Lepanto Day

I have friends whose families have recipes for Pacskis and others who take Mexican dancing lessons. I know people who grew up bilingual and whose grandparents speak broken, accented English. I didn't.

I know people who revel in being Irish or Polish or Italian or French. I can't -- I'm made up of smidges and pinches of Europe.

Ethnically, I am lost, without a clear history or notable ancestors to show me who I am and where I came from. Judged this way, I have no real identity.

I think a lot of Americans feel this way. We are a people without a past.

But I have a past. I have my people. I have St. Peter, who insisted on being crucified upside-down because he wasn't worthy to be martyred the way our Savior was. I have St. Joan of Arc, who led France to victory. I have St. Francis of Assisi, who rebuilt the church. I have St. Maximillian Kolbe, who died in place of a stranger in Auschwitz. I have St. Nicholas, who slapped a heritic on the face at a church council. I have Perpetua, who thought of modesty before pain during her martyrdom. I have St. Thomas Aquinas, brilliant man, who realized God is infinitely more than he could contain in a book. Even St. Paul -- everyone reads his letters -- he's one of mine, too.

Anthony put it beautifully on Sunday: "I, too, have some claim to this." This is my history. These are my people.

I have our baggage, too. All throughout our history -- even now -- we've been varying degrees of fallen human beings. The more visibly fallen ones are my people, too.

But I also have Don John of Austria and the heroes of Lepanto. I have the Blessed Mother, who can do anything.

And I'm with them, too.