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.
You may never enter a lion’s den, or travel through a war zone, or hear a prison door close behind your act of conscience. Mostly, you don’t get to custom-design the witness
you bear, the woe you endure, or the promises
you make to mend the world as it crosses your path.
By and large, you weigh the choices that come your way without the fanfare of stardom’s spotlight, your picture in the paper, or even angels whispering in your ear.
Saintly work is more common than you think.
©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org. *Line adapted from Jack Cornfield’s book title, After the Ecstasy, the Laundry.