Purpose of Life

When I am tempted to despair by the lapping waves creeping higher on the shores of Atlantis, I sometimes will remember an image from the Star Wars films. All the members of the cadre are captured by Darth Vader at the Cloud City mining facility, and some are being tortured; all in the attempt to draw Luke Skywalker to their assistance ... and into a trap.

Chewbacca the wookiee has just undergone a form of sonic torture. When it relents, he picks up box of pieces formerly C3PO, to begin the process of putting the android back together. No praise expected. No hoopla. No glory. Just helping, though he is probably still hurting.

I thought of this when I read a poignant entry at Saint Austin Review's Ink Desk:

“I didn’t know you had a lawn service,” I say to my sister.

We are sitting at the breakfast table in her home in Oklahoma City with the unmistakable roar of a mower in the background. “It’s the neighbors,” she replies.

Turns out her neighbors come over and mow and weed whack without being asked.

Normally her husband would do all this, but my brother-in-law has been diagnosed with cancer and can’t do what he once did.

Frankly, I am stunned by this degree of neighborly love.

At Mass each Sunday I say a prayer asking God’s forgiveness for “what I have done and what I have failed to do.” The latter list in my case seems long, especially when it comes to helping people who have not asked for assistance.

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