As I see it, these two behaviors have much in common, but they also have a vast difference. Merriam-Webster describes compassion as having a sympathetic consciousness of another’s distress along with a desire to alleviate it. The definition for empathy is much more detailed, but the point that stands out strongly to me is that it means to vicariously experience the thoughts and feelings of another. Empathy, therefore, takes compassion a step further. Some people believe that you can’t have empathy unless you have actually experienced what another person is going through. There’s no doubting that having actually gone through and survived something gives a person a great deal of empathy. That’s why we have support groups. That’s why a cancer survivor can offer a deeper level of compassion to a cancer patient than someone who has never been there.

Empathy, however, is something that I believe we can acquire given the use of the enormous capacity of the human brain to simply imagine. We do it all the time when we read, watch movies, daydream. Who among us with the smallest degree of humanity cannot read a news story about some horrific event and not imagine what it might have been like if it had happened to us? Therefore, is it not possible to encounter the struggles and suffering of another human being and simply offer compassion at a deeper, more sensitive level that creates a human connection—if only for a moment—that helps lift the burdens of another in a productive and charitable way.

How Friends and Family Treated Job in the Bible

Mormon beliefs define what a Mormon is.

Going back to the story of Job, his friends make an interesting study of what helps and what definitely hinders the grieving process of one who is suffering. After Job has ten children killed in the same event, and loses all of his wealth and belongings, can we even imagine the weight of grief and sorrow he must have been experiencing? Then his wife tells him to “curse God and die.” Given that Job never lost his convictions regarding His belief in God, and he was earnestly striving to seek God’s help in understanding his trials, we can assume the marriage wasn’t giving him much support in that regard. When Job’s friends first come on the scene, they sit with him for seven days in silence. Amazing! Only a truly devoted friend would simply be with you and share your grief in such a way. But as Job’s problems worsened and he was afflicted with horrific health challenges, his friends began to show signs of their own weaknesses coming forward. Job is lectured by each of them about how he must have done something wrong to bring this kind of suffering upon himself; surely there must be something he could do to fix it. Talk about adding insult to injury! The thing is, I don’t know if any person has read this story with true intent and not wondered the same thing. As human beings, perhaps we want so desperately to find the reason for the suffering, because we can’t imagine how it would be so bad if someone wasn’t responsible. Perhaps we feel better when we can find a place to lay blame, or when we can find a solution that will fix it. When the suffering of others starts to make us squirm with discomfort, how do we respond? Can we continue to offer compassion—even empathy—or do we start digging for answers to questions that will make us feel better? Do we want a reason to be able to look away because our helplessness and sorrow on their behalf is too much to bear? Are we afraid that it could happen to us, therefore we need to dissect the problem in order to figure out what could be done to prevent such suffering?

Suffering is all around us. We all experience it in varying degrees, but we can all look around and see someone who has trials that we would never want to take upon ourselves, even if it meant being able to give up our own. There is obviously no measurement of what’s “fair” in this life. Fair is something that gets balanced out in the life to come. I think Job knew that, and with his faith in God, he was able to endure with that fact intact, even though he struggled to understand why this had happened to him.

My own life has been an especially interesting case of suffering and struggling. I don’t declare that to seek out pity or attention. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I prefer to keep my pain to myself, but I have often felt compelled to use my particular gifts to make others aware that the hardships of life are no respecter of persons. My health challenges have gone on for many years, and they are brutally complicated to a point that it’s impossible to explain to someone what’s going on inside of my body without taking an hour or two and perhaps using a PowerPoint demonstration. I could sum it up briefly by saying that I have Celiac Disease which went undiagnosed for so many years that it wreaked havoc on several body systems, and then a number of different doctors didn’t catch—or even look for—the long-term results of those damages, therefore it all just kept getting worse instead of better. Breast cancer was thrown into the mix as an added bonus, and it’s all topped off by my tendency to have chronic migraines as a manifestation of my poor health. The insidious and mysterious headaches seem to be my body’s way of screaming, “I’m not doing well! Help me!” But solutions are difficult, complicated, and it could take years to undo the damage. I have finally found a great doctor who is on top of every facet of what’s going on and I have hope of getting better. Still, the headaches remain somewhat of a mystery to him, even though he’s actively trying many different avenues of getting them to stop. While they are likely a result of all of the other problems, the other problems are slower improving because of the headaches. I’m a catch twenty-two of enormous proportions. My doctor has called my body a “perfect storm.” Since health problems have made it difficult to work, financial challenges have been on the heels of my continual struggles with pain, weakness, and extreme fatigue. It has also impacted the state of my home, every relationship in my life, and it has slowly eaten away at my identity as a wife, mother, homemaker, public speaker, writer, and author. Hence, Job is one of my dearest friends.

Again, my point in stating all of this is not to solicit pity. It is rather a very personal case study on the value of compassion and empathy. And I’m not just talking about the kindness offered to me by others, but also the kindness I offer to others. Being in pain does not give me any excuse to be unkind to any person I encounter—especially not the ones who live under the same roof with me and have to put up with my being glued to my bed month after month. It’s vital for me to muster up compassion—and even empathy—for what it must be like for them. I’ve never lived with someone who has suffered so much for so long, so I can’t really know what that’s like, but I can imagine it, and I know it can’t be easy.

How Can You Help a Person Through a Trial?

As for the way that other people behave toward me, I’ve seen it all. I found it interesting that when I had six surgeries in one year (with an enormous house flood and required reconstruction right in the middle) the people around me were more forthcoming with kindness and efforts to help. These were very black and white challenges that people could understand. But when my suffering went on and on with no way to grasp the reasons, people began to distance themselves more from me, become awkward in talking to me, and many, many people have given me well-intended advice and solutions that were in reality based in ignorance and an obvious attempt to ease their own discomfort; some things have been said to me that were downright cruel—wolf words delivered in lamb’s wool, so to speak. I can’t count how many times people have boldly shared with me their solution to my problem, certain if I would just take their advice it would solve everything. I wish sometimes that I could go back and redo more than a hundred conversations by asking these well-meaning individuals to explain exactly how my disease works and what it means, and if they could do that I would be happy to listen to their suggestions.

Since Celiac Disease requires an intensely strict diet that completely eliminates gluten, I’ve had more than one person tell me something like, “I know just how you feel. I once went without carbs for months.” In such conversations I have bitten my tongue from telling these people that I can’t eat a salad if the vegetables were rinsed in the same plastic colander used for rinsing pasta, even if it’s been through the dishwasher, because gluten molecules can make me sick, and they can hide in plastic pores, even with thorough cleaning. The point being that I’ve come to learn that there are moments when you can share information with someone that will help them gain some perspective on their own lives, but there are times when it’s better left unsaid, because they simply aren’t interested in hearing what I might desperately want to say. I tend to talk too much when I feel nervous or put on the spot, and I’ve come away from many conversations feeling like I’ve over-explained myself to the point of coming off as a fool, and then I regret it. Sometimes silence truly is golden. We all wish we could go back and redo conversations that were full of misunderstanding and caused potential hurt feelings. But we can’t go back; we can only learn and move forward. And move forward we must.

I’ve realized through these many experiences that it’s not my place to be angry or offended in response. If I feel that way, then I need to deal with it appropriately and move on. In most cases, I have no way of knowing if their words were motivated in genuine kindness, or if they came from some kind of selfish agenda. That’s not for me to decide, because I couldn’t possibly. Sometimes it requires a followup conversation to clarify and to help them understand; and sometimes it requires just letting it go. While I often feel desperately in need of compassion and empathy from others, I have come to learn more and more how much others need compassion and empathy from me, even if it’s only the way I think and feel toward my fellow human beings. I could lay here in this bed and rot away in anger and bitterness if I chose to focus on all the negatives of what’s happened to my life and how people behave toward me because of it. Or I can focus on my own spiritual and emotional growth and learn to live in a place of peace.

Obviously I could create a very long list of all the things you should not say to someone who is dealing with chronic suffering, for whatever reason. I prefer instead to share a good example that happened just a few days ago. I had scraped myself out of bed and managed to make myself look presentable in order to get to the orientation meeting to prepare for high school registration for my daughter. Since she’s my youngest and my children are spread out over many years, I’m already one of the older junior high moms, and I don’t want to show up looking like frump mom. As if she doesn’t already have enough to overcome in living with a mother who hardly gets out of bed and is rarely an active participant in her teenaged life. So, I got through the meeting and was looking forward to getting back to my bed, when a woman in my neighborhood approached me, gave me a hug, and said that it was good to see me. She told me I looked good, then said simply, “I hear you’ve been really sick.” In contrast, if she had done what most people normally do and asked me what’s been going on, I would have been stammering some kind of explanation that cannot be explained in two minutes and only leaves me feeling somewhat freakish. I was able to answer very comfortably, “Yes, it’s been rough, but I am very blessed.” She expressed hope that I would get feeling better, and I felt an openness and genuine concern from her that gave me the unspoken option to share more if I wished, but didn’t make me feel like I had to explain in order to make her feel more comfortable. We walked out of the building together, talking about our daughters going to high school, our grandchildren, and the things we had to be grateful for. She walked me to my car and gave me another hug, and I went home feeling like I’d actually had some human interaction without being defined by my illness.

I pray every day for healing miracles, and for my “captivity” to be turned, as it was for Job. I know God has a plan for me, and these experiences are not random, nor are they any kind of punishment. Someday I will understand, and in the meantime I will strive to gain more compassion and empathy for others—as well as for myself. Being patient with oneself can be a great learning experience all on its own.

In the end of Job’s story, there are no obvious answers of what changed to release him from his captivity. He repents, but of what exactly? He acknowledges God’s power and presence more fully than he had before. We could all do with more of that. But I believe Job’s true change of heart is personal to Job, and that’s why the story is slightly cryptic over what happened exactly. The bottom line was that he realized he needed to trust God completely because God knew what He was doing, even though Job in his weak state of humanity couldn’t possibly understand. We as human beings don’t need to understand the suffering of another person in order to offer genuine compassion and sincere empathy. It just takes a little effort, a little bit of reaching beyond the outward appearance of a situation, and the limited facts that we might have. Even with those people we know well, no other human being can fully know the heart and mind of another. But we can still be charitable and kind. Even if a person has made choices to bring some degree—or all—of their suffering upon themselves, we can still be compassionate. Charity doesn’t mean condoning; compassion doesn’t mean approval. Humanity would be a much better race if we as individuals could learn to distinguish that difference and act on it appropriately.

Through Mormon Eyes
To read more of Anita Stansfield’s articles, click the picture.

Anita Stansfield

Anita Stansfield began writing at the age of sixteen, and her first novel was published sixteen years later. For more than fifteen years she has been the number-one best-selling author of women’s fiction in the LDS market. Her novels range from historical to contemporary and cover a wide gamut of social and emotional issues that explore the human experience through memorable characters and unpredictable plots. She has received many awards, including a special award for pioneering new ground in LDS fiction, the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Whitney Academy for LDS Literature, and also a Lifetime Achievement Award from her publisher, Covenant Communications. She has fifty-six published books. Anita is the mother of five, and has three grandchildren.

I find it strange to note how I have very clear memories of things that happened for hours preceding my being made aware of his death—as if the trauma of getting the news created a reverse effect in holding onto the time that led up to it. It had been a day busy with mostly trivial things, and in the evening I sat down with my laptop to work on my current novel. My young daughter came in at one minute after seven to tell me that someone was at the door for me. I know the time because I saved the file at that very moment. Of course I was surprised to come down the stairs to face two police officers. I quickly tallied the whereabouts of my children and knew they were alright, so I couldn’t imagine what they might want. When they mentioned my brother’s name, I first wondered if he’d gotten into some trouble. When they told me his body had been found, that he’d apparently taken his own life, I wasn’t surprised at all. But shock made me weak and unable to fully take in what this meant.

Nathan had always lived a difficult life; right from his infancy there had been evidence that something wasn’t right. But he didn’t grow up in a day when average parents were aware of things like ADHD, Bipolar Disorder, and other such possibilities for acute challenges. By adulthood certain behaviors and attitudes were deeply imprinted on him, and in spite of certain bursts of success and happiness, he always spiraled back into self-sabotaging behaviors and failures. There had been times when Nathan and I had been very close. He had helped me with some projects in my career that had proven how incredibly intelligent he was. And he was a very spiritual man, even though he had a problem with being a part of organized religion. But Nathan hadn’t spoken to me for nearly a year at the time of his death, and I was struck with the utter tragedy of his life, as well as the horrible way he’d died.

I made the mistake of thinking that because I had studied and written about suicide, and even more so about death and grieving, that I might be able to get through the process of dealing with it more easily than someone else. I learned very quickly that no one is exempt from grief. No amount of knowledge spares a human being from feeling the reality of such a personal trauma. If we don’t allow ourselves to feel it, then it festers and impedes our lives and creates new problems. And feel it I did! I had never imagined such pain! I’d lost my mother to cancer, and also a friend. I’d faced many personal challenges with difficult relationships, financial nightmares, career setbacks, and many other pitfalls of the human experience. But nothing had prepared me for the continual assault on my mind and heart of images from Nathan’s tragic life that had led up to his horrific death. I felt so much pain that I could hardly breathe at times, and I wondered why people didn’t look at me and notice, as if I should have broken out with some kind of emotional boils that would show the world how much I was hurting on the inside.

I was surprised to realize that I was grieving as much for Nathan’s life as I was for his death. It just didn’t seem right; it seemed he’d never really gotten a fair chance. If he had multiple brain chemical issues that had been present right from the start, then how could he have been expected to come to any other end than this? And if this end had been inevitable, then what was the point?   I have always been a very spiritual woman, with a great deal of faith. I have always grounded myself in the gospel of Jesus Christ, and I was well accustomed to going that direction for help in any matter. I had and still have a firm testimony that Jesus Christ is our Savior and that through His Atonement all things are made right. But being confronted with the reality of how wrong something in this life could be, I had to find answers that would soothe my aching spirit.

I had grown up a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and being a Mormon has always meant more to me than any other aspect of my life. I had been taught that through prayer and faith and studying the scripture and the words of our living prophet and apostles, we could always find answers to help us in times of need or hardship. I had also been taught that through the power of the Holy Ghost it was possible to receive tangible comfort and personal inspiration to get me through hard times. I knew from vast experience that this was true; I had countless times found strength and guidance through these means. But days and weeks beyond my brother’s death, I felt some frustration in still being wrought with grief and not feeling anything more than a little twinge of comfort here and there. I was doing all the right things, all the things I had been taught and believed in. I was reading the scriptures, and I was studying words of modern-day church leaders who had specifically addressed the topic of suicide. I was praying a great deal, and I was also spending time regularly in the Mormon temple, a place where I knew I could feel closer to God and be more likely to receive the comfort and peace I was seeking.

While I struggled along, I didn’t give up hope that my prayers would be answered, but I do recall feeling some impatience and frustration. I knew well, however, that these feelings were typical of being human, and I just needed to keep doing the right things and trust that the Lord would not let me down. About six weeks after Nathan’s death, in the midst of the Christmas season, I was driving to an appointment and listening to Christmas music in the car. One of my very favorite Christmas songs is “For Unto Us a Child Is Born,” and I had it blasting on the stereo. I wasn’t thinking about Nathan at that moment, but I had a sudden impression come into my mind, as if a concept and corresponding words were planted in my brain instantaneously. And in the very same moment, I felt a quickening of my heart, a warmth in my chest, and a distinct breathlessness. I knew beyond any doubt that it was the Holy Ghost answering my prayers on behalf of my Heavenly Father, in a way more profound and powerful than I had hoped for or imagined. I knew that it was rare for a witness to come with such strength; the Holy Ghost usually comes in a more quiet way, which is why it’s often called “the still small voice.” But this immediately became one of the most powerful spiritual experiences of my life. It’s impossible to fully describe it, any more than I could describe to someone what chocolate tastes like if they’ve never eaten it. I can only say that I absolutely knew that my brother was alright, and that I would also be alright. It was as if I could hear the word us being emphasized in the lyrics of the song. “For unto us a Child is born; until us a Son is given.” And I felt as if I had a tiny degree of understanding of how Isaiah must have felt when those words had come to him, and the power of what it means to know that everything our Savior did, He did for us.

I can summarize what I learned in that moment by saying that I know beyond any doubt that the Atonement of Jesus Christ performs its greatest miracle with the things in this life that we will never be able to add up with any degree of logic. Why would a child be born with such insurmountable challenges? Why would a life come to such a horrible end? Why would his loved ones have to endure the heartache of both his life and his death? And I know that this situation is just one in millions of horrible things faced by human beings. When it comes to suicide alone, there are so many different reasons it can happen, and they are all senseless. How does a parent ever recover from losing a child in such a way? Or a spouse? Or a dear friend? How do we go on and not become emotionally incapacitated by such an event? The answer is—and I must repeat—that the Atonement of Jesus Christ performs its greatest miracle with the things in this life that we will never be able to add up with any degree of logic.

Nathan’s life was not wasted. He did some amazing things, and he taught a great deal to the people who love him. And his death, however tragic, taught his loved ones a great deal about humility, compassion, empathy, and the true Source of healing. Since that day in my car, I have cried over missing Nathan, and I have cried over the heartache of his life and his death. But I have never once felt even a tiny bit of the pain I had experienced previously in regard to those things. I have since had quiet thoughts and feelings that have assured me through the Comforter that Nathan is progressing and doing well. He is not doomed to eternal damnation because of his choice. It was a less-than-ideal choice, but God understands his heart and the challenges he was facing, and He in His infinite wisdom has allowed Nathan to come to a place where he can continue to learn and grow and find the happiness and peace he couldn’t find in mortality.

My gratitude for the gospel truths that got me through this experience, and many other struggles in my life, is something that cannot be put into words. Nevertheless, it exists continually inside of me and it makes me who I am. So, after passing the seventh anniversary of Nathan’s death, I feel nothing but peace and joy to think of him. I don’t have to worry about him anymore. I know he’s doing great, and I look forward to the day when he and I can be reunited in a world where the disappointment and heartache of mortality do not exist.

Anita Stansfield

Anita Stansfield began writing at the age of sixteen, and her first novel was published sixteen years later. For more than fifteen years she has been the number-one best-selling author of women’s fiction in the LDS market. Her novels range from historical to contemporary and cover a wide gamut of social and emotional issues that explore the human experience through memorable characters and unpredictable plots. She has received many awards, including a special award for pioneering new ground in LDS fiction, the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Whitney Academy for LDS Literature, and also a Lifetime Achievement Award from her publisher, Covenant Communications. She has fifty-six published books. Anita is the mother of five, and has three grandchildren.