Welcome to Fantasy Island
The welcome/orientation for Missionaries of Charity was mostly a list of do's and don'ts, which is appreciated. Some of them are common sense (Be sensitive to and aware of your health; wear gloves as appropriate) and some of them are known only to the street-wise (If a woman beggar asks you to buy her powdered milk for her baby, be sure and empty the powder into another container. Otherwise, she'll go around the corner with the original canister/packaging and sell it to someone else for money).
After orientation, I was invited to attend Mass. I've attended Catholic Mass before, and mostly I experienced it to be quite sterile, mostly rote ritual. All participants remove their shoes upon entering the chapel, which is actually just a plain room with many written quotes from Mother Teresa, and of course pictures of her and of the Pope. Four priests were readying themselves for the service and the sisters began filing in. I noticed two things right away: a large painting of Jesus on the cross with the words "I Thirst" written below, and a large marble block of sorts nearly in the middle of the room, with flowers, lighted candles and a big rosary atop it. The next moments were a daze for me: I inspected the marble block closer to discover this was not just a marble block; it was the casket of Mother Teresa herself. The headstone, on which one might expect fanciful words describing her character and an eloquent litany of her many accomplishments, simply said "Mother Teresa, MC, 1910-1997. 'Love one another as I have loved you.' St. John 15:2." Then I heard singing: it was the sisters. I turned around and there they were, all of them in the familiar Missionary of Charity white saris with blue stripes; saris I'd seen in pictures but never in person. The sisters were so small! And together, gathered in community to praise God, they were . . . beautiful. "Lose yourself in me and you will find yourself, and you will live, yes you will live in my love" went the song, the words floating lingering among the participants. It hit me all in one overwhelming moment: these saris spoke simplicity, serenity, humility. The sisters sang with no accompanying instruments, and clearly none of the sisters had had any formal vocal training. And yet their soft, simple voices rose to communicate with their Lord. These women, their clean white/blue saris, the fragrance of the flowers, the casket, the big painting of Jesus dying and "I Thirst" . . . my face felt hot and my eyes welled up with tears. I was moved, and those tears were tears of a connection. For the first time in a long time I felt at home with Jesus, and my tears conveyed how happy I was to be there, to feel as if resting in a warm embrace.
