A Lesson in Humility
by
Alex Domokos
Childhood dreams remain with us as long as we live. They are buried under the routine activities of daily living. As we grow older, we realize that our chances to fulfil our dreams rapidly diminish. Once in a lifetime we all would like to be heroes like those whose lives have deeply influenced others. Therefore, my wife and I felt overjoyed when our dream came true and we were accepted as missionary helpers.
We were sent to help two Oblate fathers in Chile in 1982. I had been called to work as an audio-visual producer, to create slide shows for religious instruction. Soon after our arrival at the harbor city of Iquique in northern Chile, my project ran into difficulties. Films, chemicals, equipment and funds were non-existent. Nevertheless, I made myself useful, working as a maintenance man for the compound. In Canada I had worked for a church goods company where I had learned the skills of statue repair. That job had provided me with ample opportunities for repair work. My wife found it very difficult to adjust to the semi-tropical climate in Chile. Another obstacle was our lack of Spanish. Soon I had doubts about the usefulness of our mission. What on earth were we doing here in this arid corner of the world?
There was only one creature in the compound with whom communication without spoken words was possible. It was Gina, the guard dog. Since the Oblate House covered a large area, the dog was necessary to keep away intruders. Gina was not a vicious dog by nature but by training. She did not tolerate strangers. It was beyond explanation, but right from our first encounter the dog became my best friend. I think she sensed my affection for dogs and she needed love. Beyond looking after her physical needs nobody paid any attention to Gina. I started playing with her and stroked her thick black coat. At the approach of any stranger, her neck hair was menacingly raised and her white fangs were bared, but under the touch of my hand Gina became almost wild with joy. She slept at our bungalow entrance. The workers of the compound were amazed at how obedient and attached that dog became to me. I could control her even without raising my voice, something that nobody else ever could.
Gina had an innate hatred for cats. Along the wall of the compound there were many old sheds where I set up my statue repair shop. Those sheds were used by neighboring cats to bring their kittens into this dangerous world, out of Gina's reach. Gina was intelligent enough to realize that she could catch the kittens only when the door was ajar. Once it happened that I was searching for some material and left the door open. Before I could stop her, she burst in and grabbed the neck of a little blind new-born kitten. The poor thing's loud whining drew my attention.
"GINA," I shouted.
Gina gently placed the kitten right at my foot, her eyes saying, "I was just kidding." Knowing she had done something wrong, she lay low on the ground awaiting a spanking. I took the kitten in my hand and put it on the top of the wall out of Gina's reach. The mother cat soon returned her offspring to safety.
Returning to the solitude of my repair shop, I looked at Gina as she lay at my feet. Suddenly the meaning of this otherwise insignificant event dawned on me. Seeking to do heroic deeds is motivated by pride and self-importance. Maybe I was called to Chile for no greater deed than to save the life of that helpless kitten. Or maybe it was to give love to a love-starved dog. Or perhaps humbly repair some broken statues. That enlightenment made clear to me the meaning of St. Francis' sermon to the animals: "For humans there are no great deeds, only good deeds."
That was my lesson in humility.