When my daughter, Caroline, was very young, we started saying a prayer every time we heard a siren from an ambulance or fire truck. It's a quick prayer, just, "God, please be with the people the ambulance (or fire truck) is going to help."
I always initiated the prayer, and sometimes, she would even whine, "I don't want to say it this time."
I just reminded her that someone was in need, and that if we were in need, we would want people to pray for us. I thought it was a good way to help her learn about compassion and how, as Christians, we love and care for others, even it we don't know them personally.
It's the same reason, I told her, that we pick up a few extra items at the grocery store and deliver them to our church's food pantry. And it's the reason we prepare care packages for missionaries and bag up clothes she has outgrown to take to a local ministry helping the poor.
But when she started kindergarten this year, I realized she might not fully comprehend the compassion thing.
When her class was collecting canned goods at Thanksgiving to benefit a local mission, we looked in our pantry to choose something to donate. She didn't want to give away the corn or sweet peas, because those were her favorites.
"Let's take the black beans and . . . here, kidney beans . . . yuck!" she proclaimed.
I realized that, to Caroline, this was more about cleaning out the pantry and getting rid of the foods she didn't like than it was about helping the needy.
Rationalizing that she was only five years old, we took the cans of "yucky" beans and off we went to school.
I was rather surprised to pass another mom in the hall that morning, carrying two huge bags laden with groceries.
"Ashlen insisted that we bring all of this," she told me. "I tried to pick out a few cans, but she just kept reminding me that the people were hungry and that we needed to give them more."
"That's so sweet," I told her, with what must have looked like a big, fake grin on my face.
Actually, I was thrilled that her daughter was so kind, but I had to wonder why mine, apparently, was not.
Through the holidays, I was determined more than ever, to teach my daughter about compassion. I told Caroline about all the monetary donations during the season, and we spent extra time focusing on the gifts we were going to give others, rather than what we might receive. We made extra deliveries to the food pantry, took flowers to the local nursing home and baked cookies and brownies for a few of our elderly neighbors.
One day at the grocery store, we saw a huge box for donated toys for underprivileged children.
I pointed the box out to Caroline and told her people were bringing toys to be given to children who might not otherwise get Christmas presents.
"Maybe we could bring something for the box," I suggested.
"Well, we could buy some toys, and if they are not something I like, we could bring them here," she told me, matter-of-factly.
Oh, boy. I realized we still weren't quite there yet. In earnest, I turned to God. I asked Him to help me find ways to teach Caroline to be more compassionate, and I asked Him to open her heart to better understand the importance of loving and helping people.
A couple of months later as I rushed through the house picking up toys and putting away laundry, I peeked in Caroline's room and noticed her sitting on her bed, head bowed and hands folded.
"Dear God," she said, "please be with the people the fire truck is going to help."
In all my busyness I had not even heard the siren.
But she did.
By Frances Pace Putman
Marilyn L. Ali