When pursuing the Catholic sacrament of confirmation at age 14, I thought it was funny to choose the saint of “impossible cases” as my patron.
My pick, Margherita Lotti, whose feast day is today, May 22, was born in the late 1300s in Roccaporena, Italy, and is known as St. Rita. (I also chose her because her name is easy to spell, cementing my status as an impossible case.)
I did only a bit of research about my patron back then, but as I learned more about her, her story confounded me for years.
Rita was devout throughout her childhood and adamant about joining a convent as she grew older. Her parents had other ideas, though, and arranged a marriage for her, a common practice at the time, and Rita solemnly obeyed.
Her husband, Paolo Mancini, was a violent, temperamental man who had made enemies with other factions and families in the area.
Despite his abuse, Rita prayed for her husband’s salvation for 18 years of marriage. He reportedly changed his ways and begged her forgiveness shortly before his death, when he was killed by a feuding family.
After his death, Rita finally got to join the convent. But, her suffering didn’t end there.
In her 60s, Rita was moved by a sermon about the crown of thorns Jesus bore during his crucifixion. She prayed to take some of his burden and became afflicted with a stigmata – a mark mirroring the injuries of the crucifixion. The wound, a gash on her forehead, wouldn’t heal for the rest of her life, and she spent much of her later years in solitude.
For a long time, Rita was baffling to me. Why did she stay with a man who continued to hurt her? What’s the point of a stigmata? And why would anyone want to be a nun?
I judged Rita as a pushover, spending her life getting beaten down and welcoming any pain that came her way.
Recently, though, I’ve noted the way people write about Rita, which drives me to a different conclusion.
Rita made the best of an awful situation. But, instead of focusing on her resilience, people who spread Rita’s story glorify her suffering as something others should strive for.
For example, in “Lives of the Saints: Volume 2” by 16th century Roman Catholic priest, educator and historian, Alban Butler, he recounts Rita’s hardships with an air of awe and approval.
During Rita’s time at the convent, she “displayed the same submission to authority which she had shown as a daughter and wife,” Butler wrote. In her old age, in addition to the stigmata, “St. Rita was afflicted also by a wasting disease, which she bore with perfect resignation.”
Pope John Paul II echoed this reverence to Rita’s obedience in his speech on May 20, 2000, just four days before the 100-year anniversary of her canonization.
“Rita interpreted well the ‘feminine genius’ by living it intensely in both physical and spiritual motherhood,” he said.
These sentiments seem to be gaining popularity in 2025, with the rise of online “traditional wife” influencers who create content with religious undertones. These women claim they don’t have to make any decisions because their husbands do it for them.
I know there are many strong-willed religious women who don’t fit this profile, but I find this trend troubling.
Pope John Paul II also framed Rita’s stigmata as a gift from Jesus that was a “seal of his charity and his passion” and a “privilege” Rita received for her humble lifestyle and humility.
So, bestowing pain is an act of love? Yikes!
Instead of highlighting her resilience, stories about Rita glorify her suffering as something to imitate.
When I was a teen, I thought Rita seemed rather dumb, spending nearly two decades “reforming” a husband who didn’t care about her. I see this story in a different light as an adult.
Though stories of saints, especially Rita, vary from source to source, most say she may have been as young as 12 when she was married.
That’s horrifying enough to think of in this day and age, but the culture during Rita’s lifetime made escape even more impossible.
She would not have had much support in terms of community or friendships.
Rita was born around the start of the Italian Renaissance, and men of this era forged friendships through business connections, politics, fraternities and charitable organizations, according to the Italian Renaissance Learning Resources website, a project by the National Gallery of Art and Oxford University Press.
“Women, more or less limited to their households, family gatherings and occasional appearances in church, had few opportunities to cultivate adult friendships beyond their immediate relations,” the website says. “For some women, the convent offered a chance for female companionship – and a way to live a life that was not dominated by the roles of wife and mother.”
When the other option is to get married off as a child bride to an abusive grown man, it’s no wonder Rita dreamed of joining a convent.
Butler writes that she initially was turned away from the convent because she had been married, and other sources suggest the other nuns were wary about the strife that continued between her late husband’s family, the Mancinis, and his killer’s family.
Rita had cultural and religious reasons for remaining dutiful to her husband, and I no longer blame her for acting how she did.
Trapped, her faith was a source of comfort and offered purpose that she would not have had otherwise.
Instead, I wonder why these stories, passed down for more than 600 years, burden Rita with so much responsibility at such a young age.
Don’t parents have a duty to keep their children safe? Don’t husbands have a duty to support their wives?
If Catholic teachings say Rita had a duty to her family, husband and faith, what about their duty toward her?
Rita is glorified for her solitary suffering, but I believe she was left with no other option than to make the best out of an awful situation.