This morning I sat in safety on my front porch.  The air was cool and an Eastern gray squirrel kept me company, scampering frenetically up and down the pine’s trunk.  I wasn’t tensely waiting for the sound of an incoming shell.  I didn’t feel the need to hide the Bible on my lap for fear that I would be dragged down the street and beheaded for my faith.  My kids had just woken up from an unbroken sleep in their own beds and were reading books before breakfast.  I knew exactly how I was going to provide nourishment for them today—our cupboards were full.

All at once, I wanted to weep.  I sat in silence and quiet tears, thinking about the mothers in Gaza whose children are shell-shocked because there are no safe shelters from the bombs.  There are no warnings, no places to hide, no way to protect them from the terror all around them.  Whole families are being obliterated in a moment.  There is no quiet morning, no comforting coolness in the air, no children sleeping well at night.

I wanted to weep, thinking about the mad rampage that ISIS has been on in Iraq and Syria.  They seem like modern-day Huns—nobody seems to be able to stand before their ferocity, barbarity and cunning.  I talk to people, everyone shakes his or her head—Where did they come from?  How did they do it?  And we ask each other, Who will stop them?

Anger rose in me as I turned my eyes to the pages open on my lap.  Psalms.  I needed some teeth-breaking gravel right then, some throwing of hands to heaven, some chest-heaving.   I wanted to scream the words, but instead I whispered them with ferocious pleading on behalf of my Iraqi and Syrian brothers and sisters in faith, on behalf of the innocent victims in Gaza.

1 Why, O LORD, do you stand far off ? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble? 2 In his arrogance the wicked man hunts down the weak, who are caught in the schemes he devises.….9 He lies in wait like a lion in cover; he lies in wait to catch the helpless; he catches the helpless and drags them off in his net. 10 His victims are crushed, they collapse; they fall under his strength. 11 He says to himself, “God has forgotten; he covers his face and never sees.” 12 Arise, LORD! Lift up your hand, O God. Do not forget the helpless. 13 Why does the wicked man revile God? Why does he say to himself, “He won’t call me to account”? 14 But you, O God, do see trouble and grief; you consider it to take it in hand. The victim commits himself to you; you are the helper of the fatherless. 15 Break the arm of the wicked and evil man; call him to account for his wickedness that would not be found out.   (Psalm 10, excerpts)

The word compassion literally means “to passion with.”  To come alongside another in his moment of passion, grief, suffering, and to weep with him, suffer with him, walk with him, until it is over.  Contrary to how emasculated the word has become, it originally meant demonstration of a fierce love and friendship, a willingness to consider another as precious, or more, as oneself—so much so that we place ourselves in harm’s way.  Compassion.  Today the word is confused with empathy, which is a feeling.  Compassion is not a feeling.  It is action.  It’s the love that lays down one’s life for a friend, or a stranger.

This morning as I sat on my porch thinking and praying, I felt empathy.  I tried to put myself in the shoes of those suffering in the Middle East.  I wept for them.  I prayed fervently for them.  But the day is almost over now, and the idea of “com-passionating” is chewing on me.  I’m asking what I can do to share in the passion of those suffering unspeakable atrocities and the grind of war.   As a person of faith, specifically of a faith that says, “Rescue those being led away to slaughter,” but that also says, “Love your enemy,” what is a truly compassionate response?

As a writer, I’ve found myself coming back again and again to writing poetry about victims of disaster, natural and man-made.  I often write in the voices of those with whom I long to “com-passionate”—my way of trying to understand their suffering, trying to feel a way through the immediate wasteland of trauma when the landscape is so blasted and foreign.  My desire to listen to people’s stories of trauma—to witness and give dignity to them—seems like such a small thing.  And maybe it is.  I want to do more.

I would love to hear from those of you who think about such things.  Specifically, what are your ideas for demonstrating compassion for those victims and oppressed people making headlines (or those who should be) lately?  What action steps have you given yourself that you can share with the rest of us?  Also, if you have loved ones wrapped up in any of these messes, and you need to tell their story (or your own), I would be honored to hear it and bear witness.  Please share.

*Note: Some of you will notice that I mentioned the suffering in Gaza but not in Israel.  While I mourn the loss of life on both sides, I believe Israel’s disproportionate use of force in Gaza with high civilian casualties is unacceptable.  I pray for those peacemakers from both sides who are doing all they can to promote a viable two-state solution and to end the injustices that perpetuate the conflict.

Pasta Life

My mom bought matching maxi skirts for herself and me today at T.J. Maxx.  She made her special lemony hummus in my kitchen while I ran an errand.   We tried on dresses in my bedroom, taking turns in front of the skinny mirror and giving each other advice about which one to wear to my cousin’s wedding.  We also took turns scolding each other about not seeking medical attention for some chronic health issues we each have.

Yesterday I got to watch the US-Germany World Cup game with my dad, an avid soccer fan, at a local restaurant famous for its crabcakes.  This afternoon he walked over to my friend’s house to collect Jackie, and they enjoyed some sweet conversation on the walk home.  He took out my garbage and is figuring out how to fix some broken railings on our front porch.

This is life, pasta life.  It’s filling, nourishing, and yet so simple, so under-appreciated.  (Please, gluten-haters, just… don’t.)

My parents just finished five years of living in Beijing, China, and are going to be working in Prague, Czech Republic, starting in late July.  We overlapped with them for four years in China, even though we were in different cities.  We’re used to not living in the same city, but we’ve also gotten the hang of doing life together in a simple, natural rhythm when we are together.  There are times when we go to museums, shops or restaurants, and times when we plan bigger outings like hikes or amusement parks.  But mostly we just do pasta life.

I love when I’m chopping something in the kitchen and I hear Dad having a heart-to-heart with Jackie on the couch.  Or when I come downstairs in the morning and the coffee’s already on, and Mom’s journaling out on the front porch with Collin keeping her company, because he loves the early morning too.

I love that Mom is such a good salad maker and how that takes the load off me when I’m cooking other parts of the meal.

I love that Dad spends time watching Collin play Minecraft, asking him about the ins and outs of the fantasy-world game.

I love that I have to (pretend to) scold my parents and my kids at the same time for jokes about flatulence.

It’s just easy, and good.  And it’s all the things I want to be thankful for,  now and always.

IMG_4261 IMG_3902