The Saints of Small Things
I say a prayer of thanksgiving as I pull into the third space from the mall’s entrance — a goddamned miracle. December 23rd and I am booking it to pick out a last-minute present along with the rest of the procrastinating horde. We have cold-numbed extremities and desperation in common. Unlike them, I have the intercession of the Parking Fairy. See, I have never failed to secure a parking spot close to the front of the mall, the ballpark, the university commuter lot. The Fairy is my grandma Kate, who once had the best pair of parking-lot eagle-eyes of anyone I’d ever known. I call out to her whenever I need a little help finding parking. I rely on her a lot, because I might as well be Our Lady of Perpetual Tardiness.
Over the years, my personal pantheon of helpers has grown. Most recently my other grandmother, Ruthellen, joined the ranks. She’s the patroness of Not Spilling Messy Foods On Your Shirt, on whom I rely for first dates and eating Italian. My friend Dan joined the mix a few years ago, decades too early. I send up a small prayer of thanks anytime something unexpected makes me laugh, or a look of stern admonition anytime I think of him while I’m rinsing out my hair in the shower. Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you get to be a creep. They need not be people I know personally — I’ve been known to send a blustering, anxious prayer to Gertrude Stein when I need creative confidence. I promise, girl, one of these days I’m gonna read Tender Buttons. Today just ain’t that day.
Perhaps this habit is a natural extension of my history as a recalcitrant Catholic. We the faithful famously have a small army of saints we rely on for a variety of woes and ailments. As a kid I could never be bothered to memorize them all, so I focused on the important ones. St. Anthony for lost things (Walkman, snow boots, stuffed velvet rabbit). St. Jude for math homework, a lost cause if ever there was one. More often, I’d simply lob off a quick prayer in the direction of whoever was operating the intercessional switchboard.
It helps to be able to call out for help with the little stuff, the stuff God’s too busy for. I would feel bad asking about a printer jam, a jar that won’t open, or Internet that’s on the fritz. I don’t need big-G God’s help sorting out the pile of laundry on my floor. I’ll save up my airtime asking about the bigger, more important stuff, like when will I find a job and did I pick the right major and can I make it as a writer and does everyone feel this way all the time or is it just me? I don’t need to waste God’s time on all of this, so the saints of small things really come in handy.
When I’m gone, I hope folks still have reason to call on me. On the slim-to-miraculous chance that I ever become a legit saint, I wonder what I’d be the patron saint of. All the good stuff is already taken, at least in the Catholic tradition. Travel, education, women, shit, even skin diseases already has a patron saint — don’t ask me who it is, I never bothered to learn. I think I’d like being the patron saint of something small. There’s something magical about being able to solve people’s everyday problems, freeing up psychic space so they can handle the big shit on their own. For moments when the almighty seems too far away or like overkill, you need someone down to Earth.
I hope my friends and family send a prayer my way when they need a killer playlist, or a single glance that can inspire both fear and encouragement. It’s my Librarian Face and I’ve spent years honing it to the highest degree — I’d hate to see it go to waste. Or, people could rely on me when they play chicken with the gas gauge in their cars. My intercession could be the difference between sputtering to a gas station and stalling out on the side of the road. Maybe I could be called upon to provide the courage to experience a new city stomach-first, even if it sometimes means hurling up sketchy Greek food into a hostel toilet. Everything has a price. Just don’t ask for help finding a parking spot — sorry kid, that’s not my department.
