Empathy and sympathy and Who we really should depend on...

I hope this link to an excerpt from Beth Moore's 'Get Out of That Pit' works... but just in case, am copying it here:
"Only God can hang with us through the length and depth of our need. And the length and depth of our baloney.

Maybe I’m just talking about myself, but whether or not I realized it, I usually found a way to frame my pit to make me look like a victim. Not only is God omniscient, His Word is “sharper than any double-edged sword” cutting our baloney so thin He can see straight through it. He knows when we’re kidding others. He knows when we’re kidding ourselves. Knowing all we are, all we feel, and all we hide, God overflows with love and willingness to deliver us. Even after Israel sought the help of the Egyptians, inviting the chastisement of God, Isaiah 30 testified,

Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; He rises to show you compassion. –Isaiah 30:18

Longs to be gracious. I like the ring of that. We’re also repeatedly told that “His love endures forever” which means the Lord is gracious for long. That’s what former pit-dwellers like me must have. We need a Deliverer who is in for the long haul. Philippians 1:6 tells us that God, who began a good work, is faithful to complete it. Frankly, work doesn’t get harder than pit-dweller pulling. Man, who may begin a good work, wears out too fast to finish it. And rightly he should. It’s not his job. True delivery takes some time, some titanic effort, and more patience than the best of people possess. You and I need a strong arm and a long arm.

The apostle Paul described God’s tenacity in 2 Corinthians 1:10 when he said,

He has delivered us… He will deliver us. On Him we have set our hope that He will continue to deliver us.

Past. Present. Future. That’s the kind of deliverance from the pit you and I are looking for. We’ve got to have a lifetime warranty.

The “Sovereign Lord” alone is “my strong deliverer” (Psalm 140:7). Everybody else will wear out. They may pull us out of that pit and even hang around a while to push us away when we try to get right back in it. But eventually their backs will give out. And when they do, we’re liable to be mad at them. In fact, we might not speak to them for years. They let us down.

I’m sure I’ve worn people out, and I’ve been worn out. A fellow human may have initially pulled us out of a pit, but somewhere along the way, he or she accidentally sold us into the slavery of nearly debilitating disappointment. Even subtly encouraged yet unmet expectations can be devastating. When it happens, we reason that we might as well have stayed in the pit. Tragically, countless relationships end exactly that way.

One person invariably cuts the rope before the other, leaving the remaining party feeling, in the words of William Dean Howells, “betrayed and baffled still.”

I wouldn’t for a minute minimize the pain of a relationship broken by unreasonable – or at the very least, unsustainable – expectations. When such a close and dependable relationship is injuriously severed, the knife penetrates to the exact depth we’ve invited them into our private lives. Indeed, one of the primary reasons we’re so wounded is because the person knew what we were going through and still abandoned us.

What I’m about to say can be painful to hear, but I pray that God will use it toward someone’s healing: sometimes a person abandons us not in spite of what we’re going through, but directly because of it.

They either ran out of answers or they ran out of energy and no longer had the wherewithal to go through it with us. If our helping friends actually did something that overtly wronged us, they bear responsibility before God for that. But if they wronged us only by running out of fuel and dropping out of the struggle, we might need to realize they’ve done all they felt they could humanly do and let them go without bitterness or anger.

You and I certainly don’t want to be afraid of intimacy or shrink back from bearing our true estate with people. If we do that, we’ll become as cold and hard as plastic and shelve ourselves from every purpose of our existence. (For starters, inauthentic people are ineffective people. For finishers, liberty cannot exist apart from transparency.)

Human clay finds its moisture in relationships and will evaporate into dust without them. [tweet this]

The problem comes when our idea of relationship becomes ownership – when we start thinking of the person who was willing to get into our mess with us as our personal trainer. Sometimes we latch onto someone for dear life who is no better off than we are. Christ asked in Luke 6:39: “Can the blind guide the blind? Shall they not both fall into a pit?”. 

Does this mean we should not get involved with hurting people? Not at all! We may be hopelessly inadequate as deliverers for one another, but never think for a moment we can’t be used of God to affect profound change in someone’s life. That’s the primary reason He leaves us here on Planet Earth after our citizenship has transferred to heaven. We can have a tremendous impact over a life in the pit.

• First of all, we can impact pit-dwellers by example. We can show them that living outside the pit is possible by living that way ourselves.
• Second, we can impact pit-dwellers by prayer. 2 Corinthians 1:10-11 adds a vital tag to Paul’s testimony I quoted earlier concerning God’s past, present, and future deliverance of His children: “On Him we have set our hope that He will continue to deliver us as you help us by your prayers”. We have a God-given invitation – if not responsibility – to join the process of someone’s divine deliverance from peril or pit. When deliverance happens, the payoff is glorious.
• Third, we can impact pit-dwellers by encouragement. Hebrews 3:13 calls us to “encourage one another daily… that none of you may be hardened by sin’s deceitfulness.”

Satan has a tremendous investment in convincing a person that, with his or her track record, sustainable victory is impossible. That’s a lie. Say so.

• Fourth, we can impact pit-dwellers by doggedly directing them to Jesus. Like the men carrying the paralytic on the mat, do everything you can to “lay [the person] before Jesus” (Luke 5:18). All the while keep praying, encouraging, and living by example. And above all, keep telling her who the true Deliverer is. Keep pointing her toward the only One who will not let her down.
• Fifth, to the degree that God has developed biblical wisdom in us, we can impact pit-dwellers through our advice and counsel. Particularly those who have been well trained to do so. I am a huge proponent of godly professional counseling. Got it myself, and I’m not sure where I’d be without it. I needed to share things with an unbiased party. With someone who was bound by professionalism to keep my confidences. With someone who’d heard stories like mine before. I hear things from time to time that baffle me beyond any advice I know to give. I simply have no mental file from which to pull a ready answer. Also, I must keep in mind that professional counseling is not my job.

Even the best of godly counselors have to guard against their counselees setting them up as deliverers. Wise counselors know from experience they’ll never live up to it. They also know they’d be nearly smothered to death if they tried. Yep, they’d be buried right there under the cell phone, beeper, Blackberry, letters, messages, and stacks of e-mail the counselee made use of in her relentless pursuit of her deliverer.

All of us were born with a natural tendency to attach ourselves to a savior and worship him. To see him high and lifted up. That’s why it had better be Christ. We are safe with no other. Isaiah 43:11 says it succinctly:

I, even I, am the Lord, /and apart from Me there is no savior.

No one else can handle the weight. They may try for a while. They may even like it for a while, because when someone looks up to you and depends on you, it can be heady. But sooner or later they will drop the rope. It’s too much to carry.

Just like the men who lowered the paralytic through the roof of the home where Jesus was teaching, you finally have to let go of the rope and leave them with Jesus.

Maybe this chapter wasn’t meant so much for you. I don’t know. Maybe you can’t think of a single time you made someone else responsible for your happiness… your wholeness… your fulfillment… your healing… your future.

But then again, maybe some of the fog has cleared on a relationship you believed at one time would be a deliverance of sorts for you. Instead, you were left disillusioned or disappointed when that person dropped the rope. Possibly devastated.

Maybe you’re beginning to see that this person wasn’t being heartless and hateful. Just human. Didn’t have what it took. Maybe you can allow God to bring you to the place to forgive that person for failing to be Jesus for you. Or maybe you should fire someone who still insists on trying. Maybe you – like me – can now forgive yourself for accidentally setting someone up for failure. Maybe that someone was you.

And maybe both of us could just let Jesus be Jesus.

Excerpted with permission from Get Out of That Pit by Beth Moore, copyright Thomas Nelson."

And then there is Brene  Brown on empathy:

And an interesting blog from one Tim Lawrence who writes on dealing with adversity.

Compassion...in time of grief

I don't know this lady - she is the friend of a friend on facebook - but this is what shes writes, after the death of her husband: "Sheryl Sandberg with Dave Goldberg

Today is the end of sheloshim for my beloved husband—the first thirty days. Judaism calls for a period of intense mourning known as shiva that lasts seven days after a loved one is buried. After shiva, most normal activities can be resumed, but it is the end of sheloshim that marks the completion of religious mourning for a spouse.

A childhood friend of mine who is now a rabbi recently told me that the most powerful one-line prayer he has ever read is: “Let me not die while I am still alive.” I would have never understood that prayer before losing Dave. Now I do.

I think when tragedy occurs, it presents a choice. You can give in to the void, the emptiness that fills your heart, your lungs, constricts your ability to think or even breathe. Or you can try to find meaning. These past thirty days, I have spent many of my moments lost in that void. And I know that many future moments will be consumed by the vast emptiness as well.

But when I can, I want to choose life and meaning.

And this is why I am writing: to mark the end of sheloshim and to give back some of what others have given to me. While the experience of grief is profoundly personal, the bravery of those who have shared their own experiences has helped pull me through. Some who opened their hearts were my closest friends. Others were total strangers who have shared wisdom and advice publicly. So I am sharing what I have learned in the hope that it helps someone else. In the hope that there can be some meaning from this tragedy.

I have lived thirty years in these thirty days. I am thirty years sadder. I feel like I am thirty years wiser.

I have gained a more profound understanding of what it is to be a mother, both through the depth of the agony I feel when my children scream and cry and from the connection my mother has to my pain. She has tried to fill the empty space in my bed, holding me each night until I cry myself to sleep. She has fought to hold back her own tears to make room for mine. She has explained to me that the anguish I am feeling is both my own and my children’s, and I understood that she was right as I saw the pain in her own eyes.

I have learned that I never really knew what to say to others in need. I think I got this all wrong before; I tried to assure people that it would be okay, thinking that hope was the most comforting thing I could offer. A friend of mine with late-stage cancer told me that the worst thing people could say to him was “It is going to be okay.” That voice in his head would scream, How do you know it is going to be okay? Do you not understand that I might die? I learned this past month what he was trying to teach me. Real empathy is sometimes not insisting that it will be okay but acknowledging that it is not. When people say to me, “You and your children will find happiness again,” my heart tells me, Yes, I believe that, but I know I will never feel pure joy again. Those who have said, “You will find a new normal, but it will never be as good” comfort me more because they know and speak the truth. Even a simple “How are you?”—almost always asked with the best of intentions—is better replaced with “How are you today?” When I am asked “How are you?” I stop myself from shouting, My husband died a month ago, how do you think I am? When I hear “How are you today?” I realize the person knows that the best I can do right now is to get through each day.

I have learned some practical stuff that matters. Although we now know that Dave died immediately, I didn’t know that in the ambulance. The trip to the hospital was unbearably slow. I still hate every car that did not move to the side, every person who cared more about arriving at their destination a few minutes earlier than making room for us to pass. I have noticed this while driving in many countries and cities. Let’s all move out of the way. Someone’s parent or partner or child might depend on it.

I have learned how ephemeral everything can feel—and maybe everything is. That whatever rug you are standing on can be pulled right out from under you with absolutely no warning. In the last thirty days, I have heard from too many women who lost a spouse and then had multiple rugs pulled out from under them. Some lack support networks and struggle alone as they face emotional distress and financial insecurity. It seems so wrong to me that we abandon these women and their families when they are in greatest need.

I have learned to ask for help—and I have learned how much help I need. Until now, I have been the older sister, the COO, the doer and the planner. I did not plan this, and when it happened, I was not capable of doing much of anything. Those closest to me took over. They planned. They arranged. They told me where to sit and reminded me to eat. They are still doing so much to support me and my children.

I have learned that resilience can be learned. Adam M. Grant taught me that three things are critical to resilience and that I can work on all three. Personalization—realizing it is not my fault. He told me to ban the word “sorry.” To tell myself over and over, This is not my fault. Permanence—remembering that I won’t feel like this forever. This will get better. Pervasiveness—this does not have to affect every area of my life; the ability to compartmentalize is healthy.

For me, starting the transition back to work has been a savior, a chance to feel useful and connected. But I quickly discovered that even those connections had changed. Many of my co-workers had a look of fear in their eyes as I approached. I knew why—they wanted to help but weren’t sure how. Should I mention it? Should I not mention it? If I mention it, what the hell do I say? I realized that to restore that closeness with my colleagues that has always been so important to me, I needed to let them in. And that meant being more open and vulnerable than I ever wanted to be. I told those I work with most closely that they could ask me their honest questions and I would answer. I also said it was okay for them to talk about how they felt. One colleague admitted she’d been driving by my house frequently, not sure if she should come in. Another said he was paralyzed when I was around, worried he might say the wrong thing. Speaking openly replaced the fear of doing and saying the wrong thing. One of my favorite cartoons of all time has an elephant in a room answering the phone, saying, “It’s the elephant.” Once I addressed the elephant, we were able to kick him out of the room.

At the same time, there are moments when I can’t let people in. I went to Portfolio Night at school where kids show their parents around the classroom to look at their work hung on the walls. So many of the parents—all of whom have been so kind—tried to make eye contact or say something they thought would be comforting. I looked down the entire time so no one could catch my eye for fear of breaking down. I hope they understood.

I have learned gratitude. Real gratitude for the things I took for granted before—like life. As heartbroken as I am, I look at my children each day and rejoice that they are alive. I appreciate every smile, every hug. I no longer take each day for granted. When a friend told me that he hates birthdays and so he was not celebrating his, I looked at him and said through tears, “Celebrate your birthday, goddammit. You are lucky to have each one.” My next birthday will be depressing as hell, but I am determined to celebrate it in my heart more than I have ever celebrated a birthday before.

I am truly grateful to the many who have offered their sympathy. A colleague told me that his wife, whom I have never met, decided to show her support by going back to school to get her degree—something she had been putting off for years. Yes! When the circumstances allow, I believe as much as ever in leaning in. And so many men—from those I know well to those I will likely never know—are honoring Dave’s life by spending more time with their families.

I can’t even express the gratitude I feel to my family and friends who have done so much and reassured me that they will continue to be there. In the brutal moments when I am overtaken by the void, when the months and years stretch out in front of me endless and empty, only their faces pull me out of the isolation and fear. My appreciation for them knows no bounds.

I was talking to one of these friends about a father-child activity that Dave is not here to do. We came up with a plan to fill in for Dave. I cried to him, “But I want Dave. I want option A.” He put his arm around me and said, “Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.”

Dave, to honor your memory and raise your children as they deserve to be raised, I promise to do all I can to kick the shit out of option B. And even though sheloshim has ended, I still mourn for option A. I will always mourn for option A. As Bono sang, “There is no end to grief . . . and there is no end to love.” I love you, Dave."

Sheryl Sandberg with Dave Goldberg