Several days ago, I was driving to pick up the kids from school when I saw a woman walking on the edge of the street. The sidewalk was covered with snow. There wasn’t a safe alternative. She wore a red jacket and a hat. She had long brown hair, black-framed glasses, and no gloves.
I thought about asking if she needed a ride. It was 2 degrees outside, according to the gauge on the van’s rearview mirror. It felt much colder because of the wind. I knew because I had just pumped gas, stopping at the 5 gallon point because I couldn’t tolerate the conditions. I felt like I was being whisked into a cold drink, perhaps a nog or a smoothie. By the Abominable Snowman.
To speak to the woman, I would have to stop in the middle of a 6-lane road, one of the busiest in the Denver-metro area. The street was icy and snow-packed, so a sudden stop would not have been safe for me or for the other drivers.
I was on a mission to get my 5 oldest kids and bring them home, safely.
What if she needed to go somewhere in the opposite direction of the school?
How would I explain to the kids that I gave a lady a ride, but normally you shouldn’t give rides to people you don’t know.
But isn’t that fearful outlook on humanity damaging to our sense of community? Everyone is a potential sociopath, even middle-aged women walking on the edge of a road in bitterly cold and snowy temperatures.
She wasn’t a serial killer. I guarantee it.
She was having a very bad day. I guarantee it.
I read a letter posted at Free Range Kids called The Prison of Fearful Parenting. I think our society has built a prison of fearful living. I was afraid of the other cars, the conditions, of being inconvenienced. I was fearful of questions about my decision if I had offered a ride and she had accepted.
The writer of the letter noted:
For me, I am striving to equip myself and my kids with compassion. It seems to be a great gift in any circumstance, foreseen or not, and a return to interdependence is definitely on the horizon. Fear and judgement are always in long supply. Stock up on compassion now. — Mollie Kaye
I’m not sure how I would “stock up” on compassion, though. It isn’t a finite recourse. It is renewable every morning when we open our eyes. Being compassionate is a choice. Otherwise, I totally agree with the sentiments.
…And then I get irritated when compassion isn’t shown to me. Shouldn’t I have compassion about other’s lack of compassion?
What is compassion?
It’s seeing the world through glasses perched on your heart. These glasses magnify the human condition to a point where little hurts loom large and big hurts are the size of Jupiter—and you want to do something about it. Compassion is empathy with legs.
Compassion is nothing without action.
This morning, I was struggling with Archie as we walked into a store. He abruptly decided he would rather sit on the cold concrete than hold my hand. Beatrix was being very patient. Teddy was asleep in the carrier. A woman with 2 small children, one in her arms, asked if I needed any help. She told me she had 4 kids and that she knew things weren’t going well.
I turned her down without thought. The no, thank you popped out before I could consider the offer. Not only do we live in a fearful society, we live in a prideful society. I could handle it on my own, even if that meant my stress level would skyrocket. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
So I picked up Archie in one arm. He flailed and kicked. I carried Teddy in the other. We walked through the first set of double doors. We walked through the second, where the woman was waiting with a cart for us.
Here, she said, sliding it in front of me so I could quickly make my deposit of 30 pounds of toddler fury.
I’m glad she didn’t take my no for an answer.
Compassion is nothing without persistence.
