Heavenly Intervention

Do we still need saints? We’ve seen so many statues of them lately and they look neglected. Their paint is chipped, they’re covered by dust and often their plaster arms are broken. They seem forgotten. What do saints actually do?
Historically, saints solved the minor sorts of problems you wouldn’t want to bother God about. They were the customer service clerks of the organization. You go to them for everyday concerns – like to hook up your electricity or pay your tax disc. They also staff tourist information offices. You don’t know the way so they give you a map and point you in the right direction.
The only person I know who prays to saints is an old Irish lady. She knows which saint works in what department and has jurisdiction over her particular complaint. If she can’t find something, she’ll pray to St. Anthony, Saint of Misplaced Articles. “Dear St. Anthony, please help me find my coat.” If her granddaughter is colicky, she prays to the Saint of Newborn Babies, St. Bridget. Also, her saints occupy a sort of third world country where graft and bribery are the only way things get done. She makes bargains and doesn’t hesitate greasing the wheel. She’ll say, “Listen St Ambrose,(Saint of Learning) If you help my son get into university, I’ll donate $20 to the school bursary fund.” She always pays up.
On my drive to Barcelona, I was clutching the wheel with an iron grip and my molars were welded solidly together. Driving our camper van, Merlin is like driving the big cardboard box Merlin came in when he was new. Every gust of wind or passing lorry threatens to blow him off the road. I felt like I needed some heavenly assistance but didn’t know which saint to ask. Who is in charge of ancient camper vans on the motorway? I didn’t know.
So, I asked my brother Mike. He’s no saint (none of us are) but he drives an enormous red 18 wheeler and is fearless on the road. Once he had to drive down an icy mountain in Pennsylvania. He knew the truck would jackknife but he did it just the same. It did jackknife but that was progress; at least he was at the bottom. Mike and his truck are one thing. When he sits in it, he looks like a lego character snapped into his lego semi. He wouldn’t be intimidated by Merlin.
You need to know about Mike. He’s one of those people who never lets the truth get in the way of a good story. He can talk more nonsense than anyone. However, he does actually know some obscure, but occasionally useful facts – like the difference between amps and watts. At the same time, he is unpretentious and doesn’t mind admitting he doesn’t know something, like what the word “extrapolate” means.
I tried to imagine the advice Mike would give me and realized he’d make that noise. When Mike’s impatient he makes a low growl in his throat while blowing air out of his nose; like a bull. I tried that sound out on myself – and relaxed a little. So I made it again. Then I pretended Mike was growling next to me. All this pretending made me laugh and the road ahead was less daunting. I don’t know the Patron Saint of Motorways but Mike was fully qualified to do the job. So, I thanked my brother, sank back in the seat and drove on into Spain.
Nothing tells you you’re in a new country more than if the trees change. As I crossed the border, the sparkling deciduous trees of France turned into needle thin cypresses and “the umbrella tree,” stone pines. This is a hallmark tree of the Mediterranean. It starts out quite bushy like any other pine tree but as it matures it loses its bottom branches and forms a crown. When it’s very old, the crown flattens out like an umbrella. They are just beautiful.
The soil changed too. Between the rocks it was deep red, soft russet, or tile roof orange. At one place, it was bright yellow and shone in the sun. I was admiring it when a voice said, “Do you think there’s gold in these hills?” It was Mike. He was still in the van. I thought he’d left miles ago. He gave me his cheesy smile and said he figured he’d better stick around a while, in case I screwed up. That’s just like him. I was relieved  he’d stayed. My nose was pressed against the windshield and knuckles were aching. I grinned back at him and replied that no, I didn’t think there was gold in northern spain. He said, “that’s ’cause they haven’t looked hard enough.”
And that’s how it went for the next 300 miles until I arrived safely in Barcelona. We fell into an easy companionship and chatted about the changing countryside. Rounding a bend, we saw some wooden piers built out into the bay below. Mike said those were left over from the war but I thought that wasn’t likely. So then he said they were oyster beds and explained how oysters were fished – something he knows nothing about. Then he told me about some oyster soup he had in Wisconsin and that Wisconsin makes the best soup (he loves Wisconsin) Then he told me about the salsa he made this year (bumper crop of tomatoes) and his new recipe for deer sausage. We had a ball and the miles sailed by.
Mike stayed with me throughout the whole journey and I felt cheered and protected by his presence. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the work of saints and it brings me back to my original question; Do we still need saints? We surely do. I needed one on the road to Barcelona. Possibly the real question is do we need these saints – the ones with the broken arms. Most of us don’t really know them or where they work any more. They are rather forgotten. I think we can create our own saints. For everyday problems, I have a help desk staffed by the people I do know and they’re doing the work of those plaster statues. My brother is no saint and looks like he sleeps on the engine of his truck, but he spent the day with me when I needed him and cheerfully answered my prayer.