The bomb my father dropped: #1000 Speak Guest Post

Today we resume our Guest Post series, with a stunning (and stunningly beautiful) story from Fiona Moore.

The bomb my father dropped

water drop

He’d eaten his last spoonful of dessert. My step mother was in the kitchen clearing dishes. It was time for the conversation I’d planned for.

Instantly my heart rate ramped up.

Conversation between us was still a shaky occurrence. The norm in my family had been silence; cold and tense. It was just one of the ways my father asserted his authority.

I was about to announce that I’d decided to resign from a steady, well paid job, to take temporary employment at a non profit organization and embark on professional training as an energy healer.

My body braced itself. This was not a conversation I anticipated going well. He was a rational, conservatively minded scientist who ridiculed anything ‘alternative’ or unscientific.

The idea that life energy could be harnessed to heal the mind and body was definitely outside his radar screen. I expected to be in trouble.

An uncharacteristic response

It took me four minutes or so to share my news. I tried not to be apologetic or defensive but some of that crept in as I spoke. I was dodging the bullets that surely would come because he was quick to shoot down anything he disapproved of.

But when I finished my last sentence I noticed there was a strange cease fire. My father hadn’t said a word. He had listened without interrupting.

I was surprised, and relived. And then the floor opened up.

Instead of accusing me of being irresponsible he turned to me and said “Well I have some news for you, too. I’ve got cancer and have only a few weeks left to live”.


He’d been diagnosed with end stage stomach cancer. In a few days he was going to have radical surgery and his physician had advised him to take care of his affairs because his chance of his survival was minimal.

My head started to spin. I’d grown up mostly in fear of of my father. I loved the times he’d carry me on his shoulders and later, when I was older, patiently helped me with my physics homework. But I’d hated his sometimes cruel and domineering behavior.

Earlier that year I’d confronted him about his abuse and he’d surprised me with an admission of wrong doing. We had just begun to walk a new road of healing our relationship. What was I to do with this news?

And then came the bomb

My father’s declaration of his likely death barely had a chance to sink in because he carried on talking.

He told me how he’d spent thirty years of his life designing, testing, refining and installing nuclear warheads on deadly missiles. How his entire professional life had been dedicated to mastering the science of atomic energy for the purpose of killing.

And how, because his work was classified under the official secret act, he’d kept his career hidden.

I was stunned. Just like the cancer, I was hearing this for the first time. I’d grown up aware that his work involved submarines but that was about it.

Then, as he kept talking, it was as though we were transported to a higher plane.

He became poetic as he described his love and appreciation of energy. He spoke of the infinite and extra-ordinary power that raw energy holds.

I couldn’t take in his understanding of nuclear physics, but I didn’t need to.

I was received an invisible message.

His understanding of energy as a potential force to destroy life was translated deep in my cells. It activated my calling to become a healer; to preserve and make life sacred.

Quietly, as his secret unravelled his words became a confession. He wept silently. He poured out his shame. How he’d loved his work, loved his brilliant mind; but had burdened his heart by using his gifts for the purpose of building killing machines.

I listened with rapt attention and my heart opened to his. The man I’d known as unyielding and controlling was melted in front of me. He became like a young fragile bird that could be crushed with the brush of a hand.

Words then flowed from my heart about my awakening; about my ability to sense and engage with pure life energy to heal the body, mind and spirit. About my desire to use this knowledge to make a difference in the world. It was the perfect anti-dote to his shame.

In our tender timeless exchange our spiritual sight had opened up. We saw each other as perfect reflections of each other. No longer father, daughter, killer, healer; we were one movement of life becoming whole.

In this heightened state of awareness I ‘saw’ his higher soul self pass a baton, like in a relay race, to my higher self. His legacy was passed to me. My soul mission became clear. I was to redeem the karmic debt.

The seven year miracle

That my father survived another seven years was remarkable and is a story worth telling in itself, but the point for now is this:

In our world where conflict is ever more present; in our workplaces, dance halls, churches and schools. Healing begins not by closing our hearts. Not by pointing the finger at the so called enemy ‘out there’.

This conversation with my father brought home to me that human beings are highly complex. We have shadow and we have light. We are kind and mean, magnificent and stupid. And when we embrace all opposites in ourselves, we marry the darkness with the light and we heal; and then we see each other as precious reflections of each other, not separate but as One.

Let’s do this. Look deeply into your heart, and I’ll look deeply into mine. Let’s see the truth about ourselves and each other.

Let’s sit together and bring those difficult conversations to the table.

Let’s listen to each other with our heart, not our fear.

Let’s allow the energy of compassion to flow from your heart to mine, and from my heart to yours.

Let’s dissolve the barriers within us and without us for our combined heart to reveal and illuminate the pathway to a new world.


StillHeart Institute Photos by Doug EllisFiona Moore is a contemporary teacher of awakened living. She teaches how everything in life, including what we struggle with, is designed to open our heart for the power of love and compassion to reveal our wholeness.

She works with change agents, creatives, writers, spiritual seekers and practitioners to dissolve the inner blocks to living their hearts calling to make a difference in the world.

Fiona is dedicated to awakening the new paradigm in consciousness. Where our lives are no longer fueled by fear and competition, but are governed by love, service and peace.

You can find out more about Fiona’s work and subscribe to her newsletter; Heart Notes by visiting her website:

An Experience with Compassion: #1000Speak Guest Post

This week I’m excited to have David Breaux as our guest poster. David is an enthusiastic member of 1000 Voices and also has an amazing compassion project of his own. In this post he writes about how that came about, and why he joined 1000 Voices. Be sure to check out David’s blog once you’ve read his post.



On June 3rd, 2009, I began asking people to share their written concept of the word compassion in a notebook. As of today, I estimate individually asking over 20,000 people and receiving over 10,000 responses. I do this as a personal endeavor to bring awareness to compassion and to help alleviate suffering in the world. While standing at the corner of 3rd and C Streets in Davis, California, I’m often asked what am I doing there and why.

Here’s the story….

My experience with compassion first began in 2008. After ending a relationship, I felt depressed, lonely, and frustrated like we all do after a breakup. I was working on a screenplay without motivation. Overall, life felt bland. You know, that unsweetened Kool-Aid feeling. I knew there was a better way to live.

While a student at Stanford, I had learned how to exercise my mind. I exercised my body by running and cycling. But I didn’t know how to exercise my spirit so I contemplated,

“How does one exercise the spirit?”

I felt the answer was there, but I didn’t know how to find it.

For a year, I read books and watched YouTube videos on spirituality. I came across Karen Armstrong’s TED talk on compassion. This got me thinking, “What is compassion?” I got a pen and a notebook and began writing my definition. I couldn’t pinpoint what it meant to me, so I left the small studio I lived in and went around Oakland, California and asked people to write their concept of compassion in the notebook. The simple act of asking turned out to be very fulfilling—I was engaged in deep conversations, I was learning and teaching, I was going outside after spending most of the days cooped up inside—and it felt rejuvenating.

I continued on this process of self-inquiry. Feeling frustrated and recognizing my egotistical efforts were for naught, I surrendered. I lay on my back—legs straight and relaxed, arms to the side, with a focus on the breath. I decided to remain in this position—save for grocery shopping, eating, and using the bathroom—until I found an answer.

I lay there for three weeks.

I arrived at a space internally where I could hear that still, small voice. I asked, “What do you want of me? How can I be of service?” The voice said, “Go and keep asking people about compassion.” I asked, “What else?”

It replied, “That’s it!”

Immediately, the ego erupted like Godzilla out of the ocean and had its own questions, “Are you crazy? What kind of answer is that? How will I live and maintain this lifestyle? How will I pay rent and bills? What will this bring me?”

The still, small voice kept answering, “Ask people about compassion.” After going through different questions and scenarios, I finally accepted the answer. Soon after, I moved to Davis in May, 2009.

With renewed eyes, I began to see the impact of what I was doing and what was happening. I didn’t expect that asking people about compassion would amount to much nor did I expect it to grow so quickly. I soon realized that what I was doing was catching the attention of more and more people. Word-of-mouth brought more people to the corner every day for different reasons. People were coming to me for advice, to share their stories, or to just stand with me at the corner for a moment of quiet peace. Within a few months, thousands had written their ideas about compassion.

Recently, I came across 1000 Voices Speak for Compassion, a Facebook group of bloggers writing and working for compassion. When I heard about it, I immediately and enthusiastically explored it and invited everyone I know who works with compassion to join the community. I also asked to join the group, feeling like I was in flight with 1000 others flying in formation.

Reading what others share in the group about compassion enables the continuous growth of information for what I do in bringing awareness to compassion. As a lifelong learner about compassion, the blog posts help the unending contemplation of compassion. The group also provides a positive media platform and awareness for those who wish to bring more peace, love, and compassion into the mainstream.

Since that first day in early June, 2009, I remain connected to that still, small voice that lights the path on this journey of compassion. I appreciate all the blessings it bestows.

I am grateful to everyone who writes their concept, to those who pass by and ignore the question, to those who criticize, condemn, or misunderstand what I am doing.

I am grateful for all the gifts—the food, cards, donations, thank-you’s, and clothing.

I am grateful for such a painful breakup.

I am grateful for the grace of Love that brought me out of that Dark Night of the Soul six years ago.

I am grateful for it all because, in the end, I believe compassion is a healing force that will alleviate all the unnecessary suffering in the world.


Photo by Ben Tuason.
Photo by Ben Tuason.

David H. Breaux activates compassion by asking people to share their written concept of the word compassion in a notebook. He received a B.A. from Stanford University in Urban Studies, is a featured contributing blogger to the Charter for Compassion, author of “Compassion: Davis, CA“, and is an unofficial “street therapist.” He recently completed a yearlong Compassion Tour asking people around the US “What is compassion?” 

David’s intent is to bring awareness to compassion by encouraging people to think about what compassion means to them. Through this simple gesture, people are moved to contemplate compassion and inspired to act toward the alleviation of suffering in the world.

You can support David’s work by buying his e-book: Compassion: Davis, CA or by visiting his website What is Compassion and adding your concept of compassion to the compassion cloud.

Bundle Of Kindness

kaboompics.com_Croissants and strawberry for breakfast

It was a day that I was dreading.

I woke up in the morning and since I was working at home for the day, made me wonder how on earth I would face the lean phase. The madness from a professional point of view was getting from bad to worse and honestly, I lacked courage to face the day. I was getting cribby.

I scheduled an interview with a diplomat early morning. Still remember, it started raining heavily the time I got down from the bus and reached there quite early. Luckily, I spotted a café and went there to while time away. I ordered coffee and when I got inside, I saw someone-the husband of a ‘friend’ whose interview I have done and a fab lady indeed-introduced myself to Mister of the Mrs. He happens to be a young politician and he congratulated me for the interview of his wife. We were meeting for the first time.

The coffee tray, along with a chocolate croissant landed on my table. Honestly, I was confused since I never ordered choco croissant and wondering whether it’s complimentary or a mistake was made. As the gentleman made his way out, he turned around and said that the croissant is on his part. I was surprised and elated at the same time at the kindness on his part. I mean, there was no need to and he went out of his way to make me happy.

This is kindness to me.

It’s only then that I remember him rushing to the counter and realized that he went to order a chocolate croissant for me. This is kindness. A small act or gesture can make your day beautiful at a time you facing the downside in life. Quite magically, the day turned out from bad to superb, ringing in positivity and I knew awesome things will happen in my life. The moral of the story: Kindness and gratitude go hand in hand for you can never know that someone is fighting a battle in life.

Never shy from doing a small act of kindness. I was touched.

Written by Vishal Bheeroo.

Vishal has stayed in Pune and Mumbai for a few years. Currently, he is in Mauritius where he has been a Special Correspondent, writing features and life style as well as news reporter but rooting to be back in Mumbai some day. He blogs regularly on, is a freelance writer for ezines in Dubai and India. A film buff, he believes in making a difference to the world and people.

Connect with Vishal on Facebook and Twitter.

Connect with Vishal on Facebook on Twitter and his blog.

If a Tree Falls in the Forest

We are continuing our Guest Post series, with a post from one of our most committed and enthusiastic members, Kerry Kijewski. Kerry is a writer and blogger, who was born visually impaired.

In this post, Kerry writes about how she experiences different kinds of compassion from people because of her blindness. She explains why she’s happy to receive compassion, but not pity.

People stare, but that’s okay because I can’t see them doing it anyway. It’s those I’m out with that can’t help noticing. Sometimes they enlighten me, but most of the time I am sure it is easier just to bite their tongue and say nothing. Sometimes, however, their indignant reactions on my behalf make me aware of the fact.

Toward me directly, I would say I receive only compassion and kindness. It isn’t proper, in 2015, to treat someone with a disability with anything less than that. Sure, the cases of abuse and prejudice do happen and make the news, but I am lucky to be living in 2015. however, compassion, as sad as it sounds, only goes so far. I want more than that and I have my work cut of for me, if I want to make the difference. I’ve been given the chance, to speak in this unique place, where compassion is the aim and the point, so I thought I would say my piece here, where I know I have an audience of those who are ready and willing to listen.

I am one of the 1000 voices, one of the 1000 speaking for compassion, and I am happy to be so, but I want more than this. I’m realizing that there aren’t enough people, the ones living with the disabilities, speaking up and making our presence known and our opinions heard in the midst of the roar and the noise.

Other times it’s a silence. In those silent moments I ponder what to expect from the world. I know I am accepted, but I don’t always feel it yet. It might take a while. How can I make them notice me, that I’m here, that others like myself are here? How can I get them to care?

It’s really hard to care, when there are so many people in need, people needing something. I hate to add to that need, to be a bother, but I need more. I want to fit in, but not if that means I stop caring myself. Compassion isn’t enough. Acceptance and not pity is what compassion means to me, in my experience of the world. Compassion can, for other people, so easily look like pity to me. It can look like sympathy, a relief that they could feel like they knew how to speak to me, how to treat me, and like they did and said all the right things. What a relief, but this limits us all.

When compassion doesn’t result in action, when it’s nothing more than lip service, it doesn’t get us anywhere. Or, at least, not far enough. I need it to go farther. I must push a little further still. Don’t mind me.

I honestly feel like one of the advantages of lack of sight is that I don’t have all those pesky visual distractions. I can focus on everything other people say. I can concentrate on emotions and my gut feelings about others, but that does not guarantee that those gut feelings are always correct. Maybe my gut feelings about the world are way off. Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe I should appreciate more that we’ve come this far, that compassion exists. I can’t see the stares, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there on people’s faces. Could I take advantage of the attention? Are they willing to listen, if I were just able to speak loud enough? I need to begin a dialogue – not just silent stares.

I am not distracted; however, this can work against me. I sometimes think I have too many chances to pay attention to what’s going on under the surface. I want to do as much for other people as they’ve done for me. I want to make the world better, for selfish reasons. I want things to be better for myself and for everyone else. I wish I didn’t care sometimes. It’s painful and stressful. I wish I could block out the rest of the world, focus on only me, and pretend that things aren’t happening. I want to let it out. I wish I could cry, that my tears could unleash the stress of the world I feel so heavily on my own two shoulders. I want to see more and feel less, but I can’t.

It feels like the hurt I have for the state of the world is going to cause my heart to burst out of my chest, but perhaps that would release me from the invisible ropes that I feel holding me back. My compassion has been a part of my name. Kerry sounds like care. People call me Kerr and I have always been the nice one, the kind girl. I know I can use my unique experience of life for something greater than myself. I can speak, using the voice I possess, to make people aware of how vital compassion is, that simply coasting by in life, not caring, that these things won’t do.

People give me breaks. They cut me slack. They make exceptions for me. I see the compassion in this because it is there – really, it is. I often need it, if I ever want to get anywhere, but, on the other hand, with these things continuing as they are, I will never be able to make a difference, to have my voice heard. I don’t want these sorts of compassionate attitudes to limit me or to make people believe that’s enough, that that’s all it takes, is required of them, or for me to succeed.

You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.
–Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Kerry is a writer and blogger. She was born visually impaired. She writes to make sense of the world around her. Without words she truly would be in the dark.

She has a Certificate of Creative Writing and has written a novel for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

She had a short essay published on BREVITY’s Nonfiction Blog and just recently she was included in a romance anthology: After the Scars: A Second Chances Anthology


You can find her at her blog: Her Headache

Or on Facebook and Twitter:

Kerry lives in Ontario, Canada with her literary-themed dog and cat: Dobby and Lumos.

Is Your Compassion Fake?

Today we have the first in a new series of guest posts. Today’s writer has chosen to stay anonymous, and his post is a sobering reminder of the saying, “It’s not what you say, it’s what you do that matters.” If we preach compassion, we also need to practice it. Otherwise, our words will have little impact, or might even make people distrust us.


I consider myself to be a compassionate person. I am concerned about others in society, both within Britain and further afield in Europe in the rest of the world. The fact that people are starving to death or becoming victims of war is not something I am happy to ignore. I’m not content with it.

I hold down a full time job. Like everyone else, I am busy nearly all the time, but I will always try to help out where I can when others less fortunate than me need it. I would never feel the need to mention this to other people in normal conversation – I know I do what I can and nobody else really needs to know. I don’t like lecturing other people on what they should or should not do (at least directly). Maybe I should talk to other people about why I think compassion is important more often, but this would make me feel like I’m by implication suggesting they become more like me and that I have a superior attitude to compassion than them. It’s not something I would feel comfortable doing. I do my bit. There are people who will do much more than me and they deserve huge respect. Let’s leave it t that.

Part of why I feel this way perhaps comes from personal experience. A few years ago, in my teens, I became a community councillor in a region of the UK. I had no prior experience in anything remotely similar before. I was younger and less experienced than all the other community councillors by some margin.

In technical terms, a community council should: “represent the views of the community to the council,” effectively holding councillors to account with the wishes of the local community. There were about 35 places for community councillors on this body, but only 25 people nominated themselves so there was no election – each person was there purely because they wanted to be. With it, each community councillor would regularly get local newspaper coverage and be asked for their opinion on various local issues, so each community councillor gained at least a bit of a profile locally.

Before I began this role, I would happily have subscribed to the view that anyone who talked about their own sense of compassion and encouraged others to be like-minded was undoubtedly in reality a compassionate and caring individual. I look back on that now as being naive. I set out as a community councillor to do what the role was described as – to make the community’s voice heard. That, to me, meant making sure those who couldn’t easily make their voices heard had a chance to make this happen. That in turn meant helping those who were, for whatever reason, weaker and more vulnerable. I was under the impression all the other community councillors would have subscribed to a similar vision of what their role was. I quickly found this to be naive too.

One of the first issues for the community council was to take a position over a planning application for some new houses on an area of land close to green belt. It had been rejected by the council before as there wasn’t enough “affordable housing” on the scheme to justify building here. The community council as a body voted to support it, but this hadn’t made any difference. However, this time the developer submitted a redesigned plan with a good percentage of “affordable housing” and a part of the site being developed by a housing association. As a response, one community councillor wrote in the local newspaper directly in support of this new application. The letter he wrote focused on the housing association housing, and how people should support the application because this would help those in most need of housing to have a chance of a proper home. He believed we should follow his example of compassion for those less well off financially – people in desperate need of good housing was more important than concerns over green belt issues. We should think about compassion and support the application.

That seemed reasonable to me. A good man, concerned for the future of his community.

Fast forward a few weeks and the official decision was taken to approve the application. Then two things happened that came as a bit of a shock. Firstly, I found out that the community councillor who wrote the letter urging us to be more considerate about people who need affordable housing had a wife on the board of directors of the property development company who made the application. Secondly, I witnessed this community councillor in conversation with another community councillor He appeared quite chirpy, presumably delighted that his wife’s company was set to make a lot of money in a new housing development. I hope I don’t need to spell out any further what was going on here.

I’d love to say this was an isolated incident but it wasn’t. I soon learned that the majority of these community councillors did not care one bit about what they were supposed to be doing. Making the community’s voice heard was certainly not high on their agenda.

Most had their own pet projects, ones that directly affected them or their clique. Examples include rejecting planning applications that would have a negative affect on a friend’s property. Or the time a community councillor wrote a piece in support of a certain discount supermarket chain getting permission to build a big store on an area not zoned for this, citing: “the need for an more affordable places to buy groceries for those struggling to make ends meet.” His pal was the regional manager of the chain at that time. Yet again, I’d catch him making comments in private that revealed him not to have cared about the people he claimed to care about. Yet he preached about compassion. Stuff like this, I’m afraid, went on and on.

Then there was the other type of false compassion I discovered. It was genuinely excruciating to see the contempt some people actually held most of the community in. I witnessed people making remarks where they clearly felt they were superior to the more working-class people in their communities, but had no obvious business interest to justify their phoney compassionate public outbursts. I began to realise that making these statements encouraging compassion in public was nothing more than vehicle to give then the sense of being “guardian-like.” Lecturing others on principle made them feel good and important, and members of the public looking up to them approvingly made them feel respected and significant. My judgement here is up for debate, but I’m confident I’m right.

Unfortunately, these experiences mean I now immediately view anyone preaching compassion suspiciously. I’m sorry this is the case, and you can blame me if you like, but my natural reaction is to wonder if it is genuine. Keep in mind that this was all at local level and not amongst any people with any truly meaningful far-reaching powers. Bluntly, this was all small-time stuff. But I see no reason why all the symptoms I encountered don’t occur at a lever of national and international government. Examples of this actually happening are, unfortunately, easy to point out.

For instance, in Scotland, last year we had a referendum where the nationalist side argued Scotland should be independent, saying that Scots are different from other parts of the UK. We, they suggested, were a more compassionate nation than cold-hearted Tory England. We needed rid of this burden to build a more left wing, caring nation of Scotland on its own. Now, I believe compassion should never stop at an arbitrary border.

A big player during the independence referendum was subsequently elected as an MP this year for the SNP. She spoke about the need for a more compassionate independent Scotland and said we needed to take this opportunity to vote for independence to have the chance to be more humane. Her campaign literature stated “…let’s end the Westminster way of doing things, which has caused misery for Scotland’s most vulnerable.” SNP colleagues supported her, one saying: “She has demonstrated a commitment to how business can be used to support social justice.” Another said “…what stood out is her commitment to social justice and how we support the poorest in society.” Clearly, we should elect this woman as an MP to represent Scotland. She was an example of compassion. We should follow her example.

As of the end of September 2015, this MP is being investigated for mortgage fraud. It has been revealed she owns 17 properties across the country, which she lets out. One of the properties was purchased in pretty sickening circumstances. She allegedly bought the property at a knocked down price from an elderly woman with cancer who was desperate to sell her home. She then re-sold the property only hours later to one of her friends for a price closer to the real market value, making a profit of tens of thousands of pounds. This is a woman who “fights for social justice”. When she preaches about compassion, it is fraudulent. Sorry about this.

The trouble is, there are genuinely compassionate people who would love to spread their message and encourage us all to think about our fellow human beings in a kinder way. And what I have outlined serves to hinder this. I believe many people like me, have witnessed similar situations of betrayal, and are automatically suspicious of anyone talking in a holier-than-thou manner. I also believe that it shows some people are just corrupt in the sense that they do not care about other people less fortunate than them. This is a fact of life – it would be unrealistic to think that everyone is really a kind-hearted soul deep down.

I do believe that the majority of people do care about others and are decent people. Some people just need to unlock it. But there is a huge challenge to those aiming to spread compassion, because people like me will immediately question whether you are genuine and worth listening to at all.

Join the Discussion

What do you think? Have you had experiences similar to those this writer describes and do you also find it hard to trust? Do you think it’s unrealistic to think that everyone is really a kind-hearted soul deep down? Or do those people who don’t seem compassionate just need to unlock their decency and caring? Let us know your experiences and views in the comments…

What Does Your Knight in Shining Compassion Look Like?

Acts of compassion don’t always look the same. In fact, each one is unique as it entails a unique situation, a unique set of people, one in need of compassion and one not only recognizing that need but being willing to act on it. Compassion begins at home and comes from with in…we just have to be willing to embrace it. Knights on white horses are all around us. Whether you are the knight or the horse enabling the knight to complete its mission, your role is as important as the mission.

The Littlest Knight With The Biggest Heart

He may not be tall, dark, and handsome. He may not come riding in on his white horse to save the day, and the sword he holds to protect his princess from all things evil may be a plastic one. Nonetheless, he is her knight in shining armor. She towers over him, but in her eyes he is bigger than the darkness she fears when she needs to retrieve something upstairs, and can’t bear to face the second floor alone. He is bigger than the sounds of night when she asks him to accompany her to take the trash outside. She begs him to sleep with her every night, as if the sheer warmth of his tiny body pressed up against hers is enough to protect her even in her nightmares.

Her little knight takes his job seriously. He discusses movie options with her, and together they choose one they can both lose themselves in for a couple of hours, popcorn in hand, both occupying one half of the couch. The chosen flick must be one of adventure, but can not include anything too scary. His knightly duties are many, and he carries them proudly on his tiny little shoulders. He is the littlest knight with the biggest heart.

beach, holding hands, walk on the beach, sandy days, compassion, siblings, parenting, family

I recall one day when I walked up to the school, and he was standing next to his Pre-school teacher. It was the week of Halloween, and all the children had their faces painted at school that day. As I approached him, about to share the appropriate level of excitement over his face art, I slowed my pace. I could only see black smudges across both cheeks. Amateur face painting or the 88 degree temperature? I didn’t have time to ask before his teacher offered an explanation that has stayed with me ever since.

You see, the little knight stood in line as excited as his little friends anxiously awaiting his turn for face painting. One by one, his peers walked off with smiling faces, and admired the masterpieces bestowed upon their sweet little cheeks in a handheld mirror the teacher held up to them. When it came to be Evan’s turn, he made sure to stand perfectly still, a difficult task for a four-year old knight accustomed to being in constant motion. Once the piece was complete, he walked off to the mirror and took in his reflection. He looked at his teacher, looked at the artist, and kindly asked for the face paint to be removed. They convinced him to keep it on for a bit, I imagine in hopes he would get used to it. Tears ensued as well as much face rubbing. Hence, the black smudges I came upon that afternoon. After much prompting, he explained to his teacher that while he really liked the artwork, there was no way he could go home with it on his face. You see, my sister is afraid of spiders, said the littlest knight with the biggest heart.

Link up your #1000speak post on Compassion here: