An Imperfect Instrument

Earlier this week, I wondered what it would be like if I treated every day like it was Easter. Like, what if I approached each morning with the same joy, delight and hopeful expectation that Mary Magdalene felt when she saw Jesus walk out of the tomb? Or when I eat a mouthful of Cadbury’s malted mini-eggs? What if I sat alongside the suffering right here in my neighborhood just like the brave women who sat at the foot of the cross? I've felt inspired by a lot of things this Easter season, but especially by the book I'm reading right now about a woman named Agnes Bojaxhiu who was born around 1910 in multi-cultural Skopje — then part of the Ottoman Empire and now capital of the Republic of Macedonia. The youngest of three children, Agnes was born of modest means to a loving family led by her parents, Dranafile and Nikola.

The Bojaxhiu family cared deeply about their community and often invited the city's destitute to dine at their table. Lazar, the elder brother of Agnes, once asked his mother if the strangers who came to their house were family members, but his mother said, &qu