In recent weeks there are days that I have come home from my clinical hours and literally fallen into bed. I thought pastoring was hard work, and it is, but so is being a spiritual care provider. Some days I’m not sure if I’ve ever worked this hard, at least emotionally.

To have compassion is to be with someone. At times, someone may question their very existence, wrestle with doubts, be paralyzed by fear, feel like they’re drowning in grief, or be curled up and crippled by pain. I received an email and some encouragement recently that contained a quote by Henri Nouwen.

Henri Nouwen said, “Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the places where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But it is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it. As busy, active, relevant [people], we want to earn our bread by making a real contribution. This means, first and foremost doing something to show that our presence makes a difference. And so we ignore our greatest gift, which is our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer…

Those who can sit with their fellow man [or woman], not knowing what to say but knowing that they should be there, can bring new life into a dying heart. Those who are not afraid to hold a hand in gratitude, to shed tears of grief, and to let a sigh of distress arise straight from the heart can break through paralyzing boundaries and witness the birth of a new fellowship, the fellowship of the broken.”

The fellowship of the broken. My life is becoming more and more acquainted with the fellowship of the broken. Is there laughter there? Sure. Some days. Are there tears? Often. Is there silence? Lots. Are there words? Not always. Where is God? Near and sometimes far, or at least it can feel that way if I’m honest.

Most days, I’ve moved beyond cliche answers and am slower to speak. I think seeing brokenness up close does that to a person. I find myself questioning theologies or practices that no longer make sense and I’m stumbling around trying to find new ones that can aid me in living more authentically in this broken world where God is said to be making all things new.

But what happens when I can no longer remember God’s name? When dementia steals my memory of God, my family, my sense of self? John Sparrow, in his book Dementia: Living in the Memories of God, asks what it means to be known, loved, and held by God when you have forgotten who God is and you can no longer recognize yourself or those whom you once loved. That question forces me to think and reflect and seek God with all my heart for new understanding. I need it. Why? So I can be with others, especially persons with dementia.

I am learning that we must hold on to each other and that being compassionate is deep work. It doesn’t come easy, at least most days. But it can be a sacred space where we discover surprising things about God, each other, and the brokenness.

Learning to be with,

Carmen