“Love means to love that which is unlovable; or it is no virtue at all.” – G.K. Chesterton
I can remember one act of charity God inspired me to do while I was still a novice; … I used to kneel just behind Sister St. Peter at evening prayers, and I knew that at ten minutes to six trouble was coming to somebody, because she had got to be piloted into the refectory. It cost me something to make the offer, because I knew poor Sister St. Peter wasn’t easy to please; she was very ill, and didn’t like having a change of guides. But it seemed too good an opportunity to be missed; what did our Lord say about charity? He told us that if we did anything for the most insignificant of his brethren, we should be doing it for him…. Every evening, the moment I saw Sister St. Peter shaking her hour-glass at me, I knew that meant: Let’s go.”
You wouldn’t believe how much I minded being disturbed in this way, at first anyhow. But I lost no time in making a start, and we had to make a real ceremony of it. I had to move the bench and carry it away just so, without any sign of hurry–that was important–and then the procession began. The thing was to walk behind the poor invalid holding her up by her girdle; I did this as gently as I could manage, but if by some piece of bad luck she stumbled, she was down on me at once–I wasn’t holding her properly, and she might easily fall: “Heavens, girl, you’re going too fast; I shall do myself an injury.” Then, if I tried to walk still slower, it was: “Here, why aren’t you keeping up with me? Where’s your hand? I can’t feel it, you must have let go. I shall fall, I know I shall. How right I was when I told them you were too young to look after me!”
We would get to the refectory at last, without accidents. There were more obstacles to be got over; Sister St. Peter had to be steered into a sitting position, with the greatest possible care, so as not to hurt her. Then her sleeves had to be turned up, again in a particular way; then I could take myself off. But I noticed before long the difficulty she had, with her poor crippled hands, about arranging the bread in her bowl; so that was another little thing to do before I left her. She hadn’t asked me to do it, so she was greatly touched by having this attention paid to her; and it was this action (on which I’d bestowed no thought at all) that established me firmly in her favour.
There was something even more important, though I only heard about it later; when I’d finished cutting her bread I gave her, before I left, my best smile. (St. Theresa of Lisieux, Story of a Soul)
