Two True Stories of Christmas Compassion [Holiday Special]

What does compassion look like in action?

In this Christmas Day special, I share two powerful true stories that changed how I think about seeing people differently.

The first is "A Soft Answer" by Terry Dobson—an American aikido student in 1960s Japan who learns what his martial art really means when an elderly man transforms a violent encounter on a Tokyo train with nothing but kind words and curiosity.

The second is a story from 1952 about a father who can't drive past a family standing in the rain on Christmas morning—and makes a split-second decision that teaches his children the true joy of making others happy.

Both stories ask the same question: Can we see the humanity in people when they appear to be resisting our help? Can we turn around when we see suffering?

I also share how The Chronicles of Narnia became my gateway into reading as a contemplative practice, and why powerful stories have the ability to transform us.

A shorter episode for Christmas Day. Thank you for listening, and happy holidays to you and yours.

Episode Length: ~20 minutes
Stories Featured: "A Soft Answer" by Terry Dobson | 1952 Christmas Story from the National Story Project

Transcript

Welcome & The Gift of Reading

Story 1: A Soft Answer

Reflection: Seeing Humanity

Story 2: Christmas Morning, 1952

Jacob 0:15

Hello, everyone. Welcome back to the Standing Nowhere podcast. I'm Jake, your host, and it's a pleasure to be back with you on this holiday season. This episode airsember 25th, so happy holidays to all of you. I know the holidays can be a crazy time with a lot of ups and downs, but I hope yours is going well for you. I sincerely mean that. I hope that you get exactly what you need out of it. There's definitely a weight to the holiday, but also a beauty to it. And it's going to be a shorter episode today. I wanted to share two really powerful stories, and I hope that you enjoy them and get a lot out of them. I think that we learn a lot from powerful stories, powerful myth. These two stories are true to the best of my knowledge. Um, but first I want to share a story of one of my Christmases that I remember as a child, a very important Christmas. I want to say I was around the age of eight or nine, and my aunt she got me the Chronicles of Narnia for Christmas, the book series. I remember opening the cube present, and voila, seven little books all next to each other, and I had never been much of a reader before. So this Christmas gift was very special to me because it opened the door to reading for me. I've been a big reader ever since I got the Chronicles of Narnia for Christmas. Those were really the first books I can ever remember really digging into. I remember cracking open The Magician's Nephew and just being whisked away into this fantastic world. I can still remember it vividly, like where I was in my room when I was reading the book. I can still remember the first thought forms that coalesced in my mind to form the images of the book, but the imagery stuck with me. You know, I'm much more of a visual person. And um, you know, the ability for books to teach you things, whether they're fiction or nonfiction, uh, is really just incredible. And it just became a gateway into uh what I realize now is really a contemplative practice. When you're reading a book, you know, you are really with it, what you're doing. And if you're not, obviously you'll read through a page and then stop yourself and say, I have no idea what I just read. Let me go back and be more present. Reading was really my first crack into uh contemplative practice. And there's a real magic to it, you know, being transported into another world through books. It's it's almost a form of meditation, of presence, you know, it's like a sacred encounter when you get scooped up into a book that you really love. And these two stories I have heard told before by a number of people, spiritual teachers. The first one, it's called A Soft Answer by Terry Dobson, who is someone that studies Aikido. And this story was published in 1981. It's become sort of a beloved teaching story. And it's about a moment he experienced on a Tokyo train when he learned what his martial art really meant. You know, when you're young and you get into martial arts, you're always told, um, you know, this is for defense. And then I think a lot of young people, when they get into martial arts, are like, sure, sure, just for defense, but they can't wait to to test it out. And this is kind of like in that same vein. So as I read the story, I want you to kind of think of where you feel like you belong in this story. You might identify with some of the characters in it, and it's not a very long story. It'll only take me a few moments to share it with you, but I think it really hits hard, especially during this holiday season, and it's all about compassion. So let's jump right in. A soft answer by Terry Dobson. He writes A turning point in my life came one day on a train in the suburbs of Tokyo in the middle of a drowsy spring afternoon. The old car clanked and rattled over the rails. It was comparatively empty. A few housewives with their kids in town, some old folks out shopping, a couple of off duty bartenders studying the racing form, I gazed absent mindedly out at the drab houses and dusty hedgerows. At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the quiet afternoon was shattered by a man bellowing at the top of his lungs. He was yelling violent, obscene, and incomprehensible curses. Just as the doors closed, the man, still yelling, staggered into our car. He was big, drunk and dirty. He wore laborer's clothing. His front was stiff with dried vomit. His eyes were bugged out and were a demonic neon red. His hair was crusted with filth. Screaming, he swung at the first person he saw, a woman holding a baby. The blow glanced off her shoulder, sending her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple. It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed. The couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. They were terrified. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old lady. I'll kill you, old woman, he bellowed. He missed, and the old woman scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the metal pole in the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train lurched ahead with the passengers frozen with fear. I stood up I was young and in pretty good shape. I stood six feet tall and weighed two hundred and twenty five pounds. I'd been putting in a solid eight hours of akido training every day for the past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough. The trouble was my martial arts skill was untested in actual combat. As students of Aikido, we were not allowed to fight. My teacher, the founder of Aikido, taught us each morning that martial arts were devoted to peace. Aikido, he said again and again, is the art of reconciliation. Whoever has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you try to dominate other people, you are already defeated. We study how to resolve conflict, not how to start it. I listened to his words, I tried hard, I wanted to quit fighting. I even went so far as to cross the street a few times to avoid the chimpira, the pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. They'd have been happy to test my martial ability. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and holy. In the heart of hearts, excuse me, in my heart of hearts, however, I was dying to be a hero. I wanted a chance, an absolute legitim an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the innocent by destroying the guilty. This is it, I said to myself, as I got to my feet. This slob, this animal is drunk and mean and violent. People are in danger. If I don't do something fast, somebody will probably get hurt. I'm going to take him to the cleaners. Seeing me stand up, the drunk saw a chance to focus his rage. Aha, he roared. A foreigner. You need a lesson in Japanese manners. He punched the metal pole once to give weight to his words. I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead. I gave him a slow look of disgust and dismissal. I gave him every bit of nastiness I could sum it up. I planned to take his tur this turkey apart. But he had to be the one to make the first move. I wanted him mad, because the madder he got, the more certain the victory. I pursed my lips and blew him a sneering, insolent kiss. It hit him like a slap in the face. All right, he hollered, you're gonna get a lesson. He gathered himself to rush at me. He'd never know what hit him. A split second before he moved, someone shouted Hey It was ear splitting. I remember being struck by the strangely joyous, lifting quality of it. It was as though you and a friend had been searching everywhere for something, and he had suddenly stumbled upon it. Hey I wheeled to my left. The drunk spun to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have been well into his seventies. This tiny gentleman was sitting there, immaculate in his kimono and hakama. He took no notice of me, but beamed dilightedly at the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to share. Come here, the old man said, in a coaxing manner, beckoning to the drunk. Come here and talk with me. He waved his hand lightly. The big man followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of the old gentleman and towered threateningly over him. Talk to you he roared above the clacking wheels. Why should I talk to you? The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much as a millimeter, I was gonna drop him in his socks. The old man continued to beam at the laborer. There was not a trace of fear or resentment about him. What you been drinkin'? he asked brightly, his eyes sparkling with interest. I've been drinking sake, the laborer bellowed back, and it's none of your business. Flecks of spittle spattered the old man. Oh, that's wonderful, the old man said with delight. Absolutely wonderful. You see, I love sake too. Every night, me and my wife, she's seventy six, you know, we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it out to the garden. We sit on the old wooden bench that my grandfather's first student made for him. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how our persimmon tree is doing. My great grandfather planted that tree, you know, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we had last winter. Persimans do not do well after ice storms, although I must say that ours has done rather better than I expected, especially when you consider the poor quality of the soil. Still, it is most gratifying to watch when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening, even when it rains. He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling, happy to share his delightful information. As he struggled to follow the intric intricacies of the old man's conversation, the drunk's face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. Yeah, he said slowly. I love persimmons too. His voice trailed off. Yes, said the old man, smiling, and I'm sure you have a wonderful wife. No, replied the laborer. My wife died. He hung his head. Very gently, swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. I don't got no wife, I don't got no home, I don't got no job, I don't got no money, I don't got nowhere to go. I'm so ashamed of myself. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and a spasm of pure despair rippled through his body. Above the baggage rack, a four color ad extolled the virtues of suburban luxury living. Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well scrubbed youthful innocence, my make this world safe for democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier than he was. Just then the train arrived at my stop. The platform was packed, and the crowd surged into the car as soon as the doors opened. Maneuvering my way out, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. My my he said with undiminished delight, that is a very difficult predicament indeed. Sit down here and tell me about it. I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled like a sack on the seat, his head in the old man's lap. The old man looked down at him with compassion and delight, one hand softly stroking the filthy matted head. As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do with muscle and meanness had been accomplished with a few kind words. I had seen Akido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love. As the founder had said, I would have to practice the art with an entirely different spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of conflict. And everyone saw him for his external appearance. But this old man just saw right through it all. Can we show compassion to people when they appear to be resisting it? This is what peace on earth actually looks like. You know, it's not the absence of conflict, but the transformation of it through seeing the suffering beneath the surface. Compassion, the the etymology of that word means suffering together. Can we bring ourselves close to the suffering of others and let them know that we're there for them. This old man he could have stayed seated, could have looked away, but he chose to engage. He chose to see a human being in pain rather than a problem to be solved or a threat to be neutralized. I hope you like that first one. I've got one more for you, and we'll close with this one. This is the story about a family at a gas station and another family on their way back to Christmas dinner. And it's about what happens when someone really can't stand a drive past suffering. So it was Christmas morning 1952. The story goes A light drizzle was falling as my sister Jill and I ran out of the church, eager to get home and play with the presents Santa had left for us and our baby sister Sharon. Across the street from the church was a Pan Am gas station where the Greyhound bus stopped. It was closed for Christmas, but I noticed a family standing outside the locked door, huddled under the narrow overhang, trying to stay dry. I wondered why they were there, and then I forgot about it. Once we got home, there was barely time to enjoy our presence before we had to leave again to go to my grandparents' house for Christmas dinner. As we drove down the highway through town, I noticed the family was still there, standing outside the closed gas station. My father was driving very slowly now. The closer we got to the turnoff for my grandparents' house, the slower the car went. Suddenly he made a U turn. I can't stand it, he said. What? My mother asked. It's those people back there at the Pan Am station, he said, standing in the rain waiting for the bus. They've got children. It's Christmas. When my father pulled into the service station, I saw there were five of them, the parents and three children, two girls and a small boy. My father rolled down his window. Merry Christmas, he said. Howdy, the man replied. He was very tall, and he had to stoop slightly to peer into the car. Jill, Sharon, and I stared at the children, and they stared back at us. Waiting on the bus? My father asked. The man said they were. They were going to Birmingham, where he had a brother and the prospect of a job. Well, my father said, that bus isn't going to come along for several hours. You're going to get wet standing here, and Windburne's just a couple of miles up the road. They've got a shed with a roof and some benches. Why don't you all get in the car and I'll run you up there? The man thought for a moment, then turned back to his family. They climbed into the car. They had no luggage, only the clothes they were wearing. Once they settled in, my father looked back over his shoulder and asked the children, has Santa found you yet? Three glum, muted faces gave him his answer. Well, I didn't think so, my father said, winking at my mother, because when I saw Santa this morning, he told me he was having trouble finding y'all. He asked me if I could leave your toys at my house. We'll just go and get them before I take you to the bus stop. All at once the three children's faces lit up. They began bouncing around in the back seat, laughing and shouting. Chattering. When we got to our house, the children ran through the front door straight to the toys spread out under the tree. One of the girls spotted Jill's doll and hugged it to her chest. I remember the little boy grabbing Sharon's ball and the other little girl picking up something of mine. All this happened a long time ago, but the memory remains clear. That was the Christmas when my sisters and I learned the joy of making others happy. My mother noticed that the middle child was wearing a short sleeve dress, so she gave the girl Jewel's only sweater to wear. My father invited the family to join us for Christmas dinner at my grandparents' house, but they refused. Back in the car, on the way to Winburne, my father asked the man if he had any money for his bus fare. The man said that his brothers had sent tickets. So my father reached into his pocket and pulled out five dollars, which was all he had until next payday, and he pressed it into the man's hand. The man tried to give it back, but my father insisted. It'll be late when you get to Birmingham, he said, and these children will be hungry before then. Take it. I've been broke before. I know what it's like when you can't feed your family. We left them at the bus stop in Winburne. As we drove away, I watched out the window as long as I could, looking back at the little girl hugging her new doll. Thank you so much for listening, everyone. Happy holidays to all of you and blessings to allow the thing.