your friends don't have to be alive
meet my most annoying, best dead friend
This week we celebrated All Saints and All Souls days. (And of course, we also celebrated Halloween; please don’t think I’m one of those.)
I didn’t grow up in a spiritual tradition that put much stock in saints or ancestors. Sure, there were a few heroes of the faith we held up — the Corrie Ten Booms, the MLKs, the Jim Elliots — but even they were relatively modern figures, deceased lately enough to still be whispers on lips. I vaguely knew about St. Francis of Assisi, but he was the only canonized figure in my religious imagination and only because at some point along the way I had inquired about the proliferation of front yard stone statues bearing his likeness.
Spiritual friendships, I assumed, were for the living.
But there was a hiccup in my indoctrination. As a young adult, in the heart of my most fervent evangelical fundamentalist days, I heard a sermon preached on the book of Revelation (not an uncommon occurrence, IYKYK) that planted the seed of fascination with the dead. This pastor quoted from Revelation 8, about angels with bowls of incense, and he made a compelling case for why “the prayers of the saints” didn’t just mean the people of God on earth but also those in heaven, who are praying with and for us. He also quoted the great cloud of witnesses from Hebrews 11, which really solidified his point.
{Of course, this was all in the context of the necessity of 24/7 prayer to open the Seventh Seal and usher in the endtimes so Jesus can return. So, ya know, take it with a grain of salt.}
Regardless, something stirred inside me that has not stilled, all these years later.
We are not alone.
Years after I left the endtimes movement, Catholic-curious and preparing for confirmation at age 30, I found the permission to lean into the enigmatic pull of the ancestors. Catholicism gave me the freedom to be as weird as I wanted to be, and I dove right in. I still wonder which of my Irish Catholic ancestors might have been praying this good little Protestant daughter into the church of my ancient foremothers. The family tree is a whomping willow.
The first saint I ever prayed to (besides Mary) was the least likely. Therese of Lisieux is called “The Little Flower.” I know. Gag. But, perhaps unfortunately, it suits her: she really was demure, obedient, meek, and fragile.
If you know me, these are probably not the first words you would use to describe me — I’m aware — and in all honesty, I found her a bit nauseating. But eventually I discovered there was more to her than met the eye. (Have you noticed that tends to be the case if you get to know most anyone well enough?) Therese felt a calling to the priesthood, for one thing; a calling which of course could never be fulfilled in her lifetime. She also wanted to be a missionary, which I very much related to, yet fate and poor health would disallow that dream as well.
Instead, the Spirit gave her a pen and the gift of words. And this frail young woman wrote of a Jesus few knew or spoke of: a Jesus unconcerned with power, influence, scrupulosity, or fortitude, but who was very much concerned with love. Just love.
After all, as another spiritual friend and fellow devotee of The Little Flower once wrote, the final word is love.
That was not exactly what the thrill-seeking, world-changing heart of my late 20s wanted to hear. But it was what it needed to hear. So Therese of Lisieux, The Little Flower who irritated me at every turn, became my patron saint and my first spiritual friend on the other side of the veil.
Therese has put up with a lot from me over the years, not the least of which being my tendency to shit-talk her, as evidenced by some of these paragraphs here today. But I also don’t know what I would do without her, and isn’t that frankly the juxtaposition of all the most important people in our lives?
Yes, the dead can be some of the most important people in our lives. Spiritual friends are the ones who point us toward love. Who cares whether or not they are currently breathing oxygen? After all, the final word is love. And love and love and love.
May it be so of us.
Speaking
My first Ignatian Family Teach-in for Justice is in the books, and it was a truly wonderful experience. My friend Cameron Bellm wrote an entire Substack post about the conference here, so definitely check that out if you think you might be interested in attending in the future.
Our pop culture-themed breakout session was a blast. The students packed the room wall to wall and brought fantastic energy to the discussion. It was my first time co-presenting with my friend Eric Clayton, but I hope it won’t be the last.
A massive thanks goes out to my incredibly supportive spouse back at home who always encourages me to use my voice and stretch my comfort zone. I love him a lot.
Book news
This week I received word that the narrator of the audiobook version of Feminist Prayers for My Daughter was nominated for a SOVAS award (Society of Voice Arts and Sciences) for her work on my book. Obviously I can’t take credit for Nikki Zakocs’ incredible work, but it did make me smile pretty big to know I gave her decent content to start with.
If your interest is now piqued to hear the audiobook, you can nab your copy here.
My family is headed to the West Bend Grotto today, and as a Marian nerd I am over-the-moon excited. Meanwhile, my kids’ familiarity with shrines revolves almost exclusively around The Legend of Zelda, so let’s hope they’re not too disappointed by the lack of monsters in need of slaying.
Lots of love,
Shannon
Hear, Hear! Mary Magdalene told me to tell you, “You go, Girl!”
I have to admit that I struggled with this post's title because the saints are so extremely alive to me, but I get it. Ya gotta reel people in! ;)
I, too, at first nearly-gagged at the perfect little image that Therese gets in the pious Catholic sphere, but lo and behold, she also introduced herself to me... now my heart has so much in common with her. Heather King's book, "Shirt of Flame" helped me a lot with that transition / transformation.