Some people enjoy repetition. I am not one of them. The weekly task I dread most is driving to the store to buy groceries. Only after everything on my list has been bought, bagged, and loaded into my van can I breathe a sigh of relief because, for the moment, the monotony is over. This night was no exception as I returned my shopping cart to the closest corral and slid into my vehicle to head for home.

While maneuvering through the parking lot, I slowed down for a woman about to enter a crosswalk. She was waiting for me to drive by, but I motioned for her to go instead. It was cold and I didn’t want the woman—or anyone—outside for longer than she had to be. To my surprise, to lady seemed in no hurry to get warm as she stopped midway through the crosswalk to point at my van.

What does she want? I wondered while shrugging my shoulders to show that I could not understand her.

When hand gestures proved ineffective, the woman began to speak.

“I can’t hear you,” I yelled back as her words bounced off my windshield.

I thought the lady would get out of my way. Instead she seemed determined to get under my skin when she started walking toward my vehicle. In frustration, I motioned for her to step aside but she refused to retreat until her finger touched the headlight on the passenger side of my van. That’s when I realized: this person was not going to let me move another inch until I turned my lights on.

As soon as I did what the woman asked, she stepped out of the way so I could continue on mine. I should have been grateful. Instead I resented her for pointing out an error that I would have figured out if given a little more time. Why do we do it? Why do we make it our mission to change another person’s behavior when we have so many issues of our own?

The question reminded me of a Matthew 7:4 moment when Jesus asked his disciples: “How can you say to your brother, 'Let me take the speck out of your eye,' when all the time there is a plank in your own eye?”

The only answer I could come up with as I unpacked my groceries was the one I wanted least to admit: We focus on the flaws of others, because it's easier than fixing our own. One of the faults I’ve had to work on is my lack of empathy for others. Growing up a farmer’s daughter where chores took priority over children, I learned at an early age that what I thought didn’t matter. Whether my brothers and I felt cold, tired, hungry, or hurting, the work still had to get done. And so I stopped feeling.

In my twenties, I came to expect this same farm-bred fortitude in others. Even today, when my urban-born daughters feel overwhelmed with schoolwork, I tell them:  “Don’t go berserk; just do the work.” I guess this shows how far I still have to emotionally grow. 

God has been good about placing me in situations that stretch my empathetic muscles ... like the faceoff with the woman in the parking lot where I learned firsthand how it feels to be forced to change on someone else’s, rather than my own, timetable. It was an experience that came in handy less than a week later during a Christmas Eve service at a local megachurch. I was listening to the singers onstage when a woman in the row behind me began talking to the child sitting next to her.