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Walking into the leprosy village in southern China with my students was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I saw people who were missing arms and legs and whose eyes the disease had stolen. There were chickens and dogs and poverty staring me in the face--true poverty--the kind that sucks the breath out of those who are forced to embrace it. This muted mosaic stands frozen--some of the scenes still lingering in my mind’s eye. Yet, in the face of such hardships we were greeted with smiles and hope--both ushering us into this secluded refuge for those beaten and stoned due to a disease they contracted years ago. Their “abominations of the body” led some to believe that they were not quite human (Goffman, 1963, p. 4). They were harmed as a result of something they had no control over, stigmatized and shunned from their families forever; their loss intense and pulsating. The local priest shared that the people in the village thought their bodies were rubbish, not worth anything. I have no idea what that would be like to truly feel that way and then have society affirm those feelings. My ailments are easily hidden, theirs were not. The students and I got to work quickly--perhaps to avoid the haunting feelings of guilt for not liking what we ate for dinner the night before. As we worked, two things hit me squarely in the heart: the joy that the villagers received from watching young people taking time to come and see them and the incredible way these students worked together. Sharing bits and pieces of ourselves offered such connection and strength, reflecting Durkheim’s belief that “the greatest good is in communion with others” (1953, p. 37). When I left on that first day, I felt a distant pain but was unsure of its' origin. Perhaps I never wanted my involvement in what I viewed as the “greatest good” to ever end. Yet, it did end and when we walked out of the village for the final time, my heart burst in all different directions. The realism that most of us would never get the chance to go back and see the villagers again--these kind and loving people, who because of fate or God or something else entirely were stricken with a disease that society didn’t tolerate--gnawed at me. To have such depth of spirit in the face of such treatment is by far more infectious and powerful than leprosy. As we pulled out of the village, the depth of sadness I felt was punctuated by the quiet that invaded the once rambunctious bus. I couldn’t speak at all on the 20 minute ride back to our hotel and put to rest this life-changing experience with silent tears. As I reflect back on the words I wrote all of those years ago, I more clearly understand that seeing people who have experienced stigma, marginalization, and loss cast my own experiences in a different, gentler light. I can still feel the humility that washed over me while in the presence of these souls. My ability to recast my own life through a lens of gratitude while in the presence of those who demonstrated resilience on a daily basis became stronger. I wonder how they would define themselves. Would they use the words different, stigmatized, or marginalized? Perhaps, but maybe these are my labels, which are deeply embedded in my own experiences and cultural norms. I truly feel their lives were more defined by gratitude for simple gifts such as kindness, depth of spirit, and connection.