My oldest son enjoyed the Hardy Boys. I read aloud for hours, until it was time to face the actual housework staring at me. Sometimes Lukas would cheerfully do dishes just to keep me turning pages. It was easy for both of us to predict who the bad guys were, because they had a hawk nose and beady eyes. 

 

My second and third sons loved Redwall. We dove into those books, our mouths watering over the raspberry tarts, and savory carrot and parsnip pies. That author too, made the division between heroes and criminals clear. Mice and rabbits were honorable. Rats and snakes were thugs. 

 

It was handy to rely on clear delineations. Then there are authors and screenwriters who muddy things up.

 

Jodi Picoult is one who holds my hand into the experience of each of her characters, making it almost impossible to be left hating anyone. One image that lingers is of the formerly white supremacist man, whose Nazi tattoo has been painfully removed. He has brought his little girl to be seen by a black nurse who owns her own clinic. He knows her, even though her name has changed with marriage. She does not recognize the plaintiff who once took her to court for a crime she did not commit, trying desperately to dehumanize her. 

 

Call the Midwife continues to dilate my thinking to issues I had the privilege to ignore. I watch with earphones, when Ben is home. He cannot bear the screams of women in labor, nor slippery newborns crying. 

 

His sensitivity is ironic, in that he is himself a yeller. Last night his lungs worked on overdrive, for reasons no playwright has yet made clear.

 

The pain of opening up is sharp. While my childbearing years have ended, I find myself expanding into greater compassion for those who deal with circumstances I have long been closed to.

 

My prayer is that there will be a sweet birth of mercy.