And Deliver Us from Elon

It was St. Blaise Day, a sacred day for Catholics around the world, where devotees flock to church to seek blessings for their throats and alleviate ailments ranging from pesky fish bones to debilitating spasmodic dysphonia. The Irish Catholic Church in my pre-Vatican II childhood taught me that on this day, I'd line up in the center aisle, with Father Séamus P. Ó Cionnaith holding crossed beeswax tapers at my neck for a blessing. St. Blaise is the patron saint of throat ailments, and his legacy extends beyond Catholic traditions to offer solace to those suffering from even the most unlikely afflictions. Dr. Heimlich Maneuver, the iconic lifesaving technique, might also be a suitable candidate for this noble title – after all, who wouldn't want to be revered as a guardian of life-giving resuscitation? I was desperate, I won't deny it. On Election Night, I'd prostrated myself in front of the TV, but my prayers went unanswered. The subsequent news cycle left me reeling – Cabinet appointments that defied all logic, hacking scandals that shook the foundations of democracy, and a chilling sense that things were only going to get worse. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I found myself contemplating a return to the Church. After consulting online resources, I discovered a noon Mass with throat blessing at St. Brigid's in Alphabet City – a place where I might find redemption, or at least some temporary reprieve from my anguish.

I'd long lost touch with the basics of life: finding shoes, checking watches, and even keeping pace with my own thoughts. The morning fog rolled in, shrouding me in uncertainty. On the street, dachshunds donned pink down jackets, their owner a ghostly figure who avoided eye contact. A sign on a chapel beckoned passersby to trespass – an enigmatic message that echoed through my mind: where had the concept of sanctuary gone? I wandered into a botanica, seeking solace in worry stones or crystals, but ultimately settled for a crystal ziggurat with an affordable price tag. The cold glass felt reassuring in my hand, and its facets danced in the light like a beacon.

Outside St. Brigid's Church stood a statue of the patron saint herself – a woman credited with performing miracles, including transforming water into beer and performing late-term abortions for a nun. Her story had been reduced to myth by the Catholic Church in 1969, but I couldn't help but feel a connection to her legacy. My memory was fragile, and I wondered if I'd misremembered the hour of the St. Blaise Day Mass – or perhaps even the year itself. When I arrived at the church, the doors were locked, and there was no one in sight – not even a person sneaking out to enjoy a cigarette during the sermon. Perhaps I wasn't worthy of redemption after all – a lifelong hedonist seeking solace from my doubts and fears. Yet, as I stood before the imposing stone façade, something stirred within me: a glimmer of hope, a whisper of infinite mercy.