“Phew, it was the hottest day of the year. Perspiration ran down my back, my feet were sore and my burden seemed heavier than usual, though it would be considerably heavier on the way home.
Then I saw him, sitting under the tree, deep in contemplation His clothes dirty from his journey. My heart went out to him, not in the usual way, but in compassion. Though he was a man and I a woman, how could I help him. Give him a drink? On drawing closer I could see another problem. He was a Jew. We Samaritans had nothing to do with that hated race.
I came out of my dreaming, or was it actually a dream?’ I’m not in Samaria, but in my own country, Jesus isn’t sitting at the well, I don’t have a pitcher on my shoulder. But the compassion I had dreamed, persisted.
Is this the compassion that God feels when he looks at me and my broken life? How can I have compassion for others? There is my recently bereaved neighbour, I can show her kindness There is my friend I visited recently; she is in a lot of pain. Can I do anything to help her? Then there is the lonely young man at church. He is awkward, others avoid him. I can give him a smile and engage him in conversation
‘He has no hands but our hands to do His work today. He has no feet but our feet to send men on His way.’ Anon.