I admit it: I hope to change the world. Perhaps other recent college grads fantasize about a plush corner office, but my dreams have been molded by the anthems of bravery and vocation proclaimed by the late Pope John Paul.
After spending eight months last year in Central America, the visions of my world-changing life have featured me, smiling calmly, confidently negotiating a fairer wage for banana workers in Costa Rica. Or me, patiently explaining the nuances of English relative-adverb clauses to a group of immigrants who bob their variously colored heads up and down with gratitude.
Because of such dreams, last semester I hopped on the local train every Thursday morning and traveled from my suburban college to a poor Philadelphian neighborhood. I disembarked at the Welcome Center, an immigrant ministry run by the Sisters of St. Joseph. It is a place inundated with love and service. Even the artwork at the Center, culled from the far reaches of the globe, silently speaks of a family bound together by common humanity. “This is exactly,” I mused, “how I would decorate such an organization.”
At the Center, my daydreams became more concrete; there I was, guiding a young Polish girl in her typing until her fingers danced over the keys; and there I was, using a beautiful Guatemalan weaving to explain the color words in English.
My first morning of volunteering, I arrived plumb full of eagerness. “Here I am!” I announced to Sister Judy, glancing around for immigrants to win over with a kind smile and simple sentences. “Put me to work!” And indeed she did; for the next four hours, I affixed labels to Valentine’s Day treats, I alphabetically arranged out-going mail, but most of all I developed a wary working relationship with the savviest yet most infuriating machine known to man, namely, the copier. I copied page after page of ESL books, exposing their contents to the gray monstrosity’s sleek belly and receiving in return fresh warm clones. Double-sided, check. Twelve copies, check. Sort and order, check.
The whole morning, along with negotiating paper jams and bizarrely-worded messages from the copier, I wrestled pride in all its sneaky guises. You got up at 7 for this? it whispered. Don’t they know how talented you are with languages? How good you are at making people feel welcome? Flailing for a response and not finding one, I glanced up from my work and noticed, above me on the wall, the Virgin of Guadalupe. She gazed down at the copier serenely, as if she were devoted to protect it from the hazards of electrical surges and paper jams.
A tiny task, sniffed pride. The Blessed Mother countered with a patient, almost amused smile, as if to say,
“Peace. I am not the judge of a task’s worthiness, merely the handmaid of He who works in me in ways great and small.”
I thought of the Virgin in the stable at Bethlehem, in the hours after she posed for Christmas cards. What menial tasks occupied her, like fetching water, preparing a bed in the hay for her Son, and feeding the Bread of life? How mundane they must have seemed to an observer, just another mother enacting the same life rituals carried out since Eve and her babies. And yet Mary pondered a secret while nursing; her Son was the hoped-for fulfillment of the Promise, and every task geared toward Him was mysteriously enveloped into the one mission of the Redeemer, the Sanctifier of all things mundane.
So it was, and so it is. As I stood there duplicating pages and tussling with glory-hungry pride, Our Lady of the Copier gently reminded me of the premium her Son places on the tiny and forgotten tasks. As another great woman once said, there are no great tasks, but only small tasks done with great love. I do not rescind my dreams to change the world, but I pray for deeper humility to believe that even copying, stapling, and alphabetizing, when done with great love, bear much fruit in the Kingdom. Our Lady of the Copier, mistress of humility, pray for us would-be saviors.
After spending eight months last year in Central America, the visions of my world-changing life have featured me, smiling calmly, confidently negotiating a fairer wage for banana workers in Costa Rica. Or me, patiently explaining the nuances of English relative-adverb clauses to a group of immigrants who bob their variously colored heads up and down with gratitude.
Because of such dreams, last semester I hopped on the local train every Thursday morning and traveled from my suburban college to a poor Philadelphian neighborhood. I disembarked at the Welcome Center, an immigrant ministry run by the Sisters of St. Joseph. It is a place inundated with love and service. Even the artwork at the Center, culled from the far reaches of the globe, silently speaks of a family bound together by common humanity. “This is exactly,” I mused, “how I would decorate such an organization.”
At the Center, my daydreams became more concrete; there I was, guiding a young Polish girl in her typing until her fingers danced over the keys; and there I was, using a beautiful Guatemalan weaving to explain the color words in English.
My first morning of volunteering, I arrived plumb full of eagerness. “Here I am!” I announced to Sister Judy, glancing around for immigrants to win over with a kind smile and simple sentences. “Put me to work!” And indeed she did; for the next four hours, I affixed labels to Valentine’s Day treats, I alphabetically arranged out-going mail, but most of all I developed a wary working relationship with the savviest yet most infuriating machine known to man, namely, the copier. I copied page after page of ESL books, exposing their contents to the gray monstrosity’s sleek belly and receiving in return fresh warm clones. Double-sided, check. Twelve copies, check. Sort and order, check.
The whole morning, along with negotiating paper jams and bizarrely-worded messages from the copier, I wrestled pride in all its sneaky guises. You got up at 7 for this? it whispered. Don’t they know how talented you are with languages? How good you are at making people feel welcome? Flailing for a response and not finding one, I glanced up from my work and noticed, above me on the wall, the Virgin of Guadalupe. She gazed down at the copier serenely, as if she were devoted to protect it from the hazards of electrical surges and paper jams.
A tiny task, sniffed pride. The Blessed Mother countered with a patient, almost amused smile, as if to say,
“Peace. I am not the judge of a task’s worthiness, merely the handmaid of He who works in me in ways great and small.”I thought of the Virgin in the stable at Bethlehem, in the hours after she posed for Christmas cards. What menial tasks occupied her, like fetching water, preparing a bed in the hay for her Son, and feeding the Bread of life? How mundane they must have seemed to an observer, just another mother enacting the same life rituals carried out since Eve and her babies. And yet Mary pondered a secret while nursing; her Son was the hoped-for fulfillment of the Promise, and every task geared toward Him was mysteriously enveloped into the one mission of the Redeemer, the Sanctifier of all things mundane.
So it was, and so it is. As I stood there duplicating pages and tussling with glory-hungry pride, Our Lady of the Copier gently reminded me of the premium her Son places on the tiny and forgotten tasks. As another great woman once said, there are no great tasks, but only small tasks done with great love. I do not rescind my dreams to change the world, but I pray for deeper humility to believe that even copying, stapling, and alphabetizing, when done with great love, bear much fruit in the Kingdom. Our Lady of the Copier, mistress of humility, pray for us would-be saviors.
1 comment:
I see you are satisfying your urge to write here on the blog :) I like this place. Its very pink...and Orthodox.
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