Compassion and Pain Stealing

Today I remembered that compassion means “pain taking”.
Not pain asking.
Not pain borrowing.
Not pain sharing.
Pain taking.

Taking has such a hostile connotation to it. Like you are commandeering something. You take candy. You take a bike. You take a test.

You claim it.

You steal it.
You take what belongs to you and refuse to give it back.

Compassion is not sharing pain. It’s not in itself empathizing, sympathizing, or even listening. It is stepping in a taking claim of someone else’s pain.

Which means you don’t wait. You don’t tell someone to come and find you if they need you. That’s sympathy. Pity even sometimes. You don’t sit to see if you can come to their aid.

You do it.

You send text messages that say “I’m on my way over. Be ready.”

You say “Be honest with me. I WANT to know.”

You hug not because you understand but because she needs to feel understood.

You all not to talk but to listen...
You listen not so you can hear but so he can talk.

You look for an area of need and you step in.

It’s a near hostile take-over. You stake claim on their pain and you make it your own.

True compassion feels like a whirlwind. You don’t know what hit you until suddenly you realize your load is lighter. It leaves you shocked and amazed. Dumbstruck and confused. Baffled at others’ care. Wondering why and how. Questioning if you gave them permission. Realizing they never asked.

But that’s okay.

Because compassion isn’t pain asking.

Or even pain sharing.

It’s pain taking.
Pain stealing.
And nothing means more than someone who has just stuck claim into your

Jesus in my Heart

When I was four or five I “formally accepted Jesus into my heart.”

And I SOBBED. Not because it was an emotional, life changing experience. It was traumatizing. And I was confused.

It was the phrasing: “You need to ask Jesus into your heart...”

“What???”

I was a little girl. This I knew. And Jesus was a big guy. As big as the whole sky. This I knew too. Everyone told me Jesus was big. So I had a problem. I just didn’t know how a God that big was going to fit into me, being so small. I pictured the last time I tried to shove my teddy bear in my backpack. I couldn’t handle it. This was probably going to hurt. Maybe my heart would explode!

I got over it.

Eventually.

When I was older, I came to a better understanding of what it meant to have Christ in my life. I offered Him a place with more authenticity and genuineness rooted in faith and knowledge. My relationship was real. We walked hand in hand, partners.

Then, when I was older still, (like now), I went back to my previous model. Because something about it is very real...

...To recognize a God who is very much too big for me. Realizing just how small I am in comparison to Christ. I am too small for Jesus to fit in. He comes in, invades my life, but spills over into every other believer. Hello, the body of Christ! Just maybe if we get enough people too small for Jesus piled up in the same room, willing to just love Him and do what He says, then maybe we’ll have a real picture of what He looks like.

...To be willing to bet that when I “ask Jesus into you heart”, it is probably going to hurt. He is probably going to do some rearranging in there. Life probably isn’t going to look the same. Allegiances are going to have to be different and that is going to cause some pain. It is never fun to fix what’s been broken.

...To allow my heart to explode. Whatever that will mean. Whatever it will include. So be it. And let it be so.