Regret doesn’t come naturally to me. I make a mistake, suffer the consequences, grieve the results, but eventually move on. However, there’s one thing I do wish I had done differently.
Last week, I shared how I shattered a chair in the Czech Republic during my second mission trip to the country. The first was a much larger trip, with a much larger group, including a vacation-day trip to Prague.
That was the first time I appreciated how young my country is, with its stone streets, epic churches, and one of the largest town squares I’ve ever seen. Old Town Square is a historic place in the middle of the city.
It’s the home of the Prague Astronomical Clock, the Gothic Church of Our Lady before Týn, and a memorial plaque explaining how Protestant leaders were executed on the very spot where you stand to read it. However, I will always remember Old Town Square as the place of my life’s regret.
Being tourists for the day, we took photos. Lots of photos. Of things that probably didn’t need to be photographed. As we entered the square, the majority of the group saw one of these then-important but now-forgotten things that needed to be captured in a photo.
Meanwhile, I stood off by myself. It was the early days of my introversion, and I took in the historic scenery. There was the smell of coffee and tobacco from nearby shops, and the sounds of the city center chattering around me. Most of it in a language I couldn’t understand. Most of it, not all.
“Oh, I like that!” It was a girl’s voice in a perfectly Midwestern American accent. Recognizing the words, I looked up. She wasn’t alone. A blonde and a brunette were walking by with bags full from the day’s shopping.
As they walked toward me, it became obvious they had picked up a new activity: checking out the locals in a language they could understand.
“Oh, and I like him. He has nice hair.” Now, at that point in my life, neither of those sentences has likely been said about me, let alone combined. Thankfully, this confusion showed on my face.
“Oh,” the blonde said, catching my stare. “I hope he doesn’t speak English.”
It’s been nearly 18 years. And, to my shame, I must write these words.
I didn’t say a thing. Not a single thing. Not even so much as, “Hi.”
I dropped my head as they walked away. Maybe it was shame, maybe it was wanting to let them disappear. My team was less than gracious when I retold the story.
“What?” I remember one of them shouting.
“Or how about, ‘Not only can I speak English, I am probably from the same region?’” teased one of the leaders.
I can’t remember the exact words, but I can still hear the disappointment.
Perhaps it was for the best. My hair was not good back then, so her judgment is still in question, and I did wind up engaged to my wife within a year of this whole thing happening.
So, no, I don’t care or wonder what might have been.
I just wish I’d had the nerve to say, “Hi.”
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