The Impatience of a Saint
Lately, people have taken to calling me a saint, which I think is hilarious.
The Church would never see fit to canonize me. I am a bisexual woman who lived with her husband before marriage. I have a look that can make even the most disregulated twelve year old pause, and I’ve groused at the goddamnfeckingdogs several times today. I don’t have the prerequisites for sainthood. I cannot claim to be holy, and I am far from able to perform miracles.
Even though my patience is short, I hope that when people call me a saint what they are really saying is they think I have the patience of a saint. Both kids have ADHD, and folks, that is no joke. Tonight I literally announced “I told you to get silverware so you can eat dinner, not play the spoons.” As an aside, this is not even close to the most ADHD thing to have happened today … just the most recent.
It’s not groundbreaking to say that raising kids with ADHD takes a lot of patience. I imagine I’ll write more about it at some point, but ADHD isn’t what this is about.
The thing that doesn’t sit right with me is this: Perhaps, when someone tells me I am a saint, what they’re really saying is that stepping in to parent kids who have lost their mom, or marrying a man who has been widowed, is something they could not do. That it’s not something they can fathom. That it seems too hard. I am a saint for doing something they see as unattainable or extra loving.
I hear the compliment, and I am grateful for the kindness.
But if I’m honest, it sounds like my everyday life has been turned into martyrdom. I am a stepmom and a second wife, yes. And sometimes that feels hard. Grief is a regular part of our lives, and if I’m honest I am still figuring out how much I should play a role in fostering Sarah’s memory. But that doesn’t mean I am offering up a great sacrifice to do so.
It is no sacrifice to me to have been given the gift of these kids. Every day I receive snuggles and song lyrics. I have philosophical discussions about life and fears that end with a joke or the injection of an imaginary friend. I also get frustrated that I have to repeat the same instructions a million times, and sometimes those imaginary friends were not invited into the conversation. But isn’t that part of it? We do everyday family things. The love these boys give me is a blessing that washes over me daily.
It is no sacrifice to me that my husband has the greatest capacity for love I have ever seen. He is the sort of man who will stand with his partner - care for his partner - in sickness and in health. I have never felt as sure or safe or supported as I do now. I laugh daily with a man who sees me as a partner and encourages me to dream. It is not always easy when his grief laps at our shore, and I’d be lying if I said it was. But no matter what happens, we walk this life together. The love he gives me is holy, sanctified, illumined.
It is nothing short of miraculous to see how my husband and kids keep reaching for love again and again and again. People like to call me a saint, but I’d never be invited to join those ranks.
No, I don’t perform miracles, but Lord knows I am living in one every day.