I'm not a saint.
I've been called one dozens of times; as recently as Saturday actually.
People assume it takes a saint to be married to someone with a disability. Sure there are times it absolutely sucked, but I always scoffed at the idea. "Oh, you're husband is blind? You must be a saint!"
(Although, in truth, there should totally be a patron saint for those married to the blind)
I didn't marry my husband for noble reasons.
I didn't care for my grandmother, my father or my siblings to be seen as "good".
I didn't help my friends and their children to be saintly.
I like the feeling I get when I can do something random to make someone smile. People I know and care about have received everything from flowers to groceries, diapers to cakes, dinners to tires, a massage appointment or a lawn mowed – because I care. The majority of the time, they never know I have anything to do with it, because I don't want or need thank yous or misplaced worries of having to repay the favor.
If it beats out all the wrong I've done and my saintly moves get me into heaven – so be it. If I knew it wouldn't help, I'd still do it.
For each person I've done something for, I'd like to think they've done something for someone else, which inside my heart, helps me.