Treasuring the Sweetness of Life

May the eyes of [your] hearts be enlightened, that you may know what is the hope that belongs to his call, what are the riches of glory in his inheritance among the holy ones. Ephesians 1:18

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I slept in one Saturday morning and then headed out to Chinatown in Chicago with my housemates and companions. We rode the bus, explored stores and restaurants, and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the neighborhood. One of my companions was especially excited because this was her first time using public transportation since arriving in the United States.

I enjoyed hearing her speak Chinese and Cantonese with the people in the markets. We missed mass in Chinatown, but we saw a parade bringing awareness of events in China and honoring the memories of loved ones. As I watched, I became aware of how little I know about many situations happening around the world—political, social, ecological, and otherwise. If it doesn’t appear in the

newsfeed on my phone, I probably don’t know about it.

We continued walking and eventually arrived at another marketplace area bustling with people, lights, sounds, and delicious fragrances. We stopped at an ice-cream shop, and I decided to have a special treat. We squeezed our way inside, found some seats near the wall, and waited while two of my companions placed our orders.

My treat for the day was a decadent ube-flavored ice cream in a fish-

shaped waffle cone, taiyaki, topped with mochi candy. I was marveling at

the delicious creation in front of me when a little boy selling artificial

roses suddenly appeared and stood right next to me.

His face and big brown eyes came up to about the height of the table where I was sitting. He looked to be about five or six years old. He reminded me of a child who had stepped right out of an old movie, playing the part of a little street peddler. If you have ever seen the film Marcelino, pan y vino, imagine that same kind of face and character. He had a tan complexion, straight brown hair with bangs coming down to his eyebrows, and a round face. He seemed thin, and his clothes looked a little too big for him. His blue jacket buttoned up to his chin, and the sleeves were a little too long for his arms. Those arms were filled with a bunch of artificial flowers.

At that moment, he reminded me of my niece when she was young. More than thirty years ago, she would sometimes appear next to me while I was sitting at our kitchen table eating something sweet. The same big brown eyes would look at me over the top of the table. I smiled at the memory.

I glanced from the little boy to my companions

and back again, and asked, “How

much?” He raised five small fingers. Sold! I chuckled to myself and fished in my pocket for some cash. I inspected the flowers before choosing. One of my companions noticed the little teddy bears attached to some of them and said, “Oh, look! Some of the flowers have teddy bears. Get one of those.”

I carefully picked out two roses and gave the boy the money. He smiled briefly and, in the faintest of voices he said, “Thank you.”

I turned to place the roses on the table, and in that instant, he disappeared into the

crowd. I couldn’t even tell which direction he had gone.

All day I kept wondering: Where did he go? Was he OK? What was I supposed to learn from this encounter? Why did this little moment stay with me?

The memory of my young niece at the kitchen table is more than thirty years old, yet the parallels to what happened in the ice cream shop were striking. In both moments, I was occupied with what was immediately in front of me. I was enjoying something sweet, absorbed in my own experience, while someone was standing nearby asking to be noticed.

My niece simply wanted a taste of what I was eating. I was so focused on my dessert that I didn’t notice her right away.

In Chicago, I was enjoying something else: a day of freedom, movement, exploration, and companionship. I could get on a bus, walk through the streets, enter a restaurant, choose what I wanted to eat, and enjoy the day according to my own plans. Then, quite unexpectedly, a little boy stood beside me.

I don’t know his story, and I don’t want to pretend that I do. But his presence interrupted my comfortable little world. For a brief moment, I had to look up from what was in front of me and pay attention to the person standing beside me.

Perhaps that is part of what I am being invited to learn. The parade earlier that day had already reminded me that there are stories and struggles in the world that I may never encounter through my phone’s newsfeed. Then this little boy gave that realization a face. He reminded me that the world is not something I can understand simply by reading about it. Sometimes it comes and stands right beside me.

Every person carries a story I do not know. Every community has burdens and joys that may be invisible to me. If my attention remains fixed on myself, my plans, my comfort, or even my own spiritual concerns, I can miss the opportunities

for encounter that God places directly in my path.

And perhaps that is the greater invitation of this little encounter as I live this novitiate

year.

I am entering a time of learning how to see differently. Dominican life calls me to

contemplation, study, community, and mission, but those things begin with attention. I cannot preach what I have not noticed. I cannot accompany people I have not taken the time to see. I cannot encounter God only in the places where I expect God to be.

God has a way of catching me off guard and surprising me. The surprises are not

always pleasant or easy, but they often leave an impression.

This year at ICCN, I will have opportunities for volunteer ministry with people whose

lives and experiences may be very different from my own. I hope I can carry the

memory of the little boy with the artificial flowers with me—not as a story about him,

because I do not know his story, but as a reminder about myself.

Pay attention. Look up. Notice who is standing beside you. Listen before assuming you know. Let yourself be interrupted.

Perhaps this is one way the eyes of my heart are being enlightened: learning to

recognize that the sweetness of life is not found only in the moments I have planned or the treats I have chosen for myself. Sometimes the sweetness is discovered in an unexpected encounter, in a brief exchange, in a face that appears and disappears almost as quickly as it came.

And sometimes, if I am paying attention, I may discover that God was there all along.

Sister Elizabeth Guerrero

Novice Adrian Dominican Sisters