On The Other Side Of Compassion

This time of year, Friday night means substandard concession stand cheeseburgers and high school football. And I love it. Last Friday, the family road-tripped north to watch my oldest play. He had 80 yards on 9 carries with 2 touchdowns. (Auburn’s looking at him at QB and RB. They’re not, really, but maybe they should.) I digress. So, on the way home, and just as the kids were settling in for a quiet ride, my youngest offered, “Christmas is just like Saturday, but way different.” They all jumped back into conversation at that point, and I never learned the context of his declaration. Therefore, I’ll make it up.

My son equates the joy of receiving gifts at Christmas to a (mostly) carefree and fun-filled Saturday. And he’s 7. He should feel that way. So yes, Charles Henry, Christmas is like Saturday. Except for the chores. They each spend a portion of their weekend earning their keep, if you will. Call me old fashioned, but if they can walk, they can work. That’s likely the part of Saturday that’s “way different” than Christmas. For him, one day’s more about receiving, while the other’s about giving back. And that reminds me of a story.

About a year ago, I wrote Perspective rides a bicycle with one pedal. It’s the story of an encounter my wife and I had with a gentleman while walking through the neighborhood. I’d encourage you to read that post before continuing with this one as there’s now more to the story. Recently, my wife was recounting the story for a friend who’s lived in town for quite some time. Two minutes in, her friend said, “Let me guess, he had a plastic bag draped across his handlebars with a diaper and a nearly empty gallon of milk. And something about needing some help until this first check comes in from the new job that he starts next week?”

Silence. Confirmation. Anger. Resentment.

That’s what went through my mind upon having that story shared with me. How could we have fallen for that? Well, in our defense, his was a very detailed story highlighted by a seemingly unrehearsed delivery. And honestly, neither she nor I wanted to doubt him.

I guess sometimes you believe even when you suspect there’s reason not to.

You do it because it’s what you believe you should do in a given situation. Am I wrong, here? Some may call that naïvete. People prey on that very attitude, they’ll say. And they’d be right. Some do. But his ploy doesn’t diminish our earnest gesture to satisfy a need. Nor should the possibility of deceit ever squelch the desire to help when the opportunity arises. I’m no Pollyana, but you may never know what lies on the other side of compassion. I remember the look on his face when he saw me knocking on his screen door. It was, “I can’t believe you fell for that.” But after we went through the two grocery bags full of items, it evolved into, “I can’t believe you did this for me.” At least that’s what I’m choosing to believe. It’s my story and it’s up to me how I respond, after all.

Did he pull one over on us? It appears so. From our perspective, though, what we received through the act of giving will  forever be part of our family’s story. Did our gifts ever give him reason to pause and consider his actions? God only knows. And that will just have to be good enough for us. And it is.

Turns out, Charles Henry, when the gift you receive is the act of giving itself, Christmas can be just like Saturday or any other day of the week.