During the year that my baby was sick, I learned an awful lot about empathy. Never before did I know how meaningful it is to hear the simple words, “I’m sorry this is happening to you” or “This is tough.” Whenever someone simply let me feel, let me express myself, and let me not have to justify my feelings, it lifted me.











On the flip side, whenever someone told me a story of another person who had it worse, how this was just a moment, or how it wasn’t as bad as I thought, it devastated me.

While I sometimes initially felt angry hearing those careless words, I always eventually realized they were coming from a good place — from someone who really wanted me to feel better. How did I know that? Because I can think back on so many times when I’ve said those same words in a desperate effort to think of something — anything — positive.

In my church congregation, I work with young women who are 12 to 18 years old. One thing they keep telling me is how much it just stinks to have grownups trivialize their problems. They want me — and all the grownups in their lives — to know that finals and boyfriends and sports and homework and friends are hard… REALLY hard.

These girls are such intelligent girls — they recognize that adult problems are hard too, and they even understand why their problems seem small to those of us who crossed the teenage threshold long ago. But they just want adults to quit comparing. Yes, they know homework isn’t as big of a deal as unemployment. But homework is still hard. It’s still all-consuming, and it’s still a major stressor. Don’t we remember how hard it was at the time?

We should.

I’m learning so much from these teenagers.

Yesterday, my 8-year-old and 4-year-old were watching a Tinkerbell movie. When it ended, 4-year-old Emma came and gave me a very strong hug. She was whimpering. 8-year-old Lydia soon followed with a suspicious look on her face.

“Lydia, is she hurt?” I asked after Emma refused to answer my questions.

Lydia shook her head, that suspicious look becoming more and more mischievous by the second.

“Did you hurt her?” I asked again.

Suddenly, I realized her mischievous grin hadn’t been mischievous at all; it had been a front to the deeply sad emotions she was holding back and now letting go. Her “grin” turned upside down as she began to relate to me what had happened.

“The movie ended, and the sob sob sob…” Her voice broke away as the floodgates opened — for both her and Emma. Suddenly I had two sobbing girls clinging to my arms. I wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but I knew the movie had a sad ending.

At first, I was going to laugh. It was so cute and sweet — and such a trivial thing to get worked up about. But then, because of my year with a sick baby and because of the teenagers who give me perspective, I realized this was a devastating moment in my daughters’ lives.

“Let’s go over to the couch so I can hold you both,” I said. Once we arrived, the crying reached heights I’d never heard before. I think the permission to cry released an unearthly amount of sadness and emotion.

When the crying had calmed a bit, I asked, “Did someone die in the movie?”

“No,” they both choked.

“What happened?”

“The (something I never could understand) saved all the fairies, and then it had to go back into the Earth for 1,000 years, and the fairies will never see him again!!!!” Lydia managed to sputter out.

The tears doubled in intensity as they both relived the sad moment.









I admit — I did smile when they weren’t looking. It was adorable that they cared so much. But then I held them close, told them I was sorry, and just let them cry.

And as I felt their shuddering sobs, tears began forming in my own eyes. Was I really crying for this cartoon character thing I didn’t see and didn’t know or care about?

No. I was crying because my girls were sad. Letting them be sad allowed me to feel their feelings right there with them. And that was actually a big blessing and lesson to me — one I hope I remember when they’re devastated over breaking up with a boy I never liked, not getting into a college I didn’t want them to go to, or any other number of experiences we’re going to have through the years when I simply won’t see things from their perspective.

The tears ended shortly thereafter. I think they would have gone on indefinitely had I told the girls they were silly to cry over a movie. But being allowed to grieve — even over a character in a fairy movie — helped them move on quickly. Soon, they were playing a game together and had no thought for the mysterious character that returned to the ground for 1,000 years.

I don’t always let my children grieve over their problems. I don’t always let them feel what they need to feel. I’m impatient, and I want to get out the door, get back to my work, get dinner ready, get their wails and tears out of my ears and head.

But this time, I’m glad I was able to see that their problems were real to them. They just needed someone to hug them and let them simply feel.

We all do.