Regret

Regret.

When you did the worst thing you’ve ever done in your life, you probably didn't think of it as such. I’ve done a lot of bad things, countless mean things, several awful things, a few rotten things, and one or two atrocious things. As bad as that sounds, I still have never done anything nefarious, diabolical, fiendish, or villainous. That takes calculation and innovation, and I’m not clever enough. Maybe someday… Hopefully not. In that sense, it might be to my advantage to be simple.

But I got to thinkin’ how many regrets I have. One or two of them stand out more than others, and seem to pop up when I have a crummy day. They just materialize - It’s as though I get an instant replay, a review from the booth or a coaches’ challenge. I hear a little sound byte, then a voice comes in and says, “Remember that? You did that. Just wanted to remind you that you’re terrible.” It comes into my head, I wince, I get a little sick. It’s real.

And yeah, what I did – whatever I did – it was wrong. Bad move, Jim. It seemed like a good idea. Harmless enough. But in retrospect, as far as bad ideas go, it’s right up there with buying underwear at Goodwill.

I wonder if other people feel the way I do. Of course we all have regrets. Most of my real regrets have to do with making someone else feel an inch tall, notsomuch about other things: Getting the Tilapia because you want to know what Tilapia is; Milk was a bad choice; Should have taken the Beltline; Should have asked her out; Shouldn’t have asked her out; Shouldn’t have paid the $6.50 for White Chicks, etc. These don’t bug me… I’m sensible enough not to have a nervous breakdown about them. It’s the ones that don’t seem to go away that get to me.

All I can think is that it’s probably not the Creator of the universe putting them there. Jesus isn’t looking down and saying, “Hey dude, that girl cried… Don’t forget that. Oh, and that one… that certainly wasn’t politically correct.” God doesn’t nag. At least, He doesn’t nag unless we need it. And sometimes I do… I need him to be loud because I’m not always very quiet. But he doesn’t nag about stuff you can’t do anything about. Lest we forget about forgiveness.

I wonder about the people in prison who have done truly terrible things. What are their regrets like? Are some of them tortured? Are some of them vindicated?

I guess regret is evidence of conscience, evidence of Truth, of a Standard which we have broken. (That’s in Mere Christianity, by the way.) If we don’t regret, we don’t repent.

The Holy Spirit may bring about some dissonance in your conscience. But certainly not any nagging or crippling laments.

This really didn’t end up the way I planned it. Any thoughts?

One Love

Fame

Tears had already begun to flow down his cheeks, soaking his bright red shirt, when his mother drew him into her bosom and assured him he was going to be famous. "You're going to be famous, baby. You're going to be famous." The lanky 16-year-old towered over his mother, yet seemed right at home in her embrace.

Nevermind that he couldn't sing, dance, or juggle worth a lick.

Why is fame so important to people? Are people completely unaware of the misery of celebrity? Does anyone know the divorce rate in hollywood? Sure, the money must be nice, but is it really worth the cost of the constant company of paparazzi? Is it worth it to have your every mistake/arrest/charade/baby-dangling blared on the news? And why did his mother - or sister, or aunt, or family friend, whoever she was - feed him the lie that he would be famous and, beyond that, that this was an appropriate and enviable pursuit?

Why do we pursue happiness from things that we all know (thanks to children's books, after-school and hallmark-specials, motivational speakers, and countless other media) don't bring any real happiness? How many times must we be told that money (and fame) won't bring any true happiness? Why do I wake up in the morning wondering what I'm going to do or hear or see or eat, who I'm going to see, how much I'm going to earn, all while I am well aware that there is only One that brings me happiness?

That young man did find his fame. He got on national television, and had the floor in front of Simon Cowell. He's famous now. For a bit. Hope his life is better.

One Love

New Year

Happy New Year.

I forgot to ask for this night off, which at Papa John's means "I'd love to work New Years Eve," and in some cases, "I'd love to close on New Years Eve."

And so when I was given the closing shift at Papa John's, I might have initially resisted, but the prospect of inebriated generosity was too enticing for me to gripe or swap the shift. No one would have taken it, anyway. And so tonight, I worked a shift that spanned two years.

You don't realize this until you're a pizza guy, but people only really think about you from the time you enter their property to the time they have their pizza in their hands. You can pretty much do whatever you want once they're holding the pizza boxes. I have played with and run over dogs, taken naps, stolen cable, and helped myself to the fridge on separate and multiple occasions. There are only two cases in which people know you exist outside of the Enter-premises-to-pizza-handoff window: When you drive like a maniac, and when you screw up. So, say oven-guy forgot a cup of garlic sauce, or someone put regular sausage on the pizza instead of italian sausage. These are, in the mind of pizza consumer, pizza guy's fault, and he should pay dearly. So, pizza guy comes back to pizza consumer's house, uses more gas, and gets no tip. But of course, the double-tip shouldn't be expected (or accepted) when a mistake is made. This is probably in the Pizza Guy Tao if there is one. But I digress.

New Year's Eve is no exception for the lack of consideration for pizza guy, save for when he arrives at your house and you're happily intoxicated to the point of unnecessary sympathy and pity. (I was glad to be a recipient of $10.42 worth of pity from one such customer tonight.) It is perfectly acceptable for you to call and talk to pizza guy one minute before midnight (closing time, or ball-drop/toast/auld lang syne-time tonight) and order your pizza. Or, it is perfectly acceptable to invite pizza guy to your home and belabor him with questions about what it would be like for your son to work there, and how much would he make, and are the co-workers nice, all while Dick Clark slurs the countdown on television.

This is how I rang in the New Year: I was standing in a Grandville family's home, the Mom was putting her driver's license on the check while I watched her teenage kids dive into the pizza, and the countdown blared from the television in the other room. After I heard the last few numbers and then some added enthusiasm from the crowd, I said, "Uh, Happy New Year," and the kids looked up, mouths full of pizza, oblivious that another epoch of history was beginning.

(But really, it's not another epoch. It's just another night, assigned slightly more significance by the Romans a really long time ago. I'm almost always underwhelmed by New Year's Eve parties - hence my willingness to work New Year's - just as I am by birthdays. They mean less when you don't get a cake with a giant candle-number and a roller skating party. And a big wheel.)

Anyway, Mom came back with the check and gave me five bucks. I wanted to leave, but she kept drilling me with questions about whether or not her son would like working for Papa John's. I zoned out, and told her "Happy New Year," then I went back to my car and listened to The Roots while I drove back to the store.

I brought in Sparkly Apple Cider, and Deric, Tiffany, and I toasted the New Year on Central Time. I gave a speech.


Happy New Year, from the guy who takes your orders, makes your pizzas, and brings them to your doorstep. He reeks of gentility and pizza sauce.

One Love.