Compassion. I like that word compassion. When the days are long, and the road suddenly curving in places I never would have imagined, that word bundles up much of what I long for. Just two hands holding mine amidst the unknown. "But thou, O Lord, art a God full of compassion, and gracious, long suffering, and plenteous in mercy and truth.” (Psalm 86:15) Full…what is wrapped up in that 4-letter word? A quick google search says, “Containing or holding as much or as many as possible; having no empty space.” No lack. Complete, like an unending circle nourishing my life. Certainly, a bubble never popped. This is God’s compassion, mercy, and longsuffering for me. It’s there covering me when I’m stripped bare, totally exposed, searching for fig leaves to hide all my naked imperfections.
I started off the day with a knot in my gut. The kind of tied up feeling that comes from a sinking within. It burrows itself deep down to your inner parts, twisting and turning, determined to make a home in your being. You want to shoo it away, throw some pesticide on it, but it’s intent on staying, nonetheless. It’s the kind of heavy that keeps you anchored to the bottom of a deep abyss, making you physically ill. Slowly drowning. Do you ever have those moments where you think, “How is this happening?” It’s like the time we drove the 25 minutes to the library just to find out that we had left the library card at home. They refused to check out our books until we presented them with the piece of plastic that proved we were trustworthy to hold their novels in our hands. Or like the few too many times I have gotten half-way to the grocery store before noticing I forgot my wallet. Cue the gut sink. And then there was the moment a couple months ago when I forgot I had that appointment. I received a call telling me I was late. Very late. Gut whelps, “Please don’t fire me from being your patient.” This morning was one of those, “oh no” feelings. That drop of the stomach. Although, really, it doesn’t compare to forgotten wallets or library cards. Because this isn’t a gut feeling I can just drive home to fix. It’s so much more than sticking a band aid over a scabbed knee. More loved ones are mourning, sifting through pieces. We hardly have time to weep, catch our breath, before being beat to the ground again. I know I’m not alone here. I know many of us are lamenting. Today I had an inward sobbing. Today I longed for compassion.
Laundry stares me in the face. Heaps upon heaps of white T-shirts and mis-matched socks. Stockings strewn upon my comforter look similar, yet each bearing their own uniqueness. Soles are worn in different places, one blue appears lighter, more faded than its companion. Their bottoms hold a bit of brown where dust has gathered. It won’t come off, even with washing. Yes, the one is becoming more threadbare. Youthful feet have been hard on its pilgrimage. They have walked many a mile under the feet of my child. Both have partnered up to protect him from the hard path. It is of no importance if they guard the left foot or right. They are just there, ready to be slid on whichever he sees fit. They are alike, but different. A lot like us, I realize.
Sisters nap. Boy asks to play outside. Yes, go play. It’s a beautiful day. I brew coffee. Caribou. The good stuff. I’m ready to sip over silence. I look over at him as I wait. Bareback bends, collecting sun over blades mid dance in winds song. Dirt cakes the bottom of his naked feet. Hands slide gently over blossoms green. He’s handsome. Carefree. He squints up through sun. He’s thinking deep. One bare foot in front of the other, I meet him outside. His brown eyes beam. “I’m picking things for you Mom.” Of course, you are. Always gathering, ready to show how much his love for me has grown since his previous harvest of collected valuables. I feel the compulsion, the need to take all six years of him into my arms. He’s getting older. Things aren’t as simple as they once were. He’s learning who he is, growing away from me at times. “Jayden, do you want to go rollerblading with me?” Smile breaks from his lips. Just him and his Mom? Usually there’s so much noise around us, so many added voices for me to tune in to. But just us? I see it there as I peer into the window of his soul that this is a true treasure indeed.
Up and down sidewalks we roam. We bounce our way along rough pavement. Life is a lot like that, rattling us ahead. Unexpected bumps jolt us, making the path unclear, shifting our vision out of focus. We glide into church’s parking lot. This place of safety that helps crystalize the foggy places. Helps the blind eyes see. We roll down the hill as if blacktop is meadow spread before us, waiting for us to tumble into all its beauty. Giggles erupt from small lips and spew over onto my own. I am child here with my child. I reach for his hand. I need his hand. It is healing. He doesn’t pull away as we go past school, past the older kids who may see. He laces his fingers through mine as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And when our hands break free from one another, he stretches his arm over to mine again. Reaching for Mother.
He spots ant hills and beckons me to come. The homes of these creatures small is bright and beautiful indeed. They are a busy bunch, crawling in and out of their homes. He sees the importance of being like them. Of making the most of time. Yes, thank You God for helping me redeem these seconds with my son. For using him to soften some of the shattered way. His fingers, dirt under nails, extend to me once more. We decide to do the hill one more time. How many more hills can Your people take?...But boy’s small hand is holding mine, and unknowingly his soles are steadying the “what ifs” of my soul, saturating me with compassion. I will climb this mountain of asphalt yet again because gripping his hand makes the peak of sorrows seem less frightening.
There’s a stack of burdens at a white steepled church on Hammond Street. As we rolled hand in hand God slowly rolled them off me one by one. I wonder how many burdens are laying there on that cracked ash colored parking lot. And how many more will be lifted, how many guts unfurled when Sunday comes again? God’s people are cut up. There’s nothing easy about the pain that is wearing down the soles of our feet. The journey is difficult, unsteady right now, as it always is. We are all a bit jumbled. A bit of a mess. We think this sorrow of ours is maybe the height to our story, until we realize the morrow holds more. How can the morrow seriously hold more?
But if you were here, I would look at you in the hopes my hazel eyes would meet the center of yours. I would long for you to know the first line in our story together would be for you to know that I care. I would share my front porch, my place of reflection, with you. I’d tell you to pick a blanket to cover your pain and pray that it gives you a bit of hope as you sit and ponder. I would offer my hand and we would roll through the ups and downs of the day together. Or maybe even the week or year. Your soles might have a little more wear to them, but I would try and stitch them back up by showing you the scars of my own soul. We would try to wipe the dirt and pain away from the bottoms of our feet, but they wouldn’t really leave. We would simply share the soot. And it would be a little of the balm of Gilead to us tired travelers. We would talk about God over tear stained laundry and mis-matched socks. We would drink coffee together. I’d make a pot of Caribou. Because it warms the heart. And if you didn’t like coffee, I would laugh, not understanding how that could be. But I would know that we are distinct and that is wonderful. I would offer you tea, or maybe just water in a glass that may be smudged, and we would water each other with the love of soul sisters. We would immerse our pain and uncertainty in the Word, and there we would bury them deep in the rich soil of God’s goodness. And we would be different, but we would be the same. And it would be beautiful. Because we are both so very rare to our Father. And he doesn’t do any of these things to us, but for us.
We are kindred spirits living in a broken world. People, words, friends, circumstances, they all sting us. This world is drenched with sin. We bruise as we feel the effects of our failings. We hurt as we see others hurt. She called me later that day and I held some of her tears. I didn’t deserve her pain, but she revealed it. And I loved her for it. When she shared I didn’t know what to say. But sometimes you don’t really need words, do you? You simply need to place the tired soles of your feet next to hers and envelop her into your own brokenness. You may feel in that moment, where there is nothing but rough terrain ahead, that there is no real answer. But God will be the holder of your tired frames, and the faith He gives will burrow itself deep within, moving out the gut-wrenching unbelief.
We walk the path together, God guiding the soles of our feet. His feet never grow weary. And I knew once again after taking in the day with my son and talking with that friend that I don’t always know the “whys” of the pain we all suffer. But I do know that when I look to meet the eyes of my people that there is secret sorrow, deep wounds, and scared children of God all around. We just have to be brave enough show ourselves, open up the recesses of our hearts to see our brothers and sisters in Christ mirrored there. Our soles don’t have to look the same to be similar. We have all walked pain that connects us. Scars are what unites us…those Holy Scars. We must delicately water one another’s feet with the words of our mouth and the secret thoughts of our heart.
We all long to be seen and heard in life. Do we do this well? Are we bonding or breaking? Are we magnets for healing or hurting? Are our wounds the healing kind, the kind that tries to imitate Jesus? Are the meditations of our heart pleasing to the Lord? How longsuffering are we? Who do you want standing close by when the disappointments come suddenly in the night? Who do you want surrounding you with bowels of mercy? Truly, Jesus did this perfectly. The one who “comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.” (2 Corinthians 1:4). He walks with us in the trial so that someday we can walk well with one another.
You know that poem Footprints in the Sand? The ending where God whispers, “My precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” That is compassion. Those times I have walked the unpredictable, feeling alone, those were the moments I have come to realize I was closely held by Father. Those were the times I was swaddled tight in His compassion. And I know that is true for you too. Because you are a His chosen jewel. And He has compassion unending for all His own.
So today? I wept. But maybe you did too. Sit. Put your cracked soles up and wet them in God’s glorious Word. That perfect place of ceaseless compassion.
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