My niece works at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

One day, she heard a small child having a bit of a tantrum in one of the galleries. Apparently, toddler meltdowns are not an uncommon experience in the museum. (To be fair, art museums are probably pretty dull for kids.) But my niece thought that this particular tantrum somehow seemed different than the ordinary art-museum meltdown.

It turns out that the meltdown in question was different than the ordinary when-do-we-get-to-leave-this-place? type of tantrum. Apparently, the conversation between Mom and Daughter went something like this:

MOM: (probably with very much gentleness and a little bit of sorrow) Did you think we were going to meet Georgia [O’Keeffe] today?

DAUGHTER (in an apparently very small way): Yes.

Oh, dear. It seems that this little girl knew—and very much liked—Georgia O’Keeffe’s art. Apparently, she had thought that a visit to the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum involved meeting the artist herself. Apparently, she hadn’t known until that moment in the museum that Georgia O’Keeffe is no longer on this side of the veil. Given her age, this little girl may not have known much before that moment about the concept of death itself. Her rush of grief at the museum suggests that she had quickly developed an understanding of death as something which means “We can’t meet Georgia O’Keeffe; she isn’t here on Earth anymore.”

But the story gets even more heart wrenching. After acknowledging sadly that she had expected to meet her creative hero at the museum, the girl continued her conversation with her Mom:

DAUGHTER: Who will make the pictures now?

MOM: Maybe you can make the pictures!

DAUGHTER: (with, I think, renewed wailing): But I don’t know how to make the pictures.

Fortunately, this story has a happy ending involving the museum’s scavenger hunt and purple stickers. But the happy ending doesn’t change the power of that little girl’s words:

“But I don’t know how to make the pictures.”

How many followers of Jesus the Nazarene must have felt this same helpless, perplexed despair on the day He was crucified? Weeping at the foot of His cross or near His tomb, embracing the memory of all the good He had done, all the wisdom He had offered, all the love He had shared, they must have wondered, “But who will do the good work now?” In that moment of ultimate despond, would any of His followers have dared to say, “Maybe we could do the good work!”? Or would they have been too devastated, too confounded, too frightened? Would they simply have countered such a suggestion with the observation, “But I don’t know how to do the good work.”?

Two thousand years later, how many followers of Jesus the Nazarene still find ourselves perplexed by the challenge of taking up His cross, doing His good work, sharing His Love? How many of us still find ourselves admitting, “But I don’t know how to do the good work.”?

Lent is a good time for learning how to do the good work.

Happily, learning to do the good work is easier than it might seem. Jesus Himself, in the Gospel of Matthew, 25:31-45, left a pretty clear road map of what it means to do the good work:

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit upon his glorious throne, and all the nations will be assembled before him. And he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will place the sheep on his right and the goats on his left. Then the king will say to those on his right, “Come, you who are blessed by my Father. Inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me.”

Then the righteous will answer him and say, “Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? When did we see you ill or in prison, and visit you?”

And the king will say to them in reply, “Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.”

Then he will say to those on his left, “Depart from me, you accursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, a stranger and you gave me no welcome, naked and you gave me no clothing, ill and in prison, and you did not care for me.’”

Then they will answer and say, “Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or ill or in prison, and not minister to your needs?”

He will answer them, “Amen, I say to you, what you did not do for one of these least ones, you did not do for me.’” (New American Bible, Revised Edition, www.biblegateway.com)

That’s how we do the good work. It’s easy to learn, but not always so easy to do.

Will we do it?

Who will do the good work? Who will share His Love?

– Lori Randall, in the Season of Lent, 2026

Click here for a song to inspire you in doing the good work!