It’s a common word and maybe a little overused today.

Compassion.

Fostering an intense caring for another’s plight, it sometimes stirs up action – like sending in an army, lending money, delivering groceries, or just making soup.

But that loving feeling was not always part of my life.

When my son fell into addiction in his teenage years, there was no compassion.  Instead, all I felt was bewilderment.

Where had this come from?  There was no addiction that we knew of in our family.   All I knew was that this had to stop.  Clearly Jacob must have been doing this willfully, or so I stupidly thought at the time.  Some sort of childish rebellion.  But why?

The questions swirled in my head – and for years.

Each was impossible to answer.   Each draining.

And none stirred in me any feeling close to compassion.

Years later, after I learned more about addiction and sat in meetings with other families suffering its effects, feelings emerged of wanting to help them.  I longed to find the words to give them hope.  Often the best language was a hug.

And still later – much later – compassion for my son returned.  His first year in recovery he tried so hard to be independent, living in a halfway house a thousand miles away, walking miles to his job in a coffee shop and attending AA meetings almost religiously.

When he “picked up again” – twice that first year – I struggled to sustain compassion.  But by then I understood.  He had a chronic condition, something that compelled him to use again and again, and something that could kill him.

Finally, his recovery lasted a month, then six months, then a year, and now more than 12 years.

I had to learn to have compassion for my son.

But it took longer, much, much longer, to have compassion for someone else.

Me.