St. Vincent de Paul and St. Jane Frances de Chantal are depicted together as feeding the hungry and giving drink to the thirsty for their works of mercy in France in the first half of the 17th century.

Vincent was a smart and well-educated man; his ambition was to become wealthy and live a comfortable life. He was ordained a priest and was named chaplain to the queen, for which he received a generous salary.

One day, he was called to hear the Confession of a peasant who was dying, and the encounter opened his eyes to the needs of the poor. He began to spend more and more of his time and energy helping them.

As his ministry with the poor grew, he was able to call upon the connections he had with people in the upper class to patronize his work. He established a new community of priests to assist, and he founded organizations to help the lay faithful serve the poor. With the help of these collaborators, he founded hospitals, orphanages, homes for the elderly, and other institutions to care for the poor throughout Europe.

Jane married an officer in the French military in 1592, and brought his large estate into order as its matron. The couple bore seven children, but after eight years of marriage, her husband died from a hunting accident, and Jane was left a widow at the age of 28.

She fell into a depression, and asked God to send someone to help her understand what she was to do with her life. Shortly after, she met St. Francis de Sales. He encouraged her to tend to her duties as a mother, which she did, while also assisting the sick who lived in her area.

When her children were grown, Francis encouraged Jane to establish a new religious community of sisters to continue her work with the sick and poor. The order grew, and when she helped open a convent in Paris, she met Vincent de Paul, who later said that Jane was one of the holiest people he had ever met.

Follow these links to read more about St. Vincent de Paul and St. Jane Frances de Chantal.

Living Water

By Flora Tang ‘18

Holding a little red cup of thickened water and a napkin in my trembling hands, I felt afraid.

Next to me was Ms. Marie, a 92-year-old lady lying on a reclining wheelchair: semi-conscious, pale, infirm, occasionally coughing and wincing out of discomfort. “How am I supposed to feed her this cup of water?” I thought as I slowly approached her.

I was attending daily Mass at the Little Sisters of the Poor residence home, where I spent two months serving this past summer. The Little Sisters are a religious order, founded by St. Jeanne Jugan, who serve the elderly poor by providing them shelter, food, medical care, dignity, and familial love.

Every morning, I joined other volunteers to attend daily Mass with the home’s elderly residents and sisters. Some of the more aged and infirm residents, however, had already lost their ability to swallow solid food. To help these residents receive and swallow the Holy Communion host, the other volunteers and I fed them a cup of water before and after they receive.

But I feared. Caressing her hand and preparing to feed her the water, I was afraid to encounter this feeble lady lying before me. I feared not knowing what she wanted. I feared that she would cough and choke when I fed her the water. I feared not knowing what to say and not knowing what to do.

“The Body of Christ.” The Eucharistic Minister broke off a tiny piece of the host and placed it on Ms. Marie’s tongue.

Somehow, these words—words that I hear countless times every time I attend Mass—touched me in a new way. As Ms. Marie received the Body of Christ, she became the Body of Christ. Under the illumination of the Eucharist, the meaning of Christ’s words—”Whatever you do for the least of these, you did for me”—became sacramentally real. I was physically encountering Christ himself in the person of Ms. Marie.

“Perfect love casts out fear,” wrote St. John, and I saw it happen in my own heart. Love cast out my fear and reluctance, allowing me to see and recognize the face of God in the elderly residents to whom I fed water every morning this summer.

Initially bending over Ms. Marie to feed her the cup of water, I instinctively knelt down by her side—not only to better feed her, but more so to acknowledge the sheer sacredness of the moment. When feeding Ms. Marie water, I was giving drink to the very same One who cried out “I thirst” during his last moments on the cross. That day, I realized that Christ was here before me, lying on a wheelchair, semi-conscious, pale, infirm, and coughing—but sacredly beautiful.

I fed water to Christ, incarnate in this vulnerable woman before me, in order to facilitate Communion, and he fed me the living water of communion. His love cast out my fear.