Life: "The Magical Mystery Tour"

I was sitting in the recliner chair last night, watching the mindless drivel on television and trying not to think about my burning mouth, when the phone rang. It was Mum.

“Hi Dale,” she said. “Your dad and I have been thinking about you all day and wondering how you were making out. How’s your mouth feel today? Have you had any more bouts of the symptoms you described?”

Her voice was both soothing and disquieting. Mother’s care and concern is always soothing, Ms J, of course. And always welcome. But she sounded sad, and after I’d told her the pain had returned, I immediately regretted it. When she told me her throat was aching in sympathy with mine, I wished I hadn’t spoken up and asked her to help carry my burden.

Whenever a child suffers, it seems his parents suffer too. It’s always been this way. I suppose it always will. It’s right and proper somehow to feel compassion for the pain of others. Indeed, the word compassion is itself derived from Latin words meaning “to suffer with.” An awareness of and sympathy for the suffering of others is something beautiful, something God-like. It makes us human. It makes us humane. And the world is a softer, gentler place as a result.

I lay in my bed this morning, staring into the pre-dawn darkness and compiling a mental list – the pros and cons as it were, of sharing my misery with others. Not with others, necessarily, but with my parents, specifically. Is it right that I should cause them to worry? What can they do but wring their soft hands and commiserate?

“I wish I was there with you, Dale,” Mum said last night, “but I don’t know what I could do to help.”

What could she have done, Ms Journal? What could she have done to help me? My mouth was burning. My lip was swollen a bit. But it wasn’t unbearable. And now, by telling her about it, the ripples of my pain had spread out across the countryside, to affect people I love. Like a macabre sort of radar signal, the pain then returned to its source. My eyes filled.

“My last thought last night as I climbed into bed, was a prayer for you,” she’d said. “... and my first thought in the morning. I prayed for you, Dale. I hate to think of you hurting.”

And I hate to think of hurting my dear ol’ mum. I love her so, Ms J. And prayer couldn’t hurt, could it? It just might help. Maybe.

A dog barked somewhere outside and a car passed, its headlights rousing shadows which scurried across the bedroom wall. A thought came to me then, in the dark. It was not an original thought. I’d read it before somewhere, although I can’t remember where.

Joy shared is doubled. Pain shared is halved.

Maybe that was it, then. Perhaps that was the most compelling reason to share my burden with Mum. But she would have to shoulder the other half, wouldn't she? She and Dad. She could pray for me, though. That would surely offer her some relief. And if she shared her pain with God, ...

I smiled at the idea of slicing pain, like a pie, and sharing it equally with family and friends. And with God. Then it came to me. It became clear then.

If I love someone, I don’t want them to suffer. If I love them, I would gladly accept a portion of their hurt. If, God forbid, Daniel or Meagan were suffering, wouldn’t I want to know about it? Wouldn’t I seek ways to mitigate their suffering, even if it were only through the uncertain mystery of prayer?

An awareness of and sympathy for the suffering of others is something beautiful, something God-like. It makes us human. It makes us humane. And the world is a softer, gentler place as a result.

Parents. Children. Friends. And pain.

Life, Ms Journal. It is indeed, “a magical, mystery tour.” And it's waiting to take you away.

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