As I mentioned some time ago, I was asked to help the managers of the diocesan Caritas solidarity shop—a store where people who struggle to afford life's necessities receive assistance. My job was to clean and stock products on the shelves. Through my hands passed all kinds of food: pasta in various shapes (spaghetti, linguine, rigatoni, and so on), biscuits, panettone, coffee, sugar, cheese, prosciutto, milk, and more. There was also a shelf dedicated to gluten-free products and a section for cleaning supplies.
I should mention that in the first few days my hands came back home red—probably from some detergent that didn't agree with my skin—so I got myself gloves and was able to handle any product without trouble. Giuseppe, an old friend of mine, worked with us too, entering everything we stocked into the computer system. From time to time, families of Ukrainian and Iraqi refugees would come in with their children, eager to see what they could pick up and take home. We worked for several weeks leading up to opening day. When the civil and religious authorities arrived, I was given the job of holding one end of the ribbon for the Bishop to cut, officially launching this valuable—truly admirable—initiative. There were speeches, photographs, applause, thanks, all of it joyful and celebratory. We felt a little less celebratory, knowing our work was done.
And so once again, after all that effort, there was no proper ending in sight. Yet everyone said they were satisfied and praised my seriousness, punctuality, and dedication to every task I was given. I'll be honest: my only real weakness is that I can't distinguish between what matters little and what matters greatly. I like being useful in small situations and important ones equally, without making a difference—and I'd say I manage it most of the time. Maybe someone should teach me to appreciate myself a bit more and not be so eager to please. What I want is permanent, serious work. And (forgive me for saying so) I believe I'm capable of it.