August 23: Saint Rose of Lima, "The Help," Guilt

There are some saints I read about who instill a great sense of guilt in me.  Rose of Lima is one of them.  Rose's given name was Isabel de Flores y del Oliva, but her mother nicknamed her "Rose" because of her red cheeks.  She was born in 1586 in Peru, and, like every holy person I read about, she knew, practically from the time she was a zygote, that she wanted to devote her life to God.

None of those details make me feel guilty.  I was very fickle about my career aspirations as a child.  I used to tell priests that I wanted to be a priest when I grew up, but I also told firefighters I wanted to be a firefighter; garbagemen I wanted to be a garbageman; and, once, a nun that I wanted to be a nun (she quickly disabused me of this idea).  If God had come into my classroom, I would have told Him I wanted to devote my life to Him, no problem.  As I said, I was fickle. 

What makes me feel guilty when I read about Rose is her devotion to the poor and sick of Lima.  Her work with slaves and Indians and, basically, any suffering person led to her reputation as the "originator of social services in Peru."  She dedicated her entire life (she died when she was 31) to helping others.  That's what makes me feel guilty.

I know I don't do half as much as I could to make the world a better place.  I give to charities, drop my church envelopes in the collection plate every Sunday, but I don't do it with a great deal of faith.  I give out of my abundance, not out of my need.  Even with my abundance, I'm pretty stingy.  If it's a choice between buying myself an iPad 2 or giving that money to a homeless shelter, I would really have to give it some serious thought.  I'm not a big fan of suffering, especially if it involves me personally.  I don't like feeling deprived.  Yet, I know I'm wealthier than 99% of the rest of the people on this planet.

That's my dilemma, and that's why I'll always be a wannabe saint and never a saint.  I'm too selfish/jealous/greedy.

I'm going to see the film adaptation of The Help tonight.  As most of you may know, it's about African American women who work as maids in the South before the Civil Rights Movement.  It's about people who suffer on a daily basis.  I'll probably drop $60 easy on tickets, popcorn, pop, candy, and babsitting by the time the whole evening is over.  A little earlier today, I told my wife we didn't have the money to contribute to a back-to-school backpack program the church is running for needy kids.  Guilt.  Big guilt.  Big, huge servings of guilt.  But it won't won't stop me from going to see this movie.

I will never be a Saint Rose of Lima, founder of social services in Peru. 

I'm Saint Marty of Michigan, who'd sell his left testicle for an iPad.

Anyone need a testicle?