When I was thirteen years old, I spilled coleslaw on a nun.

(Imagine for a moment the collection of variables and precise circumstances required to make such an incident even possible, much less a memory).

I needed to fulfill some now-blurry community service requirement as part of my freshman year on-boarding, no doubt designed to infuse some additional character into my awkward teenage presentation. There was no sidestepping the mandate; at a late summer meeting for incoming ninth-graders and our parents, we were handed our marching orders and a modest list of service opportunities. I selected the one that read “Religious Education Conference, luncheon help”. It sounded the closest to my wheelhouse at the time—clearing tables and doing dishes.

The gathering took place at the high school on a Saturday, with myriad breakout sessions held in different classrooms and our better-than-average cafeteria preparing and serving the food. In the late 70’s, most Catholic women who belonged to a religious order and were teachers had transitioned away from the full habit, leaving behind the black tunics, coifs and veils and adopting a mostly monochromatic and conservative business suit look. Pantyhose and soft-soled shoes completed the outfit, and unless you knew she was your fifth-grade social studies teacher, it was hard to tell who had taken vows and who were among the laity (single, engaged, or married). Since I was only expected to clear dirty dishes from the tables, the distinction didn’t register as important to me.

Until, with a plastic dish bin resting on my hip, I reached between her and her seatmate to retrieve her nearly-empty plate (one of those cafeteria standards: tan with three sections, two small and one large), with just enough coleslaw swimming in one of the smaller sections to be dangerous if I lost my grip in between the table and the dish bin. I was lifting it ever so carefully past her salt-and-pepper hair when it happened. A stray strand of bright green cabbage broke free from the edge of the plate, dripping slaw dressing in slow motion, and plopped quietly onto her left shoulder, just above the shiny gold cross tack pin on her lapel. I doubt she felt the impact of something so small, but the bright green against her absolutely spotless navy blue suit jacket was impossible to miss, an unfortunate epaulet as evidence of my entry-level table-busing skills.

I wasn’t, by any developmental stretch of the imagination, an assertive thirteen year old dutifully busing tables in a cafeteria that would soon become the battleground of my adolescent coming-of-age moments. I was well-schooled in doing the right thing by wonderfully decent parents who modeled this behavior for us consistently and successfully. But positioned out of sight behind this unaware nun, standing for a smidge more than a split second on the edge of choice, I choked and took easy way out. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t noticed anything amiss; I said nothing to her, hurried back to kitchen area behind the serving line, and started getting my affairs in order. I was going to spend eternity someplace really, really warm.

Like so many unseen transgressions that tap incessantly on even the youngest of consciences, I punished myself far worse than any adult could have. I confessed this event to no one, and tucked it safely away into the box marked Thank Goodness Thirteen Only Lasts A Year.

With such a shame-ridden introduction to the world of volunteerism, it’s ironic, or perhaps redemptive, that I celebrate 38 years in the volunteer management profession this year. For just shy of four decades, I’ve been the one creating those lists of service opportunities for high school students, faith community youth groups, corporate leadership training programs and other good community souls who want to do something for someone else and not get a paycheck. That premise alone borders on lunacy for just a moment, but quickly turns meaningful when, at the required orientation and training (yes, those are two different things), a seasoned unpaid staff member tells the story of how she was able to resuscitate that fan at the stadium on the day of the Big Game as part of the all-volunteer first aid team, or helped a young family move into their new home, built with donated materials and their own sweat equity, closing the door once and for all on a homeless past.

Working with the selfless and the altruistic for this long has fortified what my wonderfully decent parents showed me in my tender youth: that people are generally good and we’re continuously invited to keep that goodness unfolding as we all walk along together. It’s not easy work, this putting others’ needs ahead of our own. It gets complicated when funders want measurable impact data at the end of a grant cycle, or well-meaning applicants don’t respond to follow-up voicemails and text messages. They sounded so sincere on the phone; I hope they’re ok. And we long to clone the ones whose humility is the hallmark of their personal creed, who accumulate stories first, not hours, and give us suggestions for improving the next volunteer appreciation dinner without a trace of entitlement in their voices. When the lights are turned off at the end of a fundraising event, they’re the ones walking us to our cars and thanking us for a lovely evening, their ID badges dangling from a logo’d lanyard we gave them when they accepted their first assignment.

In my work, I get to combine a true love for systems administration (employing my anal-retentive tendencies) with the quiet privilege of listening to someone explain why she needs to honor her late father by putting her own shoulder to the cause he championed until he died two years ago just a week shy of his eightieth birthday. With tears filling her eyes, she asks if she’ll be given a chance. With tears in my own eyes, I tell her she’s registered for the next training, and to arrive promptly at 6:00p.m. My job, in that moment, and every similar moment, is to frame and ground the relationship she’s about to step into with our organization, and then get out of her way.

What good folks do for no compensation and precious little recognition lands on a broad spectrum that blurs here and there. It includes court-ordered community service dictated by a magistrate, unpaid internships, one-day company give-back projects and the steady, weekly visits to animal shelters and post-op waiting rooms where pre-med students in khakis and hospital-issued uniform vests offer hot chocolate and snacks to nervous families waiting for a physician’s report. I wouldn’t dare weigh one against another on the “more noble” scale. The benefits go in at least two directions, often six or more by the time the board of directors gets wind of them. Service is service. Let’s start there and refine, if we must, after the last wheelbarrow load of mulch is spread out beneath the new swing set at the neighborhood community center playground.

In a world where the bleakest news lands regularly above the fold, even an awkward thirteen year old trying her best to help and navigate the slippery ropes course of maturity-in-process can make a difference.

Sister wherever-you-are, thanks for forgiving my failing in that cafeteria classroom we shared. I’m still trying to pay the lesson forward.