A Story Of Compassion

This morning at the gym, I saw a man

with one arm climbing out of the pool. My first emotion was compassion — and then I caught myself. That reaction was worse than laughing. The vanity of me, to assume this man wanted my compassion. Just because he looked like less didn’t mean he was anything but more. Compassion should be saved for the person in tears at a funeral. The mother who just delivered a stillborn child.

The person who lost everything in a fire. Not a man who got out of bed to go for an early morning swim.

He greeted me with a smile and a “Hello,” like plenty of people I passed that morning. Yet he was the only one I reduced to a disability. We convince ourselves we’re better people for empathizing — before we ever sit down to hear the story. Everyone wants to be treated as an equal, but we’re quick to slip in a minus sign and leave someone negative the moment we decide they’re a victim.

He probably wouldn’t trade his life for mine. Maybe he gave that arm so someone he loves could live. We manufacture the worst in a situation that might actually be better than ours.

In that moment, I was everything I despise. I wasn’t the person I ask others to mirror. So I looked him in the eyes and said, “Have a nice day” — and seeing myself reflected there, I realized I was the one who was crippled.

The LoveSnobs