Paying
Attention
“Happy
is the one that considers the poor…” (Psalm 41:1).
Some folks are poor in possessions and appearance;
others in faith, hope and love. Even if we can’t alleviate the poverty of those
we meet along the way we can “consider” the poor, a verb that means, “to pay
attention.”
G.K. Chesterton defines a saint as one that
exaggerates what the world neglects, and what is neglected today is the art of
paying attention. Few seem to be aware
of the pain that exists all around them; they go their way inattentive and
unmoved. As Jesus put it in his day, “the love of many has grown cold.”
In such
a world it’s not hard to find some misery to alleviate: a divorcee or widow,
stricken with loneliness; a weary parent kept awake at night by an unwell child;
a frightened man awaiting cancer surgery in the morning; a care–worn checker in
a grocery store working a second or third job to make ends meet; a young boy
who’s never had enough father; a single mother whose flood of worries has
washed her hope away; a lonely old man who believes he has outlived his
usefulness; a hurting heart behind your own front door. Perhaps you don’t have
much to give, but you can pay attention. You can see beyond what others see to
the possibilities of mercy, compassion and understanding.
John Newton wrote on one occasion, “If, as I go
home, a child has dropped a halfpenny, and if, by giving another, I can wipe
away its tears, I feel I have done something. I should be glad to do greater
things, but I will not neglect this.” This is “paying attention.”
One
summer, several years ago, I came across a book entitled The Singing Creek
Where the Willows Grow. It is the diary of a twelve-year-old child who
lived at the turn of the century in lumber camps in western Oregon. As I read Opal’s
diary I was awed by her simple compassion and sensitivity. Though abused as a
child she was never swallowed up in self-pity, but freely gave herself away.
Here’s a brief excerpt from her diary:
When
the churning was done, the mama did lift all the little lumps of butter out of
the churn. Then she did pat them together in a big lump, and this she put away
in the butter box in the woodshed. When she went to lay herself down to rest on
the bed, she did call me to rub her head. I like to rub the mama's head, for it
does help the worry lines to go away. Often I rub her head, for it is often she
does have longings to have it so. And I do think it is very nice to help people
have what they do have longings for.
Perhaps today by some act of kindness you and I can rub someone’s worry
lines away, for it’s very nice to help people have what they do have longings
for.”
One last thought: There's an upside imbedded in the
beatitude. In the oldest and oddest paradox of all, we’re happiest when we're thinking of others. Consider those who think only
of themselves, who grasp and grab and play it safe. The life they save is the
life they lose. In the end it’s worth nothing to anyone including themselves, a
featureless, lifeless parody of those that have lived and cared for others. The only life worth living, it seems, is the one
that is given away.
The
realm of happiness is easily entered: “Consider the poor.”
DHR
