The Complexity of Compassion

She wore a purple dress and a smile that shined as bright and as big as the mid afternoon Texas sun. I waited in the car line, watching from a distance, as she hugged teachers and friends goodbye.  She radiated with optimism and complete innocence.  Amid all those other kids wearing t-shirts and shorts, there she was...in that classic purple dress.  Earlier that morning she had stated with quaint assurance "I'm gonna end the year...like I started it."  So precocious for a girl as young as she.  At the sight of her my heart swelled with an indescribable inner joy.  Her eyes lit up when she saw my vehicle and she naturally waved spastically (like only tweens can).  I mirrored her and silently mouthed the words 'Hi, Pumpkin.'  as she ran to the door and stepped in. "I'm officially an 8th grader!" she said beaming and jumped into the passenger seat with a thump, her long hair flopped into her eyes and like a little lady, she combed those strands neatly behind her ears with her fingers and took a deep breath, settling herself.

"So, how was your day?" she exhaled and leaned in for a kiss. "My day was good. How was your LAST daaaay?"  I replied with a smile.  "Dad! It was so much fun." She said cheerfully and then pouted reflectively. "...but kinda sad 'cause I'm gonna miss all my teachers."  It wasn't the typical answer most kids would give...but then again there was nothing typical about her.  She was as complex and quirky as she was beautiful...and completely clueless of the presence of all three. I put the SUV in drive and we slowly made our way out, single file, along with the other cars when she suddenly shouted  "Oh Nooooooo!" Her eyes were fixed on a little black chihuahua darting in and out of traffic to the left.  A silver Mercedes had slammed its brakes and nearly hit it.  The frightened dog bolted into the school parking lot, weaving in and out of the slow moving vehicles.  "We have to help him!  We have to try."  She said with conviction. "Sweetheart...we can't get involved every time we see a stray dog. Let's just let it find its way home...on its own."  

She wasn't having it. She had her mother's conviction.  With her eyes, filled with concern and soley focused on the dog, she spoke without looking at me.  "Dad, you teach us to be compassionate to all living things.  We need...to help... that dog."  She broke her outward stare and turned to me without blinking.  "Promise me, we will help this dog." The car behind us honked impatiently.  She knew her power.  

"O.K."  I relented.  And immediately, the girl in the purple dress jumped out of the passenger seat. 

I parked on the side of the road and watched her sprint towards the dog that ran behind the school building.  A few moments later, worried, I started to get out but then the dog trotted back towards the busy street again with my daughter not too far behind.  I watched in horror as the dog boldly crossed the road and my daughter, was about to blindly do the same.  She wasn't paying attention and I feared for her. I honked the horn loudly and she stopped.  I was now getting a little upset...an uneasy feeling crept into my spirit.  The quest to save this dog had to end.  I put the SUV in drive and quickly caught up to her. "Honey, get in. You tried. It's time we go home."  She complied but the girl in the purple dress made her case. "Dad, he needs water. He's panting like crazy and he's so scared. Maybe if we had water or a treat he would come to us."  

Our house wasn't far away.  She pleaded with me to get one of our dog bowls and put cold water in it and grab a few dog treats.  We had a chihuahua of our own, her name is Charlie, and if she had been out there (alone) I would want someone to help her.  I reluctantly agreed but told her if we came back and the dog was gone then we would not be going on some relentless search expedition.  This rescue mission would have to end.  She pinkied promised.   

We got the water bowl and a couple dog treats and I silently prayed that the dog would be gone when we returned.  He wasn't. There it was seemingly afraid and confused crossing back and forth in and out of traffic.  I will never forget the worried and concerned look on my daughter's face.  I wished that someone else would have tried to help.  We parked as close to him as we could and got out.  The dark chihuahua paused and looked at us inquisitively as we offered it water and treats.  It gave us a little bit of hope by sitting still (momentarily) but then took off again through the parking lot of a nearby church and then behind it.  I was relieved that it was finally away from traffic.  We got back into the vehicle and made our way through the parking lot and parked behind the church.  There it was, sitting in the uncut grass, panting.

We slowly got out, speaking sweetly to him.  My daughter offered a treat while I, hunched over, clumsily walked and watched as the water bowl sloshed back and forth spilling water on my dress shoes.   In that moment, the dog took off again.  Sprinting, at first, into the open church field creating about 80 yards of distance between my daughter and I (within seconds) but then began to walk slowly and carelessly towards the busy street again.  My daughter was about 20 yards ahead of me because I was walking with the water and we both watched, helplessly, with horror as the chihuahua started to cross the street.  

The landscaping truck with its heavy lawn mowing equipment didn't seem to see the dog.  It never even tapped its brakes. My daughter screamed.

"No Daddy...No!" I dropped the water bowl. 

I sprinted passed my daughter yelling "No, no, no, no, no."  She turned and covered her face and collapsed onto the ground just as the truck made contact. Her purple dress engulfed her little body as she sat in physical terror.  "I hate that truck Daddy.  I hate that truck."  She screamed and sobbed.  I ran and quickly knelt beside the wounded dog in the middle of the street.  There seemed to be some hope, he was still moving.  He looked at me with the most beautiful endearing eyes and wagged his tail playfully but then...the life in him left his body and a stream of blood escaped from his mouth.  I was overcome with emotion.  "You have to pick him up Daddy." She yelled.  "Please, get him off the street."   Her voice ripped through my heart as she sat there frozen.  My baby girl had just witnessed something awful. It was the last thing I wanted to do in that moment.  I wanted to go to her and hug her but I knew she was right.  

So I gingerly lifted him up, cradled him into my arms and covered his face with my other hand.  "Look away Sweetie." I said somberly as we walked the length of a football field back to my vehicle that was parked behind the church.  She was silent except for the compassionate moans of sadness that escaped from her heaving chest as she tried (but failed) to not look at him.  My eyes stung with tears and mourned for the awful loss of life and for the parental experience of watching a beautiful and bright shining light lose a small piece of her innocence.  

Through this act of blameless and seemingly harmless compassion...a deep complexity arose within me and still haunts me to this day.  Was I to blame? Had I caused this?  After all, I was the parent.  I could have simply said no. I could of put an end to all of this by simply taking my daughter home on her last day of school...that day would have been a special and wondrous memory for both of us. Instead, I submitted to my daughter's compassionate pressure, as she had appealed to the very lessons that I have always taught her...but to what end?  

I've not come up with any reasonable answer that makes me feel any better, it's complicated but one thing is for certain. I will (forever) be shaped by that moment and eternally touched by the moving pictures (in my mind) of my little girl who was so filled with the bright and dark moments of that day.   I will always see her full of conviction, optimistic and innocent--consumed by a rainbow of complex emotions wearing that beautiful purple dress.   

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 I am the author of the book A Walk with PrudencePractical Thoughts of Wisdom for Everyday Living

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