Matt, the new patron saint of the disabled

Mom found me one night this week in tears with a bunch of patron saint books on my lap.

Mom had bought these books to show her CCD kids. They have a short story about the saint, a beautiful drawing by this guy and a real short reflection about the saint or the object of his patronage.

I was crying not because of the church's perverse sense of humor at assigning patrons; Hey, Agatha was tortured for her faith by having her breasts cut off; I think we have our patron saint of people with breast cancer. Mom pointed out that Agatha is often pictured with her breasts on a platter.

Another macbre patronage: Lawrence was martyred by being grilled -- let's make him the patron of cooks.

I prefer to think of Lawrence as patron of comedians because in the middle of his grilling he said, Turn me over, I'm done on this side. Some lists do give him this patronage, too.

It was Isidore that started the tears coming and there was no stopping them after that.

The book says that Isidore farmed for a landowner and that his co-workers complained that Isidore's prayers took away from his work. Following up on the complaints, the landowner spied on Isidore and saw him under a tree praying while two angels plowed his field with snow-white oxen.

It doesn't say what landowner's response was, but here's mine: God did all that for someone and still doesn't lift a finger to make me better?

I know I could be worse. I could be homeless or jobless or without the family and friends that make my life so much better.

I know the stories are just legends, maybe, no, probably they didn't happen quite the way they are written, but still ... white oxen?

The tears got worse when I started to read the book called In Times of Need. It has patrons of diseases and conditions. The reflections did me in.

The one accompanying Dymphna (patron of those with mental illnesses) told about a family that brought a friend of theirs to dinner on Sundays. It turns out the friend, who just sat there and ate, lived in a mental facility.

Dymphna also made me think of the family friend who gave me a Dymphna medal. A career navy man who no one would ever think of as a wimp, this friend took the medal off his keyring and gave it to Mom to give to me when I was going through some nonsense.

St. Giles is the patron saint of those with disabilities, although he just got shot in the leg with an arrow. St. Sebastian got shot full of arrows and they didn't even kill hm. But whatever. The reflection with Giles was about a family that had a son who was profoundly disabled and how they cared for him and the things he taught them. That one wrecked me, too.

Now, I felt greedy as well as abandoned. These people, both the saints and the reflection writers and our Navy friend are such good people. What gives me the right to ask for anything in light of their struggles?

But right or not, I still want to be cured. I want to walk.

P.S. If elected patron saint of the disabled, I promise to work some cures.