The window by my kitchen table opens onto the street, and the bus stop is almost at my doorstep. So I see many people passing by. Some stop to ask me a question; and others ask for food or help. Some even enter, every now and then, to partake of the food which God in his mercy has sent me.

Like the day I heard a familiar clapping and calling at my gate. Some workers, employed by the city, were cutting the grass and cleaning up the park next to the church grounds. Two of them came and politely asked me if I would give them some lunch. Their meager salaries did not cover buying their lunches, they said, and they had left home too early to have had time to fix something for themselves.

Giving a nervous glance at the size and stature of my two new friends, I pulled out plates and cups. Then I invited them in and gave them some rice and beans. We chatted together amiably while they ate. But when they mentioned that there were two other men who also needed lunch, I decided that these two others could eat elsewhere.

People ask me what I do. I asked my directors at Madonna House this same question. Their response: “Not much!” Dear friends, this “not much” takes an incredible amount of work! There are always clothes to wash, the house to clean, cats and a chicken to feed. (Yes, there is a chicken here, not my choice, but that’s a long story.)

And, of course, there are visits to the numerous friends the staff of MH Brazil left behind. Plus I help at the parish soup kitchen one afternoon a week, clean the church whenever they are short-handed, offer hospitality to a prayer group once a month, give a talk now and then, answer letters, chitchat with the neighbors, etc., etc., etc.

I “do nothing” and yet do everything. But, most important, of all I listen.

Listen to the Spirit. Listen to the duty of the moment, listen to the breath and heartbeat of each new day, listen to the man who watches over the cars during evening Masses, listen to the parents concerned about their children losing their faith, listen to the woman losing her husband, listen to the young people searching for their vocations.

Listen to the Spirit. Should I visit this person or that one? Go there for lunch again, or stay home? Give this food to this family or that one? Listen, listen, listen.

As I listen, silence is growing in me when I let it.

Everything is so much closer now. The tear-reddened eyes of someone in the communion line, the baby wailing next door, the street vendors selling their wares.

And then there are those whom people call “street people,” or “bums,” but whom we of Madonna House call “Brothers Christopher,” bearers of Christ.

One day when I was out raking the yard, I saw, through the bars in my gate, a pair of bare feet and a few small scattered items lying on and next to a ripped plastic bag.

Then I saw the man. Though it was early in the day, he was so hungover he couldn’t stand up. There he stayed, by my entrance, for most of the day.

My friends came and went. I left some bread and water for him next to his small pile of treasures: sandals, a cap, and several empty beer cans, which he had probably collected for deposit.

He finally got up, and, little by little, he made his way up the street until he managed to cross it. There on the other side, he lay on the steps of the church and slept some more.

Concerned about him losing his possessions, I gathered them up and went to him.

I offered him the water , and tried asking him how he was. Finally, he looked up at me.

“Você é da Igreja? Are you of the Church?” he asked. “Sou, sim. Yes, I am,” I answered. “Católica?” “Sou. Yes, I am a Catholic.” He nodded.

Since I could do no more for him, I started to leave. He stirred. He offered profuse words of gratitude, prayers for many blessings for me, and an extended hand.

We shook hands, and he fell asleep again. I went back home.

“Are you of the Church?” His question had touched me. Many people ask me that since I live next to the parish church.

When you live by the church, you get questions like, “What time is Mass?” “Will there be baptisms this Sunday?” “Are you a nun?” “Will you pray for my grandson?”

But the deepest questions are, “Are you Catholic? Are you of the Church?” Before this question from my drunken friend, I had been feeling like a “useless servant.” But actually I was “the unprofitable servant” in the Gospel (Lk 17:10). I was only doing what I was supposed to do—what anyone “of the Church” should do.

What touched me was that this man recognized what people “of the Church” do. They go out to those sleeping on the steps of the church—those who can’t, on their own, make it into the church. They go out to them. “People of the Church” are the unprofitable servants—only doing what they are supposed to do.

People “go out” to me as well. They bring gifts of food and clothing, and offers of support. They quietly slip money into my back pocket.

One couple in the parish, who have taken me on as “their daughter,” bring groceries, friendship, and requests for prayers.

And then there is Carminha, a woman from a simple background, who has worked hard all her life. Her house is open to all who pass by including this lonely consecrated lay pilgrim on her first Sunday in the parish. She, too, has “adopted” me.

So many, in fact, have opened their hearts and homes to me. What more could I ask for?

What I have come to is not Mt. Zion and the city of the living God (Heb 12:22), but Nazareth, the neighborhood of the hidden God—and the marketplace.

The Little Mandate, which contains MH spirituality, says, “Go into the marketplace and stay with Me.” How can I not? Here in this “marketplace,” God’s presence overwhelms me. His pain in his people is all around me, and his joy sustains me. And I feel the presence of Our Lady in an extraordinary way.

On New Year’s Eve as I watched the fireworks with one of the families which has opened its doors to me, I  stood with tears in my eyes marveling at God’s ways. For so many reasons, for so many blessings, for so many wonders, my heart is filled with gratitude.

Oh yes, are you wondering where the two other city workers ended up eating? At Carminha’s, of course!