Compassion is knocking
at the door of our hearts today.
When I answer, who is there?
Marge. Eighty or ninety years old.
Her face draws me;
character lines deeply engraved
from hairline to below neck.
Her eyes twinkly as she struggles
to pronounce any word
reminding me of the gift of speech
and everything I take for granted.
A gigantic toothless smile
pushes the doorbell within me.
I am beckoned to come close, look long, and listen.
Andrea. Eleven years old.
Comes with pursed lips for tutoring.
I sense a dam of tears about to burst.
Snappy remarks hide something below.
Her lowered eyes, her reddened cheeks call to me
beyond her wall defending fragile emotions.
I am beckoned to stay longer...
until her breakthrough:
fractions now subtracted and simplified,
and joy galore replaces the anguish.
Abused by her husband.
Sharing her grief and pain and bruises.
Wanting to give up on life.
Pressing the doorbell of my heart repeatedly.
Begging for hope that the future
can be better than the past.
Needing a prayer, encouragement, a friend.
People are everywhere--
ringing the doorbells of our hearts,
so that He can enter in.