People see Jesus Christ in whatever suits their need for their faith’s validation: Water-stained plaster; toast; the lid of a Marmite jar; a Walmart receipt. In Nancy Savoca’s Household Saints, he makes a personal appearance in one character’s living room as they iron the laundry.

It’s the film’s only overt instance of holy visitation, but it’s enough to invite us to reconsider little details, like a perfect pinochle hand, as proof of the divine. Savoca filters these moments through the idiosyncratic tale of one Italian American couple’s union, and their daughter’s lifelong striving for sainthood. Becoming a bride of Christ isn’t easy. Watching your child try isn’t, either, but at least her efforts pay off by blessing the family business, a butcher shop, with heavenly sausages.