To keep me company while I was pouring candles last week, I listened to a podcast series that explored the rise and fall of a particular church. Which is almost irrelevant because the most meaningful takeaway in the entire 12-part series was one thought buried inside a single episode.

The gist went something like this:
 
Princess Diana and Mother Teresa died within a few days of each other. Two aspirational individuals, admired by many. But while almost nobody on this earth could be a Diana (this would involve meeting and marrying a prince, and securing the influence and resources of the crown), anyone could become a Mother Teresa.

Or at least, anyone could become a Mother Teresa IF, that person was willing to spend their entire life on a cause, laboring for decades in obscurity. Content with anonymity. No need for fame, recognition, or financial compensation.

And yet, even after understanding Mother Teresa’s significance and impact, very few people pattern their life after her example.

I remember very clearly when these women died in 1997.

I was working as a barista, taking summer classes at the local junior college. I happened to be wearing a yellow tank top when I learned of the news—from a physical, black-print newspaper, which is kind of like admitting that I can recall life before an Iphone.

Their joint passing was sad, and I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed that the unfolding scandal involving Diana quickly became an avalanche. A flurry of spin-off stories, making their way into every crevice of the news cycle, so that there was a little less space to reflect on the nun whose servanthood had revolutionized the way we esteem, treat, and care for society’s downtrodden.
 
But until last week, I had never bothered to think any deeper about any lessons I could learn about the juxtaposition of Mother Teresa and Princess Diana.

And since I still don’t have it figured out, I’m going to resist the urge to think up a creative conclusion that would tie a bow around these Sunday thoughts. I'm still working out what to do with my newfound realization that any one of us could become a saint. And better yet, how I’ll allow that insight to shape me going forward.

Instead, I’m just going to sit for a while with this uncomfortable prayer:

“Lord, if I was willing to labor for years in obscurity, weeding out any dangling root of selfish ambition that has lodged itself in my heart, what would my first steps of obedience look like? What tiny assignment can you give me that will inch me forward to being the type of person who could reorient her life in a way that spends it entirely on your causes?”

As the old hymn sings:

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it.
Prone to leave the God I love.
Here’s my heart, Lord,
Take and seal it.
Seal it for thy courts above.