Today is the feast of St. Joseph. Joe is the stepfather of Christ, according to Christian mythology. He is also the patron saint of real estate. How that happened is unknown. Perhaps miracles in his name counted by the number of mangers sold back in the day?
I buried a plastic statue of St. Joseph in the front-right corner of the yard at my house, the lovely English Tutor in Shaker Heights. When that didn’t work, after some time I (what the heck, can’t hurt, right?) buried another St. Joe in the back, outside the kitchen door. The place where all of the lovely lilies-of-the-valley grew, and Zeus the cat often hid. The lady at the crafts store where I found the last of the last St. Joseph plastic reproductions said they’d had a run on St. Joes since the real estate market decline. And no, she didn’t keep any statistics on success ratios.
Zeus continued to hide and the house did not sell. But and after all, I don’t blame St. Joe. I am a staunch hypocrite in many areas of life. How can you be Catholic and non-Catholic at once? How can you be a non-believer and expect miracles? And so I moved on without a push of Grace from the powers that be. The house was purchased (at a loss) by the company and I traveled onward, carrying only the guilt from uninterred plastic statues. (There are no instructions for post non-miracles.)