Steve and Grandfather were walking through the village market when they heard a crash, followed by a quiet sob.
An elderly woman had dropped a large woven basket. Apples, onions, and heavy root vegetables spilled across the cobblestones.
She knelt on the ground, her hands trembling as she tried to gather them back, but her back was stiff, and tears of frustration welled in her eyes.
Steve felt a sudden, crushing weight in his chest. He felt so bad for the woman. Her sadness washed over him, making his own eyes sting with tears.
He stood frozen, overwhelmed by how unfair it seemed that she was struggling while others walked right past her.
He wanted to hide his face in his hands.
Grandfather, however, did not freeze. He walked over, knelt down smoothly, and began placing the apples and onions back into the basket.
"It is a heavy load for one trip," Grandfather said to her gently. "Allow me to carry the basket to your door."
The old woman wiped her eyes and nodded, thanking him softly.
As they walked away from the woman's home, Steve wiped a tear from his cheek.
"I felt so awful for her," Steve sniffled. "I wanted to cry."
Grandfather nodded slowly.
"You felt sympathy, Steve. You let her sadness become your sadness. And what did your sympathy accomplish?"
Steve thought about it. He had just stood there, paralyzed by his feelings.
"Nothing," Steve admitted.
"Sympathy makes you act on feelings. Often, those feelings tell you to run away, or to simply weep alongside the sufferer," Grandfather explained.
"But empathy is different. Empathy means understanding how they feel, recognizing their struggle, and then using your strength to help them."
He tapped the end of his staff against the stone road.
"Sympathy is bleeding when another is cut. Empathy is remaining whole, so you can bind their wound."
