Lessons from the Classroom
“Compassion and innocence are mutually exclusive”
That was written on the white board one day in Mr. West’s AP English class my senior year. As I slid into my seat as the bell rang (or perhaps a little later, since that class was after lunch) I remember thinking that I wasn’t sure I agreed with the idea. I considered myself a pretty innocent person at the time, and didn’t want to believe that meant that I couldn’t be compassionate. But as the class went on, and I thought more, it started to make sense. A large part of compassion is empathy, which is impossible to have if you lack real-world experiences.
I have no clue what we really talked about that day, and I probably didn’t contribute because my AP English class could have been retitled “Smartass Philosophy” which I had neither the desire nor intelligence to participate in. Our conversations about books I usually hadn’t read all of always seemed to deviate to “Is there a God?” Then my classmates would name drop philosophers in hopes of looking like the smartest kid in the class. (Looking back , this is probably why I wasn’t so fond of most CC students either) The thing I love most about English classes is the idea that literature can make you think outside yourself, but it seemed like my classmates always had an agenda, so I rarely paid much attention. But I really liked Mr. West.
Anyway, I was recently reminded of this quotation because it’s been four months since Dad died, and in that time, three of my good friends from Valpo have experienced the same loss. Whether it is expected, or a complete surprise, it’s not easy to lose your Daddy, especially at an age when everyone is getting married and you are constantly reminded of the major piece that will be missing at your own wedding, whenever that should happen.
Each time I heard the news, my heart broke because I know how painful the loss can be.
I've found myself frustrated because I want to be able to give good advice or encouragement since I’ve been in their shoes. In the a few of many kind notes and cards that I received after Dad died, people said, “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” Well I can imagine what my friends are going through, but I still don’t have the right thing to say. I want to be able to say exactly the right thing that will acknowledge the loss and yet provide encouragement. Problem is, I can’t find the words to do that.
I imagine this is probably partially because my own loss is so recent- the wound is still fresh and the healing is no where near complete. And like physical wounds, debridement is usually necessary, which means the most painful parts are still yet to come.
It’s also probably because this isn’t a loss that can be replaced. It’s not like a bad break-up, when I can remind my friends that they will find someone better. You only get one Dad, so the loss will always be there, and you’ll be reminded of it more often than you would like.
The most encouraging thing I can think to say is “You’ll survive.” I want to say “you’ll be okay” but that’s not really true, and “it gets worse before it gets better” really isn’t that hopeful. If I was being honest, I’d simply go with “It sucks. It really, really sucks.”
If I was being completely honest, my card would say this.
It sneaks up on you when you least expect it to, and everything reminds you of him. Laughter happens less, crying happens more. People will want to help ease the pain, but sometimes their efforts make it worse. You will be blessed in the next few months, but none of those blessings fill that hole, and sometimes the desire to share those blessings with your dad makes the sense of loss worse. The wound becomes less raw, but no less deep. Just when you think you’re doing okay, something will happen and you’ll remember he’s gone, forever. You’ll have a decent day, and then cry yourself to sleep. But, you’ll survive. You’ll wake up tomorrow with a fresh start. You’ll remember the good times you shared with him. You will laugh again. You’ll learn to appreciate the small things that make you smile. You’ll be more willing to tell people how much you care about them and you won’t wait to do the things you want to do. I am so. sorry. for your loss.
My sorry means more now. I can easily say that my heart is much more compassionate now that I’ve experienced this loss, so maybe Mr. West was right in the end.
Then again, the English teachers in my life usually are.
That was written on the white board one day in Mr. West’s AP English class my senior year. As I slid into my seat as the bell rang (or perhaps a little later, since that class was after lunch) I remember thinking that I wasn’t sure I agreed with the idea. I considered myself a pretty innocent person at the time, and didn’t want to believe that meant that I couldn’t be compassionate. But as the class went on, and I thought more, it started to make sense. A large part of compassion is empathy, which is impossible to have if you lack real-world experiences.
I have no clue what we really talked about that day, and I probably didn’t contribute because my AP English class could have been retitled “Smartass Philosophy” which I had neither the desire nor intelligence to participate in. Our conversations about books I usually hadn’t read all of always seemed to deviate to “Is there a God?” Then my classmates would name drop philosophers in hopes of looking like the smartest kid in the class. (Looking back , this is probably why I wasn’t so fond of most CC students either) The thing I love most about English classes is the idea that literature can make you think outside yourself, but it seemed like my classmates always had an agenda, so I rarely paid much attention. But I really liked Mr. West.
Anyway, I was recently reminded of this quotation because it’s been four months since Dad died, and in that time, three of my good friends from Valpo have experienced the same loss. Whether it is expected, or a complete surprise, it’s not easy to lose your Daddy, especially at an age when everyone is getting married and you are constantly reminded of the major piece that will be missing at your own wedding, whenever that should happen.
Each time I heard the news, my heart broke because I know how painful the loss can be.
I've found myself frustrated because I want to be able to give good advice or encouragement since I’ve been in their shoes. In the a few of many kind notes and cards that I received after Dad died, people said, “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.” Well I can imagine what my friends are going through, but I still don’t have the right thing to say. I want to be able to say exactly the right thing that will acknowledge the loss and yet provide encouragement. Problem is, I can’t find the words to do that.
I imagine this is probably partially because my own loss is so recent- the wound is still fresh and the healing is no where near complete. And like physical wounds, debridement is usually necessary, which means the most painful parts are still yet to come.
It’s also probably because this isn’t a loss that can be replaced. It’s not like a bad break-up, when I can remind my friends that they will find someone better. You only get one Dad, so the loss will always be there, and you’ll be reminded of it more often than you would like.
The most encouraging thing I can think to say is “You’ll survive.” I want to say “you’ll be okay” but that’s not really true, and “it gets worse before it gets better” really isn’t that hopeful. If I was being honest, I’d simply go with “It sucks. It really, really sucks.”
If I was being completely honest, my card would say this.
It sneaks up on you when you least expect it to, and everything reminds you of him. Laughter happens less, crying happens more. People will want to help ease the pain, but sometimes their efforts make it worse. You will be blessed in the next few months, but none of those blessings fill that hole, and sometimes the desire to share those blessings with your dad makes the sense of loss worse. The wound becomes less raw, but no less deep. Just when you think you’re doing okay, something will happen and you’ll remember he’s gone, forever. You’ll have a decent day, and then cry yourself to sleep. But, you’ll survive. You’ll wake up tomorrow with a fresh start. You’ll remember the good times you shared with him. You will laugh again. You’ll learn to appreciate the small things that make you smile. You’ll be more willing to tell people how much you care about them and you won’t wait to do the things you want to do. I am so. sorry. for your loss.
My sorry means more now. I can easily say that my heart is much more compassionate now that I’ve experienced this loss, so maybe Mr. West was right in the end.
Then again, the English teachers in my life usually are.
love you, boo. Thanks for sharing the card message with all of us who've lost a dad recently. The thing Dad used to tell me circa high school English days was that the most important thing in relationships was not to close yourself off, and that you had to be willing to share yourself with others because we are all better off when we try to get through life together instead of by ourselves.
ReplyDeleteI want to try to add something that I would say you your friends, besides offering them my sympathy, but I think you've said just about everything I'd say. : )
Though I'm not in your shoes and I can't say, "I know or understand how you feel," I know what you've gone through and going through is difficult. I do know that my words aren't going to take away the pain, but please know that I am always here for you. HUGS. Lots of love.
ReplyDelete