Is it possible to live without regrets? Probably not. All of us are pros at looking backwards and playing rounds of would-have, could-have and should-have. Regret comes naturally. The trick is facing forward to play the would-do, could-do and should-do game.

When I think of Nate, particularly of his last year as he suffered so much back pain and then cancer pain, I often wonder if he had regrets. I can’t imagine he did, because in my opinion, he suffered well, taking the high road and carrying his miserable assignment without complaint.

As for me, I have a bucket full of regrets and if-only’s. I try not to play those games, but sometimes they taunt me like a school yard bully.

I think often of my mom, who was a fun-loving, happy-go-lucky person who worked hard and had hundreds of friends. Her funeral was SRO, unusual for a 92 year old woman, the room (and hall and lobby) filled with a crowd of mourners much younger than she. They were people a generation and sometimes two behind her on whom she’d had a profound impact. She was young at heart and in thought, influencing lives of all ages.

I was lucky enough to spend every Saturday evening with mom during the last year of her life. We’d eat, watch TV, play games, laugh, pray, and make plans for the future. One Saturday we found ourselves talking theology. She was in her “Genesis Phase,” digging deep into the first few chapters of the Bible for several months straight. Somehow we got onto the subject of living life without regrets (probably talking about Eve).

I asked mom, “How about you? Do you have any regrets?” This woman had won awards, taught the Bible, led committees, entertained thousands, evangelized neighborhoods, tended to the elderly, babysat unnumbered children, made friends in high places and lived life to the fullest.

She didn’t answer my question right away but seemed lost in thought. Finally she responded. “My whole life is one big regret.”

I couldn’t believe my ears, this coming from a woman who was the role model for hundreds. “What?” I said. “You’re kidding!”

Words of praise rushed from my mouth like water from a fire hose, and I spent the next ten minutes listing reasons why she shouldn’t have any regrets. She continued to look out the window and shake her head just enough for me to notice. I changed the subject, hoping to pull her from the doldrums of the moment. Today I regret filling the air with compliments. If I’d asked for more of her thoughts, I might have learned something.

Mom died in 2005, and I’ve had five years to reflect on her comment. I think she had gleaned so much about the Lord in her studying and praying that she genuinely knew she hadn’t measured up and never could. All the would-haves, could-haves and should-haves she might have accomplished couldn’t even come close.

She had long ago stopped comparing herself to other people and what they’d accomplished, and by then was comparing herself only to Jesus Christ and what he’d accomplished. In her judgment, she’d been “weighed in the balance and found wanting.” (Daniel 5:27)

The fact that I had made a major effort to talk her out of her somber self-assessment proved the shallow depth of my own spiritual understanding. Mom had been attending God’s school of wisdom for 92 years and was finally at the head of the class, but I was trying to coax her to the back row. Examining her life and “landing low” was her arrival at genuine humility. God was nodding his approval and making big plans to lift her up

“Grieve, mourn and wail. Change your laughter to mourning and your joy to gloom. Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up.” (James 4:9-10).

When Nate and I got married in 1969, we owned next-to-nothing but had high expectations for future possessions. For a while we were content with hand-me-down furniture, dishes and linens, but when Nate got his first lawyering job, we felt our ship had come in.

After saving for seven months, we went shopping for a few pieces of furniture to outfit our small apartment in a second story Chicago walk-up. By the end of that day, we’d ordered eight items, one being an enormous executive desk for Nate. It had a black leather top, deep drawers for file folders and attractive oak detailing. A high-backed, black leather chair on wheels made the set-up look downright regal.

This was a desk that should have been shipped to the White House, not an old apartment on the north side. The salesman must have been chuckling on the inside as we signed the papers and wrote the check.

For a year or two, Nate sat behind his impressive desk whenever he worked at home. Eventually we moved to the suburbs to raise our family, living in three houses over 37 years and paying extra to have the giant desk moved to each new address. Four men were needed to maneuver it, and house design determined where it could be placed.

As time passed, Nate sat at his desk less and less. He preferred working from an old couch just off the kitchen, near the coffee pot and all the action. Watching his stately desk sit unused for years, I finally asked if I could store household items in its drawers. Nate had long since separated himself from the fantasy image of becoming a big shot and was happy to let me take it over. Our little kids used its foot well as a fort and the swivel chair to play spinning games.

When it came time to move to Michigan last spring, my goal was to empty the house of half of all we owned, including the contents of every cabinet, drawer, closet, the garage and our furniture. After all, we were moving to a much smaller cottage that was already full.

I was enthusiastically giving away, throwing away, doing away with our belongings at a fast clip when I came to a screeching halt in front of the mega-desk. After trying to coax a resale shop to take it, trying to sell it at a house sale and asking all the friends we knew if they might want it, moving day was fast approaching, and I was in panic mode. We asked the new owners if they could use it, but they had no interest. Donating it to charity didn’t work, and finally time was up.

The day before we moved, I called the movers and asked if they wanted it. Fearing they’d say no, I pictured myself paying someone to haul it away as junk. I asked myself, “Why did we ever buy this monstrosity?” Our foolish visions of grandeur had deteriorated into a major predicament, and in the end, the desk had become a burden to carry.

Finally the moving guy called back and said, “I’ll take it, provided it’s free.” He and his crew came the day before the move and hauled it away, along with its chair. I thanked them for the favor.

Pride comes before a fall, and thankfully it was the desk that fell… from high regard. It had become like a museum piece plunked down in the middle of a playground, not good for much of anything. Although we paid a hefty price for it, in the end we could barely give it away.

”Jesus said to them, ‘Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions’.” (Luke 12:15)

Nate ran his life with Post-It notes. After we learned about his cancer, his note writing increased exponentially, partly because he had more time on his hands and partly because so many of his thoughts had “URGENT” flashing above them.

As the cancer spread, Post-Its piled up next to his lazy-boy, bringing unwelcome pressure with their presence. Although he kept writing almost till the end, he stopped reading his own notes half way through the six weeks. When that happened, I began removing the older notes, leaving the fresher ones for him to keep in his shirt pocket or hold in his hand.

Although his script had always been difficult to read, gradually it changed from the familiar, loopy hand of healthy days to an illegible chicken scratch. But God was merciful. As Nate wrote to himself, he seemed to know what the markings meant, never noticing the deterioration of his own writing.

Today I took all 115 Post-Its from those 42 days and spread them on the bed. Most were dated, making it easy to put them in order. As I read each one, the story of my husband’s journey from diagnosis to death was staring back at me.

The beginning notes were a mix of office reminders, days and times for doctors appointments and single word questions: “Back surgery 9/28. Dr. Mace 2:00. Stomach ache. Ulcer?”

On September 14 he wrote, “Melson. 1:35 pm, tumor on pancreas, lesions on liver, ultrasound.”

As I read Nate’s private impressions of his dilemma, my eyes filled with tears. Medical terminology popped up more and more between client phone numbers and court dates. One Post-It said, “Difficult road.” Another simply said, “Help.”

He listed bills that needed paying and people who needed to be told of his cancer. Nate’s brother Ken’s name appeared again and again, sometimes just his initials, a much loved friend continually on his mind.

Among the notes was his last commuter train ticket and a receipt from Panda Express. We’d shared a lunch there just before learning about his cancer. He also saved the parking pass from the hospital garage that same day. These bits of paper were a hold on our pre-cancer reality, because what we heard from the doctors about our future couldn’t possibly be true, could it?

One note included a list of doctor questions for our next meeting: “Life expectancy? Parameters? Time frame? Stronger meds?” At the bottom was a concern for Hans and Katy who were trying to get passport and visa issues cleared to come from England: “Hans, letter.” Nate asked the doctor that day to write a letter indicating it was urgent his son be allowed to come soon.

Another Post-It detailed personal documents he wanted to find, and at the very bottom he penned the word “bad”. His experience was so hurtful it couldn’t help but come out the end of his pen.

As I studied each note, tears plopping on them, I came to a square that simply said, in the strong, round letters of a young person, “I love you, Papa.” The timing was good, because immediately after that came Nate’s note with the words “Breath. Panic. Drowning. Urped up. Not good.” The lung tumor was pressing, making it hard to breathe.

Another note listed “Car title. Electric dog fence. Several phone numbers,” and the words, “No fun.” Nate never complained about his constant pain. He’d ask for meds but didn’t whine or express self-pity. At the bottom he wrote, “Trust and obey.”

Eventually there were no more business reminders, only medical events and terms: “Call dr. Cotton mouth. Chapped lips. Panic? Panic. Tests? Results?” Reading these notes, I’m newly impressed with the courage he displayed.

Nine days before he died, he wrote, “40^th Roma.” He knew we couldn’t do much on our anniversary but wanted to do something. With the way he felt, I can’t imagine sitting in a pizza restaurant, but as always, he was putting me first. At the bottom he wrote the word “expectations”. I wish I knew what he’d been thinking.

On his last legible note, barely readable, are the words “Margaret Nyman. Blog.” But I’ll never know what he wanted to tell me.

“Many are the plans in a man’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.” (Proverbs 19:21)