JDC America's Heartland: From the melodious voices of the Oak Ridge Boys rises a greater musical understanding: "We all are part of the story of an American family." with all that makes or breaks our relationships, influenced by imperfections and our "silly ole pride."
Like the echo of soft whispering winds, I still hear mother's gentle matriarchal voice: "Life is short-lived 'dumpling' glutted with agitation in need of the blossom of compassion; and my dear, the only road to peace and reconciliation."
"Ya sure mom." How many times before had I heard this lady with a sophisticated flair basically tell me I would be sorry someday if I threw "compassion" out the window just to satisfy the state of my hurt feelings.
Stephono and I grew up to understand: Compassion is a road to be traveled, which develops from within the vine of family love. Sprouting its shoots as we travel down the different streets of life, we hope to gain the inner strengths that build our character of humility, long-suffering, endurance, spiritual goodness and a mildness of speech. Stephono and I were a continuous work in progress often waylaid by our emotional state and a vain enemy. . ."justifiable pride."
Our mother's love helped us to translate compassion and concern for others into concrete action, and to not have an "I don't care" ideology in life. She gave us the warmth of her love lifting us up with motherly compassion, showing us one of the secrets of life. . .happiness and joy.
When trouble wiggled its way into our sibling lives mother could be heard In a sweet yet authoritative voice: "Life isn't fair children even when you are compassionate and try hard." How true rings the echo from days gone by as Stephono and I have allowed a breakdown and fracture of compassion for each other to be made brittle by time and distance.
Ridiculous how we allowed a waterfall of misunderstandings and hurt feelings to be fired by our pride and a larva of building anger. Neither of us willing to give into the other, neither of us willing to give of the compassion from our childhood, we had given so freely to others.
My brother Stephono was always a laid-back gentle soul, of soft-spoken wisdom and heart. I on the other-hand to this day, feel the fire in my belly, grabbing life by its tail ready for a roller-coaster ride. Both of us have been nurtured by the one person who can explicate the art of "caring," an emotionally sensitive mother, a counselor of love, of altruistic values and support, who if anything, gave too much of herself to so many.
So how did Stephono and I get side tracked off the balanced road of life onto the side-street of broken compassion? Pure stubbornness.
Most of us preach a good talk, but when it comes down to enduring, we fall short. So it is before Stephono's passing our heartfelt childhood compassion flowered once again into moments of laughter, and days filled with the joy of living. Barriers melted away by a brother and sister's return to their childhood roots overriding the foolishness of the heart and adulthood.
Our children have seen our division and rebirth. They have learned sometimes with difficulty, to climb out of their own skin into other's, channeling . . ."I see your need" into an unselfish act of moral awareness to impact the world and themselves.
I would like to believe Stephono and I have given our children the gift of being able to forgive themselves and others and not waste precious moments of life. Whenever we give, we always feel its reward somewhere along the way, as "compassion road" curves, zig-zags and cuts into the road of life.
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CeCe Day Hill, Copyright (c) 2009 - Jane Doe Chronicles, All Rights Reserved - 349 West Circle Dr., New Lenox, IL 60451 - (815) 485-4871 - Email: janedoechronicles@comcast.net
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