Maybe, just maybe....

Last evening my lovely wife had her gall bladder removed. After four days of pain and an equal number of sleepless nights, it became clear that her discomfort wasn't simply a recurrence of acid reflux. An early Thursday morning trip to urgent care proved inconclusive and unhelpful, as the diagnosis was noncommittal and there was confusion about insurance coverage (a whole other post!).

After suffering through another pain-filled morning, an afternoon visit to her outstanding primary care physician ended with a drive over to the E.R. to further explore the cause of her symptoms. Twelve hours after beginning her journey of seeking relief, she entered the O.R. with an excellent surgeon, one who had helped her two previous times. The result was the successful removal of a greatly enlarged and infected gall bladder and very large stone.

This morning, the first of her recovery, she is already feeling the improvement. From her previous seven surgical experiences, we know that Kim is a quick healer with a high tolerance for the pain that comes with that re-growth process.

It is pretty easy for me to support the pain of healing; it was brutal to see her in the pain of illness, especially when the cause was yet to be pinpointed.

We all are faced with accompanying someone on their journey of pain. Pain is a part of life. Physical, emotional, spiritual, relational pain sometimes seem to seek us out and taunt us. Sometimes we can move around pain, acting blissfully unaware of it, or pretending that we are unaffected by it. Bearing one another's pain is hard. Just hard. So we only do it as much as we absolutely have to.

There is a lot of pain in the world today. I won't run down any lists, but you've already started making your own in your head. This pain soaks deep into our soul and psyche, and it also sits like an oily skin on the surface of our lives. The pain is private and public, personal and communal. It is a real and unavoidable element of life.

Some of you will know more acutely how hard pain is to deal with. Those of you with chronic health conditions suffer in ways that those of us who are healthier cannot understand. Those of you who struggle financially experience pain in ways that those of us with more resources don't. Those of you with broken relationships and deep loneliness know pain in a way that those of us with strong friendships and intimate companionship don't. Those of you who are discounted and ostracized just because of who you are (skin tone, sexuality, age, gender, education, economics, etc......) know a pain that guys like me who sit comfortably in all the privileged categories will never know.

But just because we don't know firsthand the pain doesn't mean we can ignore it. Our privilege does not give us the luxury of brushing aside the pain and suffering of those around us. Kim's agony made me uncomfortable, but I was not going to walk away. I could not take it from her. I could not feel it with her. I could not understand what pain of 10 on the 10 scale meant for her.

But I also could not avoid it, and I would not avoid her. All I could do was stay at her side, hold her hand, advocate for her care, tuck in her sheet, pray for her, and assure her that I would remain right there at her side.


This posture toward pain is not obligation, duty, or a strategy. It is compassion.

Our world is in pain. We know it in our families. We live it in our church. We fear it in our politics. It is right beside us each and every day, seemingly ready to overtake us. Often we can't fix it. Mostly we don't understand it. Usually we try to avoid it.

But maybe, just maybe, we could start by meeting the pain with more compassion. And then maybe, just maybe, we'd wake up on a Friday morning with a different kind of pain, the pain that tells us we're finally starting to heal.

Where love is

Our son Ben is 21. He is a joy-filled, loving, social young man. His heart is as big as an ocean. He wants to help people. He wants to serve.

For the last two years he has been looking forward to a week-long volunteer workcamp. In 2015 he registered to attend, but the camp was cancelled due to low enrollment. This year he and I and my dad spent a week at Camp Mardela in Maryland, working alongside other participants in this intergenerational activity to get the camp ready for its summer ministry to kids.

Three generations working together

Ben was in his glory. He helped us split wood.

Ben and his grandpa!

He raked leaves.

Ben loves to rake leaves!

He helped clear trails, paint buildings, and deep clean the kitchen. He participated in food preparation and cleanup. He prayed for a meal and read scripture for devotions one evening.

And Ben did what he does best: he made new friends. Ben is more than just outgoing. He is socially uninhibited, a trait consistent with his genetic makeup known as Williams Syndrome.

Ben also got tired and somewhat ornery. By Friday afternoon, the fifth full day of the camp, his self-control was out the window, and my relatively small attempt at setting healthy limits and redirecting Ben quickly devolved into an angry tirade by our usually joy-filled Ben.

Ben's outbursts are not unprecedented. Because the area affected by his genetic deletion typically provides self-regulation, he doesn't have all the tools he needs to use good judgement, make logical decisions, and connect behavior to consequences, especially future outcomes. When he encounters such a situation, sometimes his frustration boils over, and it's not pretty. While not frequent, such violent scenes repeat with periodic regularity.

When his anger peaks, Ben reveals a very colorful and hurtful vocabulary, no doubt picked up in high school hallways. He becomes physically aggressive, kicking, punching, scratching, and throwing anything he can get his hands on. He is strong and persistent. These are scary moments.

As Ben's parent, these tirades can be extremely disconcerting and threatening. The amount of energy required to stick with Ben through one of these instances is immense. On the last day of a physically strenuous workcamp, my energy was already depleted. Since we were at a camp, my strategy to deal with Ben's rising anger was to get him outside and move safely away from him until he could escalate to his breaking point and ultimately return to what typically follows - a contrite, compassionate young man.

There were six other youth ages 13-17 attending the workcamp, five from one youth group and the youngest from another church. At the beginning of the week I had briefly introduced them to Ben's tendencies and spoke about Williams Syndrome. They were friendly and welcoming to Ben, and Ben has never met a human being he didn't want to be friends with!

I was unprepared, however, for the level of maturity and caring from these young people. I know good kids; my wife and I have a teenage son and daughter in addition to Ben. But I also know that kids can be unpredictable. These kids were both those things: good and unpredictable.

As Ben sat alone at a picnic table working through his anger, first one, then another, and then finally the whole group of youth gathered around him and "loved on" him.

I was overcome by tears. These amazing youth surrounded Ben with patient support and caring. In those ten or so beautiful minutes, they demonstrated everything anyone ever needs to know about Christ-like love and compassion. Their simple act of friendship lifted Ben, and broke me.

This is what welcome looks like. This is inclusion. These are simple acts of kindness done toward the least of these. This moment is a human triumph. Here there are no "special needs," only a friend in need.

Thanks, kids, for relieving a weary dad, and for being a friend to Ben! Thanks for sharing the love.

Maybe the rest of us can go and do likewise.