Little Gestures

walking in parking lot

Eight years ago, when I came back from making the 30-day retreat, a friend sent me an article about the Spiritual Exercises which featured an arresting still from the film The Mission, in which a priest tied to a cross is sent careening over a waterfall. What had I gotten myself into, she wondered. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I made the Exercises, I told her, to grasp more deeply what I was willing to get myself into. And I assured her that it was unlikely I would find myself a martyr for the faith being tossed over the falls in suburban Philadelphia—no waterfalls here, I laughed.

Sodden with jet-lag, I’ve had a hard time dragging myself to the gym these last weeks. I’m too tired, too overwhelmed with catching up at work after three weeks overseas. Last weekend, as I wound my way through the crowded vestibule of the Y, dodging wet toddlers while digging for my keys in my bag, I looked up to see a man in a wheelchair sitting in a parking space. I’d seen him head out almost 15 minutes ago as I was hitting my last mile on the elliptical. I wondered—for a nanosecond at most—did he need help? Then I found my keys and went out the door, anxious to get home.

The man was still there as I crossed the parking lot, his eyes closed, hands in his lap. I wondered again, oh-so briefly, if he needed help. I hit the unlock button on my keys, and the cascade began: Is it stereotyping to assume that this man needs help because he’s in a wheelchair? Will he be insulted if I approach him? What if he is just waiting for a ride? And surely the staff would notice and help if he needed it, right? And if I did ask, and he did need help, what would I be getting myself into? Would it be more than I had time, energy, or patience for?

I turned around and went back.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

“No, not at all,” he replied cheerily.

“It’s a beautiful day,” I offered.

“Indeed it is,” he said, stretching his arms out and raising his face up to the sun. The image from The Mission suddenly flashed through my mind: a pounding waterfall and arms stretched out, a martyr for the faith plunging into the depths.

There are, it would seem, waterfalls of the metaphorical in suburban Philadelphia. “Faith opens a ‘window’ to the presence and working of the Spirit,” said Pope Francis in his homily in Philadelphia a year ago. “It shows us that…holiness is always tied to little gestures.” A window opened in that Havertown parking lot, through which for a moment I could see the Spirit at work, inviting me to throw myself into the torrents of my anxieties and ask what I might get into.

What have I gotten myself into? No grand cinematic ends, I suspect, but little gestures, small acts of faith, tiny martyrdoms. Give me only your love and your grace, O Lord, that I might have faith enough to take me over these waterfalls, arms outstretched.

About Michelle Francl-Donnay 29 Articles
Michelle Francl-Donnay is the mother of two 20-something sons, a professor of chemistry, an adjunct scholar at the Vatican Observatory, and a regular contributor to Philadelphia Archdiocese’s CatholicPhilly.com, where she writes about the joys and struggles of trying to live a contemplative life in the midst of everyday chaos. Michelle blogs at Quantum Theology.

5 Comments on Little Gestures

  1. Holiness is always tied to little gestures…indeed!
    I have the privilege of volunteering at a cancer center.
    Bringing our patients blankets, coffee, juices, a touch of their hands is indeed a gesture of holiness.
    Joanna

  2. As I read this I thought of an incident that I shared when I spoke at Life Teen on Friday. A gentleman on the subway advised a young woman that she had a hole in her bag and her keys were falling out – a very small act of kindness but it impacted me and probably others as well. I hope it encouraged the youth to reach out to others. I also thought of Saint Mother Theresa:“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love.” Blessings.

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