There are times when I get so wrapped up in what I am doing at the moment, and my own plans and expectations, that I fail to see the bigger picture of what is unfolding around me. I fail to see what I should have seen. Fail to recognize what I should have recognized. I’ll regret my self-centeredness later. Not regretting so much what I did, as regretting what I did not do.
We had just gotten home after being gone on vacation and family reunions for nearly a month. While we were gone, we had asked a contractor to do some work on the roof above our family room. The job was expected to be done before we got home. But some unexpected delays occurred. And when we got home, the job was still in progress.
I was sitting in the living room on our first morning back home. I had my cup of coffee and was working on my computer. The contractor had already come to the house and was up on the roof working. We had known that he’d be coming over early that morning, so when Geoff left for the office he had left the front door unlocked to give the man access to the upstairs if he needed it.
I heard the front door open and looked up. A young girl, maybe 11 or 12 years old, was coming through the door. I didn’t know who she was or why she was here. I stopped what I was working on and looked at her over the top of my computer screen, waiting.
“Oh,” she said, stopping short when she saw me sitting in the living room. “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t know anybody was… Is he here?” She pointed up the stairs.
“I think he’s on the roof,” I said, assuming that it was the contractor she was looking for.
“Okay… thanks,” she said, hesitantly, and backed out the front door, closing it behind her.
I smiled. Only momentarily distracted from my work. Glancing out the front window, I saw her start up the ladder that he had gone up just a little while ago.
Later that morning the contractor came off the roof and poked his head in the front door.
“Sorry about Sarah,” he apologized. “She’s my daughter. She was just bringing me some water.”
It was certainly understandable that in our absence, she had been used to coming and going freely to visit her dad while he worked. She’d undoubtedly been surprised to walk in that morning to what she’d known was an empty house only to find me sitting there. Suddenly, what had been commonplace for her must have felt like trespassing.
I assured him that it had not been a problem, and that I was glad she’d found him.
I never saw her again.
He finished the job, though the work was sporadic. He had apologized for how long it was taking him to finish the roof. He’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer earlier in the summer, he’d explained. He had to fly down to Seattle every couple of weeks for chemo, and then it usually took him a few days to regain the strength to get back up on the roof. He’d smiled then, seemingly accepting of circumstances which were unacceptable.
We had assured him that we were in no hurry to have the roof finished, and to come as he felt able. He’d thanked us. For our understanding. But Sarah, who in our absence from the house had often stopped by to visit her dad and bring him water, never came around again.
We went to his funeral the other night. He had finished the roof. And died a couple weeks later. Not unexpectedly. Just shockingly. We went to the funeral out of respect and appreciation for the man whom we really hadn’t gotten to know much.
Sitting in the front row of the church with her mom and older siblings was Sarah. Sarah, whom I hadn’t seen since the day she’d come uninvited into our living room.
I had already regretted so many times that I hadn’t just gotten up out of my chair that morning, setting my computer and my coffee aside, and gone out after her. To reassure her that she was welcome here, even though we were back. To invite her to come visit her dad any time. It was not a problem.
But I hadn’t gotten up out of my chair that morning. And the opportunity to welcome her had passed. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I hadn’t been rude to her. I had just stopped what I was doing to look at her and wait for her to tell my who she was and why she was walking in my front door. I hadn’t been rude. I just hadn’t been welcoming. I hadn’t said she couldn’t come in. I just hadn’t invited her. I just didn’t do anything that morning to make sure she knew that it was okay to be here. Visiting her dad.
As I sat in the church the night of the funeral the burden of that morning weighed heavily on me. As a regret. Not for anything that I had done. But for what I hadn’t done. For once again being so wrapped up in what I was doing at the moment, my own plans and expectations, that I had failed to see the bigger picture of what was unfolding around me.
penniesonmypath 