​Mistakes

When I was a kid, our family rules were simple: come home when the streetlights go on; don’t hit your siblings; don’t talk back to adults; finish all the food on your plate; and admit when you’re wrong. While this list is not necessarily in order of importance, what my parents expected of me and my five siblings was abundantly clear: do the right thing. And, what happened if we got caught screwing up was also predictable: Say you’re sorry and do everything you can to make it right. 

My twin sister and I were 11 or so when the neighbors who lived three houses down moved out-of-state. Their house had not been well-maintained; therefore, it didn’t sell right away. Vacant for most of the summer, my sister and I and a friend began to use the abandoned property as our personal playground. We practiced cheerleading stunts and batted the volleyball around in the seclusion of their side yard. One thing led to another as things tend to do with curious kids. We discovered an unlatched basement window on the south side of the house.

On a dare – no doubt with the promise of a prized treat like a yard of bubble gum or box of Lemonheads – one of us squeezed through the narrow casement window, dropped to the basement floor and began to explore. Initially, the other two remained outdoors on lookout duty for the mailman, the Realtor, or nosy neighbor one house to the north. The following day, it was a different one of us who braved skimming through the narrow window and sliding to the concrete floor.

By the following week, we threw caution to the wind. With no one on lookout, our trio cavorted through the vacated property, exploring every room on every floor. We peeked in dirty cupboards and dusty closets, noting the heaps of abandoned furnishings and belongings. We left everything as we found it. Our mission was one of curiosity, not destruction or thievery. We commended ourselves on our bravery. The experience was exhilarating.

In the process of crawling out the way we slithered in, one of us lost our footing and a shoe careened into the windowpane. To our horrified ears, the sound of shattering glass seemed to reverberate throughout the neighborhood.

The three of us huddled in the side yard, mulling our options, when a sedan pulled into the driveway. With our escape route effectively cut off, we grabbed our cheer stuff and volleyball, then walked sheepishly towards the Realtor and the home’s new owners. One of us offered the couple an apology for playing ball in their yard, and another pointed out the window we broke. We remained mute about our unsolicited explorations of their new house.

In the end, we fessed up to our parents, pooled our allowance money and paid for the broken glass. The recompense was a relief compared to the admission of wrongdoing. I suppose because we were honest and earnest, my sister and I were asked on numerous occasions to babysit for our new neighbor’s children. To this day, my mother nurtures an ongoing friendship with those neighbors.

As children, it was common enough to make mistakes; we were expected to learn from them. But as adults, it’s often hard to admit our errors, especially if the blunder affects others safety or well-being. I made one of those silly email boo-boos the other day. Instead of forwarding the original email along with my pithy response to a like-minded friend, all of it went to the original sender. I’m still blushing with shame. It was a careless deed, and I spent the better part of an afternoon backtracking, explaining, and apologizing. And as I did this, the childhood escapade I shared above came immediately to mind. Lessons we learn in our formative years are strong and lasting. 

Acknowledging that we are imperfect creatures is one thing. Seeking absolution is the second part of righting a wrong. Yet, why is it that forgiving ourselves is much harder than waiting for others to exonerate us. 

“Mistakes have the power to turn you into something
better than you were before.”
– Anonymous

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