A Legacy of Compassion in Hard Times
Although I don’t find myself to be a religious person by any means, growing up with my grandfather taught me a lot about the Catholic faith. What I remember most about his commitment to the Catholic Church was his profound understanding of wealth inequality, and suffering. Having lived through the Great Depression, he carried what I now recognize as a somewhat unhealthy money mindset from his personal experiences. Yet he also understood how, at a certain point, money—or rather, people with far too much of it—can become corrupted by their wealth. This corruption is something we’re witnessing unfold before our eyes in these times.
When I woke up and saw the passing of Pope Francis, I couldn’t help but think about the synchronicity of his transition into the spirit realm, set against the backdrop of the clearly malevolent energies attempting to cement themselves in positions of control and power. These forces are hoarding resources that could help people eat, help families flourish, offer proper education, tools, accessibility, and access to healthcare.
Instead, they keep wealth concentrated among themselves, creating harsh imbalance all over the globe, especially in the United States. My grandfather used to say “money is the root of all evil.” I’ve had to recalibrate that message in my mind to create my own healthy relationship with money—a journey I’m still navigating today. There was a time when I fundamentally disagreed with that statement he used to share regularly. But in these current times, I find myself reflecting more deeply on his words, wondering what he truly meant when he spoke about money being the root of evil, and contemplating the lived experiences that shaped this belief as an elder of mine.
I don’t believe there’s any coincidence about the timing—the day before the Pope’s passing, seeing some of the murky energies that are rising and moving about, making us collectively sick. Have you noticed? I have. I’ve felt sicker particularly in the past few weeks than the rest of this year.
Today, my daughter and I went out for a quick shop after a doctor’s appointment and encountered a homeless woman on the sidewalk. She was curled down on the ground, sitting with her backpack and immediate belongings, a heavy look on her face. She looked up at us and said, “Excuse me.” I paused. I felt the resistance in my body to pay attention—to look, to feel, to connect to her suffering. That pause felt like long seconds stretched into eternity. I stepped back and turned in her direction.
She looked at me and said, “I’m just trying to collect enough money to get a hotel room tonight. My hotel vouchers have run out, and I don’t know if that offering is going to return to me. I’m currently sleeping in a tent by myself.”
I looked back at her and realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually had cash in my wallet. As I fumbled to get my wallet, I said, “You know what? I do have cash, and I’d like to give it to you.” While I was retrieving it, my daughter pulled a crisp wrinkled dollar bill from her small wallet—filled with holiday earnings from her grandparents that she was saving for a summer bathing suit.
My daughter handed the dollar bill to the woman, who smiled and said, “God bless you, child.” I found my cash and handed it to her, knowing it wasn’t nearly enough, wondering if perhaps I should have asked what more I could do or how much more she needed for the night. The woman smiled again and said, “God bless you,” and I looked back at her and said, “Please take good care.”
We shared a moment—eye to eye, face to face—of genuine compassion, love, and understanding. Key understanding. She didn’t look like a drug addict to me. She looked like a woman on her own who possibly lost her job along the way and simply couldn’t get back on her feet.
I’ve been there too. I’ve experienced those moments, those risky situations where if I hadn’t gotten myself on my feet within months, I could have been homeless. This can happen to any of us—one big job loss, one family death that would alter the entire course of our lives. On my long drive home I found myself filled with a sense of regret in not asking her how much more she needed to cover the room. Maybe I could have just paid for it? Hell, I could at least got her a few things from the store. After a long inner dialogue of self criticism, it shifted to anger and rage over the fact that this woman has to face these hardships at all.
Facing the times we’re in now, where people seem to be losing understanding, compassion, and truth faster than I’ve ever witnessed in my life, I find that every small moment counts. When you make eye contact with someone on the street, at the local store, at schools, in public spaces—when you smile, when you offer a little bit of help to lift the heavy weight they might be carrying—these actions matter. It’s all we can do to trudge through the shifting, intense energies we are all navigating in these times.
When I learned Pope Francis had passed, I worried in my heart about the dying of an era—a time when people fought for those who suffer, when they offered help with whatever small thing they could do. It doesn’t matter how big the gesture; what matters is the intention, the energy, and the love behind it. I worry every day in these times that we’re walking further and further away from that fundamental compassion.
Pope Francis stood for love, acceptance of others and all the morals my grandfather lived for—he represented everything opposite to what our current regime in the US stands for. Right now, millions are being lied to, manipulated, and coerced into othering and division. Every day, I think about the people who are in the most danger, the most vulnerable under this new regime. People of color, of culture, of intelligence, wisdom, and family. I carry grief in my heart for what feels like the death of collective love and the threads that keep the weaving of humanity taught.
But I also carry hope—hope that as the grip of narcissism tightens around our souls, our spirits, our minds, our health, we will break through. We will disrupt, resist, and come forth with a spell of compassion that cannot be stopped, that is unbreakable, and we will shift the trajectory that we see unfolding today.
My grandfather survived a time that I’ll never truly understand. I can only listen and observe; I can only be understanding and compassionate. And in my many conversations with him throughout my teenage years, I learned something profound about what love is capable of and what compassion can do to hatred.
Compassion can and will eviscerate hatred and fear.
And that knowledge is our power. We must keep it with us always.
XO
Di
