I Had a Baby Through Immaculate Conception, and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt
Messianic prophecies notwithstanding, we’ve all got our hang-ups.
You’d think it would be fun being a saint.
You have people worshiping at the feet of statues bearing your likeness. You have people kissing their fingertips before they touch a photo or painting of you. You could walk anywhere, any time, and be stopped on the street for upholding the weight of what it means to carry your own existence.
But all I have learned in my time of being a saint is that it’s much easier to hide in plain sight than it is to go out and actually reap the benefits of my sainthood.
You know my name. Mary. Mother of Jesus. The Queen of All Saints. The Mystical Rose, the Madonna, Our Lady of Providence.
I have many names, but I hate most of them.
The last time I spoke with my son, he was sitting in the back of a hippie’s station wagon and smoking weed that smelled of a dozen skunks in a field. His eyes were dilated to the point that I could no longer see the amber of his irises, and I knew he’d forget he’d ever spoken to me. That was how he coped in today’s world: he blitzed out until everything was an utter oblivion.
