It wasn't just another trip to the altar or the post office

Sitting on the pew, I looked across the catherdral and saw an old crippled woman struggling with the help of the priest to get onto the altar for holy communion. And it reminded me of the two images I will never forget. One of them was looking at fragile old men and women, strapped on wheelchairs and assisted breathing equipments, use every last fibre of their bodily strength to get to the altar for communion. They could have asked for it to be brought down to them. But to them communion was more than just a piece of waffle and grape juice. When I saw their shaking frames inching towards the altar, I broke down in tears.

My second reality mise en scene was at the dingy united states postal service post office in philly, me getting extremely impatient waiting for the clerk to finish stamping my parcels. I looked across at the counter next to mine, and a shabbily dressed African-American man with an old backpack approached the counter. He smiled and asked for a sheet of stamps with children's storybook characters on them. He slowly counted the money in his old tatty wallet and put down a bundle of coins. He held the row of stamps in his hands so tightly with the glee of a child after christmas, and broke into a contented smile. I don't know why he wanted those stamps. But he waited in line just for them for a long time, and looked like he saved up for them for an even longer time. I bought the same row of stamps as he did and pinned it up on my wall to remind myself about him. It reminds me that it's more than just money. In this fast food middle class bubble that I live in, I take religion, communion, simple things, time, relationships and life for granted. I am thankful I don't have to struggle for them. But without struggle, they stopped becoming meaningful to me. When money can buy everything, it stops being able to buy happiness?

What the visiting priest from Uganda said yesterday made sense, money can buy a bed and mattress, but it cannot buy sleep.