Because No One Should Wake Up Alone: A Reflection on Compassion, Presence, and the Ways We Love Differently
We live in a world where people are quietly hurting all around us. Some of us hide behind a smile, others behind busyness, and many behind walls built from years of disappointment or shame. We may walk beside one another daily — friends, co-workers, or family members — and yet not truly see the pain carried beneath the surface. God calls us to be His eyes, ears, and heart in a broken world. We aren’t meant to fix everyone’s problems, but to notice, to care, and to carry one another’s burdens in love (Galatians 6:2). Compassion begins not with doing, but with seeing.
Pain often hides in plain sight. A struggling person might not say a word sometimes because they can’t, sometimes because they fear being judged. Yet the signs are often there if we slow down enough to look. We may notice someone becoming unusually quiet, skipping gatherings, or avoiding eye contact. Perhaps they’ve stopped taking care of themselves, or they seem easily irritated or near tears. Often, when asked how they’re doing, they answer quickly, “I’m fine,” and change the subject.
Most of us sense when something isn’t right. The question is whether we’ll pause long enough to care. Jesus noticed people others ignored: the leper, the woman at the well, the blind man by the road. He looked beyond appearance to see the wounded soul. To follow Him means learning to notice not only words but silences. Sometimes the Holy Spirit whispers to our hearts, “Pay attention, something is hurting here.”
When we do notice, the next step is to listen. Listening is one of the purest forms of love. It says, “You matter enough for me to stop and hear your heart.” Proverbs 18:13 warns that answering before listening is foolish. Yet in our hurried world, we often rush to give advice when what people truly need is presence. Listening means setting aside distractions, asking gentle questions, and allowing silence to do its work. It means resisting quick fixes or judgment. Phrases like “You’ll be fine” or “Just trust God more” close hearts rather than open them. Healing begins when we feel safe, and safety begins when someone truly listens.
When we see pain, our instinct is often to fix it. But compassion doesn’t mean rescuing or controlling; it means being willing to be with someone. The word itself means “to suffer with.” Real compassion stands beside another person in their darkness and says, “You’re not alone.” That may look like sitting quietly, praying as we listen, or offering small, practical kindnesses, such as a meal, a walk, or a note that says, “I’m thinking of you.” Love never pushes or rushes. It meets people gently and reminds them that God is near.
Sometimes, though, someone’s struggle is more than we can walk through alone. There may be deep grief, despair, or signs of self-harm. In those times, love also means helping them find additional support from a pastor, counsellor, or doctor. Even Jesus asked Peter, James, and John to stay and pray with Him in His hour of pain. If the Son of God invited others into His suffering, surely we can do the same.
I remember a time in my own life when I experienced that kind of care. I was twenty-seven when my mother and I were in a serious car accident. We were stopped to make a left turn when a car hit us head-on at about 120 kilometres an hour, nearly seventy-five miles per hour. The crash left me bruised and shaken but able to walk; my mother was in and out of consciousness and had to be rushed to a hospital two and a half hours away. My father went with her, leaving me alone on our ranch that night.
The house was so still it felt hollow. My body ached, but my heart hurt more. I kept thinking, If only I had done something differently. Even though I knew the accident wasn’t my fault, guilt pressed heavily on me.
The next morning, around ten, I woke up sore and disoriented. When I walked into the kitchen, I froze. A friend was sitting at the table, quietly writing letters. Surprised, I asked, “What are you doing here?” She looked up and said simply, “Oh, Joanne, I just came because I didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
Even now, decades later, those words still move me. She didn’t come to cook, clean, or try to fix anything. She just came. Her presence spoke louder than any words could have. In that quiet moment, I felt something shift inside as if God whispered, I’m still here. The peace that settled over me that morning has never left. That simple act of love changed me. It showed me what true compassion looks like, not in grand gestures, but in being there. That experience shaped how I try to respond to others. Whenever we sit beside someone in sorrow, I think of that morning, the light through the window, the sound of her pen moving across paper, and the quiet assurance that love doesn’t always need to speak. It just needs to show up.
As we learn to live compassionately, it’s important to remember that every individual is unique and the way we give or receive compassion will look different for each of us. Compassion isn’t a formula; it’s a response to the person before us. Some people are comforted by a hug or by talking things through. Others, like me, may find that kind of affection hard to receive when we’re hurting. For us, what means the most might be someone quietly being present, noticing what needs to be done, and doing it without fanfare.
Every act of compassion requires time and presence, but how we offer it must honour the individuality of the one we’re caring for. We need to be sensitive to what another person truly needs, not what we feel we need to do to ease our own discomfort. Before acting, we can quietly pray, “Lord, show me how to love this person in a way that speaks to their heart.” Real compassion listens first, observes gently, and responds with humility. When we care this way, our actions become an extension of God’s love rather than an effort to fix what only He can heal.
Some of the people most in need of compassion are those who appear the strongest. They’re the encouragers, the leaders, the caregivers, the ones who pour out constantly but rarely receive. They may fear falling apart or believe others depend too much on them to show weakness. Yet even the strongest among us need someone to hold up our arms, as Aaron and Hur did for Moses when he grew weary. We can be that person for one another. Sometimes saying, “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” lifts a tremendous weight.
Jesus modelled perfect compassion. He noticed the lonely, listened to the broken, and responded with tenderness. He saw Zacchaeus hiding in a tree, touched the leper no one else would touch, and wept with Mary and Martha in their grief. He never rushed people through their pain; He entered it. His love invited honesty, not hiding. When we follow His example, we become safe people who make it easier for others to find rest and grace.
If we want to care for others well, compassion must first take root in our own hearts. That begins by allowing God to tend to our hidden wounds and soften our hearts. When we have received grace, we can extend it. Let’s spend time with God and ask Him to help us see people as He does. Slow down. Notice. A small act, a text, a note, a smile can become a vessel of His love. Compassion isn’t something we perform; it becomes who we are as we walk with Him.
There are also times when we are the ones struggling, when we feel unseen or too tired to reach out. In those moments, we can rest in the truth that God sees us. Psalm 34:18 reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.” We are not burdens. Let’s allow others to help carry our load for a while. That’s not weakness; it’s how God designed us to heal together.
Our world is full of noise and isolation. Many are silently drowning in grief, fear, or shame. They sit beside us at church, stand in line at the store, or live in our homes longing to be seen. If we, God’s people, don’t notice them, who will? Let’s ask the Lord to show us one person who may be struggling. Reach out. Ask how they’re doing and mean it. Sometimes the simplest gesture, the quietest presence, is what reminds someone that God has not forgotten them.
Every act of compassion plants a seed of hope. We may never see its fruit, but God does. He takes our small kindnesses and uses them to restore hearts. When we choose to respond with patience, tenderness, and truth, we reflect Christ Himself. So let’s slow down. Look around. Someone near us needs to be seen, heard, and loved today. Let’s be the ones who notice.
