Someone threw a rock and shattered my elderly neighbor’s window. A few of us who live on the street gathered outside of his house to assess the damage. “Sorry, Tom, that you have to deal with this,” a neighbor said to him.
“Don’t you hate people who do this kind of damage?” asked another. Tom shook his head. “No, I don’t. I feel sorry for them.”
“You’re a bigger person than me. I’d hate the person who broke a window at my house,” chimed in another.
“It was a rock that broke my window. Should I hate the rock?” Tom asked.
“But a person threw it,” a woman said.
“Yes. That’s true. But it was the pain inside the person that caused them to throw the rock. I can’t hate that pain. I can only feel compassion for it, for I too, have felt pain,” whispered Tom. I drew in a quick breath, surprised at Tom’s wisdom, his Christ-like heart.
Neighbors shook their heads. I heard one whisper the word “crazy” as they walked away. I remained, not yet wanting to leave the company of such a dear man.
“Do you need any help cleaning up?” I asked.
“No, but thank you for asking,” Tom answered.
“Thank you, for your loving heart,” I said.
“Is there any other kind to have? We must help each other heal from our pain that causes destruction in life,  not hate it,” he said as he rested his hand on my shoulder.
“The world would be a better place if we could do that,” I said. It would be a better place, indeed.

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