#26. Compassion hurts.

 "You want me to share in your affliction, but you never shared in mine...

I've been suffering for much longer, and so I know what pain is." 

-Arlequin, from Marivaux's L'Ile des Esclaves (The Island of Slaves, 1725)

Imagine an island where the roles of Master and Slave are inversed. This is the set-up in Marivaux's 1725 play, in which descendants of slaves who formed their own island colony decide to teach a lesson to any slave owners who should happen upon their community. Thus when Iphicrate, slave owner, and Arlequin, slave, find themselves shipwrecked on the island, Arlequin has his first taste of freedom, and Iphicrate, his first taste of slavery.

Arlequin suddenly finds himself, for the first time in his life, in a place of position, of privilege, of power. What would you imagine that he does with it? As can perhaps be expected, at first he enjoys it! But when his former master begs for mercy, he grants it. Why?

Because unlike his former master, who never showed true compassion, the new Master Arlequin knows what it's like to be a slave and to suffer. He lived that way his whole life, and so even though Iphicrate has barely had a taste of slavery, Arlequin can't allow him to continue suffering. And now that Iphicrate has (literally) walked in his slave's shoes, upon regaining his position, he will never treat Arlequin the same way again.

This is compassion; this is empathy: truly understanding someone else's experience. Not assuming we know what it's like, not trying to justify it because we had good intentions. Arlequin's master believed that he genuinely loved his slave and treated him as a member of the family. But that is never how Arlequin felt, and once Iphicrate has spent some time as a slave, he finally feels it, too. 

My organization recently held an internal discussion on race and racism, and as our president pointed out, if anyone is in pain and I can't understand why, the onus is on me to try to figure it out! It's not their job to justify their hurt. So, the next time my sister or brother tells me they are in pain, will I try to explain it away to make myself feel better? Or will I just listen--really listen--and do everything in my power to try to understand? That is true compassion. And it hurts.

#25. Don't look away.

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest

if we do not give up…” 

-Galatians 6:9

     This year, more than ever before, I've felt the weariness.  I think there are multiple factors, one of which is living in an urban environment where multiple times a day I am faced with those who are desperate, lonely, and hurting.  To be honest, sometimes I feel so helpless that I just want to look away.  It's so much easier not to look, not to see, not to engage.  But in my heart, I know this is wrong.  I must look, I must see.  I don't want my heart to become hard.  I don't want to lose my compassion.  So I feel caught in a tension, wanting to do something to help but rarely knowing how, feeling like for every one person I talk to, there are ten more that I don't.  People say, You can't help everyone, and that's true.  But does it mean that I should help no one?  At the very least, I think, whatever I do or don't do, I should not look away. 

***

      I exit the metro with my cell phone in my hand, intending to make a call.  But then I think better of it and slip it back in my purse.  It's getting late, and I've heard too many stories already of girls having their phones snatched out of their hands--or worse--while walking alone at night.  Better to stay alert, I think.
     I cross the street to cut through the small park in front of city hall.  It's a relatively open area, but there are some large bushes on the left side of the path that obscure the view around the corner.  I think about how easy it would be for someone to hide there and jump out when I walk past.  I give the bushes a wide berth and quicken my pace.  As I peek around the bushes, I see that there is no one there, but then I notice an older gentleman on one of the park benches.  He'd been there this morning--or was it the previous morning?--when I was leaving home.  In fact, I've seen him here often lately, at various times of day, always with his crutch and a shopping bag next to him.  I suspect he even sleeps here sometimes, but I'm not sure.
     The man mumbles something, and I stop walking.  He says something else, obviously addressing me, so I move closer and ask, "Pardon?"
     "Excuse me," he says in a slurred voice that is very difficult to understand, and I move closer.
     "I'm handicapped and homeless.  Do you have a cell phone?"
     Before I can even think, I go into defense mode.  "No, I'm sorry," I respond quickly, even though I can feel my phone beneath the hand resting on my purse.  "But here," I say, unzipping a side pouch and pulling out some coins.  "Here's some money.  Maybe you can use it to buy yourself something to eat."
     "Thank you, but please, I need a cell phone.  Can you call the 115?"
     Still with defenses up, my mind goes into double time, searching through its French language and culture files...115, 115, why does that sound familiar...? Oh yes, I think that's the number my coworker called when a woman came into our building looking for shelter.  It's the number you call when you need shelter.
     "Please, can you call the 115?" The man asks again.  "If not I'm going to have to sleep on this bench."  His words are badly slurred, and it's hard to understand him.  I don't know if the slur is the result of alcohol, his handicap, or the large wound on his forehead.  It's starting to scab over, but it still looks pretty nasty.  In any case, it seems like he really does need help, and I know I can't just walk away.  I've already told him I didn't have a cell phone, but he seems so out of it, that I doubt he'll think twice about it.  So I pull out my phone and dial 115.
     Several rings, no answer.
     "Is it normal that when you call the 115, there's no answer, sir?" I ask.
     "Very normal."
     Just then, two girls approach with a drink and some small sandwiches.
     "Here you go, sir.  We brought you back something to eat."
     I smile, and they address me.  One tells me she's already called 115, but they told her they had no vehicle and couldn't come get him.
     "So what should I do?" I ask.
     "Call the firemen," the gentleman says.  "The firemen know me."
     The girls ask if I need help, but I say it will be ok, so they leave.
     The fireman is kind but says he can't help either.  I'm not really surprised; of course finding lodging isn't part of his job.
     "But what am I supposed to do?" I ask.
     "I don't know.  Unless a Good Samaritan wants to take him home.  Where do you live?"
     A Good Samaritan.  A term right out of the Bible, from a parable that Jesus himself used to teach us about what it means to love our neighbor.  What would Jesus do?  Take care of him.  But is that really what Jesus wants me to do?
     "I live by myself, I can't really...but I can't just leave him here alone."
     "I'll transfer you to the paramedics," the fireman says.  "Maybe they can do something."
     I'm not 100% sure if he's helping or just trying to pass the buck, but a few minutes later I'm re-explaining the story to the emergency operator.  She seems dubious at first, but she dutifully takes the information.  I can hear keyboard keys clicking each time I respond to one of her questions.
     "How old is he?" (62, he says--younger than my dad, but he looks so much older and weathered by life.)
     "Has he been drinking?" (He says no, but I think maybe.  But I don't tell her that, because I'm afraid that if it's true, maybe they won't send help.)
     "Is he hurt?" (I tell her about the wound on his head.  He says he was attacked, but I don't know when.  I remember seeing it when I passed him this morning--or was it the previous morning?--but I don't tell her that, either, because I'm afraid she'll think he only wants medical help in order to get off the street tonight.)
     "Does he want to go to the hospital, or does he just want shelter?"  (I ask him, and he says hospital.)
     "Ok.  I'll send the ambulance.  You wait with him until it arrives."
     By this time, the man has realized that I am not French, and I tell him I'm American.
     "American, really?  He raises his eyebrows.  I like Americans."  Then in English:  "Thank you very much."    
     I smile.  "You're welcome."    
     "So they're sending someone?"
     "Yes, the ambulance is coming to take you to the hospital."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you until they get here."
     "Thank you very much."  He pats the bench beside him, and I sit down.  Now that I'm on this side of him, I can see an open wine bottle, more than half gone.  My heart sinks.  What will the paramedics say when they arrive and see it? 
     "What's your name?" I ask.
     It takes three tries before I'm able to understand his response.
     "Jo-Jo.  My nickname is Jo-Jo."
     "I'm Emily."
     We make a little more small talk, or rather Jo-Jo talks.  I can't understand a lot of what he says.  I think he tells me he used to be in the military.  It would explain why he walks with a crutch now. 
     "So they're sending someone?" he asks again. 
     "Yes," I confirm. 
     "Who?  From the 115 or the hospital?"
     "From the hospital," I say.
     Jo-Jo bursts into tears.  He's trying to talk, but he's blubbering, and I can't understand anything. 
     Oh, Lord, I panic.  Did I make a mistake?  Should I not have called the hospital?  I don't know what to do.  I put my hand on Jo-Jo's shoulder while he cries.  I still can't understand him, but after a minute, I'm pretty sure that they're tears of relief. 
     "So the hospital is sending someone?" he asks.
     "Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you."
     "Thank you very much."
     "You're welcome."

     We continue like this for the next few minutes, making small talk, as much as we're able.  Jo-Jo tells me some things about his life.  He mentions that he speaks several languages.  ("Did you notice?  Thank you very much.")  I can't help but chuckle at this, even in the midst of such a wretched situation.
     At least five more times, he asks, "So they're sending someone?"
     "Yes, they're sending an ambulance."
     "And you'll wait with me?"
     "Yes, I'll wait with you."
     "Thank you very much."
     "You're welcome."
     At least three more times, he bursts into tears.  It makes my heart hurt so much that I start crying, too.  He's so relieved to get some help, to get some relief, to have somewhere else than a park bench to go tonight.  But I worry about him.  What will happen to him when he gets to the hospital?  What does French law say about their obligation to care for someone like him? 
     By the time the paramedics arrive, I'm not sure if I'm relieved or even more anxious.  What will they say?  What will they do?
     I soon realize that I needn't have worried.  The two paramedics are quick, calm, and kind.  Their job is to care for people, all people.  I am so grateful to them for their impartiality, their professionalism, their discretion.
     I thank them for coming, and they thank me for waiting.  They tell me I can go, but it's hard to walk away.  I linger for a moment, watching them help Jo-Jo onto a stretcher.  He reaches out for my hand, and I grab it. 
     "I'm praying for you," I say.  I've told Jo-Jo that I'm a believer, that I'll be praying for him, that I don't understand why God allows certain things to happen, but that I know God loves him.  I know this is true, but it's still hard to walk away.  I ask God to watch over Jo-Jo, to protect him.  I thank Him that Jo-Jo will be safe tonight.
     I don't know if I'll see Jo-Jo again.  Will he be back on the park bench tomorrow?  Or could this trip to the hospital be the start of a greater healing for him?  I hope so, but I don't know.

#24. Loving People is Messy.

Loving people is messy.

Sometimes you bend over backwards to help someone, and they don't even say thank you.  Sometimes you give away the coat off your back, and they ask for your shoes, too.  You can give and give and give, while others take and take and take.

So how much is too much?  When do you stop?  When should you say no?  Is there such a thing as too much love?

I think many societies would say yes.  You have to protect yourself, preserve your own interests.  "Put on your own oxygen mask first, then help others!"

But what would Jesus say?  How much was too much for him?  When did he stop loving?

He didn't.  His love took him all the way to the cross.

He didn't love us because we deserved it or because he wanted something in return.  He loved us while we were still sinners, while we were still his enemies (Romans 5:7-8).

"Love brought Christ down from heaven to a manger in a stable; love led him from the stable to a cross on Calvary; love carried him from the cross into the tabernacles of our churches; and it's the coming of the Lord of Glory into our tabernacles and into our lives that has made all the difference in life to us" (from Drink Christ's Chalice Lovingly, by Sister Mary Michael).

Because of this amazing, undeserved, unconditional love that Christ has shown us, the natural response is for us to reflect that same love.

Each of us is called to "love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind" and to "love your neighbor as yourself" (Luke 10:27).

But who is my neighbor?  The expert in the law asked this question because he wanted an "out"--he expected that love would have a limit.

If we could read his thoughts back then, they'd probably be about the same as our own thoughts today:

God, tell me exactly who I really need to love--where can I draw the line?  Ok, orphans and widows, sure.  But what about my annoying co-worker?  Or the smelly man on the metro?  Or that guy who is always asking for money when I come out of the store?  Why doesn't he just get a job?

I tried loving that lonely woman at church, but it's just so exhausting to spend time with her.  She asks me for all kinds of help, and she never even says thank you.

I gave and I gave to that friend, and she turned around and talked about me behind my back and ruined my reputation.  Surely you don't expect me to give any more to her?

The answer that the expert in the law received from Jesus--and I believe the same answer we receive today--is that we are called to love anyone and everyone, not just those who are like us or even those who will appreciate it.  We are called to love when it's inconvenient and even when it hurts.

God, I'm not capable of loving like you.  But I want to try.  Help me to keep loving when it gets messy and even when it hurts.  Thank you for loving me first and for teaching me how to love others.


And Jonah stalked
to his shaded seat
and waited for God
to come around to his way of thinking.

And God is still waiting for a host of Jonahs
in their comfortable houses 
to come around
to his way of loving.

-You Jonah by Thomas Carlisle

#23. If It's Heavy, Drop It.

David* shuffled up to our table, backpack on his back and a shopping bag in each hand, along with his sandwich.  His load was made more difficult by the bandage on his right hand, limiting the mobility in his fingers.

“Please, have a seat,” we said.

I went to get him a cup of water, as I could see that he’d already had enough to carry.  

When I returned, he was already in the midst of sharing his story with my friend—how he had essentially lost everything in his life except for what he carried with him in those bags.

“This is it, this is my life,” he said, pointing out his old military uniform.  

“You know, you don’t have to carry that burden on your own,” my friend said.  You can take it, take all of your problems, and put them at the foot of the cross.”

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."

David’s eyes filled with tears, as if he wanted to believe that what she said could be true.  But he shook his head.  “No.  I can’t.”

We talked for quite a while that day, but at the end of the conversation, he picked up his bags again, and he left.  “Oof,” he grunted as he swung his backpack over his shoulder.  “It’s heavy.”

"My yoke is easy and my burden is light."

A few nights later, in a totally different part of the city, I stood waiting for some friends.  I looked around me, not sure from which direction they would come.  I saw a man with a bandaged hand, carrying two bags, walking toward me.

“David?” I asked.  

It was him.  He stopped and we talked.  His burden had only become heavier since the last time I saw him.  I asked him if he needed anything, some food or some money to pay for lodging that night.

“No, no,” he said.  “I found a good spot near the Métro; I’m on my way there now to meet a friend.”

While we were talking, another man came up and asked if we had any money so he could get a bite to eat.  I offered him some and, after he left, again asked David if there was some way I could help him.  

“No, there’s nothing,” he said.  He was convinced that it was up to him to resolve his problems on his own, even though he had no idea how he was going to do it.

I let him know I’d be praying for him anyway, and he picked up his bags and left, saying he hoped we’d cross paths again someday.

I hope so, too.  I hope that the next time I see him, he’ll have some good news to share.  I hope that the next time I see him, he’ll have given up trying to carry his burden on his own.

I can understand how David feels.  I’m a pretty stubborn and independent person.  I don’t like to ask for help.  I don’t like to admit that I can’t figure something out on my own.  But over the years, Jesus has made it clear to me that apart from Him, I can do nothing (John 15:5).  Every time I try, I fail.  Every.  Time.  And it's exhausting.

I don't know the extent of David's burdens, but I do know that they are too heavy for him to carry on his own.  And I know that Jesus is ready and waiting to pick them up, as He has done for me, and as He can do for each person.  But first, we have to be willing to put them down.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light."  -Matthew 11:28-30

*name changed

#22. I Have a Split Personality.

I spent a lot of time last week looking through old pictures, and as I did so, I had a strange feeling--like I almost didn't recognize myself.

Who is this girl?

This girl--let's call her Emily--is a full-time teacher and Bible study leader in the US.  She has a different activity almost every night of the week.  She goes to hockey games, DVR's Criminal Minds, surfs the Internet for fun science experiments, drinks Dr. Pepper, and always wins at Mad Gab.  She has the best friends in the world.

Yes, that is a donut.
Not everything has changed. :)

This girl--let's call her Emilie--is still trying to find her place a bit in France and has lots of free time.  She sounds like a kid when she speaks, she struggles to pray out loud, she never drives anywhere, and she has to wait until the weekend to talk to her friends in the US.  But she has also made friends from all over the world and can communicate with people who don't speak English at all.  She watches Cyprien videos on YouTube, drinks wine, eats fish(!), and surfs the Internet for fun English ideas.

I wish there was a way for all of the people I love on both sides of the ocean to meet both parts of me, but I don't even think I could adequately explain.  I was, however, able to come pretty close when my parents came to visit a few weeks ago.  They already know Emily better than most people, and they got to spend a few days with Emilie, too.  It was incredibly refreshing to have this time with them, and of course to see them in person after 7 months!

I thought it might be hard when they left, but I actually felt ok.  I really am happy here.  Now I'm starting to make plans to return to the US for the first time since I left, and that makes me both excited and nervous.  Everyone there will be expecting the same Emily to return, but that's not entirely who I am anymore.  What will this Emilie feel like when she makes her first visit to the US?  What things will she see differently?  What things that used to feel comfortable and familiar no longer will?

This cross-cultural living business is no joke.  I spent yesterday with two lovely boys (ages 2 and 5) that I would not have had the chance to meet if I wasn't living here in Lille.  Meanwhile, one of my best friends in the US has a new baby that  I haven't met yet!  And the kids I do know are growing up and changing so quickly that they probably won't even remember me the next time I see them.  But I am grateful for the opportunity to know and love people both here and there, even though that means my heart has to be divided, too (see also You Can Serve God with a Broken Heart).  And I'm even more grateful that when I feel out of place, I can remember that my true citizenship is not in either one of these countries, but in heaven (Philippians 3:20).

"...They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance, admitting that they were foreigners and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them."

-Hebrews 11:13-16

The Things That are Missing from Me

People here frequently ask me what I miss the most about the US.  Of course, I am always missing friends and family; that is no surprise.  But what do sometimes catch me by surprise are the little flashes or snapshots of memories--either specific things that have happened in the past, or just general feelings--that come to mind, often at the strangest times.

I don't miss Starbucks coffee, but I do miss "happy hour" with my Westgate friends and colleagues.  (Oh, and I do kind of miss pumpkin spice lattes, too.)

I don't miss watching hockey games as much as I miss watching them with my dad.

Maybe next year, Blues...maybe next year.

It's true that the pizza in the US tastes better (because let's face it, a real pizza has mozzarella, and you eat it with your hands!!).  But when I think of pizza in the US, I don't think of the taste as much as I think of Wednesday nights at junior high youth group, Papa John's day at school (which also happened to coincide with jeans day!), or someone (usually Mom) driving through Illinois and calling to say, "Should I stop at Roma's on my way home?"

In Chicago...and yes, we did stop at Roma's on the way home.

Whether I'm feeling happy, frustrated, or embarrassed (that one happens a lot), I miss coming home to my best friend and roommate and telling her about my day.  

Pirate party!

The last night in our apartment...with our impressive parking lot golf ball collection

There may be other little things that I miss here and there (ex. self-stick stamps, Hidden Valley Ranch dressing, free refills) but they're not important.  Ultimately, it's the people--and the memories I associate with them--that I miss.

This is still a hard phrase for me to express in French.  In English, it's me that does the missing:  Ex. I miss my family.  But in French, it's the thing that is missed that becomes the subject:  Ma famille me manque...which is sort of like saying, "My family is missing from me."  Even though it's more complicated for me to think this way, I like that way of saying it.  I'm completely content and happy here, but I also recognize that there are some things (people) missing from me.

#21. There's a New Kind of Comfortable in Town.

In moving to a new country and a new culture, I knew that I was exiting my old comfort zone, and there was no guarantee if or when I would find a new one.  After just six months of living in France, there are still a lot of things that aren't comfortable--speaking and understanding the language, building new relationships, stepping around piles of dog poo on the sidewalk... 

Recently I was away from Lille for 9 nights--by far the longest since moving here.  I like to travel, but I also like to come back home again.  And while I was away, I experienced a strange feeling of trying to determine exactly where "home" was.  I wondered what it would feel like when I got back to Lille after being away for so long.  Would it feel like coming back home or not?

The first couple of days, I got right back into my routine, and things felt fairly normal.  Monday night I had signed up for Franglish, a local French-English conversation group.  But as the starting time approached, I really didn't feel like going.  I didn't feel like making small talk; I didn't feel like meeting anyone new.  But it was too late to cancel, and I had told one of my classmates that I would be there.  So I went.  And I'm so glad I did!  My French still needs a lot of work, but I continue to see progress in the quality of conversations I am able to have with people. Afterwards, I talked with my two friends from language school, and it was so wonderful to see them!  (It had been a few weeks, since I'm not taking classes at the university this semester.) Then, as we walked toward the Métro together, we heard someone calling to us.  It was another former classmate who had gotten off at the wrong bus stop and was lost!  I don't believe it was a coincidence that we were there at the same time and could walk with her to the Métro.  As I walked and talked with her through the cobblestone streets of Lille, my heart was full of joy to be in that place with these new friends.  It may not be the same kind of comfortable that I feel in the US, but it's definitely something.

Good times with classmates!  I am so thankful for the relationships I've made and am making here.