Rewriting the Script

Have you ever experienced buyer's remorse? You bought something on impulse—a sweater, a power tool, a household gadget—then after bringing it home you realized it was overpriced and you really didn't need it. Or worse, you overextended your budget on a big-ticket item like a house or a car, and you feel the pangs of buyer's remorse every time you make your monthly payment.

Regret comes in many forms. According to dermatologists, Americans are experiencing record levels of tattoo remorse. A young woman realizes that having her current boyfriend's name tattooed on her ankle wasn't a good idea when her infatuation fades but the tattoo doesn't. A young man decides it's cool to have the name of his favorite rock band permanently inscribed on his arm—only to discover at the age of 30 that the band has disbanded but his tattoo lives on. Increasing numbers of tattoo wearers are opting to remove them through laser surgery, dermabrasion ("sanding" the skin), and surgical excision where the surgeon removes the tattoo with a scalpel and closes the wound with stitches.

If you have painful memories tattooed on your mind, the damage is difficult to repair. Remember the time you made a thoughtless comment, and you regretted the words as soon as they came out of your mouth? Remember the friend who was sick and you failed to call, or the relationship you neglected and now there's distance where there used to be warmth?

Is it possible to live without remorse?

After authoring hundreds of magazine articles and several books, I have come to appreciate the value of rewriting. It's a painful discipline. In less than an hour I can type out a rough draft of my column. Sometimes the words flow freely and initially I feel good about what I've written. I've learned, however, to set the work aside for further review. When I revisit the article a day or two later, it's amazing how many words need to be changed. I use a red pen for my editorial corrections, and it's not unusual for the first draft that initially looked so good to be covered with red ink the next day. Rigorous editing—cutting, rewording, challenging every phrase—that's the only way to become a better writer. And it's the only way to avoid the pain of writer's remorse—seeing something in print forever that could have been better if you'd simply taken the time to rewrite.

The worst kind of remorse, though, isn't writer's remorse or buyer's remorse. It's “diers’” remorse. When I'm dying, I don't want to regret wasting my life on frivolous pursuits. I don't want to realize I have neglected the people and the causes dearest to my heart. When I'm dying, I don't want to be in doubt about my relationship with God or my eternal destiny.

The key is to rewrite the script on a daily basis. I can't take back yesterday's hurtful words, but I can apologize sincerely and do better in my conversation next time. I can't remove the pain of relational damage I have caused, but I can make a fresh effort to love my enemies and to reconcile with anyone open to my friendship. I can't undo my past sins, but I can repent and confess them, knowing that "Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret" (2 Corinthians 7:10).

Christ alone can free us from the burden of remorse. For when the Lord rewrites the script he doesn't write it with the red pen of judgment, but with his crimson blood, which makes all things new.