Compassion only plagues those with hearts, much like a field of thorns only troubles those who bleed.

Walk with me for a while, my friend—you in my shoes, I in yours—and then let us talk.

The description of Huck’s father grabbed my full attention, and I glanced up at the book in my teacher’s hand as if to double check. My eyes bulged reflexively. Huck’s father was an abusive drunk just like mine. The boy was hopeful that a corpse found near the river was actually his dad, but it turned out not to be. It was spooky how high my hopes rose for the boy, and then sank so utterly low when the body was discovered to be a female in disguise. I should’ve mourned for the woman, but it was the boy I felt bad for.

A word of consolation
may sweetly touch the ear.
Now and then a quiet song
will clear the mind of fear.

A simple act of kindness
can ease a load of care.
Stories told in memory
diminish all despair.

A whispered prayer of comfort
draws angel arms around.
Counting blessings, great and small,
helps gratitude abound.

These acts, all sympathetic,
will kindly play their part.
But seldom do they dry the tears
shed mutely in the heart.

Why must you know the details of my troubles to have compassion? Is it not enough to show compassion simply because you know that everyone has troubles?

It's frustrating when our best efforts to help people fail. But if we could see life through their weary eyes and experience their trials with the same frayed emotions, we might understand why.