I recently encountered an interesting discussion between a father and daughter that grabbed my attention and riveted me to the conversation. In a way, I found it a fascinating study in human behavior, yet simultaneously I was flooded with a sense of melancholy.

The father was evidently a man with a kind heart toward animals – with a greater regard for some than others – and it seemed his depth of compassion varied in intensity according to whichever species happened to be the underdog at the time, his sympathies always favoring the most defenseless creature. Let me expound.

Empathy went to the “poor worm” gobbled up by the hungry bird, or to the small bird being attacked by a larger greedy bird. At one point the father indignantly chased off an intruding cat in defense of the little birds on the grass. All the while, he was providing his daughter with his take on the food chain found in nature and the cruelty in it all. He finished the homily with the rhetorical question “If there is a God and He created all of nature, how could He be a compassionate God when He permits such cruelty?” The daughter didn’t answer.

I was tempted to come to the defense of God, who I believe to be a loving Creator, but I refrained and kept my point of view private, as I am known to do when my opinion is not invited.

Sometime later, a new conversation sprung to life, precipitated by something the daughter had done to displease her father. I listened more intently, trying to make sense of what was rapidly developing into a scolding. Fact is, the daughter had apparently twice broken the rules. I heard the father say “Was that the only time? Was there more?” And she replied “I did it twice!”

I thought to myself – “Oh No! Double the trouble now!” The dialogue continued:

Daughter: “I’m sorry Dad.”
Father: “I TOLD you not to do that….”
Daughter: “I’m sorry – it was a mistake – I didn’t mean to upset you”
Father: “But I told you and told you – in fact we talked about that very thing yesterday”
Daughter: “I’m REALLY sorry Dad – I just wasn’t thinking!”

There was a tense silence between the two. I silently gritted my teeth as if to will the father graciously to accept the apology. It didn’t happen. Neither was there any apparent evidence that the transgression would be forgiven. Meanwhile the daughter persisted: “What can I do to make it better Dad?” I could hardly believe the response: “There’s nothing you can do.”

The daughter gave her father one last opportunity to show mercy. “Dad – I’m sorry – I feel really bad.” The curt response was “So do I!” He had held her feet to the fire to the very end. There was no reassurance such as “It’s okay, we all make mistakes” or an indication that any kindly response was imminent.

I wondered if he would ever let her know she was forgiven, because surely he would. My heart went out to the daughter’s inner child and I wondered how a father, so concerned and compassionate about the feelings of a worm, could be so unmerciful toward his own flesh and blood.

I remembered this paragraph from Shakespeare’s “Merchant of Venice” which so beautifully describes mercy:

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

I thought about God and His amazing grace and capacity to forgive. As I lifted my eyes away from the discord and gazed into the distance, I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Lord for His infinite love and mercy.

“Be ye merciful, even as your Father is merciful.” Luke 6:36