Column: So Easy to Love

Jodi, Lily, and I are just back from visiting Gabriel, who is discerning religious life with the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal (CFRs) in New York City. He is currently living at St. Joseph’s Friary in Harlem. The friary and guest house span two well-worn brownstones on 142nd Street, surrounded by other tall rectangular brick homes of the same era, some operating as rundown rentals, some boarded and empty, and some renovated to fetch premium prices from professionals looking for their own little slice of Manhattan.

The friars are well-known among the lonely and the poor in the neighborhood, and not only by their long, gray habits and sandals. They live simply, own next to nothing, and rely on the unfailing love of God and the generosity of friends and strangers to provide them the means to live and minister. It is not an easy life, and yet they are men of great peace, joy, and laughter. They have walked these streets a long while now, sharing whatever they have with everyone they meet—especially the love of God for all His children.

On Thursday morning, we went with Gabe to the café the CFRs operate on the lower level of the guest house. Three days a week they open the shop to anyone for a cup of coffee and a sandwich, or whatever else the friars have in abundance that day, free of charge.

The regulars are an eclectic mix of literal neighbors who share walls with the friary, lonely locals, wanderers, strays, squatters, and the truly homeless. Some have disabilities, mental health issues, or addictions. Most know each other, and they seem to accept each other as the friars receive all of them—as family. They received us in the same way.

While Jodi, Gabe, and Lily chat with a few of the more talkative neighbors, I sit near the wall with T, who is quietly eating her sandwich. She has black corduroy cap similar to my gray Polish hat, and I tell her I like it. We make small talk for a bit, and each time the conversation ebbs, she peers at me with small, dark eyes and offers a little smile.

Her voice is low for a woman’s, tinged with both toughness and sorrow. She tells me people used to make fun of her for having a man’s voice, but the brothers (the friars) told her she had a woman’s voice. I let her know I agree—it’s low, but very much a woman’s.

She tells me she never used to be able to sing, but recently won a karaoke contest—she regards it as a gift from God. I tell her that blues singers sometimes say you can’t sing the blues until you have the blues—that maybe it takes joy or sorrow to bring the gift out of us. She smiles again and says, “I think maybe you’re right.”

I ask if she has anything else going on that afternoon, and she tells me she visits her mom every day at a nursing home nearby. She worries about her mom’s mental and physical well-being, and it’s hard to know how to help her. I tell her about losing my dad, slowly to Parkinson’s and dementia, then quickly to cancer. She says she’s sorry; that had to be hard. I tell her I know what she is going through, and she’s a good person for continuing to care for and visit her mom. I ask her mom’s name. C, she says. I tell her I’ll pray for them both, and she says she’ll pray for us too.

Then another postulant arrived in the café with his family, and it was time for us to go. I tell T how good it was to meet her. In every quiet moment since, I’ve thought about her.

Love your neighbor, says the Lord, and we pretend it’s a hard commandment. But it doesn’t have to be, does it? I opened with, “I like your hat—I have one a lot like it.”

How do we love the “easy” ones—our friends and family? We welcome them in, give them a bite to eat and something to drink, and talk to them. We let them know that they matter. That we care.

That, above all, is what everyone needs most—to be treated like people who matter. It’s not hard to love. It’s so easy—and we’re made for it.