About a year ago, my kids and I were driving to a local supermarket. We exited the interstate, arrived at the stoplight, and waited on the left turn signal. While waiting, the three of us noticed someone standing on the curb holding a piece of cardboard that read: “Hungry. Homeless. Please Help.” I was not planning on saying anything about the man with the sign. What was there to say? After all, I had taught my kids not to talk to strangers, much less approach them.
My son couldn’t resist. He read the sign and began to ask where I thought the man was born. And where he slept the night before. And who the man’s parents were. And where he went to the bathroom when he had to go. You know. The kinds of things a six year old asks about people who stand on street corners in dirty clothes, with frowns on their faces, holding messages that people like me try to ignore. To those questions, I had no answers. I just said, “I’m not sure. Why don’t you pray for him.”
My daughter, who is after my own heart, then began to ask me what specific groceries we were going to buy. Now that was a question I could answer! We were going to buy some bread. Not the cheap kind. The kind that is packaged twice. A wrapper within a wrapper. Then we would buy some peanut butter. Actually 3 jars of peanut butter. We each have a favorite brand. We would also buy some milk. Some cereal. Some frozen chicken breasts. Some steak. And then anything else that looked good while we walked the aisles.
As we pulled into the supermarket parking lot, my daughter and I talked about how hungry we were and what we would do if this particular store had only two kinds of peanut butter. My son was thinking of food too. He said, “I wonder what he likes to eat.” “Who?” I asked. “The man with the sign,” he replied.
In that moment, I think the three of us understood the difference between having compassion for someone and feeling sorry for someone. I felt sorry for the man on the curb. I really did. My son had compassion for him.
My daughter had a moment of clarity. She realized that her little brother was right and her dad was wrong. She then made this trip to the grocery a family mission: We would go shopping for the man with the sign.
Over the next 20 minutes, my kids shopped with a purpose. With passion. With heart. We put together what we hoped was the perfect meal. We loaded up the car and headed back to that special stoplight. The place where our pity turned to compassion. When we arrived, I allowed my daughter and son to get out of the car and deliver the meal to our new friend. He smiled and knelt down to thank them both. After a brief exchange of words, my children returned to the car.
As we headed home, I asked them both what we all learned that day. My son spoke first (as always) and said, “I learned that the man with the sign turned out to be a woman!” My kids’ hearts then exploded with laughter. But trust me. They were not laughing at the lady’s appearance. It just felt good to care about someone else. My kids reminded me that true compassion is not feeling sorry for someone else. It is caring enough to do something about it!
