before I sat down to write in the moments just before another 24-hour period begins. There is, as the red-headed lady who raised me used to say, “a method to my madness”. She, perhaps, borrowed the words from the Bard of Avon. Perhaps.

I’m not sure if folks know this, but I don’t always think about the words I type into this device on my desk. That’s too often true of the words that proceed from my mouth, as well. But we’ll talk about that later.

I often snap photos of nature in progress, intending to share them with my friends and acquaintances online. Then, as I post them on social media, I feel the need for words to accompany the sometimes lovely scenes.

The words come from somewhere—I’m not always certain where. But sometimes they mean more than I intend to communicate. You might say more is revealed about the person sharing than the photo itself could ever uncover.

It was a gorgeous sunset a couple of evenings ago. The clouds cooperated with the lowering light-that-rules-the-day, and the resulting glory was moving, to say the least. And for a few moments, as I stood on the edge of a nearby field, I saw the colors of the rainbow in the cloud, a sundog, some call it. I was too slow to capture that with my camera, but it lives in my memory as part of the sunset.

“Glory at the dying of the day. I think I’ll try again tomorrow. You?”

Those were the words I wrote. I should have stopped with the initial sentence. It would have sufficed. More than sufficed.

What did that next part mean? I’ll try again tomorrow?

Really?

I left the words. They stayed in my head all through that night.

They were there when I opened my eyes in the morning.

Why? I think I know.

Are you ever disappointed with your actions at the end of a day? Your words? Your thoughts?

I am. Frequently.

I let myself be led into an argument the other day. I’ve said it wouldn’t happen anymore, but there I was—insisting that I was right and he was wrong. And not long before that, I made a joke that hurt a friend. I apologized, but I can’t take back the words. Or the hurt.

And my physical limitations these days make it so I am afraid even to attempt some normal activities. Things I want to do. Things I need to do.

So, I arrive at the end of some days, looking back and wishing I could get a do-over.

I didn’t mean to tell my friends and family that I was disappointed with myself. I would rather hide that. Let me work on it in private. They’ll get to see the finished product.

But somehow, my secret is out.

I want a do-over.

I think the words on the screen needed to be said. And, even though I often blabber away much more than I should, they were meant for me to write and share.

I’m not the only one who needs a do-over tomorrow, am I?

I’m not the only person I know who sometimes feels like a failure at the end of the day. I’m sure I’m not.

We need a do-over.

We can have one.

Our Creator and Savior is the God of redemption—of second chances. Of do-overs.

I’ve used the verses repeatedly when I write. I will again in the future. God said these words through His prophet.

I’m counting on them being His promise to me—and to us.

“Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: The faithful love of the Lord never ends! His mercies never cease. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each morning.” (Lamentations 21-23, NLT)

I still dare. To hope.

Those mercies that begin anew every morning don’t have to wait until the sun cracks the horizon between earth and sky. He ordained the day and night. He knows when the new day starts.

I’m believing in those new mercies now—after midnight.

It is, after all, morning.

Time for a do-over.

“Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again.” (from Pick Yourself Up, by Dorothy Fields)

“And if the day passes and our efforts were stunted by the bane of our insecurities or blunted by the challenges of life, does not a sunset invite us to rest before it whispers the same message the next morning?” (Craig D. Lounsbrough)

I’m still sad.

I got the note on New Years morning. The note said he had died just hours before.

I guess you could say New Years Day wasn’t that good of a day for me.

I would have just breezed past the three-quarters of an hour I had to stand on the roof in the cold, running a plumber’s snake through the waste water system of the house. The hours I spent counting merchandise in the music store, as awful a fate as that is, I could have overlooked.

But, my friend died.

Before I go too far here, I want to be clear; I hadn’t seen or communicated with him in over forty years.

It doesn’t seem to matter.

But I have to ask myself the question: Why does this news hurt more than others who have also passed? There have been many over the years. I have felt each one, but none like this one.

All morning on that day, as I called out prices to the Lovely Lady, sitting with her pencil poised to tabulate, my mind wandered.

Over dusty paths long since paved over, along drainage ditches filled in decades ago, I rambled again with my friend. Cold summer nights—colder than ever I had imagined closed up in my sweltering bedroom—we spent in the tent in his backyard. Pool games in the den, sneaking out from the back yard in the dead of the night to wander the neighborhood, milk and cereal at the dining room table the next morning—grinning at each other over the milk glasses when his Mom or Dad asked how we had slept.

All the scenes played through my head as I struggled to focus on the job with the Lovely Lady. After so many times of my voice cracking as I called out the price of one music book after another, I suggested we might as well go home as soon as we got to the end of the row.

She, wise companion that she is, agreed. We went home, she to visit with her sister and nieces, and I to sit by the fire and follow my memories all that cloudy, gloomy day.

He was a friend when I didn’t have any.

I’ll admit it; I was a strange kid. Skinny—no social skills—acne covered face. It was a horribly awkward time. Junior High School is like that. If you weren’t an athlete or a brainiac, life was hard. We were neither.

He was my friend when I desperately needed one.

Oh, we fought—wars of words, and even a time or two with fists. We always got over it and were ready to go sit at the ball game the next week and make trouble together.

Except that once.

I read over the words I’ve written and wonder if anyone else will want to read them. I wonder why I can’t say what I really want to say.

Maybe I’m afraid to admit that I’ve thought about my friend many times over the years. I wanted to see him again, but not just to visit with an old buddy.

It has been nearly forty-five years.

I always thought I’d get to apologize. I recall clearly the words I said to hurt him, words I have wanted to take back.

I always thought there would be another chance.

In my mind, as I have remembered him over the years, I always dreamed we’d get another chance to sit in Shakey’s Pizza, around the corner from his folk’s house, and drink a coke together and laugh about the stupid things we did and said. I’d tell him I was sorry, and he’d say he didn’t even remember the words I had said.

Sometimes, dreams die.

And suddenly, in a rush, it comes to me. The sadness I feel isn’t just for my friend’s passing. Not just for him.

Dreams don’t always come to fruition. We hold them close and tell no one about them. They are seldom written, but never forgotten. And then, the day comes when there is no chance they will be realized.

No chance.

This one hurts. I’ll admit it. It’s going to take some time to get over it.

Funny. I don’t think I want to get over it. Some lessons are too important to forget the pain involved in the learning.

This is one of those.

In relationships, sometimes tomorrow won’t come.

Say what you need to say today.

I still believe that I love you are the three most important words in the English language, but I’m absolutely positive there are two more which are very close runners-up:

I’m sorry.

Don’t know where the person is you need to say either of those two phrases to? Find them.

Do it today.

And, keep dreaming.

It’s how we fly. Or run. Or crawl along.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
(Matthew 5:4 ~ NASB)

Hold onto dreams
For when dreams die
Life is like a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
(Dreams ~ Langston Hughes ~ American poet ~ 1902-1967)

Hang on to your hat. Hang onto your hope. And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.
(E.B. White ~ American author ~ 1899-1985)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Try Again. Every New Day.

Dreams Die