the saints

My parents left the Catholic Church when I was just a few years old, and I grew up in it’s forbidden shadow with the captivated by it’s mystery. Every year, my devout grandparents bought us a subscription to Catholic Digest and, I’m sure, were thrilled to know that 8-year-old me was reading every magazine cover to cover. The stories of Mary visiting children when they least expected it, of saint statues weeping in hospital gardens, the grand visions—a mystic since my youth, I loved it all.

Even though I never converted to Catholicism, I see its influence in my writing. In the story I just finished, Mary Magdalene features prominently, and, without intending to, the protagonist in my latest story is named Joseph.

Last week, when I went to the local Realtor office to buy some new shoe covers and lockboxes, I found a stash of St. Joseph statues lined up next to the "SOLD!" and "NEW PRICE!" signage for sale.

I decided to buy one, and the woman ringing me up told me they sell a ton of them. “People swear by them,” she said. “Just bury it in the yard, that’s what they tell me they do.”

This— this is the stuff that 8 year old me would’ve loved.

(Leaving on my writing desk, not planting in a yard.)