St. Swithin, stained glass
Today is the feast day of many saints – the big web calendar of saints lists fifty-five of them, many largely anonymous.
A favorite is Saint Swithin (or Swithun), a ninth-century English bishop reputed to possess a post-mortem talent for weather forecasting (Perhaps, given his view from above, he may have some advance knowledge of cloud movements?).
A charming legend recounts how he miraculously restored a basketful of eggs, carried for sale by a Winchester egg woman, that had been maliciously broken by some workmen.
A warning about putting all one’s eggs into one basket? Or that, having done so, there is still hope? Or a love from the common street vendor? Restoration?
Who knows.
In any case, I wish to mark today because it carries great significance in my little life – a life as anonymous as that of most of today’s patron saints. For it was 32 years agotoday that I was married to my wife, Mimi, the source of most of the good things that have happened in my life.
Mimi and I in NYC's Central Park, one snowy December
May this good fortune long continue.
