One Small Act: The Healing Power of Compassion

The old, faded purse meant everything to me. I had bought it a few months prior to leaving on my mission. Normally, I’m not too attached to my possessions, but the purse had come to be a sort of symbolic representation of survival to me. Through the first months of my mission, while serving in South Dakota, many sisters talked about how many different bags they’d had to buy, how the straps often broke. For some reason, I always asserted that mine wasn’t going to break. I’m not sure the source of such determination, but I hoped to will my purse to survive the 18 month experience in a way that felt reflective of my hopes for myself. 

The first third of my mission had been brutal. I went through experiences that included the loss of a grandparent, intense depression, multiple hospital visits, physical sickness, and a companion who nearly died. Seven months into my mission, I was sent to Brazil, where things remained difficult for me. 

Yet through it all, my purse remained intact. The light brown color had faded to an almost yellow-ish white at some parts, but it held. One summer day in Brazil, at about 14 months out on my mission, I was walking up one of the dusty hills next to a large field in a more rural area of the small city. Whenever my Bolivian companion and I walked along this road, we would sometimes see airplanes fly over, probably coming out of Sao Paulo, which was only 70 km south of us. Whenever one flew by, I would raise my fingers to the sky to signify how many months I had left on the mission. 6, 5, 4…

My companion, Sister Alarcon, never approved of that. Since she’d asserted her desire to serve a mission forever and never return home, I think my eagerness to leave often disconcerted her. She understood some of my past trauma, but I think it mostly just made her sad. In any case, it was on one of these days, I think after seeing a plane and chatting about it afterwards, I suddenly heard a snapping sound. In an instant, my bag dropped to the ground. 

I stared in shock as I realized what had just happened. My faithful little purse, who I had so confidently asserted was never going to break until I returned home, had done just that. Broken. Fallen on the ground. It didn’t make it to the end of the mission. And in a sort of metaphorical way, I felt a little like I was watching myself snap with it. It seemed like, without that purse, I wasn’t going to make it either.

I’m always overdramatic when stressed, and I think I fell to the ground and mourned the loss in a mood that was somewhere between, angry, sad, and desperate. My poor companion had to just watch me. Of course, it didn’t last long, I knew there was nothing I could do about it. So I just carried the purse in my arms for the rest of the day and mournfully vocalized how annoying it was that I was going to have to buy another one. How could it not survive four more months?

That night, shortly after our evening planning session, my companion disappeared. We only had a two room (one bedroom) apartment, so she must have slipped away while I was in the bathroom or chatting in the kitchen with the other two sisters. Surprised that I couldn’t find her in one of the two rooms, I walked out to our small balcony where a dirty old couch sat. There, hunched over something, was my companion. She told me to go away; that she was working on something. I pressed her to show me, but she was defiant. That’s when it clicked. And sure enough, an hour or so later, she presented me with a perfectly mended bag. She’d taken the two rings out, and carefully sewed the straps directly to the bag. I stared at the completed project in shock. With what I believe was perfect comprehension of my mental state, Sister Alarcon said something like, 

          “Now, it can last the rest of your mission.”

And it did. I didn’t have to buy another purse until I came home. And even then, I saved those little rings and continue to carry them with me to this day. Because my purse wasn’t the only thing she had mended that evening. In our two transfers together, she’d managed to save me as well. 

Whenever I think of that experience, the word that comes to mind is compassion. This can be defined as not just to show sympathy or mercy, but also to “suffer with” others. On multiple occasions, the scriptures make reference to the compassion of the Savior. When standing between us and the law of justice (Mosiah 15:9), when talking about the motivation of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:33), when seeing the fainting multitudes following and seeking healing and help (Matthew 9:36), and when He lingers among the Nephites to heal their sick after they ask, in tears, that he “tarry a little longer” (3 Nephi 17:6-7).

One of the aspects I love about this principle is that it is separate from judgement. In the case of the Good Samaritan, it can even include mercy and empathy for enemies or people with whom we disagree. It applies regardless of the similarities or differences in one’s situation or opinions. It is an expression of charity - or the pure love of Christ. I love this quote from President Monson:

We cannot truly love God if we do not love our fellow travelers on this mortal journey...Actually, love is the very essence of the gospel, and Jesus Christ is our Exemplar. His life was a legacy of love. The sick He healed; the downtrodden He lifted; the sinner He saved. At the end the angry mob took His life. And yet there rings from Golgotha’s hill the words: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do”⁴—a crowning expression in mortality of compassion and love.

We live in a world filled with violence, sickness, disloyalty, abuse, anger, pride, greed, dishonesty, and failure. Yet, in the midst of all the sadness and darkness, I take courage and hope in the fact that there are also so many people going about doing good and selflessly giving of their time and energy to love others. We have a unique power and privilege as humans to act as the Savior did, be his hands, and help heal and serve the people around us. But this requires us to look beyond our differences to love and give as the Savior would. Our contributions may seem small, but those little acts of compassion and love can change lives - including our own. 

Just like my companion, whose small act of mercy helped heal and strengthen me, we have the ability to reach out, love, serve, and bless the lives of the people around us. In our trying, complicated world today, that might take some creativity. But I take courage from the examples of the people and communities around me who are actively seeking to do good. I hope I can follow their example in heeding the Savior’s directive: 

“Wherefore, be faithful...lift up the hands that hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees.”

In the end, it was the act of compassion, not that old bag, that gave me the strength to move forward. It was my companion’s love, not her specific act, that soothed my anxiety and helped me feel peace. And it is the Savior’s compassion, shown through his atoning sacrifice, that provides hope and true healing to all.