Do you the know the 4 Saints of Great Britain?

Lately, my son has become a bit… saint-obsessed. Not in a “kneel down and pray” sort of way — more in a “recite random religious facts and then use Saint Francis of Assisi as a dramatic exclamation” sort of way. It started with him on the way to school one day asking me….

“Do you the know the 4 saints of Great Britain?“

Then came the list:

• England – St George
• Scotland – St Andrew
• Wales – St David
• Northern Ireland – St Patrick

All rattled off like a tiny tour guide of spiritual Britain.

He’s learning about them at school — and religion has quickly become one of his favourite subjects (alongside maths, of course). He’s always coming home with Bible stories, asking questions about miracles, then switching straight to mental maths challenges without missing a beat. Multiplication and resurrection — both equally fascinating in his world. And both subjects are the most talked about from him. Religion especially so.

But the best bit? The unintentional comedy. Or maybe its intentional I’m not sure. But my son when in a good place is hilarious. He is absolute comedy gold and sometimes he doesn’t realise it. And somewhere along the way, Saint Francis of Assisi has become his new favourite thing to say when something goes wrong. We were in the kitchen one day and he dropped something and said out loud….

“Saint Francis of Assisi”

I looked at him quizzically, and he laughed, explaining that he’d been learning about him at school.

Now, I wasn’t sure if he’d actually meant to say it aloud — or if he’d just been thinking about him and accidentally spoken it. That happens a lot. Sometimes he says things out loud that he’s been thinking in his head. Other times he thinks he’s said something out loud, but hasn’t.

But what he’s very good at is covering up these little slips. So, because I instinctively looked at him with a confused expression, he must’ve thought he’d done something wrong — and immediately covered it by repeating it with full theatricality, as though it was always intentional. Then he dropped something else on purpose and shouted it again, grinning.

And for a while, it became a whole thing.

Dropped something on the floor?
“Oh Saint Francis of Assisi!”
Can’t find a charger?
“Saint Francis of Assisi!”
Bit of toast landed butter side down?
“St Francis!”

It’s been fully adopted as our household’s version of a medieval swear word.

Saint Francis of Assisi is the one he’s currently learning about in more depth. Which means now I know more about him too… and so do you, lovely readers.

Saint Francis is known as the patron saint of animals and nature. He’s remembered for his gentleness, his love of simplicity, and his deep connection to all living things — even those that others feared. One of the most famous legends about him is the story of the wolf of Gubbio

The town of Gubbio was living in fear of a wild wolf who was attacking both animals and people. Rather than running from the wolf or trying to kill it, Saint Francis went into the woods alone. He calmly approached the snarling creature, made the sign of the cross, and spoke to it — with respect, not fear.

He asked the wolf to stop harming others, and in return, promised that the townspeople would feed it every day. And the wolf — to everyone’s amazement — sat down and listened.

From that moment on, it lived peacefully in the town, going door to door to be fed, harming no one. When the wolf eventually died, the town mourned it. It had gone from feared outsider to accepted friend.

And the more I think about it, the more I see a bit of Saint Francis in myself. (Yes, I am bigging myself up here comparing myself to a saint!!)

But hear me out….He didn’t tame the wolf with force. He tamed it with understanding.

And that’s what I’ve been trying to do with my son — not change him, not fear him, but meet him where he is. I’ve learned what soothes him, what sparks him, what unsettles him. I’ve memorised the signs of overwhelm and the quiet clues that he needs something more — or something less.

I’m not just parenting him. I’m helping others see him clearly too. Explaining to teachers why transitions are hard. Telling relatives why humour is often his lifeline. Helping people around him see that his intensity isn’t a problem — it’s a language.

And I’m still learning it, every day.

It feels, sometimes, like standing in the middle of a town square, encouraging people to see what I see — a child full of depth, humour, wonder, questions, and quirks. Someone who might speak in ancient saint names and biblical facts one moment, and then quiz you on prime numbers the next. So no, we don’t have a wolf in our house — but we do have someone who can be misunderstood, if people aren’t willing to look a little closer.

Maybe that’s why my son’s taken to Saint Francis so well. Maybe he sees himself in his legend. Or maybe he just likes the way his name sounds when things go wrong.

Either way, I think Saint Francis would be proud.