I was raised in a Southern Baptist family and saints are not part of that religious picture. Saints, to me, were always odd, almost pagan focal points that didn't belong to my faith. I thought they detracted from the most important aspect of Christianity, that a belief in Christ's sacrifice was the singular requirement for salvation. So I largely ignored these so-called saints...
Maggie, a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer, had a St. Christopher medal with her while we were serving in Morocco. It was from her that I first learned St. Chris was the patron saint of travelers. I felt the medal was about as religiously significant as a rabbit's foot but something in me liked the idea of a guardian, of a Christian sentinel protecting my steps in new countries, new cities, new everythings. I found out later that he is also the patron saint of epilepsy, which made me smile. Guardian of adventures and seizures, good to be protected in both regards.
Before leaving New Orleans I bought a St. Christopher medal. It's small and silver and tarnished already but it's mine. I kept it in my pocket as I moved from Louisiana to Minneapolis and it will be in my pocket again this weekend, when I will learn whether or not I passed the bar. I don't think it does anything. I don't think it's magic. I don't think it provides any additional heft to my prayers that I pass. But it's something extra, one more pair of watchful eyes, maybe. I imagine St. Christopher, if he is what he is and does what he does, sitting somewhere just above me with his chin leaning into his palm and a half-smile on his face. He reminds me of my grandfathers. His fingers are crossed for me.
