In front of a pharmacy

In front of a pharmacy, I saw a woman being comforted by another. She was on the verge of collapsing, if not for her relative, who was holding her up, allowing her to lean on her. Someone next to them  approached me, and told me their story.

He said, "This is my relative, a displaced woman living in tents nearby," gesturing with his hand. He continued, "Their situation is dire. Her husband was out trying to earn enough to feed his children and keep their home together, shielding them from poverty and need.

But then, after a long, grueling day, the man returned to his scorching tent, to his hungry wife and children. He told them he was tired and wanted to sleep. He went to bed, not knowing it would be his final sleep—a sleep from which he would never wake, a rest from the burdens and hardships of life. Yes, he slept the sleep of the departed.

When his wife tried to wake him, she found him still, lifeless, gone. She collapsed, overcome with pain and grief, while their young children cried, now orphans, bereft of the father who had once sheltered and protected them. He died in a tent, died broken, died as if to say to us and to the world: Meeting God is more merciful and compassionate than meeting you and your hypocrisy."

This story unfolded before my eyes not long ago.

But the relentless pace of events around us has drained every ounce of empathy within us.