Perfect – almost

 

Perfect – almost

My mother was a saint!  I know a lot of people say that, and I suspect that they are all correct. There is no limit on sainthood – in fact, that is everyone’s goal.  As a deacon I hear a lot of my brother deacons verbally waving off sainthood in conversation.  “No, no not me”, usually accompanied by some serious hand waving.  On one hand I get it.  We all know that we are works in progress, and we don’t want to set ourselves up as superior to others.  On the other hand, we – even more so than others, need to acknowledge that in the end, there will only be two sides – the saints and those who aren’t.  Jesus referred to them as sheep and goats.

But, in getting back to my mother, she had no serious flaws that I was aware of.  She didn’t have any nasty personal habits – she never swore, drank alcohol or smoked tobacco of any kind.  She was acquainted with long-suffering as my father had a serious drinking problem for decades.  She never said anything negative about him to anyone, even though it would have been understandable if she expressed some of the despair and frustration and worry that always accompanies addiction in a loved one.  Our house was always clean; and we ate exceptionally well.  We never missed Sunday Mass as a family and she would frequently walk the mile and a half to attend daily Mass at St. Jude where my brother Mike and I went to school.  I don’t even remember her ever complaining about the weather, even on plenty of soggy days huddled in the tent on camping trips.

I only remember my mother ever telling me about making one mistake.  She told me that when she was a teen that her mother put her in charge of making the big family Sunday dinner.  Several aunts and uncles were in attendance.  The cooking filled the home with wonderful smells and when she set the table and invited everyone to sit down, she was complimented on how everything looked.  But, as they began to dine, it seemed most everyone remarked at how salty the ham was.  It was a time when nothing was wasted, but the ham was almost inedible.  My Grandmother declared that she was going to give an earful to the butcher that week.  My mother, nibbled politely at the ham while her spirits sank lower and lower.  She was too afraid and ashamed to admit that, not knowing any better, she had salted the ham liberally.  She knew that ham was normally salty to taste, so she made sure of that.  She never confessed her mistake – at least to her family.  Knowing my mother she had shared that story with a priest at some point - likely the same week of that well-preserved dinner.  Even if she didn’t I suspect that St. Peter merely chuckled as he pushed the gate open for her.  He would have thought she was perfect – almost.

Yesterday we had a quiet and perfect Mother’s Day afternoon.  It was my weekend to preach at our three Sunday Masses, so I was gone early; it was nearly noon when I finally made it back home.  My wife of nearly 45 wonderful years had dinner on the table.  It was delicious. She was just finishing up a cherry pie to have as dessert with the evening meal.

The afternoon’s weather was nearly perfect.  The sky was cloudless and azure.  We sipped ice tea and talked and watched a steady stream of birds at the feeders.  Our second oldest son Nate stopped with some of Michelle’s favorite chocolates and stayed for a pleasant visit.    

I took care of dinner – nice steaks, baked potatoes and asparagus on the grill.  Michelle opened a bottle of wine we purchased on a recent trip to Spain.  It was as good as we remembered.  Then Michelle went in the kitchen, and returned with a generous piece of cherry pie for each of us – a little vanilla ice cream on the side.  I took a forkful.  Hmm.  Michelle and I have a standing debate especially about cherry and apple pie.  I prefer mine a little tart; she leans towards the sweet side.  She knows when I bake the pie that I am going to cut back on the sugar from what the recipe calls for.  And, I know when she bakes the pie, that she isn’t.

I took a second bite.  No, I wasn’t mistaken; that was far more than tart, it was downright sour.  Michelle looked up and simply said with a straight face, “That’s what Door County cherry pie tastes like when you forget to put the sugar in it.” 

For the 45 years I have been married to her I have come to appreciate Michelle’s beauty, her sense of humor, her intelligence, her nature, her faith, her tenacity, and her warmth.  She is perfect – almost!            

His Peace <><

Deacon Dan