Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble.—1 Peter 3:8

God has given each one of us a unique makeup and unique experiences. You may come from a background similar to mine, but you may not be able to relate to something with which I struggle, and likewise.

Empathy and compassion are two very different things. Only those who have shared experiences can truly empathize with one another. But everyone can—and should—show compassion.

Compassion doesn’t require us to understand someone else’s perspective. It requires us to respect it and the person holding it. It requires we show the love of Christ, that we display grace and patience. In showing compassion, we acknowledge that we all are works in progress, people in whom God will eventually complete the good work He has begun. We acknowledge that it may be we who need compassion at some point, remembering we tend to reap what we sow.

I want to share the story of my friend Beth—her story and her words—to demonstrate the difference a little compassion can make.

“This week I had to deal with some medical things, and to say medical things are hard for me is an extreme understatement. This is something that has been a lifelong challenge, and that fact has often received little understanding or support from people in my life—not because they don’t care, but because they simply cannot understand. Medical personnel are generally well-meaning, and they usually politely ask the source of my issues, but after I oblige with the few summary sentences about childhood traumatic experiences, it seems to make little difference in the depth of their perspective—pity maybe, but not understanding. I don’t actually expect understanding.

“Let’s face it: Unless someone approaching you with a syringe causes you to feel in the core of your being that torture and life-threatening danger is imminent, you can’t possibly understand. The misguided advice, thinly veiled irritation at inconvenience and unwelcome attempts at distraction are plentiful. They are both tiring and compounding to the issues at hand, especially my lack of trust of any medical person.

“This week had its share of difficult situations, but there was a brief interaction with one person that had a profound impact- my anesthesiologist. He came in with the usual questions and such, and when my issues crept up, he asked the usual polite ‘Why?’ He listened to my short explanation, and then looked me in the eyes and said, ‘I get it. It’s basically PTSD.’ I can’t explain what that did for me, but I know that I was able to relax just a bit, and even though I still couldn’t trust him, I liked him. He didn’t try to manipulate the situation in any way for the rest of his time with me, and I distinctly remember him saying, ‘Take all the time you need.’

“I didn’t get to thank him. I’m not sure I could have expressed myself adequately enough for him to know what his words to me meant. No doctor has ever acknowledged the gravity of what I deal with in such a poignant way. And without knowing it, he also had given me a context for viewing myself in future circumstances.

“I know that medical things will always be hard for me, despite all of the work I have done to manage my reactions. But now, I can push aside feeling ashamed that I’m not better than I am at dealing with these challenges. It’s not an excuse not to keep working on it. It’s validation of the reality of the level of effort it takes just to be where I currently am.”

Beth ends with a suggestion for dealing with people whose struggles you don’t understand: “When you encounter someone like me, for whom things that are no big deal to you are incredibly hard, you don’t have to understand. But what you could possibly do is compassionately consider how it might feel for something to be that hard to face. That compassion may just allow a small amount of healing to take place for the one who struggles, and for the wounded, healing is an irreplaceable thing.”