Standing with Mary at the Foot of the Cross
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| At the shrine of Our Lady of Compassion at the ICCC with Annie (staying in New York), Courtney (leaving soon for El Salvador), and Lisa (just arrived in the Philippines!) |
Our Lady of Compassion (more commonly known in the Western Church as Our Lady of Sorrows) is the patron of Heart's Home. We try especially to emulate Mary standing at the foot of her Son's Cross as we reach out in compassion (meaning literally 'to suffer with') to many who are isolated, forgotten, or rejected by society. We try to give that fullness of presence to those who suffer most, which Mary gave to Jesus throughout His life- most especially as He suffered to the end for us on the Cross. As I begin this intentional walk with Our Lady of Compassion, several recent encounters continue to resound in my heart and give me light for the next step:
When I moved from Indianapolis in May, I said an emotional goodbye to one of the most courageous people I've ever known- a woman in her fifties who battles five different forms of cancer, along with epilepsy. Her husband passed away many years ago, and her three grown children have all but abandoned her. I had the privilege of spending many hours visiting her and going to Mass with her each week this past year. As I expressed how badly I wished there was something I could do to alleviate her pain, Susan took my chin in her hands and said, "Honey, sometimes, your greatest gift to people is just to cry with them." And we held each other and cried- the same tears we've been crying together all year, through the many ups and downs, the joy and the pain.
While on a morning walk in Los Angeles (during my quick trip there to get my visa) on none other than the Feast of Our Lady of Compassion, I was moved by a woman standing next to me and waiting for the 'walk' signal to turn green. She was muttering mostly unintelligible things as she alternately looked up to the sky and then down at the ground, motioning to someone unseen with both her hands. I was able to make eye contact with her, and offered a simple but genuine, "Hi, how are you?" She seemed startled for a moment that someone was addressing her- she first looked behind her as if to see if I was talking to someone else- and after turning back to face me, stood there studying me for a second. Just as I began to regret my question, she decided to tell me. And tell me she did. I think I heard the medium-length version of her life story in those 6 blocks we walked together, including that she was an alcoholic and the thing she had gotten up for that morning was the bottle of Vodka she was on her way to buy. As we reached her destination- the liquor store- she paused, and then gave me a long hug. With tears in her eyes, she said, "Thank you for the company.... I'll be praying for you." Now with tears in my eyes the whole way back to my hotel, I thought, "What did I even 'do'?" Walk next to her and listen as she talked a mile-a-minute about people I don't know and events I don't understand? Pretty much. And her prayers for me- are these not the greater gift? Will not God surely hear her cry, her prayer that is so naked, so stripped of pretense, so in the heart of His Son- first? In sharing herself with me, she reminded me why I wake up each morning. And this, again, is the greater gift. I pray that our brief encounter kindled at least a small glint of hope that she's worth it; that she's loved; that her story is worth listening to.
I had a very similar experience on a subway in New York last week during my orientation with Heart's Home. Through a ridiculous turn of events including me sitting for 30 minutes a broken down bus and then chasing down another one, I ended up having to take the subway by myself to meet everyone back at the house. Since it was between the 3:00-8:00pm rush hours (I think that's actually just called 'rush day,' people), the train was packed from wall to wall... except for one seat. Next to this single unoccupied space sat a man who was harmless-looking enough from the doorway of the train. Upon pushing closer, though, I could understand why people had opted out of sitting next to him. He was mumbling to himself, stomping his foot, and didn't exactly smell like roses. But after two weeks of talking and praying about compassion, I figured trying to live it right now couldn't be bad idea. So I squirmed between a few layers of people and sat down. "How was your day today?" I still can't get his look of utter surprise at being acknowledged out of my mind, in the same way that I can't with Marianne (my Los Angeles walking companion). How many times has the seat next to him been left open on a packed train? Has he just come to expect this? David and I shared a wonderful conversation during our fifteen minutes together on the B line. He moved to New York recently looking for work and his family is all in Florida. He doesn't really know anyone and is in real need of companionship. I was genuinely sad when I had to say goodbye to him at my stop. As I got up, he grabbed my arm and thanked me for talking, a look of pure gratitude piercing my heart. I hope that our time together reminded him of the dignity of the humanity we share. I know it did for me.
These 18 months will be an opportunity for me to be available in a radical way to these callings to compassion. With God's grace, I'll cry and laugh with people who have no one else to do these things with them; accompany strangers to the corner store; seek out the empty train seats... without having somewhere else to be or something else more important to do. For that will be my purpose. Yet, simple as this mission is on the surface, I know this will be no small task. Much of my daily strength as I battle my own selfishness, fears, and fatigue will be the selfless sacrifices and prayers of my family and friends. Let's do this.
