One of my favorite places to visit in Haiti is Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying. By its very nature, there is slower pace here than at most of the orphanages we visit, and a calmer atmosphere permeates the air. There is a strong presence of God here. Time and again, this place touches my heart and teaches me about the human spirit.
As is customary when we visit, volunteers branch off and sit at the bedsides of the ill patients to minister to them: massaging their frail bodies with lotion, talking, listening, laughing, crying, and praying together. On this particular occasion, I had just left the bedside of a young women and began looking around for someone else with whom I could visit and massage with my small bottle of lotion. But it appeared that the patients were either engaged with another volunteer already, or simply not interested in having a bedside visit at that time. This was certainly not the norm for this place.
Not quite knowing what to do with myself, and not wanting to feel useless, I walked out of the room and stood awkwardly in the open-aired corridor. I glanced to my right and happened to see at the very end of the hallway, where volunteers don’t customarily visit, a young Haitian woman standing at someone’s bedside. Apparently, there was no space for her in the main rooms. She was waving at me, beckoning me to come over. I ignored the gesture for a moment, but then looked over again to find her hand still waving, calling me over.
Who did she think I was, and what did she want? My mind began to entertain the thought of simply walking in the opposite direction and sticking to my set routine. Playing it safe. Perhaps she wanted something from me that I simply didn’t have. Did the Sisters want me down there, or was this area off limits? What kind of illness or disease might I encounter once I arrived? I knew none of these ramblings in my head mattered, and yet, for as many times as I had been on these sacred grounds, I still found my mind entertaining negative thoughts—my weaknesses and fears getting the best of me. But before I had the chance to rationalize any further, I found myself walking down the hall towards this woman. And I’m so glad that I did…
As I approached her, I became instantly softened by her warm smile, radiating a mixture of beauty, sorrow, and worry. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Laying in the tiny bed to my right was her mother. The woman was large, with graying hair pulled back in rows of small braids, and the skin on her arms, chest, and abdomen was cracked and parched. Her body was incredibly swollen and when I laid my hands on her arm, it was hard as stone. “Cancer,” her daughter said. I listened to soft moans of pain as I stood wondering what on earth they expected me to do for them. I was touched that they obviously believed that I could help them, but all I had in my hands was a small bottle of leftover lotion, which somehow felt very inadequate at that moment. But I soon remembered that I held much more than that—I also carried with me a kind word. A gentle touch. The hand of someone who cared and took time to listen, commiserate, and share a smile and a laugh. Albeit in broken Creole.
I looked across at both mother and daughter—their painted fingernails in a shade of fuchsia pink, peeling from long-ware and a hard life. I recognized that despite the circumstances of time and space that had conspired against them in this harsh environment, that they were still very much ladies. And they were just like me. They wanted to feel pretty. They wanted to feel loved. They wanted to know that everything was going to be okay.
My gesture was simple: all I did was rub lotion onto the cracked skin of the mother’s swollen arms and hands. And then I moved to her face, which surprisingly became a very personal way of connecting with this woman. Of all the body parts I had previously massaged with lotion here (and I’ve rubbed my fair share), I had never laid my hands on someone’s face. Her body relaxed and her moans turned to softer breaths. As I traced the lines of her worn face with my hands, I felt that I had suddenly been “put in my place,” reduced to nothing. I longed to take the pain from her. I momentarily stepped into the shoes of her daughter, as I remembered when my own mother had cancer. She had the best doctors and resources on her side. This woman had nothing.
I told my two new friends that I would pray for them, and that Jesus was with them. It was simple. They smiled and thanked me. They accepted me and my miniscule offering with grace and humility. And in that moment, I sensed that they recognized the power of sharing one another’s burdens as much as I did. I sensed that they knew someone cared about and loved them. They were not forgotten in the world, or at the end of the hallway—and that small fact meant everything. I watched as their countenances, laced with gratitude, became suddenly softer and familiar, like home. As I walked away, I found my heart being lifted by the power and courage of the human spirit I saw in these women. And I realized that I too was not forgotten or alone—in the world or while standing alone in the corridor that day.
It wasn’t much I carried with me down the hall—a small bottle of lotion and a willing heart. My visit was short, unplanned, and at first uncomfortable. It was made up of small and simple gestures that, on the surface, appeared hardly important. But I am ever learning that these are the gestures and moments that count the most in life. I believe in the power of small moments and simple offerings, where we choose to let go of ourselves, tread off the beaten path if necessary, and love fully. Through our love, I know our offerings are magnified a hundredfold and make a difference. In the words of Mother Teresa, as manifested in our work every day in Haiti, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” I pray that over the course of a lifetime, I might begin to truly internalize these words.
And may we never hesitate to walk down the sometimes long, scary, or less-traveled roads (or hallways) in our lives. May we instead trust in the miracles that lay ahead of us: the ways will be used in the service of others and in turn be taught and enriched beyond measure.
As is customary when we visit, volunteers branch off and sit at the bedsides of the ill patients to minister to them: massaging their frail bodies with lotion, talking, listening, laughing, crying, and praying together. On this particular occasion, I had just left the bedside of a young women and began looking around for someone else with whom I could visit and massage with my small bottle of lotion. But it appeared that the patients were either engaged with another volunteer already, or simply not interested in having a bedside visit at that time. This was certainly not the norm for this place.
Not quite knowing what to do with myself, and not wanting to feel useless, I walked out of the room and stood awkwardly in the open-aired corridor. I glanced to my right and happened to see at the very end of the hallway, where volunteers don’t customarily visit, a young Haitian woman standing at someone’s bedside. Apparently, there was no space for her in the main rooms. She was waving at me, beckoning me to come over. I ignored the gesture for a moment, but then looked over again to find her hand still waving, calling me over.
Who did she think I was, and what did she want? My mind began to entertain the thought of simply walking in the opposite direction and sticking to my set routine. Playing it safe. Perhaps she wanted something from me that I simply didn’t have. Did the Sisters want me down there, or was this area off limits? What kind of illness or disease might I encounter once I arrived? I knew none of these ramblings in my head mattered, and yet, for as many times as I had been on these sacred grounds, I still found my mind entertaining negative thoughts—my weaknesses and fears getting the best of me. But before I had the chance to rationalize any further, I found myself walking down the hall towards this woman. And I’m so glad that I did…
As I approached her, I became instantly softened by her warm smile, radiating a mixture of beauty, sorrow, and worry. It didn’t take long to figure out why. Laying in the tiny bed to my right was her mother. The woman was large, with graying hair pulled back in rows of small braids, and the skin on her arms, chest, and abdomen was cracked and parched. Her body was incredibly swollen and when I laid my hands on her arm, it was hard as stone. “Cancer,” her daughter said. I listened to soft moans of pain as I stood wondering what on earth they expected me to do for them. I was touched that they obviously believed that I could help them, but all I had in my hands was a small bottle of leftover lotion, which somehow felt very inadequate at that moment. But I soon remembered that I held much more than that—I also carried with me a kind word. A gentle touch. The hand of someone who cared and took time to listen, commiserate, and share a smile and a laugh. Albeit in broken Creole.
I looked across at both mother and daughter—their painted fingernails in a shade of fuchsia pink, peeling from long-ware and a hard life. I recognized that despite the circumstances of time and space that had conspired against them in this harsh environment, that they were still very much ladies. And they were just like me. They wanted to feel pretty. They wanted to feel loved. They wanted to know that everything was going to be okay.
My gesture was simple: all I did was rub lotion onto the cracked skin of the mother’s swollen arms and hands. And then I moved to her face, which surprisingly became a very personal way of connecting with this woman. Of all the body parts I had previously massaged with lotion here (and I’ve rubbed my fair share), I had never laid my hands on someone’s face. Her body relaxed and her moans turned to softer breaths. As I traced the lines of her worn face with my hands, I felt that I had suddenly been “put in my place,” reduced to nothing. I longed to take the pain from her. I momentarily stepped into the shoes of her daughter, as I remembered when my own mother had cancer. She had the best doctors and resources on her side. This woman had nothing.
I told my two new friends that I would pray for them, and that Jesus was with them. It was simple. They smiled and thanked me. They accepted me and my miniscule offering with grace and humility. And in that moment, I sensed that they recognized the power of sharing one another’s burdens as much as I did. I sensed that they knew someone cared about and loved them. They were not forgotten in the world, or at the end of the hallway—and that small fact meant everything. I watched as their countenances, laced with gratitude, became suddenly softer and familiar, like home. As I walked away, I found my heart being lifted by the power and courage of the human spirit I saw in these women. And I realized that I too was not forgotten or alone—in the world or while standing alone in the corridor that day.
It wasn’t much I carried with me down the hall—a small bottle of lotion and a willing heart. My visit was short, unplanned, and at first uncomfortable. It was made up of small and simple gestures that, on the surface, appeared hardly important. But I am ever learning that these are the gestures and moments that count the most in life. I believe in the power of small moments and simple offerings, where we choose to let go of ourselves, tread off the beaten path if necessary, and love fully. Through our love, I know our offerings are magnified a hundredfold and make a difference. In the words of Mother Teresa, as manifested in our work every day in Haiti, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” I pray that over the course of a lifetime, I might begin to truly internalize these words.
And may we never hesitate to walk down the sometimes long, scary, or less-traveled roads (or hallways) in our lives. May we instead trust in the miracles that lay ahead of us: the ways will be used in the service of others and in turn be taught and enriched beyond measure.
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