We are too stingy with the word “saint.”
We attach it to St. Valentine, but not the purring peacemaker who warms our lap and kneads our aches.
We pin it on St. Patrick, but not the kitten who jolts us from our doldrums to prove that joy still exists, and gravity is subject to negotiation.
So, on All Saints’ Day, let us celebrate the hidden holies who are unsung, undercover, and under ten inches tall.
Is there any question Trifecta is a saint? In a cowl of heather grey, he is the goodness that never shouts.
In other paws, his life might look like a liturgy of loss. Three serious autoimmune diseases, FIV, FeLV, and diabetes, duel in his bloodstream. An old wound left his eye as foggy as November. Sixteen years can turn a body ragged as sackcloth.
But saints stay ageless.
While junior acolytes like you and I may harrumph over hangnails, Trifecta wears his scars lightly. The altar of the heart has room for either self-pity or wonder, and Trifecta chose wisely.
His misty eye beams up like a benediction: blessed are those who get excited about breakfast! Blessed are those who cuddle in a puddle with Francois! Blessed are those whose toes twitch in their sleep, dreaming of tomorrow.
With the hymn of his presence, Trifecta makes us believe tomorrow might be okay. He is a certified therapy cat, but “therapy” is such an understatement, it is like calling “salmon” a “sacrament.”
There are no words in heaven to fully express all that Trifecta does.
When children read to him, they have his rapt attention. When nursing home residents hold him close, his fur dries the tears on their creased cheeks. When a cancer support group hears Trifecta is coming, they cancel the previously scheduled guest, Brad Pitt.
Each of these brave people is of utmost importance to this old silver cat, and they know it.
Outside this moment, they may be overlooked or underestimated.
But, reflected in the stained glass of Trifecta’s eye, they are precious.
Trifecta is more than a comfort.
He is a healer, a promise, and a love letter from home.
But if Trifecta is our most obvious saint, he is not the only one. Even the official roster has sassy saints like St. Hilarius and St. Drogo the Unattractive, and Tabby’s Place has some salt-and-vinegar saints of our own.
There is St. Olive the Omnipotent, who is not technically omnipotent says that if we call her that, she will pray for us, which is ancient Latin for “permit us to live.”
Olive heard that saints get sainted after demonstrating three miracles, and by her last count she has logged at least eighty-four. These include: being the most graceful ballerina at Tabby’s Place, not in spite of but because of her paraplegia; providing shelter for lepers, widows, and orphans, so long as they are chicken nuggets; exhibiting prophetic power to know which humans should and should not be bitten; and loving everyone, no matter how peculiar they are.
There is St. Baby the Bountiful, whose every pound is a Psalm. You might expect a cat of his magnitude to be “food motivated.” You would be correct.
But, as much as he savors chalices of cheese, Baby’s daily bread is a deep, doughy gratitude for all of it. All of it: the sun on his stripes, the bubbling banter of the vet team, the visitors that burst out, “I love him!” like an Amen the instant they see him, the friends so familiar he knows their chin rubs by heart.
There is St. Gator the Golden, whose celestial handsomeness is proof of the divine, the crescendo of the eon, the radiance of the first light that made the angels sing for joy, and the image of St. Matthew McConaughey. No, Gator did not make me write that. OK, Gator did make me write that.
There is St. Musha the Astonishing, who lived in a bodega long enough to know the difference between a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich and a sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, but who sees no distinction between the weird and the worthy when it comes to people. It does not matter if you show up in Chanel or a free sweatshirt from the gas station. You may vote for those people or those other people. She does not care.
If you make time to mush on Musha, the edges of “us” and “them” will smush together. The savvy senior sees only people, perfect because they exist. And also because they can hold at least six squeeze-treats in each hand.
St. Hircine the Hobbit is a haven for cats who prefer hidey-holes. St. Hannah the Happy is sparkling wine turned feline. St. Odessa the Psyched is so heckin’ amazed that you exist, she will engrave infinity signs into the floor as she circles your ankles.
St. Kimchi the Concerned may cower for the hour you visit, but as you leave, if you blink into the trembling votives of his eyes, he will blink back this doxology: thank you for not giving up on me.
The world may never know their names, or ours.
They will probably not print Deku‘s face on a prayer card anytime soon.
But, as long as we don’t give up on each other, we will always find ourselves surrounded by saints.