It's refrigerator cleaning day today. Every Wednesday, I go through this ritual of cleaning it out, reorganizing, wiping it down. And every Wednesday I find a "surprise," some food worth saving when we first put it in there, but now well past its usefulness and/or its appeal. And I pitch it. And then, I feel guilty. Every Wednesday, there is this chore and the distasteful reminder of my own poor stewardship.
We live in a land of plenty. My children "fast" on Fridays and are surprised by the growls in their tummies. They don't know hunger at all. And neither do I. My husband is blessed with a good job, goes to work faithfully and deposits money in our checking account. And then, I make a once-a-week trip to Costco and smile at people who wonder why this lady always looks like she's shopping for a restaurant, but shops with two little girls in her cart and a bunch of boys of varied sizes trailing behind. We are not hungry. Or are we?
Mother Teresa writes, "We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty." I am certain that as we reflect upon her words, we think that no one in our homes feels unwanted, unloved or uncared for. But then, I pause and think again. Ever? Do they ever feel that way?
When my teenager comes in to tell me some big soccer news about a team across the ocean for which I have no interest and I don't even take my eyes from the computer screen or the laundry I'm folding, how does he feel? In that moment, is he uncared for? When my five-year-old brings me a stack of seven picture books and asks if I'll sit right now and read them all to her, do I barter down to two? And in my success, do I convey that I really don't want to spend more time with her? When my husband comes in at the end of a long day, do I give him an absent-minded kiss, hand him a warmed over plate, and head off to give the little ones a bath — all without ever really looking at him or asking how the day went? Might he feel just a little unloved in that moment?
We are impoverished by our things — by our plenty, by our busyness, by our worldly success. And those things which impoverish us threaten to destroy our families, our lives and our souls. They threaten to destroy our children. We think of the work of Mother Teresa in the slums of Calcutta as very hard work. And it was. But she knew that the work to be done by American women in American homes was just as hard. She knew that we face a real and present danger, a poverty of souls. And we have formidable burdens to overcome in order to defeat this poverty.
We are called to do just that — moment by moment, we are called to sanctify time with our loved ones and to ensure that no one goes unwanted, unloved and uncared for. We can do this task, this enormous mission of love, if we sanctify each moment and beg for the grace to serve just as the little nun in India served.
