It was the fall of 1977. I was 18 years old and had recently moved into my dorm at the Pacific Coast Baptist Bible College in San Dimas, California. I was there to study for the ministry. I wasn't 100% sure which ministry I wanted to pursue but I was leaning toward working with teens.
My dorm housed many of the incoming first year students. My class was the largest ever at the small but growing Bible college. Noel Smith Dorm was the official name of my home for that year but we all affectionately called it "Purgatory."
It was different than all the other dorms on campus, which typically held four students to a room. "Purgatory" resembled an army barracks with multiple rows of bunk beds in each of the three rooms. But I loved it and embraced this new adventure that would help launch me into adulthood.
I quickly got to know a handful of fellow students. I met Tim, who had a striking resemblance to Elvis Presley and would become my best friend at school over the next few years; Chuck, who happened to be from Iowa, which gave us a connection point; and Bobby, who used a ton of hairspray to hold in place his perfectly styled hair and who had perfected the characteristic of "cool," rivaled only by the late actor, James Dean.
There were many others I could mention. Fun guys. Dedicated in their faith, but regular dudes, anxious to see what God had in store for their lives.
Across the room from me was a guy, Brian, who seemed much more quiet and introverted. I remember trying to strike up a conversation with him a couple times but his responses were minimal and he rarely made eye contact.
Each day, the sound of heavy footsteps and labored breathing would signal the conclusion of Brian's daily run as he would come through the doors of Purgatory. He would then pace back and forth in the dorm room as a cool-off technique.
I'd watch him from my bunk and would marvel at the amount of perspiration that man generated on his run. I mean he would be absolutely soaked from head to toe.
One day during that first week of school, as Brian was pacing after a run, in an attempt at humor, I said, "Hey brother, do you just go outside and sit under a sprinkler for awhile to make us think that you are working out?" Brian shot me a glance but didn't say anything. I thought maybe he didn't understand what I said and decided not to repeat myself as he seemed distracted with his routine.
The next day, Brian repeated his pattern... changing into his sweats, going for a run and returning to the dorm to cool down, soaked with sweat. I decided to hit him again with my comedic shtick, "Hey man... where exactly is that sprinkler you sit under everyday?"
Brian immediately stopped his pacing and made a beeline to my bunk. He stooped down, his eyes narrowed, staring a hole right through me and poked my chest as he unloaded.
"Listen! I don't know where you get off with your sarcastic attempt at humor but I don't think you are funny in the slightest! I work my tail off every day while you lay in your bunk, reading a book and eating a Twinkie!" I was hoping he was done but he was just getting started.
"I weighed over 300 pounds in high school and was the object of ridicule every single day! I finally decided to do something about it. I made a commitment to diet and run every single day of my senior year. I've lost over 100 pounds because I work hard at it but you think it's a joke! It's not a joke... it's my lifeline!"
Brian turned around and resumed his pacing.
I froze. I was paralyzed with regret and shame. My eyes welled up as I searched for something to say.
I got up and followed him as he walked back and forth. I apologized... over and over again. Brian ignored my words. Who could blame him? My heart hurt. I felt broken. I was so angry at myself.
It was now clear to see why he was so introverted and detached. He didn't trust his peers. Why should he? And I unknowingly added to his mistrust. What I thought was a funny ice breaker turned out to be another brick in his wall of pain.
That whole first semester, I would feebly attempt to engage Brian in conversation but to no avail. It was clear to see that he had no desire for interaction with me.
That December, we all went home for Christmas break. When we returned in January, Brian's stuff was gone. He had decided that this was not the place for him. I'm sure that there were plenty of factors that played into that decision, as we lost about half of our Purgatory brethren... but I couldn't help but believe that I played a part in it.
This story of regret has stuck with me for all of these 48 years later. But it has taught me some valuable lessons:
1. Read the Room. I didn't really know Brian and his story. Humor can be a great connector but it can also be a great divider if one is not careful. My sense of humor isn't everyone's cup of tea and therefore, I must choose wisely where, how and with whom I use it.
2. Honor Achievement. It is far better to recognize and honor achievement rather than joke about it. Unbeknownst to me, Brian had put in a ton of work and had displayed tremendous self-discipline in his weight loss journey. People, in general, crave recognition and validation... especially for feats of hard work and accomplishment. Give it to them! Be that source of encouragement!
3. Build Relationships. Approach relationships with distinct intentionality. Had I waited and gotten to know Brian better, I may have discovered his backstory. Instead, I thought I was a stand-up comedian and went looking for a laugh... but that's not what I got. My reward was a deep seated regret.
So, have I mastered these lessons? Nope. But I continue to work on myself. I feel like I am more self-aware than ever but still very imperfect.
Regrets... I've had a few.
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