Saint Nobody
My Mother taught me many things
One of the most important
Was to not be superior
To others
Or to myself
For any reason
And to never
Take myself too seriously
I call it
The “Who the hell are you”
Because really
Who the hell are any of us
To be offended
To be pious
To be held higher than any thief
It’s something she talked to me about
It’s something she modeled for me
The day
It was really driven home
Had to be the day
We were standing in the church foyer
While another believer
Slathered my Mother in adulation
For her brave fight against such a terrible disease
For her grace
Her humor
Her bravery
Again
Her perseverance
Her halo
Her grace
Her bravery
It was all well intentioned I suppose
But I knew my Mother well enough to know
When this long winded admirer
Had haplessly wandered into dangerous territory
My Mother’s smile began to change
Ever so slightly
As the woman ran on and over again
How saintly my Mother was
For her suffering
How virtuous and important
What a testimony she was
People in the church
Love to use the word testimony
When something really crappy happens
Mind you
All she was saying
Was true most of the time
But the spirit in which it was said
Began to change
Just as slowly
As my Mother’s Cheshire grin
When “poor hapless church lady” had finished
She waited placidly for my Mother’s gracious
Humble reply
Unfortunately for her
My Mother’s right eyebrow arched half way up her forehead
She took a slow measured breath in through her nostrils
Both giant signs of impending doom
And said rather loudly and for all to hear
“ GEEZ! I’m a cancer patient, not Jesus Christ!”
She then hobbled off as abruptly as one can with a cane
Leaving the woman aghast and a little red-faced
I scurried after her
Feeling like Meg
Lamenting to Marmie
“Must you talk to everyone about corsets?!”
But the truth is
My Mother was right
Despite intention
Our sufferings
Don’t saint us
Neither do our degrees
Or our life experience
Or at least they shouldn’t
It is dangerous territory
To moulder too long
In a pyre of martyrdom
There is only one Infallible
After My Mother’s death
I noticed people saying to me
“Well, I shouldn’t complain to YOU, after all YOU have been through!”
While I appreciated the seemingly charitable sentiment
I am my Mother’s daughter
More times than not I responded with
“Just because I have suffered, doesn’t mean you aren’t suffering, or that my suffering is any more important than yours, or that I really care to be treated like I live on some Holy hill of suffering.”
In the words of Tori Amos
“Why do we crucify ourselves?”
Why are we so eager
To be taken so very seriously
Not to belittle earnest concern
Not to discount admiration
I’m not against compliments
We humans however
Are quick to weave them
Into all sorts of things
They were never meant to make
Like shields
Swords
Crosses
I’m a ridiculous
Small speck of a person
By the grace of God
May I always remain so
May my sufferings only ever
Teach me empathy
Enlightenment
Humility
May I always resist the small tempting voice
That beckons me
To inch my way
Up to my own little Calvary
To borrow a phrase
“Come down off the cross. We could use the wood.”