The saints of old don’t wear golden crowns, or sit on lofty perch, mouthing caustic comments on how poorly we yet-mortal souls measure up to the glory of days past.
They, too, knew about keeping hope alive while getting dinner on the table, faucets fixed, carpools covered, and budgets balanced.
After the ecstasy, there’s always the laundry.*
The saints, too, endured wistful nights and wasted days. They had knees that ached in cold weather and sometimes spoke sharp words to dearly-beloveds—including, on occasion, to God. Read more ›