On May 1, 2011, the late Pope John Paul moved a step closer to becoming a saint in a jubilant ceremony that drew over one and a half million people revering the pontiff. Wouldn’t we all like to be worthy of beatification in our lives?
Then it dawned on me. Who makes these judgment calls of passing all criteria for saintly stature? I hope it’s not the team of panelists from Dancing with the Stars. If they sit in the twinkling atmosphere that close to angels, forming opinions by presiding over any of my course of actions, some of them may not be tallying up a good score for me.
Although I wouldn’t say my virtuous conduct is second rate, even if my fox-trot is.
If I have to be virginal to attain this merit of mightiness, forget it. I had three births, unless my trio decides to never acknowledge me as their mother and I can have a magician get rid of my stretch marks. There is a surplus of other embryos in incubation bringing my own walk towards canonization to a crawl, bearing in mind that there could be another Mother Theresa entering the population. It may take a few miracles on my part to enlist myself into martyrdom. I could favorably pick up the phone book ready to lend a helping hand to a few hundred thousand fellow Americans. Or try to buy the vial holding the Popes blood to inject for sanctity if they would accept a two party check from Boise.
I’ve traveled through life somewhat a friar. I open doors for five people, not just one. I have given to the Anti-Defamation League of B’nai B’rith International and I’m not even Jewish. And I’d be happy to donate more blood before all the mosquitoes get it. I may not possess the vocal talent of Streisand, but I have gifted some elders at the old folks home with songs of off-key cheer. I would like to stand as a divine angel before the Senate to amend abominable acts of voting against sufficient health care. Nursing the ill is already my dedicated motherly tradition, but serving the poor is another whole plate of mush I need to master.
I have seen the “light”, or was that the beams of an approaching car last night? I’m no skeptic. I swear I’ve seen a vision of the Lord on a tree trunk bordering my property. I would have Fed-Ex’ed the Vatican my proof, but it has miles of roots and the kids in the neighborhood climb on it with their dirty shoes marring the image. Sometimes it’s covered in bird poop, but I know He’s there. When I pass it every day going to the mailbox, He speaks to me. Either that, or it’s close neighbor Henry calling my name to join him for a scotch and soda. Sometimes I think of Henry as the Almighty One, since he frequently has alcohol already iced and I don’t.
I hope nobody abolishes my attempts in jumping the hurdles towards holiness. So I fibbed to my children that Santa was real. And since I was the proud owner of trimming shears, I perfectly pruned my friends Maltese with only two bald patches. It wasn’t my fault he moved! Or the time I left the restroom at Target and walked straight out the door to my parked car with a whole roll of toilet tissue trailing behind. That wasn’t really stealing, so I hope that doesn’t obstruct my progress to the pearly gates and sanctification. My strict Catholic upbringing kept my conscience in check and away from most misdeeds. I was always afraid to go outside in fear that a bolt of lightening would strike me from the sky if I did something morally or ethically wrong.
I was baptized and almost drowned in the process. I made my first communion and almost choked to death. So those should account for some of the suffering I have endured. After I’m long gone, I too would love to have a huge tapestry bobbing above a densely packed crowd of devotees revealing my name just as he had. But being a US citizen, we could fill Times Square instead. To honor me, they can carry a special occasion custom carved candle for a lighting ceremony. Oh, and a cocktail. No one would need to bribe Henry to be there with booze.