On the October Sunday that the Roman Catholic Church beatified Mother Teresa in its process of bestowing sainthood on her, we stopped for breakfast at a small cafe in the North Georgia mountains. At peak season for fall colors, the cozy restaurant was full of tourists invigorated by the cool mountain air and spectacular vistas.
In the midst of this lively bunch, a lone man, neither young nor old, entered and sat down at a back booth with a cup of coffee. When he lit a cigarette, the couple nearest him picked up their food and moved to one of the few vacant tables farther away. For long minutes, he continued to sit, smoke, sip his coffee and ignore the furtive glances from other patrons.
No one else in the restaurant, toasty warm from the press of the milling crowd, was smoking. If they had been when we entered, we would have left. However, as I watched this scene across the room, I noticed that the walls were void of “No Smoking” signs.
I’ve heard smokers talk about the great pleasure that a cigarette with the first cup of coffee in the morning brings them. Truly, the man savored the taste of each as he sat there oblivious to those around him. When the waitress brought him a “to go” order, he stubbed out his smoke. He took a final swallow from his cup, picked up his sack, walked to the coffee bar where he poured coffee into a disposable cup and left. One could almost hear the collective sigh when he opened the door and a rush of cold air blew into the small room, helping to clear the lingering smoke.
Many people go through life very much aware of the creature comforts which bring us momentarily gratification - that first cup of coffee in the morning, an ice cold glass of water on a hot summer day, a warm shower at the end of a long day, our own soft pillow as we lay our heads down. I once heard an artist explain the rush of pleasure that occurs for her just as she begins to mix paints to start a new canvas. Yet, others plow through each tedious day after another, not even renewed by a good night’s sleep.
And then there are those who can savor the small pleasures in life, like the smoker in this crowded restaurant, but who also, consciously or unconsciously, remain oblivious to the discomfort they may cause others. Rather than deviate their course, holding firmly to their rights, they bump into us in crowded hallways; whip into a parking space that we’ve waited, at a courteous distance, to be vacated; talk much too loudly in public places.
I witnessed a total disregard for others from a man standing behind me in a line to view a JFK exhibit in Dallas last year. During the entire time that we walked in line through the three-story exhibit, he conducted business on his cell phone. He was loud, rude and insulting, not only to the person at the other end of the call, but to all of us within hearing range of his tantrums. What a distraction in the midst of a somber collection of historic memorabilia. If the call had been so very important that he could not wait, he should have stepped away from the crowd early on. Otherwise, the conversation could have waited until the tour ended. Yes, cell phones can be an asset to many people. Consideration of others can be, too.
Whenever anyone interviewed Mother Teresa, very small in statue, about her lifelong work with the ill, the indigent, the outcast in India, she replied, “I just do small things with great love.”
Almost a century earlier, British poet G. K. Chesterton pointed out the difficulty of being faithful to such a philosophy. “Man seems to be capable of great virtues, but not of small virtues; capable of defying his torturer, but not of keeping his temper.”
In Circle of Friends, Maeve Binchy says, “What people do is important, not what they say or feel.”
Although few of us dedicate our lives to the caring for others as Mother Teresa did, all of us can take to heart her words and learn from those of Chesterton. Few ever achieve world renown, but all of us can attend to small considerations with great love. As we begin a new year, perhaps conscious concern for the people around us, the ones we know and the ones we merely encounter in passing, should top our “to do” list.
2003
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