Mercy is one of those tragically unfashionable words like Gwendoline or doily. The reality of mercy is though, far sweeter, I think.
Mercy is a quality of the mind and heart that interposes itself between what we should have done, and what we actually did and says, at length, and yet, it’s ok.
Mercy says, “yes, yes, maybe you shouldn’t have screamed at your children, or cursed your spouse, but you know, it’s actually quite hard being any sort of human, harder still to be a good one, so, I reckon we should cut you some slack.”
Mercy is the buffer that, like the magnets in a MagLev, lifts the train (what we should have done) off the tracks (what we actually did) to minimise the angry scouring and scourging. Mercy is like a rolling into one of compassion (feeling moved by another’s suffering and wanting to alleviate it) with forgiveness.
It’s a singular state because it allows things to be not as we would have them, and takes up the space usually flooded by judgment and blame, anger and shame.
Mercy is a high-wire act.
It’s a levitating train.
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