She turned to me, her piercing green eyes surrounded by the dark blotch all over her face. “Don’t you ever watch the news? People killing each other, idiots running the country, greed, simply trying to survive, men who can’t commit to anything except beer. All the good men are taken, the rest are gay, or unavailable because they’re priests or some such crap. Then there’s the past due rent, stress from all the BS at work, the abortion which you live with every day of your life, the guilt, the feeling of hopelessness and loneliness, the successful sister who has it all and thinks you’re a loser. I can go on. It just makes you want to stuff your face with a calzone followed by a gallon of rocky road ice cream, or better yet, to check out altogether. Today it’s the calzone, tomorrow – who knows.”
I paused and gave her my full attention. “Blessed be You, O God, for having created me.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She asked.
“One of the reasons I became a priest is because I’ve always been inspired by Francis of Assisi. If he were alive today, he’d be locked up and labeled crazy. He walked away from a life of riches and luxury and embraced a life of poverty and devotion to God. I think he may have been the happiest man on the planet at the time. There were others with wealth who wanted that kind of joy. Some wound up giving all their stuff away, land, money, you name it and joined Francis.”
“Yeah, so, he was crazy. So were those rich guys.”
There was a woman who decided to follow Francis and left everything including a proposal of marriage from a rich man. Her name was Clare. She was an inspiration to many other women of her time and they joined her. She lived in poverty and did manual labor. I do mean poverty. She had nothing. The last thing she uttered before she died was “Blessed be You, O God, for having created me.”
“So, what does that have to do with me? Just because we have the same name doesn’t mean squat, and it certainly doesn’t make me a saint.”
“No, it doesn’t. But aren’t you the least bit curious how someone with absolutely no possessions, no conveniences, no mate, doing manual labor, the subject of constant criticism could be so happy as to utter those words on her deathbed? By comparison, you are wealthy, you can afford the calzone you just ate and a gallon of rocky road ice cream if you wanted it. You have an iPhone, access to wifi, and you probably own some jewelry like the necklace and earrings you’re wearing right now.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess she was crazy too.”
“Yeah, but wouldn’t you want a little bit of that crazy? To feel such utter joy, even with nothing? I wanted that kind of crazy. Don’t you want just a little bit of that feeling? A feeling no one can take from you?
“Now you sound like a pusher. You’re not trying to sell me drugs are you?”