“But what would have been the good?”
Aslan said nothing.
“You mean,” said Lucy rather faintly, “that it would have turned out all right – somehow? But how? Please, Aslan! Am I not to know?”
“To know what would have happened, child?” said Aslan. “No. Nobody is ever told that.”
“Oh dear,” said Lucy.
“But anyone can find out what will happen,” said Aslan.
—C.S. Lewis, Prince Caspian
Each of us has regrets. It’s foolish to say that we don’t. Our lives are full of choices made, chances taken, and risks averted. Frost famously said that his choice to take the path less traveled made all the difference, but what of the other path? Who is to say what could have happened?
Twenty years ago, I made a choice. A rather foolish and selfish choice, too. My older brother, perhaps the only person I’d known in my life who had never lied to me, had never put himself before me, and had often sacrificed himself for me, was getting married. He came to me and asked me to be his best man.
His bride-to-be and I had never seen eye-to-eye on much—and that’s putting it mildly. So I was already not thrilled about the marriage itself. That was before I found out that the wedding was going to be a Jewish wedding, broken glass and yarmulkes included. That was the final straw for me as a young man who was much less religiously tolerant than I am today. I stood firmly on flimsy ground and, in the face everything decent, in a stupid, selfish act of defiance, I said No.
I lived to regret that decision. Although my brother may have forgiven me, I didn’t forgive myself. While I may not have supported the marriage, I should have supported him.
Six years later, I screwed together the courage to ask him to do for me what I had refused to do for him—to be my best man in my own wedding. He didn’t hesitate to tell me yes. In my own small way, asking him to stand next to me was my way of asking for forgiveness without ever actually asking. I think he knew. Brothers are good like that. In some small way, in that moment, things were made somewhat right. But not completely.
This past weekend, however, I finally had my chance to right a wrong from twenty years ago. When my brother mentioned that he had asked the lovely Danger Girl to marry him, I didn’t even wait to be asked. I asked—no, I informed him that I would be his Best Man.
And so it was that I found myself standing in the Valley of Fire bright and early on Sunday morning, standing in the place where I’ve always been—right behind my brother. As I handed over the rings during the ceremony, I felt a sense of peace come over me. Watching my brother stand there, next to the woman he loves, I knew that this time it would last. I knew that, for both of us, this was a sense of redemption. For him, it was a true love, unencumbered by expectation or guilt or rebellion. For me, it was the opportunity to support my brother in the way that he’s always supported me, without judgment or qualification.
At long last, I had managed to do the right thing. And, even if it’s twenty years late, it’s never the wrong time to do that.