The Greatest Gift: Come With Us

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Nothing says happy birthday better than waking up to a 5 a.m. alarm entitled “BUY BUG SPRAY.”

I wasn’t headed to a Caribbean island resort as many students at Regis High School, “Regians,” do during their spring breaks. Rather, I was a part of a group of 18 Regians, one alum, and our chaperone, Mr. Smith, who all planned to spend spring break serving Mustard Seed Communities in Jamaica.

Mustard Seed Communities (MSC) hosts a network of homes and care centers for children and adults with disabilities across Jamaica, Nicaragua, Dominican Republic, Zimbabwe, and Malawi. The nonprofit provides residents with lifelong care, compassion, and spiritual support as a way to uplift and empower the forgotten and marginalized of society.

On our mission trip, we stepped into a reality far removed from our own: removed from the comfort and convenience we find at home and at the doors of our school. But it was with the mission of caring for the world’s most vulnerable in mind that we boarded our Caribbean Air flight.

In the air, although we were four hours away from arriving in Jamaica, a sense of excitement buzzed in the plane. The easy smiles of strangers, many returning home to Jamaica for a visit to family, made us feel as if we were already there. It was apparent that the island’s hospitality hit us before the humidity did. 

Somewhere over the Caribbean Sea, while I was slumped awkwardly against my headrest, the captain’s voice on the intercom jolted me awake. The captain announced it was my 17th birthday—before I could process the unexpected spotlight, he led the cabin in a round of “happy birthday.” After the singing, many of my fellow passengers offered their own individual congratulations. Welcome to Jamaica!

Finally, we touched down on the island. The moment the plane doors opened, a thick wave of humid air wrapped around us. Waiting just beyond customs were several Mustard Seed Communities staff members—our hosts for the week. Seeing them in their blue and yellow polo shirts, it felt like we were being welcomed into the fold of the MSC Family right away. 

For the next week, these individuals would be our knowledgeable and friendly guides to this new experience. We boarded the “He is Here” and “Thank You Lord” decorated MSC bus to our first stop: Sophie’s Place in Gordon Town, Jamaica. 

Sophie’s Place became our home for the next week. We lived in the upstairs mission home next door to the village of cottages for residents living with mental and physical disabilities. Upon arriving, Christine, the administrator of the home, gave us a tour of the property. We explored the common area where circle time happens, the chapel, and the cottages where residents live. Then, we selected our bunk beds, unpacked, and made our way downstairs to meet the residents.

As we met the children and adults who call Sophie’s Place their home, we realized the true depth of care provided at Mustard Seed Communities. We witnessed how the residents are living with profound physical and cognitive disabilities—conditions that require constant careful attention from their caregivers, who are affectionately referred to as “aunties.”

The following seven days followed the same pattern: wake up around 6:30 a.m.; feed the residents; eat breakfast; and ride the bus with our mission representative to visit other MSC homes around the island. Each day brought unique experiences and insight. 

For me, the most notable experience was the first time we fed the residents. 

I went to the residents’ quarters where the caregivers instructed me on how to feed a resident named Raheem. Raheem was unable to feed himself because he lives with severe cerebral palsy. I walked over to Raheem, who appeared to be no older than four years old. In reality, I learned, Raheem was born in 2012; he was a teenager like me. His small frame was due to his profound physical limitations and his restricted mobility, which significantly affected his growth.

As I prepared to feed him, I encountered my first problem: the stool I was supposed to sit on was too high, but sitting on the ground would put me too low below him. So I knelt, and I stayed kneeling for the 45 minutes it took me to feed him. I may not have thought it at the moment, but now I realize the act of kneeling held true significance. 

In church, we kneel as a sign of reverence, humility, and prayer. Yet here I was, in a foreign nation, on an island I had never been to, in a home I had never lived in, kneeling before a boy who could not move or speak. It is a reminder that our Catholic faith, identity, and mission should extend beyond our parish, the school halls, and even our country. 

We kneel to pray, but in moments like this one with Raheem, I learned that service itself is a kind of prayer. A prayer that asks God not for reward, but peace where there is pain. A prayer which asks to carry one another’s suffering. A prayer that asks for these children to be seen. This is what our work in Jamaica asked of us: we would cook food we would never taste; we would plant seeds on farms we would never see harvested; and we would paint schools that we would never attend. We chose to kneel.

We all could have chosen to stay in our air conditioned homes, take hot showers, and sleep in comfortable beds for spring break, but our team made that uncomfortable sacrifice to work on something bigger than ourselves.

Of course, Jamaica didn’t entirely consist of work—we got to visit a beach, sing karaoke with the residents, play soccer with the locals, and try some really good jerk chicken. These were great memories on the trip, but what stayed with me were the quiet moments. Feeding Raheem, looking out the bus window at the rolling mountains, and just sitting in silence with my new and old friends.

The greatest birthday gift I could have received wasn’t a celebration or a present. It was waking up early to kneel in a foreign nation, on an island I had never been to, in a home I had never lived in, in front of a boy who couldn’t move or speak.

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