Returning to Mercy

One of the phrases I heard most often during chaplaincy training was surprisingly simple: "No should-haves here."

At first, it felt almost impossible. Every time I reflected on a difficult patient encounter, a family meeting, or a situation that hadn't gone the way I hoped, I found myself saying: "I should have asked a different question." "I should have stayed longer." "I should have known what to say."

And almost every time, one of my supervisors or fellow chaplains would gently interrupt. "No should-haves here."

At first, I thought they were correcting my language. Over time, I realized they were trying to teach me something much deeper.

The phrase "should have" keeps us living in a past that no longer exists. It assumes we knew then what we know now. It assumes we had information we didn't actually have. It assumes we were stronger, wiser, calmer, or more prepared than we really were. Most of all, it assumes that we should have been something other than human.

The truth is, many of us carry entire collections of should-haves. I should have spoken up. I should have seen it coming. I should have handled that differently. I should have been a better parent. A better spouse. A better friend. A better Christian. A better pastor. A better person. And the list goes on.

The trouble is that "should have" rarely teaches us anything new. Most of the time, it simply reopens old wounds. It keeps us replaying moments we cannot change. It asks us to carry burdens that were never ours to carry forever.

One of the gifts of mercy is that it invites us back into the present. Mercy doesn't deny mistakes. Mercy doesn't pretend that nothing happened. Mercy simply asks a different question.

Instead of: "What should I have done?" Mercy asks: "What was true for me in that moment?" What did I know? What didn't I know? What was I carrying? What was I afraid of? What was I doing the best I could with?

I have sat with enough people through grief, illness, and loss to know that almost everyone carries some version of "should have." It often appears when we are hurting. It often arrives after the fact. And it speaks with a voice far harsher than God's.

The older I get, the more I suspect that God's voice sounds less like accusation and more like compassion. Less like "Why didn't you?" And more like "Tell me what happened." Less like judgment. And more like understanding.

Perhaps that is why mercy matters. Not because it changes the past. But because it changes the way we carry it.

This week, I invite you to notice your own should-haves. Not to argue with them. Not to push them away. Simply to notice them.

And when one appears, perhaps try replacing it with a gentler question: "What grace might I offer myself here?"

Because if there are no should-haves in chaplaincy training, perhaps there is room for fewer should-haves in the rest of life as well.