March 18th — Feast Day of St. Egg, who preached among the weasels.
I love saint icons. They fall somewhere between da Vinci and velvet Elvises, and there’s usually no way to predict where. They are glorious, or gloriously tacky, or both. My Catholicism would be hard pressed to get any further lapsed—I suppose I haven’t been excommunicated yet, but not for lack of trying—and yet I am still amused and bemused by the saints, by turns. They’re one of the great redeeming qualities of the religion. There is a humanity to them. The saints have been there. They understand what it’s like. There is a closeness and sympathy to saints largely lacking in the vague omnipotence of gods. I admire that. - Ursula Vernon