How I Learned Compassion

I was asked a question on twitter last week: How did you learn compassion?

This is my full answer. 

When I was a little girl, I loved to play frisbee with my grandpa.

He and grandma had three acres of land on the outskirts of Ellisville, Mississippi where my grandpa taught calculus, trigonometry, and electronics at the local junior college. He was the kind of professor who had the students over for a cook-out at the end of each semester.

Most weekends during my early childhood you could find me at their house, looking through Grandpa's voluminous collection of Readers Digest, watching Shirley Temple movies, raking leaves with garden gloves that swallowed my elbows, and playing frisbee with my mom, sister, and grandpa.

I wish I could paint a picture of my grandpa for you. Though it is not particularly pertinent to the story, he is a part of me. His laugh and his smile are the first things I think of. Followed by the distinct, South Dakota/second generation German accent, that most noticeably rings out when he is arguing with a political pundent on TV. He served two terms in Vietnam and retired from the Air Force, never completing the doctorate he worked so hard to almost, never finish. He is smart. Very smart. And yet he never felt rough or stoic or distant, like some men in the military do. He is soft around the edges. But opinionated. Loud when he's passionate. Funny when something tickles him. And most importantly, he's the kind of guy that can be every man's friend.

Did I mention he played for the Red Sox's farm league (later known as minor leagues) before he was drafted?

His tightly curled hair has been on his head for as long as I can remember. I didn't know that picks, the kind you use in your hair, were owned by any one other than Grandpa's. With his curly head of hair, knee-high socks, and shorts left over from the heyday of the 70's- he taught me how to play frisbee.

At night, I loved to sit at the table and hear him talk back to the news anchors. Somebody in Washington was always screwing up something. Then- someone on Wheel of Fortune was always stupid. "My God Jennifer. What are they teaching you kids? Can you believe this man- how does he not know the answer to the seven letter word?" He would laugh and sigh, almost simultaneously. When I was older and living three states away, I often had to call him for help with my math, and I could feel the same sigh. "What do you mean they haven't taught you how to divide fractions? How the hell are you supposed to graduate high school if you can't divide fractions? This education system has to be fixed Jennifer. Unbelievable. Really. Ok- well, tell me what you do know."

It was never much. What I did know. Still, he sat on the phone and taught me until he literally could not handle my stupidity anymore. He never called me stupid and I never felt that way. But I could hear his disappointment in public education every time another idiot drove the wrong way, passed the wrong bill in congress, or failed at dividing fractions.

I got the feeling that if he were in charge of things- well- we'd all be less stupid as a result from it.

***

With that in mind, 25 years later, I am even more struck by the beauty of what he did with his free time- for as long as I can remember.

Grandpa would go down to the Howard Industries plant in Laurel, Mississippi every week and teach grown men to read and write. To do basic math. To balance their check books. He never missed. And he always picked up extra volunteer shifts if a colleague couldn't make it. It was important to him- and he honored the men with his time for years and years and years.

To the uneducated factory worker- he became friend. Teacher. Mentor. And most importantly, advocate. He taught them as grown men should be taught. With dignity. Privacy. And respect.

I would venture to say that not a single man who spent time as a student under my grandpa ever felt less than. I would say they felt empowered. Stronger. Smarter. More capable. And accepted.

This man who yelled at the idiots on T.V. and constantly worried about the state of public education, did more than rant against the problems he saw in the world. He was- instead- a man of compassion. 

He saw a problem. Over 1,000 grown men and fathers down the street couldn't read. The problem stirred something deep within him. And he acted upon it- hoping to play a small role in bringing about change.

And this is my first memory of seeing compassion.

***

Merriam-Webster says compassion is the sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it.

Wikipedia defines it as a virtue — one in which the emotional capacities of empathy and sympathy (for the suffering of others) are regarded as a part of love itself.

The Christian Bible records Jesus telling several stories in which a person showing compassion to another, is a reflection of God's own character. An act of love that trumps social mores or even what one deserves- compassion- is said by Christ himself to be the way to inherit eternal life. (Luke 10:25-37; Luke 15: 20-32; 1 Corinthians 13:13)

***

Compassion.

I know it deep within me better than I know myself; I understand it more clearly than I understand my closest friends, my husband, my own daughter. When I have failed at everything else, stained my conscience, lost my way, or absorbed myself in utter selfishness- compassion still seems to be there, at work inside of me. Despite me. A rusty compass, sometimes covered up under heaps of dirt, but still working, still pointing to true north; compassion has been my ever constant companion. With me since I was a little girl.

***

It did not come through osmosis. I was not born compassionate. I did not take a class that taught me to deeply empathize and act on behalf of someone else who was suffering.

No.

I learned compassion, by watching compassion. 

Through my grandpa. My mom. My dad. My papaw. People in the church and people outside of the church. I could write a book on the acts of compassion I have seen during my life time. And the book would be at least 1,000 pages long.

***

I see it everyday with Annie. She says something that completely surprises me. Like, "Mom, when I grow up. Someday I'm gonna drive a car. And I'm gonna drive fast." Or, "Mom, I'm a nice doctor, you don't have to worry, but you do have to obey." Or, "Mom, was I a good friend to him, because I tried to be a good friend?"

I find myself asking Annie nearly everyday, "WHO TAUGHT YOU THAT?!?"

She absorbs everything. And I am a firm believer that what you absorb, you become- or at least become to a degree. Somebody is teaching Annie the way that somebody taught me. We are all being taught. And we are all teachers.

And I believe that somewhere in the process of seeing compassion lived out- we learn it. And it lingers within us.

So be it compassion, grace, forgiveness, anger, hate, idolatry, laziness, etc. we are all learning from one another. We either teach one another love and beauty or we teach one another hate and selfishness.

I am grateful to have watched- and learned- compassion from so many, many people.

***

As I began thinking about this entry, I tried to remember the first time I saw compassion in my life. My grandpa came to my mind first. And my second memory of seeing compassion was with him too.

As my sister and I would play frisbee with grandpa, I would inevitably step in a huge antbed and be covered within seconds. And he would inevitably scream at my grandma, "Dammit Ellie the ants got Jennifer again, I need the gas can!" and at that my grandma magically appeared with an old rusty can of gasoline and a new sweat band for grandpa. We stopped the game and he would go on a hunt for new antbeds that needed to be destroyed. I sat on the swing with mom and rested. Grandma fixed us drinks. But my sister Melissa- with every ounce of angst in her body, threw herself at the antbeds to protect them from the gasoline.

When that didn't work- she stuck sticks in and let the ants crawl all the way up the sticks to her fingers and moved them to a new home. No ants were going to be poisoned to death on her watch. And I watched her thinking- she is so weird. 

Now, when I think about "compassion" I smile as I remember that "weird" sister.

I didn't know it then, but she was teaching me what compassion looks like.

Even if it was with ants.

Beginning of The Becoming

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My water broke in a parking garage.

I was on a band trip.  About to play a really important show. The guys were unloading gear from the van, but I could feel the baby- heavy inside of me- and my water broke.

Ryan was frustrated. Really? We traveled all this way for a show and your water breaks before we get a chance to play? Can you just hold it in, Jen? The other guys were indifferent. They kept unloading gear like nothing had even happened. Like they didn’t notice I was standing in a puddle of water.

But they did notice, they just didn’t care. It was almost like- yeah, your water broke. But you live long enough lady and everyone has their water break. I’ve had mine break. 

They kept doing what they were doing and I was puzzled. Didn’t they see what was happening? Didn’t they understand? The baby is coming. 

In that moment, something happened in my heart that I had never experienced. I felt like I was in my own world. One laced with more beauty, excitement, hope, and anticipation than I had ever known before. I felt myself glowing. There was a deep joy oozing out of me that I had never known. I could feel it in my fingertips and my toes and deep in my belly.

No one else existed. Just us. I had never wanted to give birth so bad in my life.

Hours later I was at the hospital. Pushing. Sweating. In so much freaking pain that I think I was biting Ryan’s arm.

***

And then I woke up.

Covered in sweat. Heart pounding. Body sore. As if I had really been pushing. Ryan laying next to me, sound asleep. Annie down the hall.

I woke up in my quiet, peaceful home. I could hear the clock ticking in the living room. The hum of the air conditioner. The birds outside my window. It was dawn. And I was deeply aware that there was nothing in my belly.

I wasn’t in labor. I wasn’t even pregnant. And what was worse, the dream ended before I delivered. I didn’t even get to find out if it was a boy or a girl.

Tears began to steam down my face. I felt such loss and sorrow. What a cruel trick. Why did I have to wake up mid-labor? I laid there and desperately wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl.  Couldn’t I have that much?

Blue or pink. Football or ballet. Bloody knees or bloody drama. Why let a girl dream that kind of dream and not get to see the end?

Ryan woke up to my whimpers.

“What’s wrong baby? Are you ok?”

“I just almost had a baby. I mean like really almost had the baby in my dreams. I’m covered in sweat and my stomach hurts from pushing. And you didn’t want my water to break and the guys didn’t care. And I was in the hospital biting you and screaming in pain,” and then the tears really came, “I- I- I- didn’t even get to have the baby. I don’t even know if it was a boy or a girl,” I was sobbing. In a little ball in my bed- at 6:00 a.m.- mourning the baby I didn’t give birth to in my dreams.

This is how every man wants to be woken up in the morning.

“But Jen- you don’t even want to have another baby.”

“I know, I didn’t think I wanted another baby. But what if we are supposed to? I mean, what if the dream was a sign? I don’t know. It really seemed like I was having a baby...”

“Ryan- I was so happy in the dream. Something was beaming deep inside of me. There was this deep deep joy. I can’t explain it. But I’ve never felt anything like it before in my life. It made me want to have a million babies. I knew that what was happening was holy. Waking up and it not being real- not even knowing if I had the baby- whether it was a boy or girl- I don’t know. I feel heart broken.”

“It was just a dream Jen. It’s ok. We don’t need to decide whether we should have another baby at 6:00 a.m. after a bad dream. You should get up. Have coffee and read before Annie wakes up. Clear your head.”

This sounded like a good idea. But all I could think about was the fact that coffee is really bad for the baby. You know- the baby I wasn’t actually pregnant with.

***

This is about the time I would encourage most people to go see a therapist. Lord knows I’ve seen my share of them.

My soul was frazzled. Not just by the dream, but by the season in life that seemed to churn me up and spit me out three counties over, mangled, in a river I didn’t know.

So I decided to go talk to someone. I needed some serious soul therapy. Except this time, instead of seeing a therapist, I decided I wanted to see a spiritual director. My mom had been seeing a spiritual director for years and had always encouraged me to go, but I always turned her down, because- what the heck is a spiritual director?!? 

Sounded like some sort of voodoo doctor to me.

But for some reason, after the dream, I knew something deep was going on and I needed more than coping mechanisms that a therapist would teach me; I needed someone to help me examine my soul. So I called him.

A spiritual director, I have now come to understand, is not a voodoo doctor at all. Having a spiritual director is like having a guide. Someone who sits with you, listens to you, asks you questions and helps you to see how God has generally spoken to you in the past so that you can better understand how God might be speaking and moving within you in the present. Basically- a person that helps you define God’s voice and prompting in your life.

I’ve always felt a sense of nakedness when sitting with a counselor or therapist. Being with a spiritual director made me feel a little more naked than I ever imagined I could feel. You’re not just bearing your bad habits, family feuds, or strange voices in your head... you’re telling someone how the invisible, omni-present, creator of the universe talks to you. And that’s just weird.

“So,” he said, “What has God been speaking to you lately?”

I couldn’t think of anything. Not one single thing.

“How has he spoken to you in the past? Through music? Being outside? Reading scripture? When do you remember really hearing his voice or feeling God’s presence?”

Nothing. I had felt dry for so long, I was having a hard time remembering. And, I was basically convinced that God wasn’t talking to me anymore, anyways. I was in his access of evil.

“What are you dreaming about Jenny? At night. What have your dreams been about?”

***

“My dreams? Who told you I was dreaming? How did you know?”

I sat there, thumbing the coffee cup in my hand not wanting to tell him- not wanting to know what he might make of it. Not wanting to sound too crazy.

“I’ve been having crazy dreams. For a few weeks now. Nearly every night, I wake up midway through labor. Heartbroken that I have not had a baby. But I don’t want another baby. In the dream I am deliriously happy though. I cannot wait to give birth to this child.  And then?  Nothing. I wake up covered in sweat, with cramps in my stomach, as if I am contracting, and I realize I am not in labor at all. Nothing is coming out of my body. And I’m laying there with tears rolling down my face wondering why the baby I don’t want isn’t coming. I guess I am supposed to have another baby? Only- I really thought I was done.”

***

He let my words settle in the air. And we sat in silence.

"Jenny, has it ever occurred to you that God might be trying to talk to you in your dreams? That he might be giving you a name for this season in your life?"

"Here’s what I see. A girl who is going through major life changes. A girl who is transitioning from what always was into unchartered territory. A girl who, perhaps, must have a season of gestation- a season of waiting- while new things grow. Jenny, what if you are not supposed to have a baby at all? What if these dreams are there to show you that you are in labor? About to give birth to something new? And you wake up heartbroken because, in the dream, you don’t know how it ends yet. You want to see whether it’s a boy or a girl. But it’s not time yet. You are not ready to deliver yet. But you are pregnant. That’s the important part. You are pregnant with something new, and beautiful, and kicking and tossing and turning... you’re just not ready to give birth yet. Your water hasn't broken yet.

***

It was a moment where the words of truth are spoken and an explosion of life and clarity come rushing back into your soul after a long winter of silence.

***

We spent the next hour talking about what it was like to be nine months pregnant.

It was miserable as a matter of fact.

I was so fat I could barely feel my fingertips or my toes. I tossed and turned in my sleep. And with every movement Annie made in my belly, I was convinced that this must be the beginning of labor. I would wait, with nervous anticipation for the contractions to start. Hours later I would be disappointed and frustrated to find out that it was just gas.

Nine months pregnant is the longest waiting game ever.

And, it’s a lonesome waiting game. As much as your partner wants to be there for you, there are places he can’t be. He didn’t feel Annie’s fingers tickling the inside of him. He couldn’t feel her toes, wiggling around; her legs kicking, fighting for more space. He didn't feel the hiccups or know when she woke up and when she went to sleep. So he couldn't fully understand the rise and fall of my heart every time I thought my little person was coming.

Waiting games can be so lonely.

You can’t rush it. You can’t make it happen any sooner than it’s going to happen. You are convinced that the thing you want to happen so badly is going to happen any second. And yet the minutes tick by. The hours tick by. The days tick by. You busy yourself and try to not think about the thing that you so desperately want to see. You try and give it space. You try and live like you are not living in-between. Like you are not becoming. Because you are tired of becoming already! You are ready to be becomed!

You have endured a long season of complete change and you are so close to answers. You are so close to seeing the end, so close to giving birth to something new, so close to the next chapter of life...

and yet you are still, so friggin’ pregnant.

***

This is how I came to realize that I was in the in between.

This was the beginning ofthe becoming.

Needless to say- I spent months seeing so many pregnant things that it almost became funny. Outside my apartment window a bird made a nest and laid four eggs. This only became humorous after I had the lightbulb moment that I myself was nesting something in my soul. Annie and I went searching for other birds nest's because I found it rather strange that a bird would camp out by my bedroom window to have babies. We didn’t find a single nest in our whole apartment complex! And day after day- I would dream about being pregnant at night and wake up hoping the darn birds had hatched already; as if their hatching would be the gateway to mine. 

(Ryan was really worried the birds would hatch and then be eaten by a dog or thrown around by a neighbor kid. He would always say, “Jen, you know a lot of birds don’t make it after they’re born. I just want you to be prepared for that. If these birds die, that doesn’t mean you are going to give birth to something that dies too. It just means- well you know- birds die.”)

My world became inundated with writings, people, scripture, movies, even critters who were pregnant with new; but not yet laboring. As if God were out to prove some master lesson that all things must endure being nine-months-pregnant before laboring and giving birth to something new. 

My soul was nine months pregnant. My life was nine months pregnant. My future was nine months pregnant.

Waiting for labor to begin.

Waiting to give life to something new.

Waiting.

Dexter

Someone recently left a comment asking if I would please give an update on my homeless friend, Dexter. First of all, I am admittedly too lazy right now to go back and find out your name, but to you who asked, thank you. I care deeply for Dexter; I am honored that you would care for him as well; and I believe you sparked a small miracle.

I hadn't seen Dexter since the fall. I saw him quite a bit last summer, but then he started showing up less and less. He told me he couldn't handle my neighborhood because, "too many rich ladies stop and try to take care of me." I love that answer. It still makes me smile; it reminds me that at our core, we humans are still kind and empathetic and not nearly as oblivious and selfish as we sometimes claim to be.

Anyways, early fall, Dexter went away and didn't come back. For weeks I drove the parking lots looking for him. And when I hopped on the tour bus for our two month tour, I asked my friends Becca and Sara to keep an eye out for him. Sara called a few times, thinking she had spotted him, but as she described the man, I knew it wasn't my Dexter. In November I began searching for him. Calling homeless shelters. Trying to track down someone at the dialysis clinic that could give me information on him. No one could help me because it broke confidentiality rules. And I understood that. Still- I just needed to know if he had died.

December began a tumultuous soul-searching time for Ryan and I. Dexter went to the background- and though my eyes were always scanning for him- I sort of gave up. In my heart, I knew I needed to let go. I tried calling around to the Salvation Army shelters a few more times in the late spring and then called it quits.

You, blog-friend-commenter, brought him back to my mind. As soon as I read his name, my heart started burning again. I wanted so badly to find him. Mind you- not because I can fix any of his problems- I can't- but because I told him he was my friend and I meant it.

I can't fix him, but I can sit with him in the parking lot and let him watch Annie smile and laugh and get him food and be good company.  I thought about Dexter all day after reading your inquiry. (I suppose maybe my soul was praying for an encounter though I was not even aware that I was in a state of prayer.) And then, that afternoon when I least expected it (because I was tired and I had a million things to do and I had a fussy Annie in the back seat)...

there he was, in the chick-fil-a parking lot.

The same place I met him the very first day. There he was. This time, not slouched over like the many times before, but sitting up a bit more straight in his chair. Sipping on water. Looking more like life than death.

I got Annie and Dexter some food and made my way back to him. I did not realize, until I looked into his eyes, how worried I had been for him. And then it came spewing out.

"DEXTER!!! Where have you been? You can't just leave like that and not tell me. I have been searching for you for nearly a year. I thought you were dead. You can't just do that. You can't just disappear like that and not call me. I'm really mad at you."

By this time I've got my arms around him in a bear hug, tears running down my face and he's just laughing.

"It's not funny. I gave you my number for a reason. If you are going to disappear for 9 months you have to tell me. I thought you were freaking dead. I've been calling the shelters and clinics trying to track you down."

He stopped me with his gentle voice, "How's Annie?"

My heart caught in my throat.

He remembered her name.

The first few times we met, he was always very ill. I would go to him and shake him, calling his name, trying to make sure he was alive. I would always have to reintroduce myself. "Dexter, this is Jenny. Hey. How are you feeling? Dexter? Can you hear me? Can I get you something? Have you taken your medicine?" He was always more dead than alive.

This time he knew my name. He knew Annie's name. And maybe that should not be a moment of immense joy- excited that a really dirty, sick, homeless man remembers my daughter's name and wants to see her- but I pulled her out of that car and brought her right up next to him like he was Santa Clause and she was the best kid in the world.

Dexter looks better than ever. I don't know the in's and out's of his illness, but I know that he cannot be on the transplant list because his blood work never stabilizes enough for him to qualify. One of his blood counts is always too low. I suspect being a dirty, sick, homeless man has something to do with it too. So he does dialysis twice a week. He will always be on dialysis. He sleeps at the Dallas Salvation Army. And he takes the bus up to MacArthur in North Irving to get away from the "thugs" in the downtown area.

I left him with my cell phone number like I do every time and I told him, "Call me. If you are in the hospital. If you are sick. If you need a place to sleep. Call. Please. We're here. And don't you dare go missing for nine months again making me think you're dead- I will kick your butt- I don't care how sick you are!"

He always says, "Your husband is gonna kill you," when I hand him my number. Like he knows what most wise husbands and dads would say to their wife or little girl who is hugging the scary looking man in the parking lot. But- I like that he says that. He knows the truth. He knows his plot. He is not dumb. Not drunk. Not stupid. Not dangerous.

He is sick.

He lost his job. His health. His family. His ability to crawl out of the hole of poverty. But he did not lose his humanity. And he still worries that I am going to get in trouble with Ryan for associating myself with a dirty, sick, homeless man. He is still a man- chivalrous in a way- concerned that I am going to get myself in trouble and wanting to protect me from that.

He feels. He hears. He knows.

I worry I am not doing enough; others worry I am doing too much.

At the end of the day though, I am just doing what I can do. It's not life-saving. It's not huge. It's not getting him off the streets and into a home where he can be cared for- that's what I wish I could do. But I'm not doing nothing. And I will forever be an advocate for that.

We can all do something. And little somethings add up...

I know that for sure... because Dexter remembers Annie's name; and she makes a man smile who I once thought was dead.

little somethings. they really do add up.

post script:

To all the IBC members who read this blog, can I just say how proud I was that day in the chick-fil-a parking lot? It was right after Panda Mania vacation bible school let out, and during the course of my visit with Dexter, four different mini-vans of green t-shirt, Panda Lovin', moms drove up to offer him food or help. He asked me, "What's with all the green shirt ladies around here, they won't stop bringing me food..." He was being attacked by Irving Bible Church pandamaniacs and it made my heart happy. I am honored to be in a church community filled with people who are living missionaly.