I think Operation Smile is in more than 22 countries, mostly

The words of Roma Downey carry the fragrance of service and providence: “I think Operation Smile is in more than 22 countries, mostly Third World. It just happened that my schedule opened up at the time they were heading to Vietnam.” At first glance, these may appear as simple recollections, yet within them lies a deeper truth—that the noblest deeds are often born not of grand design, but of a heart ready and willing when opportunity arises. The hand of chance, the opening of time, becomes the doorway through which compassion enters the world.

To speak of Operation Smile is to speak of a mission dedicated to restoring dignity and hope. This movement, which sends surgeons across nations to heal the faces of children born with cleft lips and palates, is more than the work of medicine. It is the work of love. For to restore a child’s smile is to restore their place in community, to heal not only the body but also the spirit, freeing them from shame, rejection, or silence. Roma Downey’s words remind us that service is not limited to the healer’s hand; the presence of those who bear witness, who give their time, who carry encouragement, is also a balm to the wounded.

The mention of the Third World echoes the ancient tension between abundance and need. Throughout history, empires rose in splendor while distant villages languished in want. And yet it has ever been the duty of those blessed with resources to remember those without. In the scriptures and philosophies of every land, the same truth resounds: the strong must serve the weak, the wealthy must share with the poor, the fortunate must stoop to lift the unfortunate. To ignore this call is to betray our common humanity; to embrace it is to partake in the noblest work of all.

The journey to Vietnam, where Operation Smile set its course, evokes powerful memories of war, division, and suffering. For decades, that land carried wounds of battle, both visible and unseen. Yet now, into its villages and hospitals, came not armies but healers, not bombs but bandages, not cries of despair but the sound of laughter being restored to children’s lips. What once was a land of sorrow became a stage for compassion. This transformation is the essence of human redemption: that places marked by tragedy can, through acts of mercy, be reborn as sanctuaries of hope.

History gives us parallels. Consider Florence Nightingale, who in the Crimean War walked into fields of blood and despair with nothing but her lamp and her will to serve. She did not wait for the perfect time, but seized the moment her schedule allowed, transforming it into an offering. Her presence not only healed the sick but changed the spirit of nations. Roma Downey, though not a surgeon, entered the same tradition: one who understood that being available at the right moment is itself a sacred act.

The lesson for us is clear: greatness is not always planned. Sometimes, life opens a window, a sudden chance to serve, and in that moment we must decide whether to turn away or to step forward. The schedule of life will always be full, but when time opens before us, when chance aligns with need, then we must be ready. For it may be in such unplanned moments that the deepest work of love is accomplished.

Therefore, let us live with readiness. If your schedule clears, ask not how you may indulge yourself, but how you may serve. Look for the wounded in your own community—those who hunger for dignity, companionship, or relief. You may not travel to Vietnam, you may not wear the mantle of surgeon or nurse, but you can offer your presence, your kindness, your strength, and your compassion.

Thus, the words of Roma Downey become more than memory; they become teaching. They remind us that to restore a smile is to restore humanity, that the smallest act of service in a fleeting opening of time may ripple across generations, and that the true measure of a life is not in how much it gathers, but in how freely it gives when opportunity calls.