This morning as I was working out, a memory from years ago showed up. Not long after we were married, Tom and I took our four young daughters back east to visit his family in New Jersey. While there we also spent a couple of days in New York City, cramming in as many touristy things as we could manage, including visits to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Natural History Museum, pizza in Little Italy, the Hard Rock Cafe, Phantom of the Opera, Tavern on the Green, and a trip to the Empire State Building. It was this last experience that popped into my head this morning.

We were on the outdoor observation deck on the 86th floor, and one of my daughters was standing next to me, intently peering through a coin operated telescope out across the urban landscape. “Is that it?” she wondered aloud. “That’s all? That’s Central Park?” Following her gaze, I saw she was focused on a small square of green space, probably a small city park or school playground.

I urged her to lift her gaze just a skosh, and when she did, that magnificent 843 acre park came rushing into view. It was an amazing moment to watch her young face turn from disappointment to wonder, and I’m grateful to have been there to witness it. It would have been so easy to miss.

That moment was then, and is now, a reminder to lift our gaze. To let go of our fixation on the small view, making room for wonder and space for possibility.

When someone we know goes through something difficult, it can be tempting to assume that how they feel in the midst of it is the same as what we would feel were we in their shoes. But we’re not.

Because we think we know how they are feeling, we assume we know what they need to do. But we don’t.

Years ago when I made the decision to leave my marriage I met with one of the pastors of our church. It was hands-down the hardest decision I’d ever made for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which was the poor light in which the church cast divorce. That being said, I felt certain of my decision, and hopeful for a different future. But sittting in his office I braced myself for his words, expecting to hear that while he might understand how I was feeling, he needed to help me see the error of my ways and how I could remedy them. However, after a few quiet moments, he simply said, I know what I am supposed to say, but I haven’t walked in your shoes. How are you feeling today? How can I best help you?

I’ve never forgotten that experience. Rather than burdening me with his expectations, he lightened the load of my experience. When someone is in the midst of the inevitable pain that comes with life, they are most in need of our quiet presence and a few simple words.

I know what I am supposed to say, but I haven’t walked in your shoes. How are you feeling today? How can I best help you?

With gratitude to DR for knowing that we wore different shoes.

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