Angels and saints were woven into the fabric of my childhood, particularly when I think of my beloved grandmother. She frequently urged us to seek the help of various saints in our times of need. During heavy thunderstorms, as we clung to her in fear of the booming thunderclaps, we would whisper, “St. Barbara, pray for us.” If we spotted a snake and was scared it was “St George, pray for us.” Yesterday, while celebrating All Saints Day, I was reminded of a rather amusing and memorable event from my school days.

Let me take you from the watchful care of my guardian angel in shiny and bustling Shanghai to a rather sleepy hamlet of Tangassery in Quilon (Kollam), Kerala, where St. Anthony of Padua played a significant role in my life.

In my early school years, I found it easy to excel in tests and exams—perhaps because the subjects didn’t require much analytical or logical reasoning. However, everything changed in sixth grade when math began to present real challenges. This was alarming for me, as I was locked in a fierce competition for the top rank with my classmate Abraham, and I was determined not to fall behind.

When I confided in my dear grandmother about my struggles with math, she, in her simple faith, suggested that I offer a small packet of rock salt as a prayerful offering at St. Anthony’s shrine every Tuesday. So, each Tuesday, I would head to the local grocery store with a mere 10 paise, buy a packet of rock salt, visit St. Anthony’s grotto at our parish church, and leave it there while praying for my ranking to be protected. Before leaving the grotto, I would pop a grain of salt into my mouth, leaving the rest behind. While many offered rice or distributed bread as acts of charity, I was the only one giving salt, a unique offering that lasted until my exams were over.

As the teachers began distributing our corrected papers, we all eagerly added up the marks and compared them to the totals written on the front page. If we spotted an error in our favor, we would proudly march up to request a correction.

Finally, we awaited our Malayalam results. By this point, Abraham was ahead by around 15 marks for the top position. When the Malayalam paper was handed back, I added up my marks and found I had received 63 marks, while the teacher—a very senior lady—had mistakenly written 93 as my total. I approached her and pointed out the error. She frowned, took the paper from me, and double-checked the numbers. Realizing her mistake, she dismissed me, saying, “It’s too late to change anything. I think you deserved more,” and sent me back to my seat.

That term, I was thrilled to find myself at the top of the class. When I ran to show my report card to my grandmother, she smiled and kissed me, but her reaction was less one of surprise and more as if she had known all along that St. Anthony would come through for me.

This story isn’t merely about spreading devotion to St. Anthony—he already has countless followers flocking to his shrines—but rather about the little miracles in life where simple faith triumphs over logic and reason. This November, I hope to delve deeper into the lives of the saints and learn more about their stories. A common thread among them is their burning desire to live out and, whenever necessary, to sacrifice their lives even, for the values of the Gospel.

I’ll conclude with a quote attributed to dear St. Anthony of Padua: “Actions speak louder than words; let your words teach and your actions speak.”

In my previous posts, I hinted at what was coming next, but this time I find myself at a loss for words. My thoughts keep drifting to my wedding, which took place over 26 years ago, especially to the meal we enjoyed. Perhaps this nostalgia is fueled by my rumbling stomach, as I haven’t had breakfast yet!