I have three daughters. They are the best of friends (and
the worst of enemies, depending on the day). But most unexpected and delightful
to watch is the friendship between my oldest and youngest daughters, who are
almost seven years apart.
Recently, I was watching them play in our driveway. My older
two daughters were riding their bikes around the driveway. My youngest daughter
sat on her tricycle, in the middle of the driveway, watching them rapidly
circle her. She desperately tried to make her trike move but couldn’t figure it
out. I had shown her how to push her foot down on the pedal, but it was hard
work and she just could not manage it. She let out a frustrated cry. She wanted
to be riding with her sisters, but she was just too little.
As she began to cry, my oldest daughter stopped riding her
bike and pulled up alongside the toddler. She began speaking to her in the
soft, gentle way that she has of talking to her baby sister. My youngest
daughter stopped crying, and she looked up at her big sister. She listened. And
she tried to push her feet down on the pedals, much to the delight of her
biggest sister. “You’re doing it, Zelie! You’re doing it!” she cheered. Zelie’s
whole face lit up. “Mommy! Mommy! She’s pedaling!” I looked up, just in time to
see Zelie pedal forward about one inch…and then roll backward six inches. From
the reaction of my oldest daughter, you would have thought that my youngest had
just won the Tour de France.
As I watched them beam at each other with delight, my
youngest daughter no longer discouraged, I realized that that interaction was a
beautiful icon of the saints and us.
Older Siblings in Faith
The beauty of the saints is that they are fellow creatures.
The holiest of saints – whether archangel or peasant child – was only so
because of grace. Each saint knew of their need for God. Many suffered as much
(or more) than we do. Now that they have reached the home that we all long for,
they have not forgotten us. In fact, they look at us with a sisterly/brotherly
affection.
They do not continue to rapidly ride their bikes in circles
around our trikes, while we sit and cry alone. They are moved with love for us,
and happily stop to encourage us so that we can ride beside them. And, as only
much older brothers and sisters can do with baby siblings, they make us feel that
even our most feeble attempts are cause for celebration. They remember what it
was like to learn to pedal.
This notion of the siblings being our big brothers and
sisters in Christ – and we their baby siblings – is more than an analogy. It is
a spiritual reality. By our Baptism, we have become children of the heavenly
Father. Those who come from healthy, happy families know what it is to be siblings
in a loving home. Those who come from abusive or dysfunctional families know
what it is to long for that kind of relationship. The most encouraging thing to
remember is that spiritual realities aren’t less real than human ones. They are
more real. In a certain sense, spiritual family is more real than
biological family (although, fortunately, biological family can also be united
spiritually). Spiritual relationships remain for eternity.
There is nothing that we can do that will make the saints
stop loving us. There is nothing that we can do that will make them stop
looking at us with the same deep affection that my oldest daughter looks at my
youngest one.
Mentors in Holiness
As important as learning to ride a tricycle is to a two-year-old,
it does not actually have eternal implications. Yet, if we all need to be taught
how to ride a tricycle, why should we expect ourselves to reach heaven alone?
In the Communion of Saints, there is a patron for just about
everything that you can imagine. The odds are fairly good that whatever you are
currently struggling with, there is a saint who has already struggled with it. This
is consoling in minor difficulties. A mother of a spirited toddler can find comfort
in the letters of St. Zelie, describing the antics of St. Therese to Therese’s
aunt. A couple facing infertility can turn to Sts. Elizabeth and Zechariah, or
Sts. Anne and Joachim, knowing that they are familiar with that suffering.
Someone with a longing for the outdoors (especially in a time when many national
and state parks are closed) can turn to St. John Paul II or St. Pier Giorgio
Frassati. A mother who has lost a child can turn to the Blessed Mother. A
priest who struggles with his parish can turn to St. John Vianney. The examples
are endless.
In this time of pandemic, many people are discovering the consolation of turning to saints who lived through pandemics. In what can only be viewed as proof that God has a sense of humor, it turns out that a patron saint of pandemics is St. Corona. Coincidence? I think not.
But regardless of whether saints lived through a pandemic or
experienced a stay-at-home order, all saints suffered. It is impossible to be a
saint without suffering. To be a saint is to embrace the cross, and to grow in
deeper union with the crucified Christ. Every human saint experienced suffering
or difficulty of some kind (the archangels have not experienced human
suffering, but they are deeply moved by our sufferings, too, and eager to
accompany us and console us).
And, like my oldest daughter responding to the frustrated
cries of her little sister, the saints are moved with pity when they see us
suffering. They remember what it was like to suffer. They do not want us to
suffer alone. They recognize the effort that it takes to pedal forward even an
inch, and they cheer us on (even if we then pedal backwards for a few inches).
When faced with tragedy and suffering on a massive scale, we
can take consolation in knowing that we are not alone. As massive as the
suffering of this pandemic is, it is vastly dwarfed by the greatness of the
love of the saints for us. We are not alone.
Does that remove the suffering? Certainly not. But there is a vast difference in suffering alone and being loved in our suffering.
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image: The Forerunners of Christ with Saints and Martyrs by Fra Angelica, photo by Sailko / Wikimedia Commons (CC BY 3.0)
