For a couple of years, I worked in the loss mitigation department of a major bank’s home finance division. For those who don’t savvy bankese, “loss mitigations” is a euphemistic term for “quit messing around, you rotten deadbeat, or we’ll take away your house.” For anyone with a tender conscience, it’s a terrible fit. You deal with people who, on one hand, are facing the worst miseries of their lives — divorce, unemployment, severe illness, you name it. Paradoxically, many of these truly pitiable people are also liars and sneaks, or just plain arrogant. (“Sounds like you’ve lost everything but your sense of entitlement, pal,” I told one guy who refused to pay his way out of foreclosure until we waived his late fees.)

As much as I wanted to be charitable and patient to these clients, I couldn’t. It wouldn’t have done them, or the bank, any good. This is America. No one gets to live in his house for free. The quicker I could make people realize that, the more likely they were to address their dilemma maturely and responsibly.

Some needed only a gentle prod; others needed a verbal nightstick across the cranium. I cultivated a talent for both. Depending on the situation, I could play it like Don Bosco, or like the guys from Goodfellas. (“Oh, business bad…?”)

At the time, I had just begun attending RCIA classes in a very social justice-oriented parish. All the cool kids were studying for some higher degree that would eventually lead to a career in social services. Conversations tended to go like this:

“Hey, Jill. How’d your week go?”

“It was wonderful! Me and a bunch of friends flew down to Georgia and convinced the army to close the School of the Americas. Then we rented a fishing boat and cruised the Florida Keys, rescusing drowning Haitians. What about yours?”

“It was okay. Made a whole bunch of people cry.”

Eventually, I realized what you know already: not everyone can save the world. Some of us have to run the doggone place.