“I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing god who is sending a love letter to the world.”– Mother Theresa.
The best thing I could accomplish as a writer is to make the world a better place.
Mother Theresaʼs life was that love letter, penned so fully, with such grace. I saw her only once, smiling her beatific, compassionate smile, leaning over and lightly touching the face of an old man on the porch of her home for the dying in Kalkotta.
A tiny slip of a being inside a voluminous white linen sari edged with the blue stripe of her order, her energy was electric; she drew my eye away from the chaos of the busy street right to her while I whizzed by in a bicycle rickshaw.
In the weeks I was in Kolkatta I tried to have private audience, but she was always busy with service, a calm whirlwind of hard work, totally focussed on who was before her. She favored this to private meetings.
On one of my in-and-outs to the city I couldnʼt find lodging at the usual places. A French woman on the street offered to share her room.
She shepherded orphans from Mother Theresaʼs orphanage to eagerly waiting French families.
She spoke of the extremes of getting on a plane in dirty, hot, sticky Kolkatta with babies and alighting in Paris, placing the babies into the arms of well-dressed families. I was lulled to sleep listening to stories about “The Mother” in my hostʼs soft voice.
Iʼve chosen this as my first blog because my experiences in India were so profound that theyʼve shaped my life.