I’d say she was five or six.  The glasses she wore made her eyes look twice their normal size and did the same for the tears that streamed down her chubby cheeks.  Her crying was silent for the most part, but no less genuine. We were on the same inbound flight to Boston’s Logan airport where she was going to meet here “grandmommy.”

I felt sorry for her:  No sooner would she get her seat belt fastened but she’d drop her bear and the airline ID tags would get tangled with her dishwaterish-colored hair and her pants legs would crawl up and…she just plain wanted her mom.

The man sitting next to her was the business type with a starched shirt and the Wall Street Journal.  I was afraid he wouldn’t notice her, or care.  But he did!  He’s either a great dad or has the stuff to become one.

While he did get his paper read, he also opened peanuts, adjusted covers, and picked “Teddy” up several times.  He shared his lap tray and commandeered a headset and carried on a good conversation at the five-year-old level.

Compassion is a mighty act of mercy, strength, and courage.  It is acknowledgment that we are in the journey together and will finish stronger if compassion prevails.

Those with the dishwaterish-colored lives and the tangled mess of circumstances cry for someone to be strong enough, courageous enough, merciful enough to care—and prove they care with action.

Next, Courageous Compassion