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It had been a
week since I moved into my summer apartment in London, Ontario. While
I had already settled into my “home” for the next six weeks, I had not
familiarized myself with the streets, except the route from my
apartment to the University of Western Ontario.
It was Sunday,
and I needed to find a Catholic church. I spotted a few churches
during the week, but those were Anglican and a temple. I asked my
roommate and a woman living in the building, but neither could help me
find a Catholic church.
Eleven o’clock
came, and I decided to walk around the neighborhood. Perhaps within
the hour, I will locate a church and make it to the Sunday service at
noon. Surely there had to be a Catholic church somewhere around
here. I checked the city map, but the building symbol for church did
not indicate the denomination. I arbitrarily picked the closest
symbol on the map and hopefully headed towards that church. It was a
Presbyterian church.
I continued to
walk along that street towards a plaza; perhaps someone there can
guide me. It was 11:40, and I was getting anxious. Along the way, I
caught sight of a middle-aged woman gardening in her front yard.
“Excuse me,
Ma’am!” I politely yelled from the sidewalk, ten feet away. “May I
ask you a question?”
She approached me
so she can hear me clearly.
“I’m sorry for
bothering you,” I said, “but I was wondering if you know of a Catholic
church in the vicinity.”
She thought for a
moment, began to point me into different directions, then told me to
wait while she grabbed a map. She invited me in, but of course, the
Torontonian in me opted to wait on her porch instead. She came out
with a map and similarly pointed at various locations. She paused
pointing to excuse herself for her dirt-stained fingers.
I, meanwhile,
wondered if she knew what she was talking about. The map appeared at
least a decade old, and she was pointing at school symbols instead of
church symbols. She admitted that perhaps the map was old, but she
vowed that there was a St. Pius Catholic Church not too far away. She
was certain because she had attended a wedding there before.
After drawing a
schematic map for me, she said, “You know what, why don’t I just drive
you there. It’ll take just two minutes.”
Before I could
consider her proposal, she yelled into the house, “Honey, I’m just
stepping out for a moment.” She then hollered to her little cocker
spaniel to come along.
Although
initially apprehensive and hesitant, something inside me - call it
intuition - told me that it was all right. I suppose I was so
surprised by her kind offer, that I just thanked her instead. The
drive lasted literally two minutes, and lo and behold - there stood
St. Pius Catholic Church.
In those two
minutes, I learned that she had four children, all of whom were
traveling, planting trees, or were getting married this summer. Her
husband recently suffered from a stroke and was left paralyzed. She
decided to take advantage of the new calm and quietness of her home to
garden, to relax, and to care for her husband.
I was touched by
this woman’s kindness towards me. In such brevity, she had trusted
and had shared a part of herself to me - a complete stranger. I
thanked her repeatedly and was so overcome with joy and gratitude that
I embraced her and her dog. She offered that if I ever needed help
with anything, I knew where to find her. I told her that I
recognized her actions as generous, selfless, and that I appreciated
them very much. She then said that she was meaning to attend mass
that morning, but with the garden so unkempt and much packing to do
for the move next month, she had to miss Anglican service that week.
More exchanges of gratitude followed by goodbyes, then we parted ways.
It was ten till
twelve - whew, barely made it for noon mass. As I sat in the church I
thought, “What a woman. I would not recommend anyone accepting rides
from strangers. I took a big risk doing so. In fact, we both did.
Talk about actions speak louder than words!”
I had just
witnessed the “love thy neighbor” teaching, in a way no church homily
could have done. Alas, I had witnessed that kindness knows no
denominations.
On my walk home,
I purchased a pair of gardening gloves and a thank you note - a
special delivery to the kind woman on my way to church next Sunday.
Sunday, May 20,
2001.
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