A few years ago, I was part of a group that organized various summer projects, including helping families in need, such as rebuilding their homes. I was sent to a very remote place, in the middle of some mountains where, with my group of friends, we tried to rebuild a house that was completely destroyed.
But the only thing the owner of this house asked us to do was to rebuild the small porch. He didn't want us to touch his windows or the interior of the house—which, let me tell you, really needed it—but just the porch.
After ten days of work, with a lot of heat and lack of water, a sense of frustration started growing in me because I couldn't understand why this man wanted us to invest our time in a small porch that, to me, seemed pointless. At one point during my work, I dropped my hammer and my frustration came out. I turned to this man and said, "But why do you want me to fix a porch? Why are we wasting time here, working in this heat, while your whole house needs rebuilding? You need to fix the windows for the winter and for better comfort in your life."
Then, this man looked at me and said, "Look, look carefully: why do I need this porch? Do you see, far off in the distance, that church? It's because from here, from this distance, from that mountain, I can contemplate the beauty of the Church."
So, the most beautiful thing for me that day—and I keep this story very close to my heart—was the fact that, the path of my gaze until it reached that church, passed through a beautiful, organized field and, way off in the distance, there truly was the beauty of God.
