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visits, but my grandmother always asked me to sit beside her and pray the rosary with her. At first I agreed reluctantly, out of a sense of obligation; I would have preferred playing soccer outside with my grandfather. But soon I came to value these times with her. My grandmother taught me more than just the orthodoxy of religion; she helped me discover and explore my spirituality and my interior life. Teaching me to say my Our Fathers and the Apostles Creed, she showed me how to still my mind and focus on my connection with the Divine. I could feel my faith expanding as I understood Mary’s sacrifice in the virgin birth (which teaches us humility), Christ’s condemnation (a lesson in patience), and the miracle of his resurrection (the source of all faith and hope). At the end our prayers would turn to Christ himself: “O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell, lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy.”
    My grandmother’s spirituality was something she thought about and talked about almost constantly, something she lived. The saints and their stories were so familiar to her that it sometimes seemed as though she existed among them, gleaning strength from the lessons of their lives. Before setting out on a journey, Grandma prayed to St. Brigid of Ireland, a high-spirited adventurer; if her hairbrush was misplaced, it was St. Anthony of Padua she’d turn to—or, more likely, ask me and my sisters to invoke.
    St. Anthony, St. Anthony
    Won’t you come down?
    Something is lost and
    Can’t be found.
    Around her home, Grandma kept dozens and dozens of saint figurines—some no larger than her outstretched hand, others a foot or morehigh. They multiplied on her mantelpiece, windowsills, and shelves; she kept St. Anthony atop her dresser, and the Virgin Mary stood watch on the ledge over the sink. I thought of them as her spiritual militia—St. Dominic, the beekeeping monk, casting a defensive gaze toward the door, while St. Jude Thaddeus, patron saint of hospital workers like my mother, watched the flanks.
    â€œIs this place looking a little Italian? ” Grandma once mused.
    â€œNo, Grandma,” I said, although no other Irish house I’d visited had so many saints.
    In very unsubtle ways, Grandma let me know that she was training me for the priesthood—in particular the Jesuit priesthood, which she considered the Church’s Special Forces. Where we came from, nothing matched the thrill of having a relative receive a call from God. Whereas some Catholic families seemed to put great stock in the social value of having a priest in the family, Grandma’s motives were pure. For her, dedication to Christianity was an end in itself, its own and perfect good.
    The Smiths produced six children, including two who did not survive. My mother was their third child, named Veronica after the saint who offered Christ a towel to dry his face on the day of his crucifixion. So I suppose it was meant to be that Ronnie, as everybody calls her, would grow up to be a nurse and professor, caring for patients at New Jersey’s best hospitals while leaving her indelible mark on generations of young nursing students.
    She was still in school when she married my father in 1956, and they began their family just eleven months later. But my mother never allowed her career to take a backseat. After graduating from Seton Hall, she earned her nursing degree at St. Vincent’s in New York, then a masters at Columbia University and another at Seton Hall in preparation for a teaching career. In this regard she stood out from other women her age, especially Catholic women.
    There is no containing my mother’s ambition to be of service; it’s something I have always admired in her and I feel blessed that she passed it down to me. For her, serving others was a spiritual obligation, an integral part of God’s purpose for man on