I’ve sloppily cried several times in my life but wailed? Never. Collapsing on all fours? Only that night. Jill, my wife, honored my one request: “Please don’t console me; it’s important that I grieve.” Thankfully she obliged. Later Jill commented, “When the Holy Spirit is working hard on someone, best stay out of His way.” She was right. Regret, more than anything else I can think of, is horrid. Like a song list continuously stuck on repeat, my shame-laced self-talk sounded like this:

• How did I drive by her house hundreds of times, within a hundred yards of her driveway, and fail to tap the brakes due to my all-too-urgent agenda?

• While struggling to breathe on the cross, Jesus’ concern lay with His mother. So much for patterning my life of ministry based on His example.

• How hard-hearted does one have to be to gloss over James 1:27 as if it didn’t exist? Not once, but countless times! “This is pure and undefiled religion in the sight of our God and Father, to visit orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.”

• How appalling I could ever think: “My day is all filled up. I’ve got commitments to keep. I’ll make time for you, Mom, one day real soon.” And that was that for the moment, or so I foolishly thought.

Dear Abby was the big joke growing up as a kid. Although ancient history now, it was a syrupy advice column carried in newspapers nationwide. Did moms reference it? Yes. Dads? Never! Kids, much less boys? Not in a million years! As such, I had to chuckle when a man’s man sent me this Dear Abby clip after I shared my regret with him. The laugh was short-lived.