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A Saint? Me? Sneakers, Diapers, and Toys
Between sleepless nights, homework, and patience that sometimes runs out, God calls us to holiness, too. A look at family life through faith and humor—where learning to love sometimes begins with saying, “I’m sorry.”
COLUMN | BETWEEN PRAYERS AND THE DAILY RUSH | ALL SAINTS
Ana Paula Morales (Poli)
11/2/20265 min read
Amid toys, caregiving, and the daily rush, family life can also be a path to holiness. AI-generated illustration for “Between Prayers and the Daily Rush,” a column by Ana Paula Morales for Press Crux.
I studied theology. My children, despite never having seen the syllabus, administer the practical exams. Especially the ones on patience. Assessment is ongoing, questions usually come three at a time, and requests for a moment to consult the bibliography are routinely denied.
Between bottles, diapers, work, and toys that turn up underfoot, a mother may wonder when she’ll find time to become a saint. Especially when she’s spent half the morning looking for her patience and a child’s missing shoe—two things that rarely turn up together. A father might ask the same question between bills and a homework assignment that begins with “Dad, this is super easy” and ends with him questioning his entire education. A young person might put holiness off until after the next exam. Although, looking at the calendar, starting before graduation would probably be wise.
The question goes deeper than it seems: How can our lives, so ordinary and sometimes so chaotic, open up to the life of God?
The Second Vatican Council answers in Lumen gentium, no. 40: all the faithful are called to “the fullness of the Christian life and to the perfection of charity.” The same passage explains that we have received holiness in baptism and are called to bring it to fruition. Here is the theological foundation: God takes the initiative, shares his life with us, and invites us to respond freely. In everyday terms, holiness begins with a gift we can welcome today, even if the laundry still needs folding.
The word “perfection” can make us uneasy. We already face enough pressure from pictures of families eating breakfast, smiling, fully dressed, and neatly groomed, while someone in our house is locked in negotiations with a sock. But the Council speaks of perfection in charity: love of God and neighbor gradually transforming the way we live. An orderly home helps. So does being able to apologize, with consequences that reach much deeper.
As a mother, there are days when my prayers slip out between errands and exhaustion exposes every ounce of my impatience. I resolve to speak gently—until the fifth “Mom!” in thirty seconds reveals vocal capabilities I never knew I possessed. Then it’s time to breathe, apologize, and try again. I’d like to offer God a morning of exemplary patience. Sometimes I end up offering some very sincere repentance.
That brings us to a necessary distinction: acknowledging our weakness can open us to grace; making it a permanent excuse leaves us where we are. If I’ve yelled, I can make amends, listen, and look for a better way to respond next time. Conversion also walks through the front door and says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.” Children generally understand that sentence much better than our explanations of why we were entirely justified in being on the verge of a meltdown.
Lumen gentium, no. 11, teaches that spouses help one another grow in holiness through married life and the upbringing of their children. That takes commitment from both: listening, sharing responsibilities, expressing gratitude, and noticing when the other needs a break. “I’ll take care of it,” followed by actually taking care of it, can express a great deal of love. When the promise is promptly forgotten, a marital conversation may be in order—preferably before a formal oversight committee becomes necessary.
Pope Francis brings this teaching into familiar situations in Gaudete et exsultate, nos. 14–16: marriage, work, and raising children are places where we can respond to God. One example features a mother who listens to her child even though she is tired. We can picture that conversation happening just as we’ve begun mentally negotiating with our pillow. Listening then becomes a decision to love: making room in our lives for someone who needs our presence.
St. Thérèse of Lisieux understood the depth of these small acts. In Story of a Soul, she wrote that despite her littleness, she could aspire to holiness, as Pope Francis recalls in C’est la confiance, no. 15. The document also recounts how she cared for a sick sister with a difficult temperament (nos. 36–37). We learn charity with real people, who have needs, schedules, and opinions of their own. Family life provides ample study material.
Thérèse’s “little way” rests on trust in God and the primacy of his grace, as the same exhortation explains in nos. 17–21. Our efforts are a response to love already received. We can ask for help changing a habit, persevering in a responsibility, or caring for someone. We can also ask for help accepting that we need sleep. Even a mother with theological training remains a creature with limits.
At work, our response takes other forms: acting honestly, paying people fairly, admitting mistakes, and respecting other people’s time. It also means learning to close the laptop and come home with more than just our physical selves. Families tend to notice when we’re still mentally in a meeting with people who aren’t even contributing to dinner.
Young people have their own opportunities. In his homily for the canonization of St. Carlo Acutis and St. Pier Giorgio Frassati, Pope Leo XIV invited young people in particular to direct their lives toward heaven and make them a masterpiece. That response can begin by standing up for someone in a group chat, studying honestly, or doing your share of a group project. Especially when the group seems to have confused the communion of saints with one person doing all the work while everyone else enjoys the benefits.
At home, children can learn to care for others, too: helping without turning every request into an international negotiation, owning up to a lie, or listening to a sibling. Growing in love includes discovering that other people have needs even when those needs don’t fit our plans.
St. Teresa of Calcutta put it this way: “Holiness is not the luxury of the few, but a simple duty for you and for me,” in a text published by the Holy See. That “you and me” involves each of us, with our own name, family, work, and circumstances.
To sustain this journey, Lumen gentium, no. 42, points to the word of God, the sacraments, prayer, and service to others. We need nourishment from Christ’s life to grow in his love. The Eucharist, confession, and time for prayer belong in our schedules precisely because we need grace to live them. And discernment to change them when nobody has room to breathe.
A saint? Me? Yes, I’m called to holiness, too. With my degrees, my impatience, my sneakers by the door, and diapers still waiting to be changed. Today I can pray: “Lord, teach me to receive your love and share it with the people you have placed in my life.”
Then I can look for the shoe. It may be under the couch. As for patience, I’ll have to keep asking.