Attuned

I can’t help but think of them when I’m walking even the short distance from the van to the house when it’s 14 degrees out.  I think of the pioneers traipsing across frozen prairie with no warm shelter to welcome them up ahead, no kind of way-station in the distance.  They only have a meager fire they will have built with their own hands after a full day of trudging through snow with hardly anything but flour biscuits to eat.  I wonder if I’ll ever have to suffer through such hardship and deprivation, if I’ll ever face anything remotely close to what they did.  I’m in awe.  Every time I think to them and their plight.  As I feel the snow blown crystals prickle my cheeks and feel the wind whip around me, slicing through even my technologically advanced jacket instead of homespun cotton dress and worn wool coat. As I notice how cold my toes are even as they’re wrapped in sturdy Gortex boots and thickly engineered socks instead of gunny sacks or thin leather shoes.  Humbled and reverent. I nod to them and their sacrifices.  Whether we embrace their faith or not, we can appreciate the struggles they went through to follow their hearts.  It’s in our slightest discomfort, similar but so very temporary, that we can find empathy for what they endured.

I think about this when Todd goes out to feed the cows on these crisp dark mornings.  Yes, he’s bundled in his Carhart coat and knee high boots, but I know he hesitates.  I never used to think he felt the cold like I did—he hails from Chicago while I've always had thin California blood running through my veins.  But as we get older, I notice he chills just as easily as I do.  I’ve closed up the chickens on a frigid January night.  I’ve fed the cows their hay when it’s cold out.  I know what he’s feeling.  And so I’m grateful.  That he performs these acts of love for his family.  He’s trying to help us be self-sufficient, to provide for our needs, to look ahead.  I appreciate him all the more as I stand in his place every now and then and remember his labor on every other day.

In a million tiny moments I’ve been noticing what it feels like to be in another’s shoes.  It’s not hard.  We all have similar experiences, but taking just a second to acknowledge that this is maybe how someone else feels—maybe all the time—is humbling.  And good for us.  In small and simple ways, we have opportunities to develop empathy simply by paying attention to our little discomforts.

I think of the occasional headache I have and realize my sister lives with this pain every day from a lingering neck problem.  I’m actually grateful for my continued shoulder and chest tightness.  It reminds me of others who live with ongoing pain who never say a word, to pay attention and to not dismiss it when they bring it up.

I think of friends who’ve had identity theft or scam problems; we’re in the middle of one right now.  It’s scary and rattles your sense of security.  And it makes me want to be more compassionate when others share their stories.

Thankfully I’ve been experiencing my own episodes of memory lapse over the past few years.  I know exactly what it’s like to forget the name of a friend I of course know.  Just like running into a teacher I’ve known for 11 years, whose name is in my phone, who I worked with on a committee. I couldn’t recall her name for the life of me at Target last week.  I had to tap her on the shoulder to say hello.  Good grief.  But I love it because it’s so ok with me when other people forget who I am!  I actually try to remind them first thing so they don’t feel dumb.  Most of the time they haven’t reached my mental state and their memories are still fresh.  But it helps me have empathy for those who struggle.  I so get it, right there.

Speaking of struggles, those are the best lessons in empathy.  Sewing.  Computers.  Phones.  Digital cameras, even DVD players.  Cars. The classics. Geography. Sports. Politics. Long board games.  I don’t even want to make a complete list of all the things I’m ignorant about and can’t seem to get a handle on.  But I get it when my mom doesn’t know her wireless password or can’t figure out her voice mail.  I can see why Callum didn’t really like The Screwtape Letters or why hardly anyone likes to play Mitchell’s 4-hour games except on Thanksgiving.  I’ve been muddled myself, and so I understand what it's like.

I’ve never really understood the sadness pet owners have felt—why there are Hallmark cards for this kind of thing—when a pet dies.  Todd’s always just taken ours to work matter-of-factly when they’ve reached the end of their lives.  But our young dog just got hit and killed this past week and I’ve woken up with a little something in my throat.  It hits me again that she's gone.  For real.  I think of all the memories we just had with her, how much Avery adored her and depended on her for company.  And just like that, even though it’s nothing compared to losing a family dog you’ve had for 20 years, I get it a little better than I did a few days ago.

I’ve never had an entire basement flood like our friends have.  But we kind of did when we were building a house and water poured through the window wells and we had to replace all the sheetrock half way up the walls.  And we’ve had plenty of mini-floods of sewer water in both houses.  Many.  I know what a pain it is, how destructive it can be, how sad it feels to lose precious items.  We just had one on Christmas Eve.  It’s fresh in my mind.  And so I want to remember to be empathetic when it happens to someone we know.  And offer a hand.

I remember moving just two years ago during Christmas.  I’ve had three friends move this month.  What a hassle.  I vowed I would help if I could ever pay it forward because I know firsthand there’s nothing like moving when you’re trying to make Christmas happen for your family on top of everything else.

I remember Todd asking a friend if he’d be interested in taking my sister out.  I don’t know why my feelings were ever even on the line, but I waited anxiously anticipating his response.  I felt in those hours what it must feel like all the time as a single person, putting yourself out there for others to judge you, I’d say almost solely based on looks.  How sad.  How deflating to have just one shot when we all know we’re so much more than our eye shape or color of hair.  I felt like I was the one being judged, and my heart ached that this has been her reality for years.  And so it is with so many others.  I wondered if I would ever be able to get married again.  Who would want someone like me, old and used up and overall pretty boring?  No one would ever be interested based on a glance or a picture.  And I felt sad that for so many, this is everyday life.  I think it was a good reminder to look beyond what we see and to showcase the good in others in how I speak about them.

I feel for women who are pregnant or for anyone who’s carrying a little extra weight at the moment.  It’s so hard to get comfortable.  To walk very far.  To exert much energy without breathing heavily.  To even get dressed in the morning.  I of course remember this all so vividly when I think back to my five pregnancies.  But even now, a little heavier than I’ve ever been, I have to limit my clothing options, nothing too clingy, nothing short or my stomach will poke out.  In a small way I understand what it’s like to feel self-conscious and inhibited by a few extra pounds.  And it’s helped me to be more understanding, to remember to continually look on the heart and not the frame, to be more gentle with myself and others as our bodies continue to change.

I had an evening home not long ago; all my family was gone with obligations.  Normally I love my alone time, but I felt a little nudge this time, a reminder that for so many this is an everyday reality.  Long days followed by even longer evenings, all alone, without company or a change in scenery.  Maybe for days.  We have a man in our congregation who lives in a little house all alone.  It’s interesting and sad to visit. He’s surrounded by so many pictures of family members on his walls, but none of them come to visit.  I think of another friend in her 80s who stays home the majority of the time.  She doesn’t drive anymore; she doesn’t really even like to go anywhere other than to see her doctors.  I wonder what she does all day and how she really feels about her situation.  She’s lived alone for decades, but what's that like? I have another friend who lives in the cutest little townhouse; she quilts, she’s a fastidious housekeeper, she bakes and volunteers.  I know she keeps busy.  But doesn’t it get to to her? The quiet, the aloneness?  In that evening with my own solitude, I thought about these friends.  I felt overwhelming gratitude for the people who come home each night to me.  As well as eye-opening compassion for those who don’t have that anymore.  And I wondered how I could be a better friend and visitor to them and invite them into my life.

Todd was gone for a few days here and there this fall.  Which is fine.  Lots of women are left to handle things while their husbands go out of town for work.  But Todd doesn’t normally and so it was just a little weird.  To do scriptures alone with the kids, to lock up, to have the whole bed to myself.  Nothing crazy, obviously nothing I couldn’t manage.  He’s gone most of the time anyway.  Just weird to let my mind go to the What Ifs.  I’ve had three friends who have lost their husbands in the past few months.  And my heart breaks for them.  I know nothing of their pain.  Yes, I lived without Todd for two years, yes I’ve said goodbye to two of my sons as they’ve gone away for their two years, but nothing like their goodbyes.  I wondered if there is anything at all to say or do to ease their pain.  I have nothing to go on, just a sliver of emptiness that could easily be abated by a phone call or text; and yet I let my thoughts take me there, to what reality could feel like for my friends day after day and I mourned silently with them.  Again.  And I continue to offer prayers, that they will be comforted and strengthened. And to check in. It’s all I can think to do.  But without having felt even a few nights alone, I don’t know that I would be as mindful of their hearts.

I think of my friends who have lived in nursing homes.  I think of family members who visit and tend to them.  And I think of those who have no one.  I’ve been in a hospital bed, most of us have.  I’ve visited people who are mostly tethered to their beds.  Or recliners.  I know from my own days of convalescing what that’s like.  Monotonous.  I have a lady I visit and she’s told me how boring her days were.  I get that.  But I wouldn’t know to think about it if I hadn’t had a few days on my couch myself or if I didn’t actually walk the halls with my friend in her “home.”  But now I think a little more, about what would be a nice diversion for her, what I can bring her.

I can’t say I’ve ever really suffered from depression.  A little after a couple of my babies.  But in my mind that’s to be expected.  Debilitating depression is another.  I can only relate, like I’ve said before, because I’ve had an ice cream tester spoon taste.  I’ve cried for no good reason.  I’ve felt like giving up.  I’ve asked myself what the point is.  I’ve felt despondent.  But only temporarily.  I have no real idea what it’s like to feel that darkness day after day, year after year.  But because I’ve had even a tiny bite, I can at least listen with a little more care.

Same with a crisis of faith.  I’ve questioned and believed simultaneously all my life.  But I was shaken a few years ago and really stood back.  It didn’t last longer than a matter of months, and I didn’t have a huge come-back experience; so I know it really doesn’t compare to what so many others are dealing with.  But from even that tiny core sample, I recognized that I need to be more tender and sensitive, definitely a better listener and friend. 

And yes, friendships. I have to say I’m thankful for rocky relationships. Because I understand better when others share their heartaches with me.  I know what they’re saying, I absolutely know what it feels like to be rejected, shunned, misjudged, left out, talked about.  Maybe some of us don’t?  That’s weird, but maybe some people can make it through junior high or the rest of life unscathed.  I don’t pretend to be glad for all the awkwardnesses, the embarrassments, the hurt feelings, the lonely times.  But I’m grateful.  Because how else would I recognize the same things happening to other people without that background?  How would I sense what the person at the edge of a gathering is maybe thinking feeling? This is something I try to teach my kids all the time: to look, to notice, to include.  Because it’s something I have dealt with through the years.  And yes, I know what it's like to lose friends I thought were lifers.  Heartbreaking.  But what better incentive to become a better friend than to have lost or grappled with a few?

And so it goes.  I can't help but think some of these upsets are not unlike Christ's encounters with those he walked with. In fact, he came to earth to understand the real underpinnings of our mortal experience.   This was prophesied years before his birth, "And he will take upon him death, that he may loose his bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities."

Maybe it's precisely because of our trials and ordeals that we are even as compassionate as we are.  So why waste our tough breaks and heartaches? Why not use our inconveniences and discomforts for good?  What’s the point of having so many mortal experiences if we don’t learn from them and use them to develop empathy?  It’s simply a matter of tuning in to what’s happening to us and applying these valuable lessons as we look outward to others with a little more love.