For What I’ve Done, For What I Haven’t—And Everything In Between

If there is any line during prayers that has made me think for quite some time, it is this: In what I have done and in what I have failed to do.

There are some words, whether in prayers, songs, or poetry, that sit heavy on the tongue, words that feel like stones in the chest. I say them in prayer, over and over, sometimes out of habit. I don’t think much of it. After all, who truly utters every prayer with its full meaning, line by line?

But sometimes, they settle deep inside me. They do not simply pass through my lips. They stay. They press against the edges of my heart, stirring up memories, regrets, and the quiet weight of everything I carry but never speak about. They remind me of the thousand tiny moments that make up my life.

They remind me of my hands, the hands that have held and comforted, but also the hands that have pushed away, hesitated when they should have reached out. They remind me of my voice , the words I have spoken that I can never take back and the words I should have and could have said but never did.

I think of all the moments that have shaped me. Made me who I am. Some memories shine like the sunlight through an open window, all the acts of kindness, moments of courage, times when I chose love, even when it was difficult But others stay with me in a different way.

The moments I hesitated when I should have acted, the times I stayed silent when I should have spoken, the times I convinced myself that someone else would step in. I think about the days when I was too tired, too afraid, or too unsure, and I let the moment pass. And no matter how much time goes by, those moments don’t disappear. They stay, unfinished, like a sentence I never got to complete.

And so, I pray. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault.

Not because I want to drown in guilt, not because I want to carry my failures like stones in my pockets, but because I need to lay them down before God. I need Him to see me as I am—not just the good, not just the moments when I got it right, but the whole, broken, unfinished, struggling version of myself. I need Him to see the weight I carry, the guilt, the hesitation, the failures. Because if I do not lay them down, how will I ever find the strength to stand up again?

I think about the things I have done, both knowingly and unknowingly. The times I have spoken in anger, the times I have turned away from someone who needed me, the times I have acted out of pride or selfishness.

And worse, I think about the things I have failed to do.

There was a day, not too long ago, when someone close to me was breaking in a way I had never seen before. I could see it in her eyes—eyes that once held light but now looked distant, like she was somewhere far away, somewhere I couldn’t reach. She sat there, quiet, smaller than I remembered, like she was trying to take up less space, like she wanted to disappear. She didn’t need answers. She didn’t need me to fix anything. She just needed someone to be there, to sit beside her in the heaviness of it all.

And yet, I hesitated.

I told myself I might say the wrong thing, that maybe she wanted to be left alone, that my words wouldn’t help anyway. So, I swallowed them. I looked at her, I saw her pain, and I did nothing. I let the silence stretch between us, thinking maybe it was kinder that way. Maybe she didn’t need me after all.

But now, I wonder.

I wonder if my silence felt like another door closing. If my hesitation felt like another reason to believe no one would stay. If, in trying not to hurt her, I only made her feel more alone.

And I have carried that moment with me ever since. I wonder if my silence was another weight added to her chest, another reason she felt alone. I wonder what might have happened if I had just sat with her, just listened, just held space for her pain instead of running away from it , like everyone else.

This is what haunts me, not just the things I have done, but the things I have failed to do.

And it is not just the big things. It is the small, everyday moments, the ones that slip through my fingers before I realize how much they mattered.

The old man outside the church, his hands stretched out, never demanding, not even expecting, just hoping. I saw him. I had money in my pocket. I had food in my bag. Yet I walked past him.

The boy in the cafeteria, sitting alone, staring at his tray like the food didn’t belong to him. I noticed the way he hesitated before reaching for his sandwich, like he was used to going without. The way he kept his head down, hoping no one would notice. I had an extra snack in my bag, something small, something I wouldn’t even miss. I thought about offering it, about sitting next to him, about saying something—anything. But I didn’t. I told myself he wouldn’t want my pity, that maybe someone else would help, that maybe it wasn’t my place. So I looked away. And he ate in silence. I have told myself so many times that I am just one person, that my kindness is too small, that my help is insignificant. I have stood in front of people who needed something—comfort, a kind word, a helping hand—and I have thought, someone else will step in. Someone stronger, someone wiser, someone who knows what to say. And so, I did nothing.

And it is not just me. It is all of us. We live in a world where suffering is everywhere, where injustice is everywhere, where people are crying out for help in a million different ways. And we walk past. Not because we do not care, but because we are tired, because we are afraid, because we convince ourselves that someone else will step in.

But if we all think like that, then nothing will ever change. If we all wait for someone else, then no one moves. No one speaks. No one helps. And the world stays exactly as it is—full of suffering, full of silence, full of people who meant to do good but never did.

I think about history, about all the times people stood by while injustice happened, while cruelty continued, while suffering grew. We often like to tell ourselves that we would have been different, that we would have been the ones to fight back, to speak up, to help. But would we? Think about it .

There is suffering now. There is injustice now. There are people who need us now.

And what do we do?

I pray, Lord, have mercy on me. For what I have done, and for what I have failed to do.

I pray not just for forgiveness, but for strength. Because guilt is not enough. Regret is not enough. Knowing where I have gone wrong is not enough. I need the courage to change. I need the courage to do better, to love more, to act when it is easier to turn away.

God does not want us to live drowning in guilt. He does not want us to be crushed under the weight of our mistakes. He wants us to grow. He wants us to turn our regrets into wisdom, to turn our hesitation into action, to take everything we have failed to do and use it as an example to do better.

I think about Jesus, about the way He lived. He did not hesitate. He did not turn away. He did not make excuses. He loved—fully, completely, at all times. Even when it was difficult. Even when it cost Him everything.

And that is what I want. That is the kind of person I want to be. I want to be someone who acts. Someone who does not let fear stop them from speaking up. Someone who does not let doubt stop them from helping. Someone who loves in a way that is real, in a way that matters.

So here I am, Lord. With all my failures, with all my regrets, with all the things I have done and all the things I have left undone.

Take these hands and teach them to serve. Take this heart and teach it to love. Take my regrets and turn them into something good.

For what I have done, I ask for mercy. For what I have failed to do, I ask for courage. And for what I will do next, I ask for grace.Because the world does not need people who only feel guilty. It needs people who are willing to change. It needs people who will see the suffering and do something about it. It needs people who will not turn away.

And I pray, with everything in me, that I can be one of them.