Calling on Cabrini
What does this Romanian Jew have in common with a Catholic nun?
Getting up out of an armchair shouldn’t be a big deal, but at 89, every movement takes effort. So when my father braced his arms on the armrests and muttered, “Mother Cabrini,” I did a double take.
“Mother Cabrini?” I repeat, puzzled. The name sounds like a Roman Catholic nun, yet here is my dad, an old-fashioned Romanian Jew with no apparent ties to Catholicism, calling on her for help like a secret weapon. Aba looks up at me, his deep blue eyes widening with intensity.
“She was famous, highly impressive,” he explains. “Her name was on the church next to where I worked.”
He’s referring to New York City in 1963, when he was a new immigrant, trying to find his footing in a country that moved fast and spoke even faster. The employment agency had placed him at the New York Psychiatric Institute, where he worked as a technician—fixing air conditioners and refrigerators by day, studying English by night to keep up with his coworkers’ conversations.
The bustling streets of Manhattan were a world away from the fledgling state of Israel he had just left behind—a place he’d escaped to after surviving the chaos of World War II. Life was gritty, work was hard, and the language barrier made every day feel like a test.
So when his coworkers muttered “Mother Cabrini” during especially tricky repair jobs, he had no idea what it meant—only that it was said with reverence, frustration, and sometimes, awe.
One day, a doctor at the Institute sent him to fix the air-conditioning in a nearby church. When he arrived, Aba looked up and saw a name carved into the stone above the entrance: Mother Cabrini. Suddenly, the mystery clicked—this was the name his coworkers kept saying. Someone important.
By then, his English had improved enough to ask questions. He turned to a fellow repairman for answers.
“The guy was Italiano, like her, and knew everything,” Aba told me. “A very accomplished woman. Self-made from nothing. She did a lot.”
My interest is sparked. Who is this woman—this powerhouse nun—whose name still resonates so strongly with my dad that he calls on her for support? The kicker? It works—Aba rises to his feet. Like she gave him a boost.
Months pass, and I forget about Mother Cabrini—until her name pops up on a recent flight to California. Scrolling through the in-flight movie list, I spot Cabrini. Intrigued, I press play, not knowing what to expect.
From the first scene, I’m pulled into her story, deeply moved and inspired by this quiet, courageous leader. The cinematography, script, editing and acting are masterful. Cristiana Dell’Anna delivers a powerful performance in the lead role—her subtle expressions, like a simple shift of her eyes, convey so much emotion. It also just so happens that the film is edited with Avid Media Composer, software made by the company I work for. Pretty cool.
When the movie ends, I sit staring out the window as the plane soars over the Grand Canyon, massive even from high in the sky, thinking about how one person could overcome challenges of that magnitude and transform so many lives. Aba is right. Mother Cabrini was remarkable, a trailblazer, defying limitations imposed on women of her era (1850-1917) to lead a global mission in a male-dominated society.
The first U.S. citizen canonized a saint, Mother Cabrini is known as the patron saint of immigrants. Her legacy of compassion and service runs so deep that people still call on her name in times of need. Shrines in her honor span the globe—from New York City to Milan.
Several lines in the film struck me. “We don’t choose how we come into this world, but we can decide how we want to live in it.” A powerful reminder that circumstances don’t define us—our actions do. Mother Cabrini lived that truth. Told to “stay in Lombardy where she belonged,” she saw opportunity where others saw roadblocks. She didn’t just overcome barriers—she turned them into bridges.
In a time when women had little power or platform, she built an empire of hope through grit and grace. When faced with impossible odds, she didn’t wait for permission or resources. She believed, simply, that “the means will come.”
She and her sisters arrived in New York with next to nothing. But that didn’t stop her. She walked the streets and slums, finding orphaned, abandoned, homeless children—and convinced them she could be trusted. She fed them, housed them, educated them.
With little more than determination and faith, she built alliances with church leaders, wealthy donors, and fellow immigrants to fund her mission. Her reach grew from a single act of compassion into a global network of care.
Watching her story unfold, I couldn’t help but reflect on how often society tells us “no.” Sometimes loudly, sometimes in whispers—at work, at school, online.
“You can’t.”
“You’re too old.”
“You’re too young.”
“We’ve always done it this way.”
My son was once told by a third-grade teacher that “not everyone can be a star at something.” I disagreed, of course. Stardom isn’t the point. Goodness is.
We don’t need fame or fortune to make a difference. We just need to start—where we are, with what we have. Whether it’s kindness, encouragement, or time, small actions ripple outward. Mother Cabrini’s story is proof that purpose, not perfection, creates real change.
One moment from the film still echoes in my mind. When told her goals were too ambitious, she answers: “The world is too small for what I intend to do.”
She didn’t wait for a path—she carved her own. She didn’t seek power—she created it. When warned that, “As women without men, we will be expected to fail,” she simply kept going. She fundraised, organized, led, and uplifted. She was unstoppable.
Like her, we don’t need perfect conditions to begin. All we need is the conviction to act. It doesn’t have to be world-changing. It just has to be true.
Since watching Cabrini, I’ve been thinking more intentionally. Choosing compassion even when it’s hard. Responding with kindness—even when others don’t. Doing the right thing, not for recognition, but because it feels right.
In many ways, Aba embodies the same self-made spirit. Born into poverty in a small Romanian village, his life was defined by resilience and resourcefulness. Discrimination and hardship shaped his early years, but through sheer determination and grit, he survived and forged a new path. Like Mother Cabrini, he arrived in New York with very little, albeit 74 years later. And, like her, through hard work and perseverance, he eventually built a network of resources, became involved in real estate, owning several buildings on Miami Beach, including some Section 8 housing. Aba always went above and beyond for his tenants, repairing what was broken and even hiring them when they needed work.
I now understand why Aba calls upon Mother Cabrini. He identifies with her. They are kindred spirits—both self-made, determined, and compassionate.
When I get home, I tell Aba how inspired I am by the film. He laughs, clearly pleased to have surprised me again.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says, smiling.
