How St Thorlac foiled Attila the son

This is a true story of faith and the power of the novena. Names and places have been changed to protect an innocent grandmother from the wrath of her children.

It was February this year, and as a beautiful summer’s day dawned in Port Elizabeth (well, it wasn’t really Port Elizabeth because names and places have been changed to protect an innocent granny, remember), Agatha Whipplesnaid picked up the telephone in a state of high anxiety, with her pulse rate pushing 250 and her rosary already clutched in her aged, work-worn hands.

It was her son, Attila, calling from Johannesburg. Actually his name was not Attila, but this nomenclature has been chosen to provide readers with some sort of insight into the character of someone who so shamelessly indulges in parental abuse.

“Hi Mom,” he said, “I just want to confirm that Boadicea and I are now booked on that world trip we told you about last week and we’re sending you an air ticket to come up and look after the kids for five weeks in April.”

Agatha had an attack of the vapours on the spot. She managed to croak out an unconvinced “yes Attila, dear” before sinking to her knees in desperate anticipation of hell on earth.

It was what she had feared most. Having to spend five weeks driving around in manic metropolitan motoring mayhem, worrying about hijackers and muggers at every turn as she delivered children to school, fetched them from school, delivered them to cricket, hockey and swimming, fetched them from cricket, hockey and swimming, drove them to music lessons, fencing lessons, horse riding lessons and fetching them from music, fencing and horse riding lessons, day in and day out.

And having to make them breakfast, lunch and supper while at the same time doing their homework, laundry, fighting off visiting boyfriends, girlfriends and bad friends.

She had done exactly this for three days last year and it almost killed her. The thought of doing it for five weeks at the age of 89 with osteo-arthritis in six fingers and a foot, a cataract that caused double vision at the most inopportune of times, and a bladder with a mind of its own, drove her into the depths of depression.

She put the telephone down and still on her knees, started a novena to St Anthony and St Jude, with copies to Our Lady, asking them to deliver her from evil. She begged and pleaded for nine solid days and nights but was careful to make sure that the two great saints understood very clearly that terms and conditions applied. No one must die nor be hurt in an accident. But, at the same time, somehow divine intervention should ensure that her five weeks in Johannesburg did not materialise.

Two weeks later a volcano erupted in Iceland and the ensuing cloud of ash grounded half of the world’s aircraft for ten days. Her son phoned her and said that the groundings had caused such havoc and delays, their world trip had to be cancelled. They had decided instead to take the kids to Durban during the World Cup school holidays.

Such, dear brethren, is the power of the novena.

I can just imagine how it happened. There were Ss Jude and Anthony sitting together, having a cup of tea in the canteen of the the biggest office block in heaven — the Celestial Customer Service Centre.  They were completely whacked after a long shift in which they were inundated with prayers, requests and novenas. As they grumbled about their massive workload they noticed a timid little saint walk into the canteen and set about defrosting the fridge.

Anthony, called him over and said: “Greetings brother, what work do you do, pray tell me, other than defrost fridges?”

“This is all I do,” the young man replied. “I know of no other work.” Anthony and Jude looked at each and grinned.  “Pray listen, brother,” said Jude, “how would you like to take on a challenge ? A novena about which we are at our wits’ end. Perhaps you, with your young and agile mind, can think up a way of granting a grandmother’s request not to have to go to Johannesburg for five weeks, but without injuring or killing anyone.”

“It will be my pleasure,” said the young man. “I believe I have the answer.”

And so it was that St Thorlac Thorhallson, the patron saint of Iceland, was able to save a PE granny from a fate worse than death.

Nobody died. Nobody was hurt. And in heaven, by the way, the loss of billions of dollars by big business doesn’t garner much sympathy.