When I was about 5 years old, Grandma S gave me a small hardcover "My First Book of Saints." Never mind that we weren't then and are not now Catholic -- I was fascinated by it.
Each saint had his or her own two page spread -- a stunning color illustration on the left with a short kid's prayer to the intercessor and then a short story of the saint's life on the opposite page. The saints were portrayed as ethereally beautiful -- flowing red hair on Saint Mary Margaret, green eyes fixated on a blood red Sacred Heart wreathed in thorns. Saint Rose of Lima -- so gorgeous she shaved her own head to avoid male attention, kneeling, pink lips parted as she feeds a little child from a bowl balanced on her delicate fingertips. Their faces were a mixture of passion and serenity; their stories were bloody and romantic. Visions! Murder! Burned at the Stake!
The Protestant church I grew up in wasn't too keen on the Roman Catholic patron saints. I loved the idea. Flesh and blood humans who were promoted to some sort of heavenly senior management position and who might be able to put in a good word with the Big G.
Last week, I found myself on a bar stool in Lakeview, regaling JP with tales of the time Freddie Mercury saved my life.
In another year, in another city, I hated my job. I felt it was eating me alive like row after row of shark's teeth. My coworkers and I spent our days in a cold sweat, struggling to keep up with the increasingly bizarre demands of our positions, trolling job boards for leads and cooking up elaborate escape fantasies. My friend N had taken to exclaiming "Please, Baby Jesus, get me out of here!" at regular intervals. Instead of Baby Jesus, I zeroed in on an icon of a different sort: St. Freddie.
In a job where I felt belittled and undermined on a daily basis, St. Freddie would remind me how important it was to sparkle, swagger and take control. His operatic wails were like holy incantations and I could picture him as an avenging angel, sweeping down from On High with his mic stand to vanquish my oppressors. He carried me through the last horrible six months until I won my freedom and a new job in Chicago. If I had any artistic talent at all, I'd make a little medallion of him to wear around my neck like a St. Christopher.
Last night, I finally got around to seeing Julie & Julia with two of my friends. Though Julia Child was still alive when Julie Powell was cooking and blogging, I instantly recognized her devotion to her own secular saint.
There are lots of them. Abraham Lincoln and Thomas Jefferson have their own temples, visited by millions of pilgrims. John Lennon might be one. Eleanor Roosevelt, probably. Ghandi, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Virginia Woolf.
Who else?
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