Looking Past the Gates

I have been paying attention to this thing called compassion for a number of years. I have held it as an ideal for many more. I force myself to actually go to places where I come face to face with the needy and suffering. I haven’t always, but feel I must because I live in a gated community. Those metaphorical gates have helped create an illusion of safety, security, and comfort, but they have also robbed me of part of my humanity. They have kept my heart from breaking.

Since I have been paying more attention, I have stopped my car and walked through neighborhoods that in the past I have vigilantly sped through with locked doors, muttering “mayday, mayday”. I have slept on cold asphalt with one eye open in fear that some crack head would crack my head for my boots. I am often apprehensive as my white truck rounds the corner that leads under the bridge each month. I have had to flee the bridge to diffuse a situation with a maniacal drunk who somehow had me caught up in his delusion of the night. I have felt my heart pounding as I watched crack being smoked a few feet from where I slept.

I have intentionally looked into their eyes. In them, I have seen desperate pleas for help, isolation, and loneliness. I have seen them reflect fear, indifference, and hopelessness. I have seen them fill with tears and widen with gratitude.

I have intentionally listened to words that have been waiting to come out. I have listened to a weeping woman with nothing ask for money so that she can feel human again.

I have sat across from a 10 year old watching his shoulders shake and the tears run down his face, unable to express his pain.

There is so much more I need to attend to, but I have to move past my gates.