Freedom is a spin we put on hope, a name we use when young. But as the noose tightens and we see Death waving at us like an old cousin, it begins to resemble the notions we discarded at puberty¾Santa Claus and Heaven … and its black-sheep brother, Fate, creeps onto our tongues.
The Creator God, whether dead or living, who stokes the souls of saints, also stalks them. He roams the earth, hiding anywhere¾sunflowers, razorblades, swamps¾so that we continue on our happy ways and He can take advantage of our trust to quickly flatten us. Saints are His preference. At first He’s pleased¾imitation is the highest form of flattery¾and He may even grant a few favors, making the young saint briefly think the universe is good. But then watch out … His envy’s stronger than His pleasure: the usurper feels God expanding in his soul; at first, a sweet fullness, then¾snap¾God takes over, the saint goes mad.
Because of his devotion, God would not let this saint go gently into that starry night. He tracked him down in a wheatfield and tortured him with unfiltered visions of creation, finally slaughtering this exhausted broken devotee on July 29 1890 in Montmartre . St. Vincent was planted at the foundation of what became the Abbesses metro stop, where he explodes daily, still in death trying to reach the stars. He was elevated to sainthood by the Council of I on this day in 1962, which is the year his nephew transferred the saint’s collection to the state for public consumption, which is the day his brother Theo read the saint’s words, Joy cometh in the morning. May we know that joy until Fate finds us. Let us honor the saint today with our souls and flesh.
