I’ve had a lot of time to think about my favorite childhood books since I have been sick for the past few days, and after much deliberation, I have to say the most influential one to me was actually one that I can’t remember the exact name of!

Growing up, my parents were strict Catholics so many of the books I read or tv shows I watched were usually religious to some extent. A children’s Lives of the Saints book was one of my favorites to read. I cannot remember the exact name or version of it. It was thick with a faded orange paperback cover, but even after some internet digging, I still cannot find the exact one.

I actually didn’t love the book because of its religious content. I loved it because reading about different saints’ lives was like reading fairytales, except even better because all of them were supposedly true. They were filled with such drama. St. Cecelia’s head refused to come off when they cut her neck with a sword! To child me, that was the epitome of a cool woman. A saint needs at least three miracles to be a saint so every story was filled with impressive feats that I loved reading about. I wanted to be like the saints I read, not necessarily religious, but generous and resilient.

Somewhere along the way the book must have gotten lost or donated to the library so I haven’t been able to re-read the exact copy. Still, sometimes I’ll find myself thinking about a random saint’s story and then I have to spend an hour googling to figure out what saint I am thinking about. Though I’m not religious at all now, I still can understand the appeal of these stories to my childhood self. They usually began life as very ordinary people who are still now remembered today simply for their great commitment to something.