I was raised Catholic. In fact, I was raised so Catholic that I only ever went to Catholic school- kindergarten through college. You can’t take as many religion classes as that required and not end up knowing a little something about saints and miracles.
Saints are the Justice League of the Catholic Church. They are people who live lives of extraordinary virtue. They exemplify faith, hope and charity. As with the Justice League, there are a bunch of them. The Church recognizes more than 10,000 people as saints. Also like the members of the Justice League, saints have superpowers (Batman, Green Arrow and guys like that aside. But let’s not kid ourselves, being Batman IS a super power).
These powers, when you are a saint, manifest themselves in the form of miracles. Some of these miracles are pretty awesome. St Gerard Majella could levitate – like Superman! St. Paul of Moll could talk to birds – like Aquaman! Sorta. St. Matin de Porres could be in two places at once- like Multiple Man (I know, he’s a Marvel character, but I drew a blank as to a DC hero who had the same power).
Some are less awesome, if still impressive. St. Alexandrina da Costa didn’t eat for thirteen years- like…I dunno…David Blaine-Man?
No matter how cool or ridiculous your miracles are, you have to have a certain number of them to be officially designated a saint. At least two and sometimes as many as six, depending on a variety of factors too byzantine to get into here. Long and the short of it, get enough miracles attributed to you and eventually you can join the League.
I am pretty jazzed to announce that I have started my canonization process. I don’t live a life of extraordinary virtue. Nor do I exemplify faith, hope or charity. I follow the tenants of Saint Augustine, who said “Lord, grant me chastity and continence, but not yet.” I do, however, have my first miracle. I’m excited about it. I think you will be as well.
I’m going to assume that most of you are already sitting down. I don’t want to blow your minds too much but I think that when I tell you about this you are all going to start making plans about how you are going to spend St. Patrick the Second’s Day. Okay, get ready…
Today, for the first time ever, at 11:22 am EST and for a brief, shining collection of moments afterward, there was absolutely no, I repeat, no dirty laundry in our house.
None in the hamper in Cass and I’s room. None in the hamper in the boys’ bathroom. None on the floor of T1’s room, where he usually keeps it. None mixed in with the clean clothes in T2’s room. Every single item of clothing in our house was clean.
What’s more, every single piece of laundry in our house was folded and put away.
CAN I GET A HALLELUJAH!?!
It wasn’t stacked in a pile on the chest in the upstairs hallway. It wasn’t folded and piled on various and sundry pieces of furniture. It was all put away where it was supposed to be. This actually caused a problem in T2’s room. His dresser, we have now realized, is actually too small to hold all of his rapidly expanding, both in terms of overall volume and size per garment, wardrobe. This isn’t noticeable when he has a few days of dirty clothes piling up. When everything is clean his drawers are bursting with drawers.
Some of you may be scoffing. Whatever, infidels. What you obviously don’t understand is the sheer amount of laundry we produce on a daily basis. We are like Sorcerer Mickey Mouse around here except with socks and panties instead of buckets of water. The washer and dryer are always running. There is always more to do. The only thing that can be counted on to pile up with the same regularity as dirty laundry is dirty dishes.
Except…a trip to the kitchen revealed that the sink was empty. So was the dishwasher.
That’s right, true believers! We had no laundry to do! We had no dirty dishes!
IT WAS AN EXACTA MIRACLE! TWO FOR THE PRICE OF ONE! I AM AMAZING!
I was so excited I immediately texted Cass who was at work, slaving away in the penis mines*. She was impressed, although, and I’m not going to lie here, a little less impressed than I feel like the situation warranted. She told me I got a gold star. It turns out that this isn’t metaphor for an exotic sex act but rather a metaphor for a pat on the back. Well, a prophet is never appreciated in his own suburb, I guess.
Alas, my miracle was short lived. The boys came home, T1’s gym clothes appeared and T2 made himself a snack using the apparently required three utensils and two plates.
But hey, one down. Maybe two down, depending on how I can spin it. I am well on my way to having a cathedral named after me.
My parents are going to be very proud.
*At the Men’s Sexual Health Medical Clinic where she is the Director of Operations.
PS-I realized after posting this that today’s offering is an amusing parallel to my brother’s extremely touching blog from this morning. I swear we are related.