One day in the second half of the ninth century, a poor young woman on her way to the market dropped her basket of eggs, breaking all of them.
The young woman knelt on the ground beside the fallen basket and began to weep.
The local bishop had been out for his morning stroll and happened to see the entire episode. He attempted to console the woman, but she was having none of it. Without the eggs, she had nothing to sell at market. Nothing to sell meant no money to sustain her family. Being unable to sustain her family meant, well, what it usually means: degradation, illness, and eventually death. Soothing words from a bishop weren’t much help.
The bishop then prayed for her pain to be eased. When he was done praying, the woman looked into her basket and saw that all of the eggs had been made whole.
“Wot’s all that about, then?” she asked.
“Tis a sign of God’s grace and compassion,” the bishop said. “I am but his –“
“God fixed me eggs, what?“
“All things are possible with God,” the bishop began, but the poor young woman interrupted again.
“All-powerful God? All-knowing God? I work meself to death eight days to the week, and when he finally comes through with a miracle – it’s fixin’ me eggs? What about a floor for me hut? What about clothes for me young-uns? What about –“
It is probably not necessary to record the full text of the woman’s stirring solecism.
That great religious leader was St. Swithun, who died on this date, in 862. It is his feast day in Norway today, (his feast day in England is celebrated on the 15th of July and his name is spelled ‘St. Swithin‘.) He was the Bishop of Winchester and royal counselor to kings Egbert and Aethelwulf.
(Yes – the skull cap of the good bishop)
History tells us very little about St Swithun, besides the fact that he died when he did, which is why I bring him up: someone ought to invent a life for the guy. Maybe he was raised by honey badgers. Maybe he was kidnapped by cross-dressing pirates. Maybe he met three witches in the forest and they hailed him as the Thane of Cawdor. Or maybe he fell in love with the beautiful red-headed daughter of a rival landowner and they had a tempestuous love affair before tragedy struck her down and Swithun turned to religion for consolation. Who knows? Nobody.
So make up a St Swithun you can live with.
and so it goes
The Haus of Dcaligari 