Last week, when I was writing about my favorite Saints, I remembered this short story that I thought some of you might find interesting: Way back in the early 1990s, when I was a completely lost soul, I spent the day shopping around San Francisco looking for antiques with a group of friends. We were all gay, and had different interests in collecting, but we all enjoyed rummaging through the various thrift stories and curiosity shops around the City. As for myself: at the time, I really loved looking for old movie memorabilia from the 50s and 60s; my favorites were Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. In one store, I will never forget seeing this buried little statue of a young man. I thought he was very handsome and the piece incredibly well-made. I walked over to it, picked it up, blew off the dust, and took a closer look. Right away, from my faded memories of Catholic school, and the mission-style Church that I grew up in, with its poly-chromed statues of the Saints, that this was an old religious item. The figure was wearing a very ornate lace surplice and a black cassock; in his hands he pressed a bouquet of lilies to his chest. At the time, I had no idea about any of this. I just knew it was beautiful. I think I offered the shop-keeper 20 dollars and he took it.
I brought the statue home, put it somewhere in the house - as sort of an old-fashioned oddity. It seemed to fit in with my divergent collection of Jayne Mansfield posters, imitation marble Greek busts, and nude statues of Michelangelo’s David. My tastes were all over the place, and for a few years, he stood (silent) looking over myself and the mess my life quickly became. As my days became darker, and the company that I kept got sicker: one new friend (who must have recognized it) made an ugly joke about the statue and told me to get rid of it. Heeding his advice: during the next visit to my parent’s house, I left him there: in some closet. I never thought of him again. In 1999, when the devil left me for dead, I came home looking for any semblance of Christ or holiness. In my old room, I found the statue. I didn’t know anything about it, but I instinctively sensed that it symbolized something good. Then, one day, a priest that I quickly befriended was visiting me. I showed him the statue; “Who is this?” I asked. Right away, he answered: “St. Aloysius.” Who?” I said. “St. Aloysius, the patron of youth,” he responded. I went, “Oh…” like I knew what he was talking about.
After the priest left, I raced to the computer to find anything I could about St. Aloysius. In addition to being widely known for his purity, steadfast bravery, and charity in the face of death, I read that St. Aloysius is also the patron of AIDS patients. At that second, my chin nearly hit the floor. I couldn’t believe it. Here, I formerly was: an incredibly wicked individual, finding an abandoned image of a long-dead Saint, carrying it around for years, and then suddenly abandoning it like the rest of the artifacts that became my past; only, to one day go seeking out the very same symbols of Grace that I had forsaken. Like that insignificant statue, Jesus had stayed with me; even when I left Him in a closet and forget that He ever existed. Still, He waited. And, He waits for all of us; even you.