When I think of all the wrong I have done — and continue to do — it makes me feel quite despondent. Yes we have those words of encouragement: “Who despairs of God’s mercy except one who has gone astray?” But still, those memories which fleet across my mind nevertheless cause me to shudder, pangs of regret drawing down over my eyes.
It’s a dreadful feeling when you realise that you were in the wrong. All the more so if for years you told yourself that you were the one who had been wronged. Sometimes it takes years to admit our own mistakes. But sometimes it suddenly hits you, out of the blue, humbling you completely.
When that happens, it seems there are two possible reactions. To fall back into despair, reproaching yourself for all you did, and all that followed afterwards. Or to strive to make amends: to say sorry, for every ill-feeling and thought. The first is to admit defeat; the second takes a courage hard to muster. Which will it be this time?
Last modified: 20 September 2024
