Becoming a saint means being the most loving person you can be

God calls everyone to be a saint. To become a saint, we do not have to leave what we are doing and enter a monastery or convent. God does not expect us to work miracles. We are all called to follow Christ and his teachings right where we find ourselves.

Let me give you an example.

Carl was a quiet man who always greeted you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking down the street often worried people. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in World War II. People worried that although he had survived the war, he may not make it through the changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing violence, gangs and drug activity.

When Carl saw the flyer asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the priest’s home, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he signed up and started to take care of the church’s garden. Carl was almost 87 when the very thing everyone had always feared finally happened.

He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, “Would you like a drink from the hose?” The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, “Yeah, sure,” with a sinister smile. As Carl offered the hose to him, the two others grabbed Carl’s arm, throwing him down.

As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, Carl’s assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet and then fled. Carl tried to get up, but he fell on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the priest came running to help him.

Although the priest had witnessed the attack from his window, he could not get there fast enough to prevent from happening it. “Carl, are you OK? Are you hurt?” the priest kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head. “Just some punk kids. I hope they will grow up someday.”

His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the priest asked, “Carl, what are you doing?”

“I have to finish my watering. It’s been very dry lately,” came the calm reply. Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the priest could only marvel at Carl’s dedication and stamina.

A few weeks later, the three returned. Just as before their threat was unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time, they did not rob him. They pulled the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they wandered off down the street, shouting catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at what they had just done.

Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warm sun, picked up his hose and went on with his watering.

The summer was quickly fading into fall. Carl was doing some tilling when the sudden approach of someone behind him startled him. He stumbled and fell into an evergreen branch. As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer tormenters reach down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.

“Don’t worry old man. I’m not gonna hurt you this time.” The young man spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl.

… Continued next week.