As long as I can remember, I was taught to value compassion. In Sunday school we learned that God wants us to show compassion to others. We sent money to feed the hungry and we sponsored children in need. 

When we lived in Zambia, our son and next-door neighbor boy were two peas in a pod. They loved to explore, climb mango trees, and build forts out of our empty totes. 

If you close your eyes and imagine yourself on a dance floor, how would grief affect your movement and rhythm in the dance called your life?  

In the Middle East where the traffic halts more than it weaves, where the markets remind me of O’ Hare’s peak hours, and where men have no qualms about cutting in front of me, I often react, but not like Jesus: