Years ago I was walking with my young children when we passed a woman with a large birthmark on her face. Just before we were safely out of ear shot one of my kids asked about it.
"Mom, why did she look like that? What was that brown spot? Does it hurt?"
I took a deep breath, wondering how to phrase my answer, after I even came up with one. This was a long time before I was myself enrolled in the special needs club. Before I could speak, my son answered his own question.
"I bet she knows." He seemed satisfied with that. As if we are not expected to comprehend everything. I exhaled. Instead of me informing him, he explained something to me.
It is still a pithy response for me, when I am confounded by another person's behavior. Gradually I am releasing my grip on the obsessive compulsion to have everything pass my inspection. I believe that God created that woman walking by, even to the details of her face. He did not ask for my permission, or approval. Surely it has impacted her life deeply, in ways I cannot fathom. Yet I can be curious, the way my child was, about whether it causes her pain.
That is a circumstance that invites my compassion.
