Some years back, I had a conversation with a man after a church service.
“I’ve heard about your wife’s and your journey,” he told me. “I understand what you’re facing. I know the emotions involved.”
What about those who are in pain? Are their burdens lighter? Have their lives changed?
I was a bit taken aback. In that city, we felt isolated, like we were navigating a unique experience. At that stage, my wife had already undergone 75 surgeries and had lost both legs.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied solemnly. “My wife broke her ankle last month.”
I tend to struggle with sarcasm, so I held back my real thoughts and tried to be courteous, perhaps a touch too polite for the situation.
“Bless your heart,” I said.
Yet, his response lingered with me. The use of “exactly” struck me. He didn’t seek understanding; he simply asserted that he had achieved it.
Sure, a broken ankle is serious, but it doesn’t equate to enduring decades of surgeries or losing significant parts of one’s body. To merge these experiences feels like a disservice to genuine suffering. It distorts the reality.
We often misjudge similar situations, not only in church settings but on much larger platforms too.
Think back to the 1990s, during a presidential debate. Bill Clinton leaned into the camera, softened his voice, and expressed, “I feel your pain.”
It was effective. He connected with the audience, enough to secure votes. However, it raises a question.
What really happened to those who were suffering? Did their burdens ease? Did circumstances shift for them?
When we approach someone’s pain with certainty, rather than humility, it becomes a form of toxic empathy. It sounds like compassion, yet it often leads to a sense of abandonment for the person in distress.
In seeking understanding, we sometimes sidestep the actual burdens people carry.
When someone shares their struggle, they’re not asking for a fix. It’s more like inviting you in, but not to overhaul everything.
We often grab for the right words instead of focusing on meaningful actions. Words create connections, but during such moments, they can overwhelm and hinder.
We can’t know precisely how others feel. What we can do is listen. I strive to be thoughtful. I can be present. And I can refrain from trying to insert my own experiences into theirs. This is something I learned from my wife, Gracie.
Once, a woman began to share something heavy with Gracie but quickly changed her tone, saying, “My situation isn’t as bad as yours.”
Gracie wouldn’t accept that.
“Don’t minimize your pain compared to mine,” she replied. “If you’re going to compare anything, consider that if I’ve found God faithful in my journey, you can hold onto that faith in your own.”
The woman likely had internalized some teaching about weighing her suffering before voicing it. Gracie challenged that notion, asserting that everyone deserves to be heard.
We often mishandle pain—both our own and that of others. Sometimes, we become too involved or too detached. In both cases, something vital is lost.
Suffering doesn’t require a spokesperson; what we truly need are people willing to just be there and stay a while.
I recall an event years ago when Gracie and I waited to meet President George W. Bush. When it was our turn, he offered his hand to me and then turned to her. He saw that her prosthetic leg was visible beneath her skirt, a time when such visibility was less common.
He didn’t utter a word. He held her hand gently, making eye contact. I noticed his demeanor shift; his eyes softened, a hint of compassion evident. He stayed with her for a long moment, engaged.
At that time, he was one of the most powerful individuals globally, yet he didn’t try to inject himself into her narrative. He didn’t claim to understand. He simply offered his presence.
What we often witness, however, is the opposite. Public figures often step into the limelight, proclaiming their understanding of others’ pain, speaking authoritatively yet about situations they haven’t lived through. It may sound magnanimous. And voter engagement often comes as a byproduct.
Yet, this approach can lead to alienation. When someone asserts complete understanding of another’s suffering, they may cease to listen. If suffering becomes a spectacle, the responsibility often falls on others to bear that burden.
Recognizing someone’s pain doesn’t entail asserting, “I understand how you feel.” It is about acknowledging that you don’t and yet remaining engaged.
