They worked side-by-side with her, yet remained as nameless as the rag-colored bags-of-skin-and-bone souls
they lifted, washed, spoon-fed and cradled through suffering. Did they feel equally-sainted in God’s eyes?
Or would news from the Vatican occasionally pull them into the sin of coveting fame’s reward, the ability to gather more goodness into the fight, reminding them to get back to meditation and prayer?
Are there only brief moments of relief from the struggle of the ego, even with divine help?