About eight years ago I was on a plane, going from New York to Chicago, and as the plane took off, the stewardess sat down alongside me. She was a ravishingly beautiful girl.
Celibacy doesn’t blind us, you know. I can look at the menu without ordering.
She said, “Do you remember me?” I said, “No, I don’t. I ought to, but I don’t.”
“Well,” she said, “Two years ago on this plane I sat with you for 20 minutes, and I remember every word you said.”
“What did I say?”
“Well, you began by saying: ‘You are a very beautiful girl. Did you know that of all the gifts that God gives, the one that he gets back last and least of all, is the gift of beauty? He gives money; owners use it for the poor. He gives the gift of song, and people sing for his glory. But too often, when God gives beauty, he gets back nothing but a pile of old bones. So, inasmuch as you are so exceptionally endowed, why don’t you give your beauty to people who have never seen anything beautiful?’ That’s what you said.”
She said: “I’ve had two years to think it over, and now I’m ready to do anything.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“All right. Come to my office, and I will tell you where you will go.”
She said, “Tell me now. I’m ready to go.”
“All right. You’re going to a leper colony in Vietnam.”
So I sent her to a leper colony in Vietnam. She has a little jeep, drives around the villages and searches, particularly under bridges, because when lepers are driven out of the villages, they hide under the bridges. And then she takes them to a leprosarium, where a doctor cares for these people.
And in one of her letters she said: “I do not know whether they ever think that they are ever looking at anything beautiful, but I know that I am: the gratitude of these good people.”