Several years ago, a woman came to the office. She wasn’t a Christian, wasn’t practicing any sort of faith at the time, not the faith of her birth. She wasn’t from around here, not even from this country. She was here for her husband, for his education and their better life.

But it wasn’t a better life, not for her at least. Sparing details, suffice it to say her world was unraveling. Frightened and alone she had no one to turn to; she didn’t know what to do. She lived around here, and so all she could think of in desperation was to walk to St. Rita on a random, idle afternoon and ask to talk to someone. Which is how she came to us, unable to think of anything else.

Again, sparing details, sitting her down in my office, all I did was listen. Offering a few words of encouragement, suggesting a few resources, really the most important thing I did was sit and listen with empathy. Alone in her circumstances, I got the sense she hadn’t been listened to in a very long time. We spent about an hour together, not solving anything, just talking. There was very little I could do for her but listen.

I walked with her to the parking lot. As I said she wasn’t Christian. She had come to us because she had thought that since we were religious, we’d listen to her. She was grateful we had, she said.

Walking by the church, it dawned on me for some reason to tell her about St. Rita, about her very difficult life, a life still strangely beautiful for the hope she never lost. “Oh, you should know about St. Rita,” I said, and in just a minute or two I told her the story of the saint. Listening, her eyes were intent as they filled with tears. She smiled and looked at the church and asked if she could go inside and be alone. I don’t think she thought of it as prayer; she just wanted to go inside and sit a while.

I smiled and said of course. I told her where the icon of St. Rita was and that we were here for her if she needed us. I told her we’d pray. And then we shook hands, and she went inside to be alone. That is, to be with God and St. Rita whether she realized it or not.

Now I think of her, this weary random woman, every Feast of St. Rita, every May 22. Not particularly a profound moment, certainly not miraculous, still, it’s an encounter which has stayed with me and which has taught me what it means to be a Catholic at St. Rita in Dallas.

In our Parish Prayer we ask the Lord to “build us into a community of mercy, compassion, and forgiveness.” Trusting in the intercession of St. Rita, we ask the Lord to be present among us. This is what I think that prayer looks like answered: we being the sort of community that people around us—whomever they are—know instinctively to be a community of empathy and openness, a community open to anyone who needs to come, a community that listens and which is a place of compassion, silence, and even prayer. Again, for all. Because, quite simply, God is for all.

We are, of course, by no means a perfect community. I am undoubtedly far from perfect too, barely a passable priest a lot of the time. Nonetheless, it’s what we struggle for: to be a Catholic community of openness and compassion, of mercy and forgiveness. Our hope, our prayer, our work is to become each day a community more perfectly formed in the fullness of faith, the Catholic faith of Jesus Christ. Understanding that our faith in Jesus only perfects the love we have for all those around us, our prayer is to be more like Christ to others, to be St. Rita to others.

Gathering all, worshiping the God in Christ, serving all, renewing all: that’s our vision, to be the sort of people who are there for others, for those who wander in because they assume we’re people of love and hope.

And so, have a blessed Feast of St. Rita! Thank you for all you are and do! Thank you for your love and your prayers for our clergy and fellow ministers and staff. We are all blessed to serve. Pray that we can serve you better. Pray for us as we pray for you!

Let’s be St. Rita to each other. St. Rita, pray for us!