I recently found an Infant of Prague medal that belonged to my grandmother in a small red box tucked away in my jewelry armoire. Before putting it back, I placed it on a gold chain and wrote a note on a tiny scrap of paper, in case anyone should find it, that it was hers, and as such, sacred to me, and to never discard it.

The Infant of Prague medal reminded me of all the patron saints that I prayed to over the years with my grandmother.

In Catholicism, there are over 10,000 patron saints (special protectors and guardians) for all aspects of love, life, health, death, and suffering, and many of them were an integral part of my early upbringing.

I was named after St. Therese, “The Little Flower,” aka St. Therese of Lisieux, known for her simplicity, purity, and courage. While we never really prayed to her, she obviously played a large part in my Catholic persona.

My grandmother had her patron-saint-praying down to a science.

If I wasn’t doing well in school, she prayed to Thomas Aquinas.

If her Caribou, Maine, family had troubles, she beseeched Our Lady of Assumption, who was apparently all in for the French Acadians.

The Holy Mary, Mother of God—the blessed Virgin Mary—was the big kahuna of all her favorite saints, duh. There wasn’t a day that went by that we didn’t pray to her for one thing or another.

If someone was getting engaged or married? It was the perfect time to give thanks to St. Valentine.

If there was a medical emergency, a family fight, or a recent death? She would muster up a prayer to Michael the Archangel. And she prayed to him when we had money trouble as well (which was a lot of the time).

When my dog Raleigh was sick, we prayed to St. Francis of Assisi.

Any time someone was baptized (including me at age five), she gave special thanks to St. John the Baptist. She also “prayed on him” anytime someone took to the water.

And then there was John, the Apostle, not the Baptist. He was her go-to for friendship, loyalty, and if you had burned yourself. Don’t ask me the why about the burn thing, I just know she prayed to him for burns when burns became an unfortunate part of our lives.

When one of her sisters was committed to an insane asylum, we were all relieved because she was an evil nut job. But my grandmother prayed to St. Dymphna, who was the patron saint of mental illness, to keep her sister safe, even though she got what was coming to her. And my grandmother would pray to St. Dymphna when she got “all nerved up.” I only found out years later that Dymphna was also the patron saint of victims of incest. I sometimes wonder if my grandmother knew that.

Speaking of victims, I chose St. Maria Goretti as my patron saint for my Holy Communion. My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother tried desperately to talk me out of choosing her because she was known as the patron saint for victims of rape. They were mortified at my choice. But, as the patron saint of young women and girls, who had a younger sister named Teresa, I wasn’t changing my mind about Maria Goretti, despite several nuns and Father McHale also trying to talk me out of it. Even at seven, I was extremely headstrong, although I have to admit that the paper I had to write and read aloud to my classmates at St. Ambrose about why I chose St. Maria Goretti was challenging and made the kids squirm.

I think my grandmother’s favorite saint was St. Christopher, because she prayed to him a lot, and for myriad reasons. He was her go-to saint for traveling on short trips, like driving around Bridgeport in a car or on a bus. He was also her saint of record for longer trips, like driving nine hours to Maine, and the one time I traveled with her on a plane to California so she could help out with another nut job sister. Christopher was also the saint she prayed to for all things child-related (good and bad). I’m reasonably sure that St. Christopher had his fill of me from her.

If she knew someone who was a desperado or seemed to be a lost cause, my grandmother would ask St. Jude to help them. Jude was also known for instilling hope in those facing impossible situations, which happened to us quite a bit, so I imagine she called on him way more than some of the others.

And for whatever reason, St. Augustine was the patron saint of Bridgeport, Connecticut. When I looked him up for this blog post to find out why, it said Augustine lived much of his life in impure wickedness and had many dangerous and bad habits, which pretty much summed up a lot of people who lived in Bridgeport at the time.

When my grandmother got “the cancer in her lungs,” we prayed to Raphael the Archangel, who was the patron saint of bodily ills. We prayed to him a lot, but he didn’t save her.

The Infant Jesus of Prague was the patron saint of freedom, who also watched over families and protected their health and their family lives. And if you came into money, the Infant was the one you thanked. People also turned to the Infant seeking healing and relief from suffering. I assume that the Infant was a favorite of my grandmother’s, because of the medal I found. I do recall that once the cancer spread to the rest of my grandmother’s already weakened body, I wrote out the prayer to the Infant of Prague on a piece of paper, which we used to recite every time we were together, in the hopes that the Infant would heal her, but to no avail.

My grandmother died anyway, in excruciating pain, and very young, and was taken from me way too soon. I often think about how different my life might have been, had she lived—even for a few more years.

Without her saintly influence and steadfast faith, I never prayed to a patron saint again, although I suppose one should never say never, for who knows what the future may hold?