Friday June 17, 2016.
This morning, I had woken promptly at 6:30am, just before my alarm which was set to go off in ten minutes. It was at this moment that I could have sworn my bed had turned into quicksand and although I knew it would take some time for me to get back to sleep, I just did not want to get up. I closed my eyes and told myself I would wait for my alarm, and of course by the time it had gone off, I had sunk even deeper.
I had let another 5 minutes pass by before I told myself that it was “now or never” and trudged to the bathroom. After brushing my teeth and washing my face, I realized that Mass was starting in 6 minutes and in the back of my mind I heard a voice say “you’ll be late, don’t bother going.” I was so close to conceding, but instead I pulled myself away and slid into my sandals, buckled down and thought, “If I leave now and walk quickly, I can make it.”
Even when I was halfway to the church, I heard it again, “Why are you going?” and I felt this pull, honestly, it was like an actual internal pull telling me not to go. I felt it twice, the second being stronger than the first, and I replied and told the voice, “You must be scared today. There must be something waiting for me at Mass. Unfortunately for you, God is always with me.” And I walked on. After I said this, I felt a shudder, and then it disappeared.
I got to Mass only a few lines late, and I took a seat just at the back. This Mass happens twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, with the Franciscan Missionaries of Mary. What a joy it had been to receive the Eucharist so early in the morning! Then when it was done, I decided to sit in my seat and wait…
One of the sisters I had been introduced to about a month and a half ago approached me and asked if I wanted to have breakfast with them. As we walked the corridors, she introduced me to each sister we passed, and each and every time they greeted me with this bright, welcoming smile, like they already knew me and were so glad to see me again. Their face lit up hearing I was a missionary, and somehow, in that moment, our souls seemed to acknowledge each other, kindred spirits, a nod between fellow labourers in the same vineyard.
Sister Rita was the sister who first approached, and she touted over me in a way only a mother could. Carrying my bowl to my seat although I insisted I was alright, and it was in the simplicity of her kindness that I was left… not feeling unworthy or embarrassed, but feeling in awe that someone her age could never tire of service to others, even with the simplest of things.
I had sat with her and Sister Carolina (I’m horrible with names, so expect an edit once I go back next Tuesday and meet them once more), and when I took my seat in front of a bowl of cereal, Sr. Rita smiled and said, “Tell us anything. About the mission, about your life in Canada, anything you like!” I laughed and delved into simple conversation. What I was more interested in was hearing their stories. How did you come to be here? What is it that you do?
My heart was unprepared for the stories and answers they would shortly share. This was mission. They asked whether I was done school, and I replied yes, and Sr. Rita asked from which university I had graduated from. “Oh, uhm.. Carleton..”, I replied, unsure if she had ever heard of it. It surprised me then when she smiled and nodded in acknowledgement, “Ah yes, I lived in Canada for 15 years, most was in Ottawa. I went to University of Ottawa and St. Paul’s College.” Amazing, I thought. But it didn’t stop there. She had studied Psychology and was sent on mission allover the world, the latest place was only last year, where she worked with people with addictions here in Malta. Wow, I thought to myself; I too finished in Psychology and worked with women with addictions who were involved in prostitution. The other Sister also shared a little bit about what she was doing. As Malta is a small island in the Mediterranean, it was receiving an influx of refugees from all different sides, and these were the people whom she worked with. I prodded on further about this and she shared that many lived in different housing units, in fact, a large one was just down the street. In my heart, I was amazed again, because just before moving to Malta, I had worked for an organization that served refugees so for 6 months, I learned so much about refugee mental health and other issues pertaining to them. I will always have a heart for those who were displaced and who, despite escaping from a horrible situation, still felt like they didn’t belong or were unwanted in their new home.
They had only grazed over the different missions they were assigned to: working with lepers in the Philippines, with broken families in Canada, with youth in a fancy private school in Ottawa… And as they spoke, each letter of each word was covered in equal parts of humility and love. I’m not exaggerating when I say that as the Lord had gifted me with meeting the hearts of fellow missionaries, my eyes began to well with tears (an overflowing from the joy my heart was experiencing, I know it). What I’m doing is nothing exceptional; one year in Malta pales to a lifetime spent in this kind of missionary service. The Lord was reminding me that if I continue to burn with the right kind of oil, I will not burn out.
The three of us stayed talking well after everyone had cleared the tables and left. As we said goodbye, I told them that I was thankful because the Lord knew I really needed this, as my circle of friends here in Malta is very small and at times being on mission could get lonely.
Oh, what I would have missed if I had chosen to stay in bed.
(June 24, 2016)