Loss rarely arrives with a warning, but when it comes suddenly and in a wave—three friends gone in a single season—it leaves a specific kind of silence in its wake. For those of us who have moved away, that silence is often filled with the echoes of “I should have.” We live with the comfort of knowing old friends are still “there,” back in the places that shaped us like Little Rock, until suddenly, they aren’t.
The grief of losing someone from a distance is complicated by the geography of our own lives. We find ourselves mourning not just the person, but the lost opportunity to have been there.
Regret is not a single, uniform emotion; it exists in degrees, much like the rings of a tree or the depth of a shadow. We look at an old report card and feel a fleeting sting for a grade that could have been higher or a subject we didn’t master. This is a “twinge”—a soft reminder of a different path, easily dismissed by the reality of the present. Then there is the heavy, “full-fledged” regret that comes with the passing of a friend. It is the realization that the “someday” we promised for a phone call or a visit has officially run out. It feels monumental because it is final.
I often wonder if we carry these weights into the hereafter. If heaven is a place of peace, can regret coexist? Perhaps the divine response is a gentle shedding—an acknowledgment that while we were imperfect in our reach, we are now perfect in our rest. Perhaps God doesn’t just say, “Leave those behind,” but rather shows us that the love we felt was always enough, even when the logistics of life got in the way.
It is easy to be a “Monday morning quarterback” of our own lives. We tell ourselves we should have known they were sick, or we should have sensed the end was near. But friendship, especially long-distance, relies on a shared assumption of permanence. We assume our friends are okay because we need them to be okay. In my case, I think of my old home as a place of comfort not struggle.
The inability to attend a service and pay those last respects feels like a missing period at the end of a long, beautiful sentence. However, “last respects” are rarely about the ceremony itself; they are about the internal altar we build in our memories. Suzy and I can honor them best not by dwelling on the service we missed, but by celebrating the “good times” we shared—the laughter, the history, and the unique light each of them brought into the world.
If regret has a holy purpose, it is to serve as a lesson for the living. It is not a weight to be carried until we buckle, but a compass pointing us toward our future behavior.
To honor those who have joined God, we can choose to reach out to the “old friends” who are still here. Don’t wait for a reason; let the friendship be the reason. Ask the hard questions about health and heart. Move past the “I’m fine” to the truth of how they are doing. Take care of our own health—physical, emotional, and spiritual—so that we can remain present for those who still need us.
In the end, we may not be able to change the silence of the past, but we can certainly change the volume of our love in the present. We live better today because we remember them, and in that way, they never truly leave us.
Webb, on this very day one year ago, a true soulmate of mine passed after a sudden, brief illness. Your writing here absolutely hits home with me, evoking tender emotions and the accompanying hot tears. Thank you for such warm reflection. I shall call my friend’s wife/widow tomorrow on the “day of hearts” and we will just breathe into the phone together for a few moments… she in New Hampshire, and me in South Carolina, the distance you speak of. Oh, how I miss my mentor, confidante, Christian brother, and cheerleader. I could go on, but your words have served as a special sort of therapy. Especially on the anniversary of his death. I am so blessed and thankful to have had Ralph (like your previously mentioned “George”) in my life, and the memories, laughter (his was so unique and contagious), and genuine love he showed me.
Thank you. And I extend my sincerest condolences to you in your losses as well. We will see them again on the other side. Goodnight.
Thanks so much and all the best on this anniversary, I think part of it is that I’m getting of the age where this will happen more and more. Take care. W.