When one of our volunteers died, I was surprised to learn that his funeral would be held a month later. I couldn’t help telling my superior -- half-jokingly -- that I disliked this American tradition: “I do not want to lie in a freezer for a month. Just donate whatever organs are good and burn me.”

Then it struck me that my heart is probably no good thanks to its stents, both knees have been operated on, and my neck as well. “Maybe all I can donate is my liver and gall bladder -- I have an excellent production and storage of bile!” I joked.

Bill, another volunteer, overheard me and jumped in: “Yes, brother, lately your writings have been full of bile.”

I pretended to be shocked. “Who? Moi?”

But he wasn’t wrong. I’ve been realizing that the state of the world -- the absurdities, ironies, and corruption -- has been leaving me bitter and cynical. And that is not a good place to remain.

His comment made me pause. If the world was pulling me toward cynicism, perhaps the best antidote was to trace the small lights that had actually filled my year. So, I decided to rummage through my memory and journal and gather the small but meaningful gestures that shaped the past twelve months.

Last January, I had the great blessing of celebrating my mother’s 88th birthday with her and my small family in Malta. During my two-month home visit, my niece gave me access to her Netflix account, so I caught up on movies I had missed over the last four years. Between some trashy series (just to pass the time) and a dozen Bollywood films, I watched the four-part series Adolescence. I won’t spoil anything, but if you work with young people, it is definitely worth watching.

On April 11, as I was coming back from visiting a prison, I received news that Cuong -- whose story I wrote about in the October–December 2024 issue of Magnet, Journey of Hope -- had been granted parole and was finally free… only to be picked up immediately by the Immigration Services of the USA and placed in a detention center, awaiting deportation to who-knows-where.

Amid that discouragement, a completely different kind of grace arrived. A few days later, a friend messaged me saying he had to travel urgently because his father was critically ill, and he offered me two tickets to a concert at the Walt Disney Concert Hall. I had always dreamed of attending a performance there. My dream came true -- though I was in the last row of the last balcony, the acoustics were so perfect that I felt as if I were sitting in the front, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. What an experience!

Yet joy and beauty were quickly met with sorrow. On the 21st of the same month, our dear Pope Francis died. How much I miss him. One never knew what he would say or do next. After his death, many reels and short videos resurfaced, but one moved me to tears: his conversation with the pastor of the only Catholic parish in Gaza. And the very first thing Francis asked him was, “What did you eat today?” It reminded me of my mother’s phone calls when I joined the congregation 36 years ago -- she always began with, “Are you eating? What are you eating?”

In June, I travelled to Guatemala for our regional retreat. I had lived there 20 years ago and had stayed in touch with close friends, including Vico -- a psychologist my age who is now battling cancer. We shared a heartfelt conversation over cups of coffee. I am blessed to have him in my life.

My time in Guatemala, rich with old friendships and deep conversations, also forced me to face the fragility of my own body. I could not finish the retreat because of the excruciating pain caused by two herniated discs in my neck. I had postponed surgery for two years, but now I feared that waiting any longer could cost me the use of my left arm.

So, on July 22, I found myself on the operating table. The day before, I had gone to confession, attended Mass, and received the anointing of the sick. I felt mentally, physically, and spiritually ready. The surgery went well, and when I woke up, the doctor expressed surprise at how quickly I was recovering. I was filled with gratitude.

Just as I was regaining strength, another blessing arrived in the form of familiar faces. About six weeks later, my friends Mimmo and Antonella from Rome visited Los Angeles. We have known each other since 1982, and our friendship has deepened through the years. It was their first time in the United States, and they could not contain their amazement when they saw driverless cars. For the past couple of years, many cars here – Waymos -- have been driving around entirely by computer and are now used as taxis. We decided to try one. Amid nervous laughter and plenty of video-taking, we were shuttled to our destination in a car with no driver. What’s next?

Their wonder at this strange, futuristic Los Angeles also reminded me how much has changed since our community first arrived here 50 years ago. Last October, our community celebrated the 50th anniversary of our presence in the USA. In April 1975, as the fall of Vietnam loomed and evacuation was arranged for the Missionaries of Charity Brothers, a question arose: should the five Western novices -- four Americans and one European -- try to remain together? Brother Andrew, our co-founder, thought they might start a new foundation on the East Coast. But since some friends in Los Angeles offered support, they settled here instead. Over time, other communities opened in the States, but with vocations dwindling and brothers leaving, only our small community of three remains.

Public transport in Los Angeles has become increasingly difficult. Young people put their feet on seats meant for others, loud afrobeats or rancheras blare from Bluetooth speakers, and older men and women with enormous carts of recycling squeeze through the aisles, not to mention the innumerable street people on drugs or doing drugs on the bus.

And yet, even in the places where human frailty is on full display, grace still slips in. One week, as I prepared for another unpleasant trip, a large Black woman sat beside me and gently squashed me against the window. Dressed in plenty of bling, she turned to me and said, “How’s it going?”

“Good,” I murmured. “How about you?”

“I’m so blessed. I’m so grateful to God,” she declared, then listed all her blessings of the day.

When my stop came, I squeezed past her toward the door. She called out, “Have a happy Thanksgiving, and make sure you don’t eat too much!”

She made my day.

Moments like hers make the daily routine feel lighter, even on days when the weather works against us. For the past three days, rain has been pouring nonstop. Today I had to go to Beverly Hills for physical therapy. Half-soaked, I arrived at the same time as a heavy-set Hispanic woman. She carried a bag on her shoulder, held an umbrella, and walked with a crutch across the slippery pavement. I held the door for her, and we struck up a brief conversation. When she told me where she had travelled from, I could hardly believe she had come 40 km each way. How much the poor suffer.

As I met strangers who carried burdens heavier than mine, I found myself quietly reflecting on the years I have been given. Since this article for January has to be submitted by early December, I hope that when it finally appears in print a month from now, I will be able to add: “A few days ago, I celebrated my 60th birthday!”

And here, dear Bill, I reach the beginning of another year without spewing any bile this time.

Blurbs

If the world is pulling me toward cynicism, perhaps the best antidote is to trace the small lights that have actually filled my year.

As I meet strangers who carry burdens heavier than mine, I find myself quietly reflecting on the years (of blessing) I have been given.