My husband played golf last weekend, his normal weekly outing with a good friend. He took along with him his favorite golf partner from years past, our son Bobby. He attached Bobby’s photo to the visor on the golf cart, sharing with him his disappointments and successes.
“You would have loved that drive off the tee.”
“I know, I know. That chip shot sucked.”
“Stop making fun of my swing.”
Nine holes into the round, an uninvited guest showed up. At first he was subtle, using his golf club to tap Mike gently on the shoulder. Mike ignored him. He was, after all, not invited to the party.
He finally made his presence known by swatting his driver against Mike’s head.
“Your son is gone! You’ll never play golf with him again. He’s dead.” Talk about messing up a golfer’s zone. He was as subtle as a gun.
He’d wait until Mike was teed up to swing, and he’d cough or say something under his breath. At the hole, he’d whisper something rude so Mike would miss the putt.
“Your son shouldn’t have died.”
“Think about all your regrets.”
“You’ll never get another chance to make things better.”
“The doctors screwed up.”
And the worst: “You were a bad father.”
How do you get rid of a tagalong? His leering face sat in the golf cart, anxious to make another nasty comment. He trampled across the green, leaving destruction in his wake.
Mike finally stood his ground and told the guy he wasn’t welcome. He swung his driver in a huge arc, snapping the guy’s head off. It rolled down the fairway and into the woods. A perfect slice. Mike shook himself, then spoke truth.
“Bobby’s days were numbered by God before he was even born. I will see him again in Heaven, and anything I’ve done wrong will be made right. Regrets are a waste of time. Bobby isn’t holding a grudge because he’s been made perfect by our Heavenly Father.”
Take that, tagalong. Fore!