Some Thoughts about Sainthood

What is a saint? My childhood in the Catholic Church and school system taught me that saints were chosen by the Vatican, and that the people who were canonized were men and women who were selfless, kind, brave, and possessed of traits that most of us mere mortals simply did not have. One other factor that should be mentioned: those saints only qualified after they were dead. There was no possibility that any of them would object to the title or even run for it while they were still alive. Miracles and testimonials had to be provided supporting their cases and then decision were made on high by other experts. I believed that this was the only way to choose a saint. This seemed right.

But I had a problem.

I looked back on my own life and realized that there were people who never found themselves the witness to a miracle or had anyone in the priesthood who could vouch for their acts, but they were saint like or at least saintly in their own way. And, in particular, there was a lady in my life who was possessed of selflessness, kindness, strength who was not family or in the upper-echelons of the Vatican. She was my saint.

Miss S., or just S. (won’t give the full name here) was a woman who was close friends with my mother at their shared workplace. They both worked in a nursing home, dealing with abuse from elderly residents, indifferent families and relations, and staff that treated them as an expensive burden (I once went to pick up my mom from work with my dad, and I noted how they were spoken about and screamed at as they did their work; still not sure how they managed). I do wonder about this situation today. Did all of that nursing somehow become internalized? Did they let it get into their daily lives?

Perhaps they did. Perhaps that was the reason why, if I were sick and my mother happened to be at work, Miss S. was the one that I would spend the day with as I recovered from any of the many illnesses I succumbed to as a child. And oh, what illnesses they were! Chills, nosebleeds, fevers, flu, chicken pox, bed-wetting (mercifully, this only happened at home with my parents both attendant) and the like were a part of my childhood. I now understand that it is much better to suffer through such things as a child and then have all of that strengthening of the immune system become beneficial years later (I have not had the flu in quite some time, and I do not go in for shots). All of that helped, as did the kindness and sweetness of a lady who seemed closer to me than any other aunt or grandmother I could imagine.

She did have her own family. I want to be clear about this in case anyone reading this imagines she was just overcompensating with the chicken soup, couch and game shows viewed from the space of a couch. I knew the boys and we were pretty friendly, despite the gap in ages and interests. She had her own brood to worry about and did not need me there. And yet, she never made me feel as if I was someone or something that she could ignore and neglect. I never heard a harsh word or unkind thought from her through my entire childhood. In fact, she seemed as concerned as my mother over my health, grades and prospects for the future.

She was a saint, but like all saints, they only receive their rewards in the next life. I still regret that I did not get to attend her funeral – I was working overseas at the time – and that I never got to tell he how much I owed her for making one young boy feel like the world was not all bullies and frauds. I would spend a great deal of time comparing any action that I performed for someone else next to her kind examples and still find it lacking. But I would keep on trying.

Selah, Miss S. You will never be forgotten.