I hope St. Anthony has a real cushy spot in heaven. Considering the foolish nonsense I subject him to on nearly a daily basis, I think he deserves it.
On Sunday mornings: “Please St. Anthony, just help me to find Juliette’s other buckle shoe somewhere in this chaotic closet so we can get to Mass on time!”
In the Middle of the Night: “Oh good St. Anthony, please help me to find the baby’s “extra” pacifier–the one that he we had resort to because we couldn’t find her usual ones at bedtime–somewhere in this dimly lit bedroom so that I can give it to the screaming baby and we can all go back to sleep!”
On School Mornings: “St. Anthony, Finder of Lost Articles, we can’t succeed at this homeschooling thing if we don’t have our books. Please help us to find Ambrose’s speller which was on the kitchen table just minutes ago but then magically disappeared while he was sharpening his pencil!”
And Last Night Before Bed: “Dear St. Anthony who has never let me down, if I can’t run the dishwasher tonight, tomorrow morning I will wake up to a load of dirty dishes, and that could put me in a bad mood for the entire day. Please lead me to the brand new package of dishwasher detergent that I know I bought the other day but just can’t seem to find in the cluttered kitchen cabinet!”
Don’t tell him I said so, but the problem for St. Anthony is that he always comes through for me, so I am not likely to leave him alone. If he were less consistent in answering my pleas, I might move on and harass some other heavenly helper or (heaven forbid!) start to take some responsibility for myself and regain control of my occasionally disorganized lifestyle.
I hope I get to heaven, but I’m half-afraid that if I do reach the pearly gates, St. Anthony will greet me from the inside with a wry grin and ask, “You didn’t lose your key, did you?”