A Million Dollars

“They ask me, ‘How can you do this work? I couldn’t do it for a million dollars.’ And I tell them, ‘ I wouldn’t do it for a million dollars either. But I do it for love.'” – Sister

Reclining on the couch, I hold his little body against my chest. Nestled close, head tucked under my chin, his soft breath gently tickles my neck. His bones are sharp through his clothes, digging into my chest and stomach. A feeding tube dangles from the food bag, runs over my shoulder, and into his stomach; he barely weighs anything. My heart softens even more as his little fist knots in my shirt.

This child is seven years old, extraordinarily small for his age, and a charge of the Missionaries of Charity in Mexico. Here, the sisters take in, love, and serve all who are unwanted and outcast by society: the abandoned, the orphaned, the ostracized, and the poorest of the poor. He is the epitome of poor, unable to do anything on his own besides breathe. He can’t feed, dress, or clean himself but is fully conscious and aware of everything around him. His short life has been one of pain and rejection, surgery after surgery to save his life, unwanted by his parents. All he desires is to be held, to feel close to someone, to feel loved.

We finished feeding and cleaning up after all the other children for the night, but still, the little boy cried to be held. It is my last night here. How could I not answer his cry?

I think back to the beginning of the week and the emotions that viscerally coursed through my mind and body: disgust, confusion, anger. Disgust at the potent diarrhea that must be scrubbed off their sheets (by hand) and disgust at the mess of emulsified food mixed with saliva that runs down their cheeks while being fed. Confusion at the selfless and cheerful disposition of the sisters and their seeming obliviousness to the spit and flying limbs that hit them in the face mid-diaper change. Anger at God for permitting these children to suffer so greatly in these twisted, malformed bodies.

I don’t feel those things anymore. All I can feel is tenderness, an aching love, and sorrow for all these little ones. Something changed my heart.

I flashback to another moment that week when I talked with a sister in the courtyard. I asked how she dealt with the hitting and screaming, the children not listening to directions, the mess. I asked her how she wasn’t annoyed or angry.

“What right do I have to be annoyed? Have I earned some right that is greater than theirs to be fed? Do I have some right to good conversation? To be entertained? Or not to be dirty? No. All of these things are lies. I have a right to love.” -Sister

What right do I have to be annoyed? What right do I have to be entertained?

How often have I approached a conversation with another human with the desire to receive entertainment, affirmation, connection, or something else? When was the last time I talked to someone purely with the desire to love them without gaining anything in return? Can I honestly say my attention is intentionally focused on the people I speak with, or am I distracted and thinking about all the other things I could be doing?

Lord, purify my heart.

My best friend’s words echo in my mind. A postulant with the Missionaries of Charity, she is in the depths of her formation as a religious sister.

“It’s okay if you do the right thing for the wrong reasons. We have to start somewhere. Just ask the Lord to purify your love. Constantly pray, “Lord, purify my heart,” and He will.”

I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the couch. The sister’s chapel appears on the inside of my eyelids. On the wall behind the altar is a crucified Jesus, with the words “I thirst” written next to Him. I thirst. Two of Jesus’ last words. How do I satisfy the thirst of Jesus?

Transposed on top of Christ crucified, I see the children sprawled in their beds, arms and legs twisted. Their forms mimic the shape of Jesus on the cross.

He asks me, “Here, in the poorest of the poor, will you love me? Will you satisfy my thirst?“

Will I tend not just to the poor here in Mexico City but also to the poor at home in Alaska, the poor in faith, hope, and love? Will I love the old lady at church who is lonely and wants to talk? The person who gets on my nerves? The cashier at the grocery store? My coworkers?

I stand up with the little boy in my arms. His food bag is empty, and he is fast asleep. I put him in his crib and gently close the door while Mother Teresa’s words play in my head.

“Stay where you are. Find your own Calcutta. Find the sick, the suffering, and the lonely right where you are.”