They started telling me their stories. It caught me off guard when the children who decided to speak shared about their mothers. “My mother brought me a huge cake,” as the extended arms indicated the enormous dimensions. “My mother is beautiful,” another declared with loving eyes. “My mother is going to come and take me from this place,” the oldest of the group at seven years old crossed her arms in defiant determination. The possiblity may exist due to the foster type care that we provide children. But those words shot forcefully from that little mouth straight through my heart.
Suffering doesn’t touch you until you touch the suffering. And until you are touched by suffering you will not touch a sufferer.
I used to say that I would much rather learn from the Good Book that God has provided for our benefit rather than at the cruel school of hard knocks. That is not the case now. I see value in feeling, to bring me to a new awareness not attainable by facts on a page.
In my ignorance of pushing suffering away from myself I also pushed the sufferers away. As I have learned to embrace the hardships in my life I have also embraced the suffering people. Skirting the valley sent me tumbling down in only to realize that there were others going through as well.
Three days to break the body of Jesus and see it revived again with scars to testify. Thirty-three years suffering with raw and blistering humanity to break his heart, never to see it fully restored. He is a man acquainted with suffering. Can I be acquainted with him yet ignore his empathy and compassion? Doubtful.