A Story of Faith, Poverty, and Love in the Heart of the City
The day after I made my first religious profession, a friend invited me to visit a nearby museum. It was a quiet morning. I boarded the metro—almost full—and stood with my attention on my phone, like everyone else. My thoughts were on the museum. Nothing felt out of the ordinary.
But then, I noticed a woman standing nearby—perhaps in her early thirties, though her tired face made her look much older. She looked unwell. Still, like a typical city commuter, I turned away. It wasn’t my problem.
“It’s for my son… Please don’t be angry with me.”
At the next stop, some people got off. More came in. As the train moved again, the woman took a deep breath and began to speak aloud.
“Please, I need help—anything you can give. My son is in the hospital and needs surgery.”
No one looked at her. I avoided her eyes, hoping she would move on. The whole train seemed to enter a collective silence—as if we were pretending she didn’t exist.
She spoke again, louder this time:
“I know some of you are tired of people begging in the streets, in the metro. I understand your doubt—if I heard my story, I’d be skeptical too. But I’m only doing this for my son. If you don’t want to help, that’s okay. Just please don’t be angry. I’m only doing this because I have no choice.”
A Wake-Up Call
Her words hit me like lightning. Just the day before, I had professed a vow of poverty, promising to live like Christ—trusting in God’s providence and loving the poor. And here I was, standing before real poverty, shutting my eyes to it.
Then, I heard it—the quiet jingle of coins. A few people had been moved. I was too.
I stepped forward and handed her fifty pesos—just about one euro. A small gesture, more to quiet my conscience than anything else.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. I’m sorry for the disturbance. It’s all in God’s hands now,” she said as she got off at the next station.
Silence That Speaks
Even after she left, the silence remained in the train car. No one said a word. But I knew—I had been changed.
That woman gave me far more than I gave her.
She gave everything for love. She showed strength in her vulnerability. And I, who had just promised to live in the love of Christ, hesitated to give even a little.
The Faith of a Mother
This ordinary moment left a deep spiritual impact on me. That woman taught me more about faith than many lectures or books ever could. She showed me:
- How to believe while suffering
- How to love while being humiliated
- How to hope in the face of despair
I don’t know if she’s Christian. But she radiated a profound trust—the kind of faith that rises when there’s nothing left to rely on. She had the hope of someone who has no control, yet keeps going. And her love for her son gave her a strength I lacked, even in my religious commitment.
In her weakness, she was stronger than all of us.
When Theology Becomes Flesh
This encounter reframed my understanding of the theological virtues—faith, hope, and love—not as abstract ideas, but as living realities.
As Christians, we believe in a God who became flesh, who entered our everyday world. And so, our faith must also be incarnated—not just professed in words, but lived in every moment, even in uncomfortable places like metro cars.
Here’s what I realized:
- Faith isn’t just belief (fides quae); it’s trust (fides qua)—a surrender to God.
- Hope is not naïve optimism, but the courage to wait on God when we’ve lost control.
- Love is not sentimentality—it’s self-gift. And only divine love, agape, can empower us to love without limits.
And all this is what sustains the vows I professed—poverty, chastity, obedience, and fidelity. I can only live these vows authentically through faith, hope, and charity—gifts from God, not achievements of my own will.
A Shared Encounter with Grace
I don’t know what happened to the others on that train. But I’m sure we were all moved—quietly—by the witness of that mother. Her simple words and presence created a shared spiritual experience, a moment of ekklesía, of communion.
Her faith wasn’t loud, but it was real.
Her hope wasn’t flashy, but it held fast.
Her love wasn’t polished, but it was pure.
And the truth is—my fifty pesos meant nothing compared to what she gave me:
A glimpse of God in a moment of weakness. A living testimony of the theological virtues. A lesson in what it means to live the Gospel.
