Finding Forty

Our youngest son recently had a procedure at Arkansas Children’s Hospital.

My husband grabbed us lunch while we were there, and we sat down to eat near another young couple with a baby even smaller than ours.

And for reasons that made absolutely no sense in the present moment, I felt guilty.

I wondered if they had eaten.

I wondered if we were eating in front of people who couldn’t afford to.

I actually thought, If we weren’t so pressed for time, I would offer to buy their lunch.

Then another thought hit me:

Where in the world is this coming from?

I didn’t know these people.

I didn’t know their financial situation. I didn’t know whether they’d already eaten, had food waiting for them, or could have bought the entire cafeteria if they’d wanted to.

They had done absolutely nothing to make me think they needed anything from me.

This wasn’t about them.

It was about me.

Suddenly I remembered being a child when my sister was dealing with heart problems.

I remembered adults around me noticing what other people had that we didn’t. I remembered hearing about people with privilege. People eating around others who didn’t have food. How rude that was.

Rich snobs.

I hadn’t thought about those conversations in years.

But apparently some part of me remembered.

Because there I was, decades later, sitting in a children’s hospital eating lunch with my husband, and something inside me was deeply uncomfortable with being the person who had the lunch.

Maybe even with looking like the person who had the lunch.

And that’s the part that has stayed with me.

Because I’m not particularly concerned with brands or appearances. My Birkenstocks were bought on clearance. Our admittedly bougie stroller was bought secondhand.

But even typing that makes me stop.

Why do I feel the need to explain that?

Why do I need you to know I didn’t pay full price for my shoes?

Why do I need you to know the stroller was used?

Why does some part of me still want to provide receipts proving that I haven’t become one of those people?

There it is.

This was never about lunch.

It wasn’t really about the couple beside us, either.

It was about an old understanding of wealth, privilege, goodness and deservingness that I apparently tucked away somewhere a long time ago.

Somewhere along the way, compassion got tangled up with guilt.

Having enough became suspicious.

Being comfortable when someone else might not be became something that required an apology.

And apparently, even now, part of me believes I need to explain why I’m allowed to have what I have.

That’s uncomfortable to admit.

Because I don’t want to lose the part of me that notices other people.

I don’t want comfort to make me oblivious.

If someone beside me is hungry and I can feed them, I hope I always want to.

But I don’t think compassion is supposed to require shame.

I don’t have to prove that my shoes were clearance.

I don’t have to explain where I bought the stroller.

And I don’t have to feel guilty for eating lunch.

Maybe I can keep the tenderness that came from those years without carrying all the shame that came with it.

I’m beginning to think those are two very different things.