And I’ve noticed something else, too.
The people closest to pain—
are often the most generous.
The ones who’ve suffered quietly
are the ones who stay behind to clean up,
who notice what others miss,
who give when they have very little to spare.
That’s how I knew Sister Pat.
I can’t speak to all the ways she served,
but this is who she was to me.
She worked behind the scenes—
year after year—
helping prepare gifts
for those completing a long formation journey,
moving boxes of books to the chapel,
unpacking and arranging them with care,
making sure people who had done the hard inner work
were seen, honored, and blessed—not just in word, but with a gift that held meaning.
It was quiet work.
Heavy work.
And she did it anyway.
Even with her own pain.
Even when no one asked.
She didn’t do it for recognition.
She did it because she cared.
Because she believed it mattered.
Because love, for her, meant noticing what was needed—
and quietly making it happen.
Maybe you’ve known someone like that.
Or maybe you’ve been someone like that.
Carrying something hard has a way of staying with you.
It shapes how you move.
How you notice.
How you give.
I think when people have carried pain,
they recognize the weight in other people.
And without saying much,
they help carry it too.
Not from strength—
but from memory.
