Thin Air, High Hope

The father opened a small door in the wall, and we followed suit, crouching to enter. The transition from the bright outside sun to the dim hallway momentarily blinded us. We trailed behind the father through the corridor, up a narrow flight of stairs, and into another long passage. The aroma of cooking food greeted us, and despite the mud brick walls and floors, the space exuded cleanliness and orderliness. A strong sense of family and togetherness permeated the home.

Our destination was a small, dimly lit square room. At its center lay a tiny coffin, surrounded by white flowers brought by family and friends. The father began to share the story: what had started as a mere cold had rapidly turned dire for a young child with cerebral palsy. He recounted their journey to the hospital, but it had already been too late. His every word weighed heavy with anguish and loss.

Following a few moments of silence, a woman in our group asked if she could offer a prayer. We joined hands and listened as she poured out her heart to God on behalf of this child and his grieving family. It was only later that I recalled this woman’s own painful experience—she had lost her child under similar circumstances. Yet, she prayed, gave, wept, and mourned. She extended comfort to this family when some of us could only imagine their profound loss.

As I was lying awake last night thinking through the day, I thought of how very strong this woman must be.  So often, we do not enter a situation or a conversation because it may be painful for us. We avoid engaging in those things that may make us hurt or may bring back painful memories of our own. This woman courageously immersed herself in this family’s pain. She sat with them for hours yesterday, listening and caring. Surely her heart must have been reminded of her own loss, but somehow she set her pain aside to be present for others.

I believe this woman demonstrated what love looks like: the courage to forget ourselves and be present for someone else in their suffering; the strength to enter into the dark places of pain with that other person despite what it may cost us.  Yesterday, in the midst of deep sadness, I had the opportunity to witness this kind of love.

“Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to places where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it.” — Henri J.M. Nouwen

“If anyone…sees his brother in need but withholds his compassion from him, how can the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us love not in word and speech, but in action and truth.” — 1 John 3:17-18