Saint Valentine’s Day

For Oscar Wilde

Valentine was a handsome tall man. He was in love with nature and could simply never deny or refuse. “I feel like a flower, I’m smiling to everybody” he would repeat so often.

But, despite that playing a big role in his candidature as a Saint, there’s one and a more important reason if, after his death, was then known as a Saint. And that is that he actually never became such. I mean, he was never sanctified by the church or any other institution. But not many know that.

The day Priest Frank and Sister Mark went to the Bishop were listened to for several hours. They retold – at the best of their knowledge – what they saw and had heard about their friend Valentine. As they left, the Bishop did not open the door for two days and two nights. When he finally exited his room he ate an entire roast chicken and half a cheesecake. Then he exclaimed: “Valentine cannot become a Saint.” And he was aware of having taken the right decision.

As soon as Sister Mark and Priest Frank were informed, they left the abbey and took the way to Rome. But the Pope at the time was staying in Ravenna, so they spent a month more than they had taken into account to eventually meet him. And that also was not easy.

In Ravenna they had to explain the reason of their visit at least ten times and each time to ecclesiastics of lower ranks, since the more they recounted their grounds, the less they appeared convincing to anyone.

At the end they were motivating their visit to the palace toilette’s cleaner – but their luck or faith made possible that just then, since also Popes are men like any other, Emilius XXXIV passed by to get to the restroom.

“Holy Majesty, imperial Pope, king on earth of the evenly domain!” they immediately addressed him with utmost reverence. The Pope said he had to poop and would be back soon.

Actually it took a while before he returned, but when he did, there was some satisfaction and relief on his face. “My dear, tell me what is the reason that brought you here” he said.

Sister Mark, whose faith was as strong and incorruptible as Francesco’s had been once, who would avoid walking through meadows out of her endless care for flowers and plants, humbly uttered the following words:

“Sir of the celestial realm, because you ask, I will answer: the need of peeing brought us here in these holy toilettes, but we could also much more easily have peed and even pooped in the land of Siena from which we came, had we not had such a strong desire of talking to you.”

“I appreciate your honesty and good will. Tell me without any ulterior hesitation then what all this desire is about” charitably replied Emilius XXXIV the Pope.

“We had a friend, illustrious Magnificence, whose name on the earth was Valentine. We believe he should be sanctified because of his heart, passion and generosity.”

The Pope invited them to follow him into his rooms, since he felt like whetting his appetite with some cookies – and that conversation could have nicely accompanied a cup of tea.

After five hours though – and it was dark by then – the three fellows were still talking having already consumed six black teas, one fennel tea and three jasmine teas. The cookies tray was still untouched.

As Priest Frank and Sister Mark stood up to leave, the Pope heartily thanked them for their visit and their story. At the door he invited them to visit him soon again while – without doubts – any onlooker must have thought that they were old friends.

Priest Frank and Sister Mark were already back in Siena for two months when they received a letter with the Vatican seal. It had been personally written by the Pope, who couldn’t dare to dictate, not even to the most faithful servant, his thought.

To make it short, in the letter Emilius XXXIV manifested his distress and concern but ultimately couldn’t but deny the appointment of Valentine as Saint. He expressed his deepest sorrow and prayed his friends for understanding.

“Why is he telling us he’s pressing the deepest burrow?” commented Frank after the reading. “He meant ‘sorrow’, I’m sure, it must be a mistake” – corrected him Sister Mark – “he must have meant to express his sorrow.” “Are you sure it’s not a matter of borrowing something from someone?” insisted Priest Frank, who still secretly nourished some nonsensical hope. “No, dear, he’s just the Pope, he’s not used to write. He misspelled his thought and that’s all.” “But maybe he meant to say the opposite.” “I don’t think he misspelled that much. Have a good night Frank” concluded Sister Mark leaving his friend.

They spent the first night hours plunged in a similar sad solitude. Soon they both would feel the need of having a walk down the garden to chew over their turmoil and find some relief. Unexpectedly they met there turning the lemon bush.

“Hi Mark!” “Hi Frank!” “You also here?” “You also cannot sleep?”

They shared their sorrow and had a long conversation with rare words – as it is possible only when the big bug of pain is eating your eyes and blood. “Oh Darling!” “Yes my Dear!” They exchanged many filling, affectionate words. And they seemed to recognize each other for the first time.

They spent the last night hours and the joy of the first morning moments in a rich silence – spreading kisses and passion all over their bodies.

Some would call it love – some prefer not having it called in any way.

Valentine never became a Saint but everyone who believes he was one after all – feels like a Saint.