You really should read this – Order of Seven by Beth Teliho – You can pre-order now!

Click HERE to pre-order your Kindle-Edition of my friend Beth Teliho’s new novel, The Order of Seven.

“Eighteen-year-old Devi Bennett is surrounded by mysteries: her unknown heritage, a recurring dream about an African tribal ceremony, an inexplicable attachment to a certain tree and a psychic ability she’ll never understand—unless she finds her biological parents.

Things take a shocking turn when she meets Baron, an intense and alluring energy healer who receives prophetic dreams which all seem connected to her. Devi must rely on an empath, a seer, and Baron to help research her roots to discover who she is and what she is capable of. But when Baron’s visions lead to an ancient legend which may link to her birthright, Devi learns her gift is more imperative than she thought imaginable.

Equal parts suspenseful and sexy, philosophical and adventurous, Order of Seven delivers a story that will leave you questioning everything you thought you knew about the hands that carry fate.”

I don’t typically read a lot of young adult fiction, because let’s face it, I haven’t been a young adult in quite some time, but when I was given the opportunity to read this one, before the rest of the world gets a peek, (yeah, I’m kind of special like that), I jumped at the chance.

One of the reasons I don’t typically care much for YA novels is because the characters are often formulaic, the story-lines predictable, and the writing – let’s face it, is not always all that great. This has been true for the few I’ve taken the time to read that is.

In Beth’s new book, Order of Seven, however . . . the characters have character – certainly not formulaic. Her plot is anything but predictable, and the writing? Well, that’s the best part. It’s good, fantastic even. She kept me reading, and thinking, and left me wanting more.

This book is smart and sexy. You’re led on a mysterious journey of discovery with Devi, Nodin, Baron, and Ben, you learn things as they learn them, you feel things as they feel them, and you become part of their journey. The wonderfully written dialogue and intellectual intrigue kept me glued to this story until the very last word.

Beth Teliho not only wrote a novel I thoroughly enjoyed, but she left me wanting to read more. That’s saying something . . .

Visit Beth’s Facebook author page HERE

and check out her blog HERE

If I were to say, “Cherish every moment.” Would you be offended?

Feb27

Lately, I’ve noticed a trend among newer moms, many of whom seem to be banding together and bonding over something some of them seem to be annoyed and insulted by, and I’m having a difficult time wrapping my head around it.

I’ve seen it on blog posts, on Facebook, and on Twitter, it’s a thing now to be angry at a certain something being said by moms who have already been there, done that, and thrown away the stained t-shirt.

It can be said in different ways, but the gist of this offensive comment is this – cherish every moment – Somehow this has become an affront to mothers with young children. They don’t want to hear it, is it really such a dastardly thing to say?

I’m trying to put myself in their shoes, because the truth is, I’ve been in them before. Admittedly, it was a while ago, but I certainly haven’t forgotten how it felt to walk in them. How it felt to pace the floor with a crying baby in them or chase after an energetic toddler in them.

I haven’t forgot how it felt at the end of the day when I could finally slip them off for a while. I haven’t forgotten any of it, because sometimes, it really does seem like just yesterday I was wearing them.

When my kids were little the same sort of things were said to me, cherish every moment, they’ll be grown up before you know it, make the most of every minute; and other such sage words of wisdom from moms who managed to survive parenthood. There were even moments I was relieved to hear it to be honest, because there were days I really needed those words to remind me there was indeed a light at the end of the diaper strewn tunnel I was living in.

I respected those words, I held on to them and I tried my best to heed them. One day I was standing in line at the grocery store with four little house trolls all vying for my attention in one way or another, not cherishing the moment at all and listening to some woman remind me how fast time flies, and then the next, I was that woman. I was the one standing in line behind a frazzled and tired young mother just wishing I could tell her that the moment she was in was going to be nothing more than a speck of a memory in what will seem like such a short, short time.

Now, when I find myself wanting to offer up what I thought were kind and comforting words to a young mother, I bite my tongue. What if she doesn’t want to hear it? What is she finds offense in it? It makes me sad because truly, there is no offense intended.

I’m not trying to be condescending or make light of the struggles they may be going through. I’m not making the assumption that they don’t already cherish every moment, or that they in fact need to be told time passes quickly and that in what will seem like the blink of an eye, their children will be grown and those mommy shoes will be tucked away in the back of some closet of their minds.

In some ways, I want to say it because I remember and sometimes long for those days again. I say it because it’s true, and if I could have stretched out those moments and made them last a little longer I would have.

It’s not meant as an insult, it’s never meant as a condemnation of some sort. It’s not meant to mean anything other than what it means . . . cherish every moment. Maybe I say it to comfort myself, to assure my own heart I made the most out of every day I had with my young children. Maybe I say it because time is still going by so quickly and every second I spend with my children now is all the more precious to me. I don’t want it to move so fast and it still is.

Moms need each other . . . it doesn’t matter at what stage of parenting we’re in, we belong to a sisterhood who should be encouraging, building up, and protecting each other while we cherish every single moment. The day will come we all walk in similar same shoes at some point . . .

Seems like only yesterday sometimes

Today became yesterday
before I knew it had passed,
I pray my sweet memories
of each moment will last.
When tomorrow arrives
I will cherish the day,
for I know that it too
will pass quickly away.
In the midst of a moment
precious memories are made,
we wrap them in love,
in hopes they won’t fade.
We gather them up,
tuck them safely away,
inside of our hearts
to look back on someday.

Crystal R. Cook

I wrote this little poem years ago, I recall just how I felt when I sat down to pen the words to a page. I’d had a moment of heartbreaking realization, time is fleeting. I could not believe how fast my children had grown. They were still babies then really, now those mommy days have passed , some days it truly does feel like it was only yesterday.

Time really is fleeting.

The Enemy Within

Feb27

So far today, I’ve nothing new to say. Nothing I can pin down, capture and pen to the page – not yet anyway, so I’m pulling one from the archives, if for no other reason than to remind myself I get through this every time I must face it.

Last night was one of *those nights*, filled with the unwelcome intrusion of anxiety and restlessness that have a way of lingering into a new day.

I’ve put on my armor and risen for battle – I’m certain at some point today, victory will be mine. I’ve fought this fight before . . .

Whispers scream
in the dark of night
echoes of fear
not there in the light
When the day comes
it does not surrender
unwelcome companion
constant tormentor
Close your eyes
cover your ears
it’s coming for you
you can’t hide from this fear
It flows through your veins
it robs you of peace
squeezing your heart
as you pray for relief
There is nowhere to run
there is nowhere to hide
there is no escape
from the monster inside
You face it and fight
it tells you your weak
holding for ransom
the comfort you seek
Relentless it strikes
time after time
an insidious fog
filling your mind
An unwilling warrior
in this battle for power
sometimes you stand
sometimes you cower
The battle is private
without allies or help
you are fighting alone
at war with yourself

Crystal R. Cook

Amazing Instant Novelist . . .Does anyone remember this?

Feb25

I stumbled across an old memory today on Pinterest, check out these archived screenshots of my old haunt – The former AOL site was the brainchild of Dan Hurley, the original 60 second novelist, you can check out his book here on GoodReads.

Amazing Instant Novelist was affiliated with Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was filled with message boards for writers and readers alike. I found the site in 1997 and was hooked. I read and I wrote and I became part of my very first cyber family there. There were contests and prizes and tons of camaraderie, it was, for lack of a better word, fantabulous.

It wasn’t long before I was asked to join the ranks as NovlQwiet, and became one of their volunteer admins. I was rather brokenhearted when the site was acquired by some other entity and faded from existence. I still miss it to be honest. The years I spent there are treasured.

It was there I realized I had something to offer, something I didn’t need to keep to myself, buried in notebooks and journals . . . my words. They read them, they picked them up and they displayed them; they valued them. I was encouraged and applauded and it was good. So good.

I’d never been in the company of other writers, I wasn’t even certain I was one of them until they assured me I was. The other Novls embraced me, the writers who came there to write respected me, and the readers who simply came there to read uplifted me. It was kind of a beautiful thing and I’ll always, always be thankful I was a part of it.

Crystal R. Cook

Coffee, books, and a tale to tell. A day at the bookstore.

Feb23

I love Barnes & Noble. Like, seriously love it. I would live there if I could. They won’t let me of course, (I asked), but I would take up residence within the confines of their walls if I was permitted. Aside from the books, all the glorious books, they have Starbucks. Hello, nirvana anyone?

Since they refuse to let me set up camp, I go as often as I am able and spend as much time there as my husband will let me. If they ever stop stocking magazines, I’m in trouble. ~~Hoarding~~ Collecting books is something I have to do, I’ll take them from wherever I can get them, I’m kind of a thrift store book section regular, but they don’t have Starbucks so they fall to the number two spot on my favorite places to buy books list.

I abhor social situations, but I love to be around people for the sake of watching them. A bookstore is the perfect place for me in this regard. The typical bookstore patron is there for books, not company, and I am left to myself. The thrift stores are fantastic places to observe folks as well, but sometimes they want to talk.

A lot of times they seem to want to talk actually. For the most part, the people who approach me seem to just need someone to acknowledge their existence, to know there is someone kind scanning the collectibles looking for treasure alongside them. Some days it makes me feel good, some days it annoys me, and some days it kind of creeps the hell out me. Another reason they land in the number two spot.

Not too long ago my husband wanted me to attend a social function with him. I don’t like to do that. While my first instinct was to list all the reasons I didn’t want to go and wasn’t going to go, I decided to take the opportunity to get a little something out of it. I told him it was gonna cost him. A day, maybe an entire day, at Barnes & Noble and a Venti iced coffee . . . maybe two. He agreed, as if he had a choice, right?

It was a fabulous day, as most all of my bookstore days end up being. I drank too much coffee, lost myself in my beloved books, and left with The Essential Selected Poems of Pablo Neruda, a hardbound collection of Penny Dreadfuls, which includes some of my favorites by Poe, Shelley, and Rymer, The Elements Of Eloquence by Mark Forsyth (The Inky Fool), and a story of my own to tell.

If you haven’t already guessed, I love to read. I cherish my books and my time spent with them. Reading is a pleasure I would wish everyone could be as smitten with as I am. I don’t know why, but it always shocks and surprises me when I run across people who do not value-love-adore reading. People who don’t find the joys I have found between the covers of a book, it’s even more shocking when I happen to cross paths with those people in a bookstore, as I did on this recent visit.

When we arrived I hugged my husband, (I didn’t know how long it would be till I saw him again), and headed straight for the coffee, as I always do, and then made a bee-line for the bargain books, as I always do second, stopping only long enough to make mental notes of where I would look after I’d perused the many books those kind booksellers had marked down for me.

I couldn’t help but notice a girl, maybe around fifteen or sixteen years old, eagerly grabbing books and showing them to her mother and then quickly placing them back on the shelf. With every book she put back, her eagerness as well as her smile was fading. When I got closer to them, I realized why.

With every book she pointed out, her mother said no. Not just no though, there were reasons for each denial. The girl picked up a copy of John Carter of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs and her mom said, “That sounds like some sci-fi book for boys.” and pointed to a copy of Little Women by Louisa May Alcott as an alternative. The girl shrugged her shoulders.

The next book she showed her mother was Through the Looking Glass by Lewis Carroll. Her eyes were kind of twinkly when she said, “I’ve always wanted to read this one!” Her mother rolled her eyes. She actually rolled them. “Isn’t that the same as Alice in Wonderland? That’s a kid’s book.” Obviously, she’s never read Through the Looking Glass and it seemed like her poor daughter wouldn’t be reading it either.

She motioned toward Dracula by Bram Stoker, this time there was an audible sigh to go along with the eye rolling. I felt so badly for that child. She just wanted to read. She noticed me noticing and tried to give a little, what-are-ya-gonna-do, kind of smile, I pointed to The Secret Garden by Francis Hodgson Burnett. I could see a look of relief in her eyes as she reached for the book. Again, her enthusiasm was quashed. Her mom actually said it sounded like something that should be R rated. What the what?

The Count of Monte Cristo ? No. She will not be reading Alexandre Dumas anytime soon. She won’t be reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and she won’t be reading the Selected Poems of Robert Frost. The poor girl was done. She stopped asking, she stopped looking. She took out her phone instead. My heart kind of broke for her. Her mother then suggested she buy a journal instead, that poor, defeated little thing just said, “I don’t have any thoughts to write down.” She never even looked up from her phone.

Now there is another part to this story, another child and parent exchange which took place shortly after I rounded the corner and began checking out the books stacked neatly on round tables near the front of the store. This time, it was between a father and daughter. Dad had a stack of books in his arms, obviously a reader. It was nice to see his daughter, who looked to be around the same age as the other young girl, get excited and lunge toward a book.

I was a little perplexed when I realized it was a hefty copy of Gray’s Anatomy. The conversation went like this –

Girl – “Oh my gosh, Dad! Check this out! It’s huge! Do you think it’s got all the seasons since the beginning?

Dad – “What are you talking about?’

Girl – “This book, it’s got to have the entire show in here!”

Dad – . . .

Dad – . . .

Dad – “It’s not about the television show. It’s about science and the medical world. It’s actually a beautiful book.”

Girl – “Oh. Whatever.”

Dad – . . .

Now here it gets a little more interesting. The mom and the sad girl with no books head toward the register to pay for mom’s stack of magazines. The dad, and the girl I’m pretty sure might have been too young to actually be watching the Gray’s Anatomy television series, head toward the register as well. The two parties merge and become one; a family.

If I had to guess, and I’m going to, I would say they were a blended family still in the process of blending. The girl without any books was tall and slender with dark hair, like her father. The Gray’s Anatomy girl was shorter and a little plumper with golden hair, just like her mother. I kind of chuckled to myself thinking about the different qualities they each brought to the table and how wonderful it might be when they all really begin to meld together.

Homer & Aristotle

The story is almost finished. The dark-haired daughter wandered away from the checkout line to look at a display of bookends, among the books being showcased between a bust of Plato and a bust of Aristotle was a beautiful copy of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. The girl ran her finger almost lovingly down the spine of the book, then mother appeared beside her. “You know, just because they call it a classic doesn’t mean it’s any good.”

I might agree with that statement to some small extent if it was coming from someone who had actually read many classic novels, but instead I was a bit wounded by it and imagined myself knocking some sense into her with the bust of Plato, or maybe Aristotle, both were within easy reach. Instead though, I simply said a little prayer in my heart for the new family and hoped they would find some common, literary ground to stand on one day.

Later, when I thought of them, I wished I’d grabbed up that copy of The Secret Garden and bought it as a gift for that girl . . . it sure would have made my heart smile to do such a thing.

Crystal R. Cook

That Awards Show

Feb23

Everyone is talking about that awards show thingy; who wore what and how they wore it, so I thought I would go ahead and join the discussion . . .

There were just so many glorious gowns and snazzy suits, it’s hard to pick the best. I mean, the hair and makeup alone on some of those bright and shiny people was just simply beautiful, and that was just the guys . . . so much pretty jewelry and people wearing shoes and carrying handbags.

I loved that one girl with the dress, you know the one I’m talking about. Oh, and that other one, she looked fantastic. I don’t know about what’s-her-name though, she was looking a little rough, but that guy in that one movie that came out not too long ago was looking good.

I was really blown away by that actress with the long hair, or was it short? Doesn’t matter, she looked good didn’t she? And that one gal who was in that movie with the guy who was wearing the black suit just looks gorgeous no matter what, don’t you agree?

Letsee . . . who else? Omigosh, I can’t believe I almost forgot that woman who walked in on the red carpet, there were cameras shooting pictures and she had on those shoes. Wow. Stunning, you can’t tell me she wasn’t stunning.

That older guy who’s been in quite a few movies was looking pretty dapper hu? That one dress by that designer was really pretty. I think that other lady, the one with the face, looked lovely, but her dress was just all wrong for her wasn’t it? Would you have worn that?

Wait a second . . . I forgot. I didn’t watch the damn show. Did I miss much?

~ Tongue-in-cheek of course, I know many love the awards shows, I don’t pay much attention to it all and am always out of the proverbial loop when it comes to the next day recaps ~

Crystal R. Cook

Posted last year around this time, for the same reason . . . I got nuthin new.

A message for all – True Colors – MattyB & Olivia Kay – Listen with your heart

Feb22

Just listen . . . really, really listen.

My humble thank you to the #1000Speak bloggers

Feb21

Right now, in this moment, I am having a hard time finding the right words to express how I am feeling. If you follow my blog, Facebook, Pinterest, or Twitter pages, you’ve undoubtedly noticed my focus has been concentrated on #1000Speak.

1000 Voices Speak For Compassion.

Lizzi, who wrote the beautiful blog post that ultimately gave birth to the #1000Speak movement, sent me a Pinterest pin which led me to the still rather new Facebook page for 1000 Voices. I knew right away it was going to be something special, I just had a feeling, a really good feeling. I’m not much of a joiner. At all. For me to willingly become a part of something that includes other people is kind of huge.

At least it used to be. I decided to add my voice as well.

Even though I kind of knew it was going to be something good, maybe even something great, I had no plans on sticking around for long. I’ve been there, done that and wished I hadn’t. The whole group-social-interacting with others thing is a little difficult for me. I don’t always seem to fit in when in a large grouping of people so I’m always leery about putting myself out there.

Because of this, I worked it all out ahead of time in my mind. I was going to see what it was about, maybe add a post and then slip out the back door. As it turns out, once I stepped my virtual foot into the world of #1000Speak created by Yvonne Spence and Lizzi Rogers (click on their names and find a blessing), I forgot all about the escape plan I’d prepared. Once I looked around, the thought of turning tail and heading back the way I came was nothing more than a distant memory.

I found myself surrounded by blessing after blessing. Like minded hearts on fire for compassion . . . something I wasn’t sure still existed in any meaningful and measurable way. Not only did it exist, it was alive.

And now . . . this is where my words are failing me . . . I am grateful and humbled and blessed and there just aren’t enough words to properly and completely convey the emotions I wish to lay out before me on the page for you to see.

I wish I could thank each and every one of you amazing, beautiful people in some way – everyone whose voices I’ve heard singing since I was welcomed into this village of compassion.

I’ll likely be reading posts for a month and shedding many tears and smiling many smiles as I do.

Thank you just doesn’t seem like enough, but it is all I have to offer. You’ve become a part of my heart I will cherish always. You’ve all reminded me that there is good left in this world . . .

Thank you.

Crystal R. Cook

Click here to read the amazing #1000Speak posts – I guarantee you will be blessed

#1000Speak part 3 – Be compassion, every day

Feb20

We enter into this world helpless; hungry, and greedy for attention. Compassion wrapped in the purity of a parent’s love becomes the sustenance with which that hunger is satiated. I believe we are all born with the capacity for compassion, but it’s something that must be nurtured within us if it is to grow.

Maybe this is why it’s called practicing compassion. We aren’t born with the tools we need to become compassionate people, someone has to give them to us and then we need to be taught how to use them. Parents cradle more than new life in their arms when a child enters this world, they are swaddling the future in a blanket of their compassion, and every choice they make has the power to alter that future, for better or for worse.

As parents, we have to speak to the hearts of our children with more than our voices. We have to engage in a dialogue of the heart because if we don’t, the voices of the world will fill in the void of silence we leave. It’s not enough to tell them what compassion is, a dictionary can do that, we need to show them.

Our children see everything we do, hear everything we say. They feel what we feel. They see when we go out of our way to help someone in need, they see when we ignore someone in need as well. They hear the kindness in our words, they also hear the disdain and judgments. They mirror who we are. They become who they will be, in part, because of who they saw us to be.

We need to be compassion, we need to define it so our children know what it is and how to live it.

Compassion is something we can practice every single day, it may begin with self compassion, something many of us have a hard time with. We beat ourselves up, we overwork, under sleep, undervalue our personal worth, but if we don’t practice self compassion we render ourselves incapable of becoming a person of outward compassion, what we are really doing by not taking time to nurture who we are, is robbing the world of our light.

We need to let our light shine so there are no longer dark places in our world where hope cannot be seen. We need to shine. We need to be bright and brilliant beacons of hope, of what could be. If your light brightens the path for even one person to find their way out of the shadows, you have changed the world.

Compassion is not conditional, it comes from your heart. Compassion is what you do for others without expectation of thanks or reward. Compassion is putting the shoe on the other foot, it is sharing the burden of a heavy load. Compassion is a smile, a prayer, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold. Compassion doesn’t judge, it doesn’t need reason, it doesn’t require monumental effort, it just requires a heart willing to take action.

We all have those moments, even the most compassionate and kind among us fall off the proverbial wagon and sink in the muck sometimes. I did not too long ago.

I took my son to get a haircut, it didn’t turn out the way we’d expected it to. In all honesty, it was an awful haircut and I wasn’t happy about it. Instead of being gracious though, I was gruff. I didn’t hide my aggravation and I made a point of letting the stylist know how I felt.

I knew before I was finished having my say I should have kept my mouth shut. I could see her feelings were hurt, but I had been clear in my instructions and felt justified. I could tell by the look in my sons eyes he did not agree. When we left he said, “You were a little hard on her.”

Of course I ranted for a minute about my justification. When we arrived home I’d had time to realize what an asshole I had been. I didn’t just hurt that young girls feelings, I’d set a terrible example for my son. I backed out of the driveway without saying a word and drove right back to the salon. When she saw me, she averted her eyes and hung her head. I never want to be looked at like that again.

I apologized. I smiled and said, “Next time, let’s leave a little more hair on his head.” and her entire demeanor changed. I felt good, she felt good, and my son was witness to something all children should see their parents do. Humbly admit a wrong and take steps to set things right.

Compassion is essential and though it may hurt sometimes, it is what makes us human. It’s what keeps our world from crumbling and our hearts from breaking. Compassion is something we have to practice.

I am talking about real life, every day compassion. The kind you have to have when the waitress is having a bad day. Compassion is realizing the checkout girl with a scowl on her face and what we only see as a bad attitude, may be masking some incredible pain. Compassion is the decision to smile and practice patience and kindness.

It’s about not judging the grumpy mom with the misbehaving kids at the grocery store. It’s about not being annoyed when the elderly woman at the checkout line pulls out a hundred coupons and a checkbook. It’s about smiling at an angry driver or taking the time to give the homeless something to eat or drink and feel happy about for a moment.

And it’s a little bit about having patience with your hair stylist . . .

Crystal R. Cook

#1000Speak part 2 – Compassion is a verb. It has to be a verb.

Feb20

I’ve spent a lot of time over the past couple of weeks thinking about compassion, dissecting it and attempting to define it in some way. I prayed about it, I researched it, I perused texts written by ancient philosophers pertaining to it, I read passages biblical scholars have written and found blessings in the verses long ago penned to pieces of parchment.

I took notes, jotted down my own thoughts and feelings and complied them to create my own compassion dissertation of sorts. It was good, I daresay it was really, really good.

I deleted it. It wasn’t a purposeful deletion. I’m not ashamed to say I felt a little devastated. Those words were pieces of my heart and I lost them.

I was done.

Ready to throw in the proverbial towel and simply be done. I was angry at myself and ever so slightly defeated.

But then . . .

I was lifted up, encouraged, and compelled by the kindness of others to shake it off and start again. I became the grateful recipient of compassion freely and without hesitation offered by strangers who in a strange way have become a family. They come from all walks of life, from countries around the world I will likely never see. Some speak languages I will never speak, and some are so very different from me – and yet – we are the same in more ways than I ever could have imagined.

They exist in a village called 1000 Voices, they exist in my heart. Though miles and miles and thousands more miles may separate us, they are as close as a click of a keyboard away.

That is a beautiful thing.

So with the new-found strength they helped me muster I began again to write of compassion. It’s not the same as it was, not nearly, but they are my words and they come from a place of love and compassion and thankfulness.

1000 Voices Speak For Compassion has touched my soul and I am more than exceedingly thankful for it.

The philosophy of compassion is not new. Since the beginning of time compassion has been a thread woven into the fabric of humanity. Biblical scholars wrote of it, ancient philosophers spoke of it, and today, we too, come together to remind every willing ear of its importance.

For an ideal so grand, so important, and so necessary, I have a hard time trying to understand why so many do not seem to embrace it. Are they ignoring the primal instinct I simply have to believe we all possess to be compassionate? Do they simply misunderstand the true meaning of compassion? My fear is some people just don’t care, and I have to say, the thought breaks my heart.

One dictionary defines compassion as a noun, a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

I just don’t think that 23 word blurb even comes close to actually defining compassion.

Thích Nhất Hạnh is quoted as saying, “Compassion is a verb.” I agree.

Compassion without action is just a word, a simple noun like chair or rock. It has to be something more than a lovely concept or lofty ideal we sit around and talk about over coffee.

It’s not enough to have compassion, you have to be compassionate. How often do we see something or someone and think, oh, that’s heartbreaking, and then move on? We may feel compassion, but we don’t always act on it.

True compassion has to be acted on, it has to become tangible, it needs to exceed the definition printed to a page in a dictionary. It must be more than a feeling, more than a desire to act . . . it is the act that impacts.

Being a compassionate person says more about who we are as human beings than it does about those on the receiving end. Compassion does not mean acceptance. The capacity to care about the physical, emotional, and mental well-being of another should not be conditional, measured or rationed based on whether or not we agree with someone’s choices, their beliefs, or their lifestyle.

When you suffer, I suffer too. In attempting to relieve your burdens, I too find a sweet relief. Admittedly, sometimes it’s hard to feel compassion, let alone act on it. When I look at the monstrous acts committed by some, I have a hard time finding compassion for them . . . I have to close my eyes and envision the child they once were.

Sometimes, a prayer is all the compassion I can muster, but in that prayer, I ask the Lord to still my heart and help the one I am unable, perhaps unwilling to help. Christ had compassion for those who nailed him to a cross. He said, “Father forgive them, they know not what they do.” I try to remember his grace as he slipped from earthly life, I try to remember that in the midst of the sorrow of his sacrifice, he showed compassion.

I don’t want to be thought of as a compassionate person, I want to be a compassionate person, but I must admit, there are moments when compassion becomes a choice I must make, moments when it would be so much easier not to be.

To me, this means looking past a persons deeds or circumstances and seeing the helplessness within them, the same helplessness that exists in each of us. I don’t have to subscribe to the same beliefs and ideologies someone may hold to extend a helping hand when they are in need, I simply need to reach out and offer it.

Sometimes, this means I offer a kind word to the unkind, charity to one who may be less than charitable, or help someone who would not go out of their way to help me. It may be naive, but there is a part of me that hopes my compassion for them may stir something within their own hearts, help them see that proverbial light I have been blessed to see.

Compassion is a verb.

It doesn’t end here.