Last month I was sick. Nothing life threatening, but twelve hours where my digestive system decided to reset. In that time of queasiness, I thought of my father, who spent six months being nauseous on a ship in the Aleutians. He was so skinny when his mother picked him up at the train station for furlough she did not recognize him. I also thought of someone who has been struggling with digestive issues for a year. Even several stints in the hospital have brought no real answers. 

 

A friend took a cross country trek with her family. Each day brought another ten plus hours on the road. One night they chose the less expensive hotel after a long day, and found out why the discount made sense. Water from the tap was either scalding or freezing. She did not dare to take a shower. But no matter, the towels didn't look all that clean. Her thoughts wandered to refugees, whose conditions are far less comfortable, and are facing real peril. Plus she knew that the next night the conditions would be better. Not so for a family in exile. 

 

When we lived in New Mexico there was a neighbor who shunned me. She had decided that my religion was both unacceptable and contagious, and refused to let her children play with mine. I didn't understand at first why she pushed aside my overtures for friendship, but eventually the reasons leeched out. I recall the feeling of helplessness, in that I was unworthy of her time. 

 

Every instance of inconvenience, or suffering, can be a small chance to grow in empathy. Perhaps each one is like a stepping stone, and at the end we will have actualized compassion for a whole spectrum of conditions.