Moms, Kids, Cars & Such: In Search of a Saint
In this month of March, life reflects, through nature’s awakenings around us and for me the season of Lent, a time to ponder one’s life with the prospect of new beginnings and continued rebirthing all around. We have clipped the old dead branches and dried snarls in our gardens and await the refreshing green of this wonderful month, the joyful color of spring. Within we await the joy of a future Easter while approaching that holy day with reflections and efforts to better shine for the God who made us. We aspire to come to the garden each day early to find Him who walks with us and talks with us and tells us we are His own. We search within to find a saint! Who, me? You bet! That is the calling of our lives, gentle readers, and one we often forget.
The dictionary describes a saint as one who is “a person of great holiness, virtue, and benevolence.” Saints are made through suffering. In just a little while from the writing of this column which is down to the wire again for lack of inspiration until now, I go to the hospital to be with Sista for another surgery. Sista is sick with Crohn’s disease. She is my suffering saint who has walked with me through every joy and crisis of these sixty-six years.
If you have to be in a foxhole in war times, you would want Sista with you! She is the one who feels your pain, who shores you up, and who rejoices in your joys as if they were truly her own. Don’t admire anything she has because the next thing you know it will be at your house! Having a gathering? Needing a wedding in a week for a child? She’s that girl who either brings THE most incredible tomato sandwiches or hosts the whole reception with all the food at her home! Have someone in your life whose words cut you to the quick with biting pain? Count on Sista to come to the rescue! Being self-centered in a pity party? Just let Sista tell you how the cow ate the cabbage!
My Delta grandmother’s name was Frances, who was a saint in her own way. This Frances had a house marked in hobo language outside on the curb during the Depression as a safe haven for feeding the homeless. She was named for another grandmother who died early after going to Arkansas as a young bride to pioneer that land. My Sista carries that same name and has suffered under its banner like a champion. Daughter, too, walks under that signage. It is the suffering name of a saint. We have decided that it needs retiring and have agreed that “Frances” is now put out to pasture for the women of this family! I think it is a good decision, but there are no guarantees that saint suffering will go with the name.
So, good reader, may we all aspire for sainthood! However, if you are marching in this manner, I pray you do so with a Sista by your side. Until next month, should God say the same. And please pray for my beloved Sista!