My dear Fr Moynaghan,
Not being a particularly religious man, I don’t know how one goes about nominating a person for a sainthood. For that reason, I ask in advance that you forgive me for what must seem to you a rather clumsy request. Nevertheless, please know that my intentions are pure and I don’t write this letter with the least concern for myself. So how does it work? Is it like the Oscars? Maybe that comparison is too crass. The Nobel Peace Prize, then? Are there nominations and then deliberations? Does it begin with humble suggestions from ordinary parishioners like me? Then is it passed up the chain of command, so to speak, from priest to bishop to cardinal to pope? Administrative protocols elude me. I never understand the mechanical details of how the world works. And yet, there it goes, spinning on its axis, with or without my understanding.
Whatever it is that you people require to set in motion the wheels which ultimately deliver us to a pronouncement of sainthood, please accept this letter in satisfaction of that requirement. If a nomination, then I so nominate. If a suggestion, then take it from me. If a prod, then this is my elbow in the papal gut. We really need to get this woman done.
About the woman in question … Her name is Theresa, which itself is a matter of saintly precedent. She is a neighbour of mine. I see her every day when I walk home from the bus stop. Often, I see her kneeling, or even prostrate (or is it prostate? I get those words mixed up) on a stretch of lawn, in such an attitude of devotion, as if praying. Immediately, I am struck by the expression of peace. Or is it love? Though, really, who ever sees one without noting the other lurking in the bushes nearby? The other distinctive feature about her is that she rarely goes anywhere without a screwdriver in hand. Maybe you guys could use the screwdriver as her special symbol, you know, the thing that always appears in portraits, of which I’m sure there will be plenty in St. Peter’s Basilica once the pope makes her a saint. Or do you guys call female saints saintesses? I’ve never been clear on that.
Anyhoo, the reason I mention the screwdriver is that she uses it to weed lawns. She gets down on her knees, then burrows into the ground with her screwdriver, working the soil to loosen the roots of dandelions. In our neighbourhood, those nasty little tubers spread like weeds. Beginning in ’92, I would come home and find Theresa muddy-kneed on the lawn between a bird bath and a stone statue of the virgin, digging away at the noxious weeds and tossing them one by one into a recyclable yard waste bag. We would often exchange greetings and then I would stand at the curb, gazing awestruck at the tiny patch of grass, a green island in a sea of gold. There was her lawn, and beyond it, the neighbour’s, and so on, lot after lot for as far as the eye could see. I would remark upon the seeming futility of the task. An ordinary person would give up and pop open a beer. But Theresa was not an ordinary person; she was blessed by a sense of holy purpose. On more than one occasion, I pointed out to her that no one person could possibly weed all the dandelions in our neighbourhood, for—as you may appreciate—by the time she got even halfway down the first block, a fresh patch of gold would be popping up where she had begun.
Year after year, I saw her working faithfully to rout the evil weeds and to reveal the blessed green of the lawn they tried to hide. To this day, she continues to weed, even though rheumatoid arthritis makes it difficult for her to kneel, especially if there’s rain in the weather forecast.
I remember asking her once: “Theresa,” I said, “why do you work so hard at weeding the dandelions when it seems so futile?”
She answered me something like this, although I don’t remember the precise words: “Well, Dave,” she said, “before I weeded dandelions, I did starfish. I lived by the Bay of Fundy, and after every high tide, the stretch of beach where I lived was littered with the poor buggers, so I’d go out and toss a few back into the water. Once, when I was hurling a big starfish, a blogger caught me in the act and asked why I bothered since it obviously made no difference. I looked him straight in the eye and said: ‘To this one, it makes a difference.’ And I threw the starfish into the water. Well that impressed him and he blogged about it, and soon the story—or his version of it—went viral and everybody was telling the lovely story of the woman and her starfish. The truth is: if I left the damn things on the beach, the stench would turn something terrible, and then there was the noise of the gulls, loud enough to drive you loopy. Not long after the story went viral, I sold the place by the sea and moved to the suburb of a landlocked city where I knew I’d never see a starfish again. But damned if there weren’t these dandelions instead.”
Theresa paused and stared at her statue of the virgin mother.
“And?”
“And what?”
“And how does that explain why you feel compelled to weed acres of dandelions.”
My dear Fr Moynaghan, I must confess that, at first, I did not understand the woman’s answer. Personally, I have always found it difficult to penetrate the mysticism of the deeply religious. When she said that one is the same as the other, I didn’t understand. “How could that be?” I asked. “How could rescuing a vulnerable creature be the same as destroying a noxious weed?”
“No,” she answered, “they aren’t the same in that respect. They’re the same in that they engage me in futile gestures and wasted efforts.”
Now I ask you, Fr Moynaghan, what could be more a sign of religious devotion than the practice of futile gestures and wasted efforts? Surely there can be none so devout as our sister Theresa. And so I humbly place her before you for your consideration as a saint.
Yours, etc.
My Dear Mr. Barker,
Thank you for your letter recounting the virtues of sister Theresa who, if I am to understand correctly, is not the member of any order and so not properly called “sister” except, perhaps, as a term of affection. While the woman you write about does, indeed, sound remarkable, I must draw our exchange to a rather abrupt conclusion by pointing out the obvious technical detail that people cannot qualify for sainthood unless they are dead.
Your faithful servant in X, etc.
Dear Fr Moynaghan,
Pursuant to your suggestion, I have taken care of that detail. Theresa’s screwdriver was helpful in this regard. Not only will she be remembered for her good works, but also for her martyrdom. Perhaps now you could expedite our cause in Rome?
Yours, etc.