Every Christmas he would sit with her. If any words were exchanged they were not about what haunted her. Memory. Running. Running as Russian tanks approached. Baby in one arm, child holding the other hand. Ice on the ground. Biting air. Lungs and muscles burning with strain. Running.
She realized they were not going to make it.
She put her baby down and continued running with the child in hand.
That memory, the ghost of a baby sacrificed for the child, a human being facing God’s dilemma.
Every Christmas he would sit with her. Silent. He told me there are no words for that kind of suffering.
Compassion is defined as: To suffer with.
He did not claim to be compassionate, he only said he suffered with her so she would not suffer alone. He did not say he suffered, I heard it in his voice, saw it one his face.
Grace
Kindness
Compassion of the highest order he would not admit to.
Without teaching, he taught me to give space, make room, be with the suffering; this is the way the heart educates us in love.
My Christmas Tales 