The Saint Game

I have some good stories and a few thoughts to share from this weekend, but this post comes first.

This weekend was the Annual Assembly of the Missouri Catholic Conference, so I was in Jefferson City, in their Capitol Building, listening to speakers on Catholic concerns in public policy. Though one couple critiqued agenda for not having enough on the pro-life cause, I loved the diversity of topics.

As Ana, Em, and I got back onto I-70, away from the land of fast-food and gas stations, Ana looked down at the fuel gauge. As soon as she opened her mouth to comment, Em and I remembered, still many miles from Jeff City, we had had a quarter tank on the way in. Apparently, we were now riding a hair above empty. And there were no exits, let alone gas stations, in sight.

We flew down the highway, until at last we reached an exit. There were no signs -- you know, the "Food," "Gas," and "Lodging" type ones, but we hoped for at least one gas station to serve the intersection of interstate and country highways. Off the exit ramp, there was nothing but a sign: Calwell, 3 miles. We were now on empty.

Banking on the fact that Calwell, however small, must have a gas station, we raced down some highway with a letter name. Ana comes from the country, so she took the curves swiftly enough that we could make the three miles in about three minutes. But in those three minutes, we passed through creepy fog, next to stopped cars, and old trucks sitting in empty fields. More than a little like the beginnings of a really scary movie.

We made it to Calwell -- there was a general store. And, lo and behold, a gas station: a two pump deal with no awning over them and no where to swipe a credit card. And the general store, at 7pm, was closed. Now nervous, we hit the road again, and three minutes later, found I-70.

As we kept our eyes peeled for another exit, this one with a gas sign, Em began: "Mary, pray for us. St. Vincent de Paul, pray for us... Who else?"

Ana threw in St. Louis de Merillac, and then I took off. For the record, there are a lot of saints out there, and it's not hard to keep naming them for five minutes as you swing up an exit ramp that has one sign, "Gas," and into the gas station where you discover that though the gas station is closed, they at least will still take credit cards.

That's when you get to stop listing saints and start thanking them.