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jockeying to motor tourists out to the island in the middle of the bay. According to legend,
fishermen saw the Virgin Mary in the reef and began a ritual of dropping a stone on the
spot every time they sailed by. Eventually the island we see today was created, and upon
that island the people built a fine little church.
I hired a guy with a dinghy to ferry me out and was met by a young woman who
gave me a tour. In the sacristy hung a piece of embroidery—a 25-year-long labor of love
made by a local parishioner 200 years ago. It was as exquisite as possible, lovingly made
with the finest materials available: silk and the woman's own hair. I could trace her labor-
ious progress through the line of cherubs that ornamented the border. As the years went
by, the hair of the angels (like the hair of the devout artist) turned from dark brown to
white. Humble and anonymous as she was, she had faith that her work was worthwhile
and would be appreciated—as it is, two centuries later, by a steady parade of travelers
from distant lands.
I've been at my work for more than three decades now. I also have a faith that it (my
work, if not my hair) will be appreciated after I'm gone. That's perhaps less humble than
the woman was, but her work reassured me that we live on through our deeds. Her devo-
tion to her creation (as well as to her creator) is an inspiration to do both good and lasting
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