#I ended up naming her Maurine

[draconicdeityarts]

Although the monster's in his cave

If we keep quiet, we'll be safe

Take your lovely rope and wrap around my brain

Until the muscles ache and strain

(Grieving for a man who isn’t dead.)

[annasmafroo]

got carried away and ended up with turning my ds3 player character into an oc Her name is Maurine. As you can see, I love big women wearing knight armor

[valiancenodel]

So, OCs...

I has them. And now you'll suffer them, mwahahaha.

(Under the cut, that is)

FF14

My WoL and main character is Valian Cenodel. Take into account that when I originally created the character in-game, I didn't know the naming rules for elezen. Her name comes from a long tradition of drow-like characters sharing the name Valian (mostly, both my PSO and my PSU characters were all drow-like newmans going by that name)

I could fill entire pages with the headcanons I have of her. Let's just leave it at the fact that she is a White Mage, Red Mage and Dragoon (and in the near future, a Paladin), and that she has enough trauma to fill several lives. Also, I pair her with Aymeric because... *looks at the Vault* well, reasons.

Baldur's Gate 3

Technically, this is a character that I created while getting ideas for what I call “mat characters” (as in, they are the mat I fall on when my other character dies) while playing a D&D 5e campaing. In this case, this is Luned Veladorn, a paladin of Eilistraee. Because now that there are no alignment restrictions for being a paladin, like hell I'm not making one. And since that campaing kinda... died, I put her in the game.

Luned was the daughter of a peasant couple in Menzoberranzan and she hadn't even reached ten years when her mother sold her to slavers for coin. The slavers travelled all the way to the surface, but when they were going to reach their destination, they were assaulted by a priest of Eilistraee and her entourage. The priest adopted her and gave her a new name (the one she carries to this day)

(I have a few more characters from the Forgotten Realms, if anyone is interested XD)

Genshin Impact

Because of the nature of this game, I have SEVERAL OCs, but these are the two that are more fleshed out. Images are not how I imagine them, just the nearest I could get with the generator I used.

The first one is Tamura Ouka, a young woman from Inazuma that fled the country the night before the Vision Hunt Decree started. She knew that the moment their parents thought there would be no consequences from stripping her from her Vision, they would do it. So she escaped, went to Sumeru, saw the crap that Akademiya was pulling, and left to join the Rangers.

The second one is Maurine (family name Adhelmar) who happens to be a Fontainian defense attorney who usually works for people who have been falsely accused. She is extremely good at her job and some of the tension that helps her cases is her supposed animosity towards Neuvillette (in reality, her hate is towards the Oratrice and the justice system, but hey, people can think whatever). Her backstory is that her abusive father commited a crime and promtly made it seem like her mother was the culprit. The mother was comdemned, and Maurine was put into her father's custody. She ended up demonstrating that her father had been the criminal, but by that time her mother had died at Meropide. So yeah, she's not a happy person.

(I'm still fleshing out my OC for Honkai Star Rail. Half the time she's the female version of Wanderer and the other half she's some kind of space oni)

I have OCs for other videogames and series, but I would probably scare the crap out of my few readers so... I'll leave it at that. Feel free to ask anything about the characters or about any show/game you may think I have an OC for.

[the-rewatch-rewind]

New episode! Script below the break

Hello and welcome back to the Rewatch Rewind, the podcast where I count down my top 40 most rewatched movies. My name is Jane, and today I will be talking about #35 on my list: Miramax, Producer’s Circle, and Storyline Entertainment’s 2002 crime musical Chicago, directed by Rob Marshall, written by Bill Condon – from the stage musical book by Bob Fosse and Fred Ebb, which was based on a play by Maurine Dallas Watkins – and starring Renée Zellweger, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Richard Gere.

Set in the Roaring 1920s, Chicago tells the story of wannabe star Roxie Hart (Renée Zellweger), who shoots and kills her lover Fred Casely (Dominic West) when she finds out he has lied to her about his show business connections. In jail, Roxie encounters the famous Velma Kelly (Catherine Zeta-Jones), who “allegedly” murdered her husband and sister when she found them having an affair. Both plan to be represented by lawyer Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), whose strategy involves turning criminals into celebrities so they’ll be acquitted, which leads Roxie and Velma to compete for the spotlight.

I think this was either the first or second PG-13 movie I ever saw. My mom took me to see it in a theater in early 2003, a couple of months before I turned 13, which was kind of surprising because my parents were pretty strict about what I was allowed to see. I don’t actually remember why she agreed to take me to see it. What I do recall is that one of my best friends at the time was obsessed with this movie, so I’d already listened to the soundtrack multiple times at her house, although we mostly just listened to Cell Block Tango on repeat, so I thought the movie was going to be about those 6 murderers, and was surprised to learn that five of them are barely in the rest of it. I remember really liking the song, and also feeling slightly rebellious listening to it because it had the word “ass” in it (although we usually quickly turned the volume on the CD player way down at that part – we weren’t that rebellious). The movie was a lot more raunchy than I was used to, which made me a bit uncomfortable, but overall I liked it. There were several things about it that fascinated me, so I kept returning to it. I ended up seeing it twice in 2003, twice in 2004, three times in 2005, once in 2006, twice in 2009, once in 2011, once in 2014, once in 2018, once in 2021, and once in 2022. If I recall correctly, we had it on VHS, but then our VCR broke with the tape inside, so we didn’t have it for a while, and then we bought a DVD copy later, so I think that explains the gap between 2006 and 2009, but I could be mis-remembering.

I’ve never seen the stage musical, but I absolutely love the way the movie handles the songs. Apart from a few actual performances, the musical numbers mainly exist in Roxie’s imagination. She wants to be on the stage so badly that she turns everything that happens to her into a production. The editing between drab reality and glamorous fiction is so well done and makes for a fascinating watch. I’m sure the stage version is great – I mean, the revival has been on Broadway since 1996, making it the second longest-running Broadway show of all time – but I know that practically, a stage show could not switch back and forth that quickly. Often when plays are adapted to the screen, the movie still feels a lot like a stage show, just with closeups and maybe a few extra locations. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I love it when the screen adaptation adds things that couldn’t be done live, and Chicago is one of my favorite examples of that. The way the Cell Block Tango keeps switching between jail life and intense dancing; the way the press conference turns into a marionette show and back again in We Both Reached for the Gun; the way Billy’s dance moves in All I Care About Is Love flawlessly transition into his actual actions as he proves the song completely wrong – all of these and more are amazing and could only be done on screen. So if I had to point to one single reason why I keep rewatching this movie, it’s definitely the editing of the musical numbers.

A close second is the performances. Big movie musicals have a strange tendency to feature famous movie stars who can’t actually sing very well. Back in the day, they got around this by dubbing the singing…and then often not giving the actual singers credit, although the truth usually came out eventually – I see you Marni Nixon! More recently, they just, kind of…let the actors sing badly. But in the early 2000s there was a brief period when Hollywood made musicals featuring stars who weren’t necessarily particularly known for singing but still could actually sing, and thank goodness that happened here. The singing is excellent, the dancing is awesome, and the acting is phenomenal. Four of the actors: Renée Zellweger, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Queen Latifah – who plays “Mama” Morton, the matron of the jail – and John C. Reilly – who plays Roxie’s simple, devoted husband, Amos – were nominated for Oscars. Only Zeta-Jones won, and I mean, I think they all did a fabulous job, but if only one could win, it would have been wrong if it wasn’t her. She perfectly conveys Velma’s strength and confidence with just the right hints of vulnerability to truly make the character work. But that’s not to say that other performances weren’t deserving of recognition as well. Renée Zellweger does an awesome job of differentiating between the real Roxie fumbling around trying to figure out how to handle reality and the confident performer she is in her imagination. And while I normally don’t like movies about people who hate each other, Zeta-Jones and Zellweger make Velma and Roxie’s fighting fun to watch. Similarly, Billy Flynn is a fairly despicable character, but Richard Gere is also very fun to watch. Queen Latifah nails Mama Morton’s corruption while still keeping her likeable. John C. Reilly’s Amos is exactly as pitiful as he should be. And the rest of the supporting cast is incredible as well – shout out to Taye Diggs as the Bandleader, all the ridiculously talented dancers, and of course the always fabulous Christine Baranski, who is an absolute delight as Mary Sunshine the reporter. Truly an excellent cast, and, appropriately for a movie about murder, they all killed it.

Chicago was nominated for a total of 13 Oscars, winning six. In addition to Catherine Zeta-Jones’s supporting actress win, it also won Best Picture, Editing, Art Direction, Costume Design, and Sound. I’m especially glad the editing was recognized, and the art direction, costume design, and sound work together with the editing to create that reality vs imagination effect, so I also think those were award-worthy. And my 2011 viewing of this movie was part of my watch-through of all the Best Picture winners. Around that time I recall stumbling upon a list that someone had made of the most undeserving Best Picture wins, and I can’t even remember if it was from some sort of official film critic publication or if it was just some random person on the internet, but it put Chicago at #1, which irritated me so much that I’m still annoyed about it 12 years later. I mean, it is probably true that, like many Miramax films from that era, Chicago won more Oscars than it would have without the campaigning of executive producer and now convicted criminal Harvey Weinstein, which is upsetting. But there are some Best Picture Winners that I found to be barely watchable, and I cannot believe that they deserved the Oscar more than this engrossing, well-told story. So to whoever made that list: you’re wrong.

If you’ve listened to my previous episodes, you may have noticed that when I talk about being aroace, I tend to focus more on the aromantic side of that than the asexual side. That’s mostly because romantic content – at least, straight romantic content – is considered appropriate for all audiences while sexual content is not, so romance is a lot harder to avoid. In general, if you stick to movies made during the Hays Code era from the mid-1930s through the mid-1960s, and movies made after that which are rated G or PG, there might be some innuendo or implied sexual behavior taking place offscreen, but there’s not going to be any actual sexual content, whereas there probably will be romantic content. And since sex and romance are often related, movies that have sexual content are almost certain to also have romantic content. Chicago is rather unusual in that it has sex but very little romance. Roxie uses sex to get what she wants – or at least, she tries to, it doesn’t really work out most of the time – but we never really see her, or any other character, falling in love. Most of the musical numbers feature rather provocative dances in revealing costumes, which isn’t exactly explicit sexual content, but I think could be described as “sexy.” One of the ways I figured out I was asexual was by realizing that I don’t quite understand what words like “provocative” or “sexy” really mean. Like, I kind of get what fits those descriptions, but do people actually see someone of a gender they’re attracted to scantily clad and dancing in a certain way and actually want to sleep with them because of it? Is that a thing? Before I understood that I was asexual, I kind of thought everyone was just going along with the idea of what made someone “hot” or “attractive,” and I still find it hard to wrap my head around the concept of actually feeling that attraction. So I guess the dances in Chicago are meant to turn people on, but ultimately they’re just performers doing their routine. And the main sex scene in the movie, when Roxie hooks up with Fred for the first time, is intercut with Velma’s performance of And All That Jazz right after she killed her husband and sister. Roxie is only sleeping with Fred because she thinks he can help her get into show business, which he lied about to get her into bed, so they’re both putting on an act, just like Velma is – both onstage and in her real life by pretending she hasn’t just committed a double homicide. The whole movie is about obscuring the truth with facades and performances, and the sex is very much a part of that. So as an asexual person, I find Chicago to be one of the least confusing movies that contain sexual content, because the sex and sexiness is intentionally contrived. Since I don’t experience it myself, to a certain extent, sexual attraction has always seemed fake to me. In this movie, it’s supposed to seem fake. In short, a probably unintended side effect of the themes of this movie is that Chicago portrays sex as performative in a way that is consistent with my asexual brain’s inability to comprehend sexual attraction, so that might explain why I enjoy it more than most movies that contain sexual content.

One last aspect of this movie I want to highlight is that it points out some of the glaring flaws in the US legal system. I know it’s specifically about 1920s Chicago, which was notoriously corrupt, but anyone who thinks that justice is blind anywhere in 2020s America must be living under a rock. Chicago straight up says, “It doesn’t matter if you’re guilty or innocent, it matters how much money you have, what you look like, and how the public perceives you.” Admittedly it doesn’t really address the problem of racism, but the only prisoner who seems to be innocent is a Hungarian immigrant who speaks very little English, and she’s the only one we know of who gets executed. It’s both a compelling argument for abolishing the death penalty – far too many innocent people are killed by the state – and a demonstration of why it’s not being abolished – the wrongfully executed tend to be people our society deems “less than.” This message kind of gets buried by the main story, and I feel like it’s easier to miss than it should be, but I appreciate that it’s there. And while it’s painful and upsetting to see that very little has changed in 100 years, in a way this movie can now serve as a reminder that at least occasionally, powerful and famous people who commit heinous crimes do get convicted and sent to prison.

Well, this episode got a little spicy. Thank you so much for listening. Subscribe or follow for more analysis of my most re-watched movies, and leave a rating or review to let me know how you’ve been enjoying it so far. The next episode will be about the final and longest movie I watched 15 times in 20 years, which is another Best Picture Winning musical. By the way, if you like musicals and learning about them, I highly recommend supporting Ashley Clements’s Patreon at the $15 level for episodes of her Patreon-exclusive show Broadway: Before & Beyond. This is not a sponsorship or anything, just a genuine recommendation. Every month, she posts an episode focusing on a specific era or year or particularly impactful show, and I’ve been learning so much about the history of musical theater. There’s also a monthly watch party related to that month’s episode, and my 2022 viewing of Chicago was one of those, so Ashley is partly to thank for this movie making it into my top 40. Anyway, my next episode will feature The Rewatch Rewind’s first ever guest appearance, and the guest is not Ashley Clements, but the guest is a fellow Ashley Clements patron. So stay tuned for that next week, and as always I will leave you with a quote from the next movie: “The poor didn’t want this one.”

[charmcity-jess]

Work In Progress Wednesdays

I was tagged by @raflesia65 and this time I actually have something to share.

Have a snippet from Chapter 13 of War of Hearts

Spring was in full swing now. The weather was warmer but the air was still a little brisk. The last remnants of snow was still hanging on, it made the ground a muddy mess. The sun was shining behind the yellow-green haze, making it brighter and somewhat cheerier than it had been the past few weeks. Evelyn was in a good mood considering everything that had been going on. 

It was an off day from training. Since she wasn't meeting with Maurine, she begged off with Solas as well. He was hesitant, you have far to go still, he had said. But she told him she was just mentally exhausted from all the training. In the end he acquiesced.

Her training with Solas had been going rather well. They had started with magical theory. Solas had explained the Fade to her, but she still had trouble wrapping her head around it. The concept of it was just too hard. It wasn't like the concept of Heaven. But yet it was. And the link of mages to the Fade, she only sort of understood. She understood enough to know that's where the power came from.

She hadn't been able to summon anything substantial, but she could make her hands warm. Enough so that she could warm a pot to luke-warm if she really concentrated. She was also able to gently push some leaves on the ground. Though, she wasn't sure if it had just been the wind and Solas had been flattering her.

She decided to take a leisurely stroll around the village. Maybe see some things that she hadn't before. Much like a tourist would. That's what she felt like after all.

The village was larger than she had expected. It extended farther out from the sides along the gentle slope at the bottom of a mountain. At the top of the hill was the Chantry and at the bottom, where the ground leveled out, was the lake and fields that held the bulk of the army. 

Scattered about the buildings of the village were tents, erected to shelter the many refugees that weren't able to join the forces or those that had families. The tents were more concentrated towards the center of the village and the Chantry. Market stalls also dotted the available space, merchants selling food and other wares were beginning to set up for the day.

The Inquisition did what it could to provide the necessities to the village. But the merchants made a decent living selling to the people of Haven what the Inquisition couldn't provide. Some inhabitants didn't rely on the Inquisition at all.

Evelyn decided to seek out Marianne. She hadn't sat with her or the other ladies of the sewing circle in a while. She missed their friendly repartee. Usually centered around finding a husband for Evelyn.

She turned the corner of what she would call a street - vaguely she wondered if they gave names to the town's roads - and headed in the direction she could normally find the ladies.

She stops short when she sees Commander Cullen, face red, in the center of the group of women. They were fawning over him, tittering and laughing at his blushing. He was sporting a blue scarf, obviously just gifted to him by one of the ladies. He was trying his best to get away. With "sincere apologies" and "excuse me ladies, I'm late for an appointment" he rubbed his neck and moved on in the opposite direction of Evelyn. She was sure he never saw her.

She approached the group as they were sitting back down to their various crafts of sewing and knitting to help the refugees. Marianne wordlessly made room for her on the bench she had taken up.

"That Commander, he is such a sweet one." Marianne glanced sideways to Evelyn. "Good marriage material if you ask me." She cracked a smile and the other ladies gave their various forms of ascent to the comment.

Evelyn knew what she was implying. The same thing she said out right with every other eligible bachelor that happened upon them. Except Seggrit. Marianne didn't have any love for the merchant. She constantly complained of how he took advantage of the villagers and refugees with outrageous prices.

Evelyn looked at her feet, kicked a little at a rock surrounding the fire pit in the center of the ring. "I don't need a husband, Marianne. And if I wanted one, Commander Cullen would be my last choice." She threw her hands up and scoffed. "Seggrit is a better match for me!"

Marianne wasn't having it though. She set aside her knitting. She looked as if she was about to start on a lecture about the wonderful traits of Commander Cullen, when she said instead with a smile, "Oh. 'Commander Cullen' is it now?"

Evelyn could feel how hot her face was and it wasn't because of the fire.

Everyone I know has been tagged before 😜 but if you haven't this is my invitation to do so!

[terrm9]

Okay so, these questions are pretty basic but it's all my brain can come up with at the moment because sometimes it just doesn't function properly (and they're very random as well)

-If they had a superpower, what would that be?

-What's something that their partner does that never fails to bring a smile to their face?

-Who's their celebrity crush?

-What's their love language?

-What's the first thing they notice in a person?

-What do they do in their free time?/ What are their hobbies?

-Have they ever had an obsession with a certain topic? (For example: I've always been super interested in Greek Mythology and I always read about it. Do they have anything similar?)

-What's their worst habit?

-What type of music do they listen to?

-How do they handle being complemented?

-What's their ideal date idea?

I intended that these questions would be for both Lina and Chiara but if you can choose to answer for only one if you'd like (preferably Lina though. Don't get me wrong, I love Chiara with all my heart and you know that but I just want to get to know more about Lina) <333

ah Maurine, my dearest <3 thank you SO MUCH for sending these and for being interested in Lina! I will answer these for her.

-If they had a superpower, what would that be?

"Ah, I would love to be invisible," Lina grins and turns to Tatum that decided to keep her company. "So that we could make out in public without causing a scandal that ruins my mother's career."

"I wouldn't make out in public," Tatum says, his voice flat.

"You already did," Lina whispers and raises an eyebrow at him, her gaze wicked as she reminds him of their latest run through the forrest. Tatum doesn't say anything in his defense.

-What's something that their partner does that never fails to bring a smile to their face?

"His jokes," she smiles. "They are so stupid but I always end up laughing like crazy. And also when he imitates other people - like his dad or my mother or his colleagues - he is perfect at imitating. Ah, I remember one day when we had to attend this gala and he kept on imitating all these old, rich, boring people there and I cried laughing the whole time."

-Who's their celebrity crush?

"Natalie Dormer. Have you seen the woman? She is just, ah... stunning."

-What's their love language?

"That would most definitely be physical touch."

-What's the first thing they notice in a person?

"This might be overly particular," Lina smirks, "but hands. Hands and fingers and nails. Not that I care about their manicure or something, it just always catches my attention. Hands, yeah."

-What do they do in their free time?/ What are their hobbies?

"I truly enjoy annoying Tatum," Lina laughs softly, to which Tatum rolls his eyes but doesn't truly deny her statement. "And when I don't do that, I like jogging or swimming a lot. Reading books, of course. And lately I have been enjoying taking care of plants! I have three that seem to be happy with us, so that's a great success, right?"

She turns to Tatum. "Right?"

-Have they ever had an obsession with a certain topic? (For example: I've always been super interested in Greek Mythology and I always read about it. Do they have anything similar?)

Maurine!!! Greek Mythology it is for Lina too! (hence her sons' names lol)

"Yes! Greek Mythology for me, too! And also Tatum," she leans into his side. "I have always been overly interested in countries of South Asia, especially Pakistan. But that probably has a lot to do with my background," she nods to herself.

(Lina is half-Pakistani)

-What's their worst habit?

"Oh God, I have so many of those," she exhales, thinking.

"No, you do not," Tatum nudges her, the gesture as soft as his voice.

A slight blush appears on Lina's cheeks but she ignores his remark otherwise. After several seconds, she speaks again.

"I think Tatum would say that my worst habit is being so messy. That my way of organizing stuff is, well, not organized. I think my worst habit is speaking my mind even when it's not appropriate. My mother could share all the stories."

-What type of music do they listen to?

"Indie rock? Soft rock? Something like that, I think. You know, Hozier and Birdy and Passenger. James Bay, Vance Joy, Lorde, these cool people."

-How do they handle being complemented?

"I am not capable of taking a compliment," she shrugs. "I don't believe them. I don't know how to thank those people."

Tatum nods subtly and then leans down to whisper into Lina's ear: "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

Now, Lina's cheeks are fully flushed and she opens and closes her mouth without making any sound. Then, she simply rolls her eyes and says: "See? He made a point."

-What's their ideal date idea?

"Far away from people. With Tatum. Good food is appreciated, but that's it. I don't really care as long as nothing and nobody interrupts us. A hike, swimming in a hidden lake, a dinner in a restaurant that nobody truly knows, going to the library together. I don't need much, it's really just Tatum and privacy."

[calm-studios]

Chapter 85

“The devil’s gonna make up my dying bed

Meet me, brother, meet me For I have so much to say He might as well come and take my soul ’Cause I won’t need it on my dying day “

“So you’re saying, if you didn’t do what he said — he was threatening to kill you and then Abby?” Ashton grits, sounding like the last part of his sentence burnt his tongue as he said it.

Maurine nods slowly, wiping at her eyes again as she tries to settle her emotions and nerves “Yes — If it were only me he threatened…”

She sighs heavily, giving us a small mournful smile “Look I’ve lived my life, I’m only 55 but I’ve had a long full life and if it ended tomorrow I wouldn’t feel unfulfilled, but when he said he would go after Abby… I couldn’t let that happen”

Ashton is tense beside me, holding me closer and I just stare at Maurine trying to decipher it this is the truth or not, that to make of any of it.

But Ashton is going to need a lot more to be convinced, he’s not having a bar of it, he’s staring at Maurine like she’s a snake ready to bite him any second.

“You still made the choice to take those pictures, you could have told us — me, you could have told me. Telling me is no different to leaving those pictures on the table. There’s no excuse for what you did” he throws back harshly.

“I know that…” Maurine agrees without hesitation “And I have to accept that and live with that choice even if it was the wrong one to make — I don’t expect either of you to want anything to do with me again, but if that keeps her safe I can live with that. I was scared, I didn’t know how to tell either of you — I didn’t know if I’d make it worse, put Abby in more danger”

Ashton shakes his head, narrowing his eyes and gives her a once over like he’s trying to size her up and decipher what she’s saying “It sounds to me like you were just trying to save your own ass”

Maurine holds her hands up in surrender, looking between us and keeping her scratchy voice earnest as she says “You can think that Ashton, I understand why you do. I don’t blame you for not trusting me, I care about you too, but I know how much Abby means to you. Unfortunately so does David”

I’m so beyond done with David, I’m done with that fact that every time his name is mentioned it’s surrounded by intention to hurt people I care about. I’m over him trying to use me to hurt Ashton, all of this hurt and confusion is flashing back and forth between grief and anger, and I swear I’ve never hated anything the way I hate that man.

“Why is David doing all of this to me? To Ashton? Why does he hate me so much? It can’t just be because Ashton cares about me — this is insane” I speak up, looking to Maurine for answers. She’s the only one aside from Ashton, and Jimmy that seems to know a damn thing about David and out of all of them she’s known him the longest and probably knows him the best.

I’m still trying to question whether I should actually believe what she says though.

“He doesn’t hate you” Maurine says shaking her head, but then she pauses and gestures her hand to Ashton with a sad expression “He hates him, he wants to hurt him and you’re the perfect way to do that. But I can’t figure out why, I didn’t even know Matthew had a son until he told me, David didn’t speak to me the entire time he was in England and for years after he came back”

Maurine focuses her red eyes on Ashton, furrowing her brows in question, her arms dropping by her sides.

“Why does he hate you so much? What happened? I’ve seen my brother be vicious and spiteful, but nothing like what I’ve seen with you. Matthew was his closest friend, I can’t understand why he would despise his son so much”

I’ve had that exact same question going around in my mind, because what David is doing goes way beyond just disliking someone. It’s venomous and abhorrent, there has to be more to it.

Ashtons face stays hard, his voice resuming that dismissive tone that I recognise, that he would use with me when he didn’t want to answer something or avoid it “Because I was unlucky enough to know things about him I shouldn’t — and my father hated me as well, they had that in common”

Maurine frowns at Ashton, pressing her lips together with an empathetic look, she still seems on edge and stressed but her demeanour is becoming more composed and less terrified.

“I know… Matthew wasn’t a nice man either Ashton, he was very much like my brother and I could see that the few times I met him. I’m so sorry… If he was horrible to you, if he is even half as bad as my brother my heart aches for you”

“I don’t need your fucking sympathy” Ashton hisses, making a firm point that’s the last thing he wants to hear from her.

“Understood. It’s not my place” she concedes quickly with a quick nod, but then tilts her head her forehead creasing like she’s trying to figure something out “Ashton… The things you know about my brother, are they things that would embarrass him?”

Ashton doesn’t answer straight away, just stares at her like he’s trying to decide whether he should or not, but eventually gives her an apprehensive nod; while keeping his face cold yet passive at the same time.

Maurine nods in understanding, rolling her lips into her mouth, before raising her brows and letting out a sigh as if she’s recalling her own memories.

“David has never dealt well with embarrassment… Or shame, it makes him lash out — become violent, malicious and vengeful. He’s been like it my whole life, he’s a bully and there is something not right with that man and I know that better than anyone” she explains, managing to sound sad but keeping a bitter undertone in her voice as she talks about her brother.

“He’s a coward and a piece of shit” Ashton sneers, his lip snarling in disgust.

Maurine shrugs in a ’I couldn’t agree more’expression “He is. He’s my brother but just because he’s blood does not mean I like him, or love him. I always felt relief when he would have nothing to do with me, but he always found a way to dig his claws into me again, he loves control — to control people. He’s awful”

I’m struggling to understand how someone like David exists, how it’s possible for a person to be so callous, void of empathy — I know Ashton can be violent, but at his core he has empathy there, that kindness but that just doesn’t seem to exist in David.

“Why does he hate you then? Does David even like anyone?” I ask, realising that’s probably not even close to what I should be asking right now. But I’m not Ashton, I’m floundering in this situation, I’m coping the best I can.

Maurine just shrugs again, looking resigned about it “Because I always disagreed with him, challenged him — embarrassed him and stood up to him, but I paid the price for it many times. David likes people who do what he says, who inflate his ego — I don’t even know if he’s capable of love. People are tools to him, they’re puppets to use to get his gratification. It’s why I always felt for Margaret, that poor woman had no idea what she was walking into, it was the same with Debbie before her — he can be so charismatic and likeable to draw you in but it’s all fake. He puts that woman through hell, and so does that brat of a son of hers, David has made him just like him — I never liked that boy either”

There’s obvious sympathy in her voice when she speaks about who I’m assuming is Jimmys mother, and Margaret but her voice becomes full of distaste the second she mentions Andy.

“So you know Andy isn’t his son?” I ask dumbly, before I realise how obvious that answer is, but this is just a lot of fucking information, on top of everything else.

Ashton may know most of these things, and Maurine may know most of it but it’s all new to me, hell a week ago I didn’t even know Andy wasn’t Davids son.

“Of course I do. I tried to stay in contact with Debbie, his first wife, she was a beautiful woman but he wouldn’t allow it. I only ever met James their son once, when he was a baby — he was such a sweet baby. And then next thing I know years later, David has this whole new family and it’s like Debbie and James never existed, I tried to find them but I never could” Maurine explains, but then look to Ashton as if a realisation crosses her mind.

“You knew James didn’t you? Do you know how he is? Is he okay?” she asks with a hopeful voice.

“Jimmy is none of your business” he dismisses bluntly, immediately sounding defensive at the mention of Jimmy.

“Jimmy? That’s what he goes by now?” Maurine grasps at the small bit of information like its a million dollars, as if she was talking about her own child, but then nods lifting her hands in a placating manner “I understand, you not wanting to tell me it’s okay. Just.. If you’re still in contact with him.. Or Debbie, just… Let them know they were always in my thoughts, and I hope they both have wonderful lives, and I’m sorry they had to experience someone like my brother”

Ashtons face doesn’t budge, as he says bluntly “Debbie is dead, couldn’t tell her even if I wanted to”

I look to him, my eyes widening at how passively he just said something like that, but I can see the defensive wall he has up over it.

Maurine’s face drops in devastation as her hand flies to cover her mouth “Oh… No… No no” her voice cracks as she shakes her head in disbelief, looking at the ground “James that poor boy, that’s awful he lost her. She adored him… I just.. God this is all so terrible”

“Yeah. She did. We aren’t here to talk about Jimmy. This is about you and what you did to Abby — I’m telling you, right now to stay the fuck away from her, no more photos, no more fucking stalking her and I’ll deal with David” Ashton says, not reacting to Maurine or her grief stricken state over what she’s just found out and keeps his voice firm and full of authority with each word.

Maurine’s hand drops from her face as she looks back to us. Another look washes of her face that I can’t make out, it’s like a sad realisation she has that we have no clue about.

“I wasn’t going to be taking any more photos Ashton” she tells him, shaking her head with a defeated ghost of a smile flashing on her lips. Her tone voice is filled with a sombre undertone, almost like she’s trying to tell us something without actually saying it — it almost sounds like a goodbye “That’s why I gave them to you, I wanted you both to know but I didn’t want to hurt either of you with knowing someone you both trusted did it. It wasn’t the right choice… But I can’t take it back. I just needed to know you would protect Abby when I’m not here”

What the hell is that suppose to mean? What is she trying to say?

Was all of this really her way of trying to protect me? Even if it was wrong and fucked up? Was she really trying to do the right thing?

“What do you mean not here?” I ask quickly, my brows furrowing.

Maurine sighs, again that defeated smile playing on her lips again and her eyes are filled to the brim with a mournful warmth “I’m not playing his game any more. And I’ll accept the consequences for that. Don’t worry yourself about that honey, you just take care of yourself” she says like she’s made a decision no one is persuading her on; she looks between Ashton and I, tilting her brows in an earnest expression.

“Take care of each other as well, okay?”

“… You’re saying David is going to hurt you? You’re just going to let him? You basically said he would kill you Maurine and you’re just going to let him?” I question distressed, feeling dread in my stomach so what I think she’s implying.

Maurine presses her lips together with a tight smile, like she doesn’t want to answer the question “If he can find me, wasn’t planning on sticking around” she says, but then sighs as she looks around the coffee shop almost as if she’s reminiscing — saying goodbye to that as well “I’ve always wanted to travel more, now seems like a good time to do that — just needed to make sure of something first”

“And what was that?” Ashton cuts in, his voice not sounding as hard, when he’s also realising what she’s implying. He’s keeping his guard up, but I can tell he wasn’t expecting that from Maurine.

Maurine gestures at Ashton with a loving look, her, lifting her brows “That Abby had you, that she was safe with you”

Ashton’s brows tense, as he shakes his head like he’s trying to comprehend everything, still sounding wary but also like he doesn’t like what Maurine is suggesting she’s going to do “If this is the truth — you could have just told us. You didn’t have to go and take those damn pictures. I could’ve kept David away from you”

Maurine shakes her head, shooing him with her hand as she sniffs, her eyes becoming glassy “That’s not your job Ashton dear, I want both of you safe, you need to worry about each other not this old lady. I can handle myself”

This can’t be happening, how can I go from feeling betrayed to feeling this distraught gutting grief impaling my insides that this woman is planning on throwing her life away over this.

Ashton growls in his throat, his composure finally faltering as he snaps “I should just walk into his house and fucking shoot him, get this over with — I’m sick of this shit, it’s long overdue any way”

Maurine lifts her brows, pointing to Ashton and keeping her tone like she’s trying to talk sense to him “You and I both that’s not the answer Ashton, if you know him like I do. Getting rid of him would open a whole other door of problems with very dangerous people that David is very valuable to — you need to be smart about this”

“Fuck” Ashton snaps again, releasing me and threading his fingers in his hair and hissing in frustration “Fuck all of this and that piece of shit”

“So you’re just running away? You’re letting him win? What if he finds you? Maurine he’s going to… He’ll have you killed you, you said that — then he wins” I try to reason with her, my heart aching and suffocating my chest when Maurine just shakes her head, looking like her mind is well and truly made up about this.

“I’m no use here sweetheart, I was leaving one way or another. At least this way I get a bit of a holiday first, go on my own terms — I know he’ll find me eventually, it’s okay — it will take his attention off of you two for a while” she says, pressing her lips together to hide there trembling as the corners of her sad eyes crease with a forced smile.

“No! No nothing about any of this is fucking okay!” I shout, throwing my hands in the air, my voice breaking with all of these overwhelming emotions.

I can’t take this any more, what this fucking monster is doing to people, I know what Maurine did was wrong but if she’s telling the truth she had good intentions, and fuck I don’t know what I would have done in her position — but the price she’s wanting to pay to help Ashton and I and stand up to David is far too fucking much she can’t just do something like that and try and say its okay.

“Those photos are not okay! David hurting you is not okay! David hurting Ashton is not fucking okay! He can’t just get away with this!” I shout louder, my eyes burning as I plead at her with them, I’m so fucking angry and this hurts so god damn much. I’ve never wished for a person to drop dead more in my whole existence, I never thought I could wish that, but David is the most deserving person I’ve met.

He deserves all of this to happen to him, not the people he’s doing it to.

“Abby… Hey, love… Just try and calm down” Ashton says grasping my jaw to look at him, his eyes worried as they look over my distraught face.

“How can I be calm with all of this? It’s so fucked up. How can someone be that fucking evil? I can’t be calm seeing him do all of this just to fucking hurt you — just let Maurine act like some sacrificial lamb because of that god damn psychopath!” I burst, shaking my head and throwing my arms out by my side.

Ashton wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me against him as he hugs me to him to try and get me to settle down and I have no idea how he’s still as composed as he is, the small amount of frustration he’s shown completely stoic compared to how I am.

“We’ll figure it out okay? Panicking right now isn’t going to help anything. Just try and breathe” he says, keeping his voice calm and rational.

“Listen to him dear” Maurine agrees, watching us “What I do with my brother is my choice Abby — I don’t want to be scared of him any more, this is my decision to make, it’s the choice I made when I gave you those photos, and I’ve come to terms with it. He’s winning if I keep letting him terrorise me, this is how I win. You two need to focus on not letting him win with you.”

I squeeze my eyes closed, swallowing harshly to push back the emotions wanting to pour out. I fucking hate that everything she’s saying just sounds like the word good bye repeated over and over again.

Neither of these options are better, either she’s lied and betrayed both us and is working with David, or she’s telling the truth and she’s throwing herself to the wolves, and isn’t coming back.

Maurine glances at the clock on the wall and her body tenses, and she gulps, darting her eyes between the both of us.

“Listen… You’re both going to have to leave — David is going to be here at 10, and sometimes he’s early. If you need to know anything else I can tell you another time, but you can’t be here when he gets here”

Ashton eyes her for a moment, as if he’s still on the fence about what she’s said and about leaving.

“All of this better be the god damn truth Maurine” he warns.

“It is, even if you don’t believe it and hate me that’s fine, as long as you know what he’s doing — I don’t know what else he’s planning I just know he wanted those photos and as much information about Abby as possible” Maurine reassures quickly, looking to the clock again and her demeanour becomes more anxious.

“But you really need to go” she repeats, with a pleading look.

Ashton pauses, giving her one last cautious look before pressing his lips into a flat line and nodding, tucking his gun back into his waist band and taking my hand, leading me towards the door back making sure I’m behind him.

I just don’t know what to fucking say. I want to scream. I want to yell. I want to beg Maurine to change her mind and find another option. I want to wait for David to get here and shoot him myself to keep him away from Ashton, from Maurine — from everyone.

But I can’t. Hell I don’t even know how to hold a gun. I feel useless.

Maurine walks to the door and waits for us, and Ashton stops in front of her while her face softens, her voice full of affection.

“Take care of her Ashton” she says, looking to me and nodding he head towards Ashton “And you take care of him too — so proud of both of you”

My breath hitches in my throat as my eyes well up again, and Ashtons hard expression drops into a softer one for the first time as he looks at her; trying to reason with her.

“Maurine you don’t need to do this, we can figure something out—”

Maurine waves her hands, cutting him off quickly as she sniffs, swiping her fingers under her eyes while she shakes her head “Shhhh, nonsense. Don’t worry about this old girl, now go on, get going — shoo, both of you”

She unlocks the door and opens it, gesturing us to get going, trying to cover her crying with another smile but it only crushes me more.

This can’t be fucking happening.

I can’t say anything, if I do I know I’ll burst into tears, and just beg her to change her mind but I know she isn’t going to. What am I suppose to say?

As we walk through the door, Ashton pauses, clearing his throat “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have threatened you… With the gun, like I did —” he says quietly, but then raises his brows at her “unless you’re lying and then yeah, I totally should have”

Maurine just grins at him, laughing weakly under her breath “Wouldn’t be the first time someone has done that to me dear, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Now get going” she sniffs, waving us off with her hands faster “Shoo shoo, got a meeting with the devil I need to get ready for”

I just stare at her, that pit in my stomach that this might be the last time I actually see her and still confused as fuck by all of this. What am I meant to do? What does somebody do in this situation?

Ashton tugs on my hand, urging me to follow him out the door onto the sidewalk out the front, but Maurines voice speaks up behind us as we get outside and we turn to look at her.

“Abby?”

Maurine taps her hand over her heart, creasing her sad brows but still smiles “Keep that kind heart of yours sweetheart, it’s precious”

She turns her eyes to Ashton, repeating the action and he seems surprised by what she says to him, that she thinks the same thing about him and it only devastates me more.

“You remember to keep yours too Ashton, it’s one of my favourite things about you”

Maurine says a soft goodbye, waving us both off again before closing the door while all I could manage was a barely audible goodbye; Ashton only managing a nod.

I don’t know what I expected coming here today, but it certainly wasn’t the situation where that soft goodbye from Maurine was the last one I will probably ever hear from her, this is probably the last time I’ll ever see her and I couldn’t even hug her, I didn’t know what to do.

It wasn’t Ashton I had to worry about killing her, it was David.

Maurine has made her decision with all of this whether I like it or not, and she’s not planning to survive it.

[andrewuttaro]

The Friction of the Gospel

Dorothy Day maybe the most cited Saint-to-be of the twentieth century. Her life’s work consisted of advocating for the poor and oppressed in the form of the working people of New York City throughout the Depression Era and beyond. Her Catholic Worker’s Movement took Jesus’ Gospel message seriously in a way few other organizations dared to. She and her compatriots were radically involved in the hopes and needs of those excluded from the benefits of American society as its first gilded age gave way to the brutal realities of a massive economic downturn. A copy of her daily Catholic Worker Newspaper can still be bought for a penny.

Day and her right-hand man Peter Maurin believed in “blowing up the dynamite of the Gospel” as contemporary apologists and evangelists will remind you. This phrase of course being a modern expression for the “Good News” the New Testament speaks of. In other news: the explosive, liberating reality of God made flesh in Jesus Christ, death, and resurrection. The focus of evangelizing the Gospel, particularly after the Second Vatican Council from the Catholic perspective, would focus on finding similar modern retellings of the same ancient truths that have moored Christianity for twenty centuries. Pope St. John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI both spilled much ink laying out the theological groundings that they believed could undergird a new evangelization in an increasingly Post-Christian world with an eye for Day’s charism.

As those who know Dorothy Day are probably already saying to themselves reading this: “blowing up the dynamite of the Gospel” is actually something very few Christians really want to do. Day’s message didn’t belong to any person except Jesus, and it isn’t easily fit within contemporary conservatism or liberalism. The thing about dynamite is its really hard to control. You light it up and then run away because it’s going to tear through everything around it. As the fifties and sixties drew on an aging Dorothy Day didn’t stop challenging indifferent power structures for the sake of the poor for Jesus Christ. She firmly embedded herself in the Civil Rights movement and the Counterculture of those days, often finding herself arrested and in prison for her activism. The thing about the Gospel of Jesus Christ is that it doesn’t neatly fit into anyone’s narrative. The Gospel challenges all of us and only comforts those who truly, recklessly love Jesus and neighbor. This is a hard life to live so most all of us domesticate Jesus in some way, sanding off parts of the Gospel we prefer to downplay.

There is a friction implicit in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Dynamite might be a good way to imagine it. On one hand we are called to follow the Son of God: the one true God who became incarnate in our flesh to suffer with us and finally wipe free our consciences of the guilt of sin on the cross. There is an objective truth to it. On the other hand Jesus tells us to go, baptize in his name, and make disciples of all nations. Go to the gutters of the excluded like he did and eat a meal with the outcasts, welcoming them in as Jesus himself. The first will be last and the last will be first. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than a rich man into the Kingdom of God. There is a missionary calling that will do whatever it takes to save souls in every time and place: Mercy.

Truth and Mercy aren’t in friction theologically but anyone whose really contemplated how they would tell someone why they have a relationship with Jesus intuitively knows it’s a different story on a practical level. Oceans of tears have been spilled in the religious trauma of that unique pressure to share Jesus in every interaction. Rivers of ink down through the centuries have been spilled trying to strike the most effective balance between accommodation and proselytizing. Perhaps us Christians haven’t nailed that balance since we were being fed to lions in the colosseum. The practical friction that exists within our Gospels callings, to love God and others AND go make disciples of all nations, is at a fever pitch in the world today.

Within my family I have the full range of friendliness to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. On one end I love family members in outright departure from our Catholic faith, judging it (like Dorothy Day did) as corrupt, self-interested, and ultimately abusive in myriad ways. These family members have very strong moral codes and I’m not convinced Jesus isn’t working in them in less overt, non-institutional ways, but they certainly wouldn’t let you know it. On the other end I have family members I love who are so devoted to their particular domestication of Jesus that they are convinced the magisterium of the Church upholds it. Perhaps they are attentive to the assent to Jesus, but their missionary zeal is gone: others coming to him is ultimately on them to walk in the door and accept his truths point blank as if they’ve always been presented the same way with little help. It’s a club you have to pay your dues for apparently.

With both the ends of the spectrum and everyone in between Jesus is domesticated to look the way we need him to for our ideological convictions. For many of us an ideological first principle unrelated to anything Jesus actually said is what really dictates how we approach the Gospel. Even among the most outwardly Catholic people I’ve ever met there is a clear ideological messaging that is not in line with Jesus Christ. To look at it from the outside looking in it would seem 40-60% of those who apply themselves to spreading the Gospel of Jesus Christ, clergy or not, are outright toxic to contemporary audiences. Their own clout is their God and Jesus condemns more than anything else for them. In Catholic circles one might say there is an unwillingness to “think with the Church” if you will, to act as with one heart no matter what our ideologies would prefer. In the broader Christian world Jesus is being used as a cudgel for strongmen and bigoted regimes the world over. Here in America we are only now trying to contemplate how we can answer the sin of Christian nationalism.

Too often I hear my brothers and sisters in Christ repeating the tired old euphemism “we are to be in the world, not of the world”. Often these co-religionists of mine will struggle to say why nationalism is bad if it’s a “Christian nation” or why the sinful world minoritarian perspective shouldn’t just win out, allowing us to isolate ourselves from disagreement. Some seem to aspire to a permanent retreat into a neat enclave locking ourselves behind doors of moral certitude and walls of self-assured righteousness. We know Jesus is our treasure: what we frequently seem to forget is that Jesus wants to share himself with all of humanity. There might be no more godless place on the internet these days than the forums where Jesus is discussed.

That friction of the Gospel, between upholding truth and saving souls at all costs, has always been with us and always will be until Jesus comes back to settle it himself. In the meantime the dynamite remains here with us, unlit and hidden beneath a bushel in the biblical metaphor: a light hidden away. Have we decided to horde it? Have we locked Jesus in? Does he knock from the inside now, asking to be let out to a world who desperately needs him? Whatever the state of your relationship with Jesus the next step for each of us is the devotion of Dorothy Day. The kind of devotion that is recklessly in love. If we can fix our eyes on Jesus sincerely and humbly enough to know we don’t have all the answers then we might just find him right there with us leading the way. Jesus respects our consent. He knows the fiction his Gospel brings, and he will help us to the right way of things if we can only first focus on him undomesticated.

Perhaps the friction of the Gospel only really exists when we have reservation: when we want to keep something from God we’re not quite ready to subject to the explosive power of Jesus just yet. He can wait. Take your time. Do your research. Suffer through that confused ranting from yourself and others. Listen. Open your ears. Attend to the hearts of your loved ones. Attend to the needs of those who have nobody and nothing. Attend to your own soul, it’s needs, and pray to the one who reaches out to you everyday just waiting for you to reach back without anything holding you back.

[notbemoved-blog]

Dorothy Day and her Catholic Workers Didn’t Skimp on the Works of Mercy or the Beatitudes

 When Pope Francis I appeared before a Joint Session of the U.S. Congress in September 2015 he mentioned four notable Americans who exemplify the American spirit. Among them—and the only woman—was Dorothy Day. [Abe Lincoln, MLK, and Thomas Merton also got the nod.] Of Day, he said: 

In these times when social concerns are so important, I cannot fail to mention the Servant of God Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker Movement. Her social activism, her passion for justice and for the cause of the oppressed, were inspired by the Gospel, her faith, and the example of the saints.

 It was thrilling to hear someone so noteworthy praise Dorothy Day in the same breath as these other “worthies” of American life. Until recently—with a new book and documentary about her—it was rare for the name of Dorothy Day to be mentioned at all.

Pope Francis approaching the podium to address a Joint Session of Congress in September 2015

I know this from my own experience. Since the publication of my book about the civil rights movement in 2013, I’ve had the opportunity to address many an audience and have generally provided the sponsors a summary of my “bio” which always mentions Dorothy Day (along with Dr. King and Mohandas Gandhi) as one of my inspirations. While the other two are well known, Dorothy Day’s name usually prompts blank stares or shoulder shrugs. It seems, though, that perhaps now Day’s time has come. Just as her great mission was taken up during the Great Depression, her “comeback” is happening during the Great Pandemic. There is such need and suffering among our own people today, it is good to have a Dorothy Day to look to for inspiration and hope that if we all pull together, we may just get out of this ditch. 

On that point, here is what Pope Francis, during that same speech to Congress, said about politics and its true intent. 

Each son or daughter of a given country has a mission, a personal and social responsibility. Your own responsibility as members of Congress is to enable this country, by your legislative activity, to grow as a nation. You are the face of its people, their representatives. You are called to defend and preserve the dignity of your fellow citizens in the tireless and demanding pursuit of the common good, for this is the chief aim of all politics. A political society endures when it seeks, as a vocation, to satisfy common needs by stimulating the growth of all its members, especially those in situations of greater vulnerability or risk. Legislative activity is always based on care for the people. To this you have been invited, called and convened by those who elected you.

Called to seek the “common good”—not just politicians, I might add, but all of us. May we all pull together, work together, as we seek to overcome what undoubtedly is one of the greatest challenges of our lifetimes. 

And now, Part III of my series on Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker. 

[Click here for Part I and Part II] 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Issues

Initially, The Catholic Worker was viewed as Catholicism’s answer to Communism. Commonweal’s first analysis of The Catholic Worker phenomenon was entitled: “A Catholic Paper vs. Communism.” The Catholic Worker, it said, was a journal established “to offset the polemics of Communism with a clear exposition of the principles of social justice enunciated in papal encyclicals; and to oppose Communism and atheism by fighting for social justice for the working man.” 

Indeed, Dorothy Day reveled in the comparison. She used to enjoy recounting the story of how Catholic Workers competed with Communists when selling newspapers on the street corner. When the Communist shouted, “Read The Daily Worker!” a Catholic Worker would retort, “Read The Catholic Worker daily!!” 

Under the headline “Specimens of Communist Propaganda,” The Catholic Worker would even debunk some of the more outlandish attacks on the Catholic Church by the Communist press. Its battle against Communism gave The Catholic Worker some degree of respectability in Catholic circles. But when the paper began to strike out at the established bourgeois practices of American Catholicism itself, its reviewers turned sour. 

One such attack was directed at the concurrence of Catholic institutions, schools, and hospitals in their policies of racial segregation, as practiced by American society as a whole at the time. “We Have Sinned Exceedingly” was the title of one editorial on the subject. 

Another issue on which The Catholic Worker and the Church hierarchy were on opposite sides was the Child Labor Amendment. The Catholic Worker favored the Amendment, which sought to end industry’s use and abuse of children in the workforce. The Church feared that any legislation concerning the lives of children might eventually lead to government interference in the parochial school system. 

Because of these and other contentious issues, many Catholics raised questions about how “Catholic” The Catholic Worker really was. The Diocese of New York’s Chancery Office received letters urging the Church to take some action against The Catholic Worker. The head of the Diocesan Office of Censor of Books wrote a letter to Day and later visited the CW offices. His only “action” was to ask that The Catholic Worker find a priest to act as an editorial advisor for the paper to “avoid criticism and … be of assistance to the future development of the work.” 

Day gladly accepted this suggestion and asked Father Joseph McSorley, the same priest who had told her not to ask the Church’s permission to publish, to serve as the paper’s advisor. Although she often differed with the hierarchy, Day always tried to obey their wishes. She once said, “If the Cardinal ordered me to stop publishing tomorrow, I would.” Of course, he never did.

 Labor

Throughout the thirties, The Catholic Worker kept its focus fixed on the poor and on labor issues. Although Peter Maurin was not interested in furthering Labor’s materialistic gains—“Strikes don’t strike me,” he would say—Day supported organized labor and often picketed with strikers. 

During these years, she reported on the Borden Milk Company’s dispute with its deliverymen and asked readers to boycott Borden products. She covered the organization of the Southern Tenant Farmers Union and the New York Seamen’s walkout. The Catholic Worker even provided food and shelter for the striking sailors. 

April 1936 edition of The Catholic Worker

Day even interviewed John Lewis, the first president of the Congress of Industrial Organizations; she was in favor of worker unionization.  She went to Detroit to help her readers understand the sit-down strike by the United Auto Workers, a CIO affiliate, and to Pittsburg and Johnstown where the CIO was trying to organize the workers of the Bethlehem Steel Corporation. 

Toward the end of the 1930s, after Labor had made some major strides, and with the increasing possibility of war in Europe, The Catholic Worker shifted its emphasis to another crucial issue—Peace.

Blessed are the Peacemakers

As early as October of 1933, The Catholic Worker made clear that it was a pacifist paper. It announced it would send delegates to the “United States Congress Against War” to represent “Catholic Pacifism.” Three years later, the Worker started an organization of Catholic conscientious objectors. Workers saw what was brewing in Europe and were determined to be ready “when the next war comes along.” The Catholic Worker’s pacifism was based on spiritual principles: 

As long as men trust to the use of force—only a superior, more savage and brutal force will overcome the enemy. We use his own weapons, and we make sure our own force is more savage than his . . . . Today the whole world has turned to the use of force . . . . If we do not emphasize the law of love, we betray our vocation.

The following years of the paper’s history showed just how much love American Catholics had for pacifism. The Spanish Civil War began in 1936, pitting Communist against Catholic. American Catholics revered Generalissimo Francisco Franco and considered his revolution against Communism to be a “holy war.” The Worker refused to take sides and blamed both Communists and Catholics alike for the outbreak of hostilities. 

“Catholics who look to Spain to think Fascism is a good thing because Spanish Fascists are fighting for the Church against Communist persecution,” the Worker observed, “should take another look at recent events in Germany to see just how much love the Catholic Church can expect.” 

Although many European Catholics agreed with The Catholic Worker’s sentiments, Americans were appalled by its position. Many accused the paper’s editors of being “Communists masquerading as Catholics”—a criticism that would often be leveled against The Catholic Worker in the years to come. 

The paper maintained its pacifist stance throughout World War II. It called for massive draft resistance and strikes by those who worked in the war-supporting industries. Pacifist priests wrote articles on the Catholic tradition of conscientious objection. The Worker even ran an alternative service camp in New Hampshire for Catholic conscientious objectors. 

The newspaper suffered dramatic losses as a result of its principled stand. In November 1939, the paper’s circulation had grown to about 130,000 monthly. During the next six years, subscriptions steadily declined, especially subscriptions by bishops who had accepted bundled shipments of the paper for sale in their churches. By the end of the war, the paper was reaching only an estimated 50,000 subscribers. 

Dorothy Day, Peace Activist

In the face of all manner of criticism, Dorothy Day held out: 

We are still pacifists. Our manifesto is the Sermon on the Mount, which means that we will try to be peacemakers. Speaking for many of our conscientious objectors, we will not participate in armed warfare or in making munitions, or by buying government bonds to prosecute the war, or in urging others to these efforts. 

The Catholic Worker was, of course, a “voice crying in the wilderness.” Men did not drop their weapoins or refuse to make munitions. The war continued to its horrifying conclusion—Hiroshima. In a column entitled “We Go On Record—” Day wrote bitterly of this historic tragedy: 

Mr. Truman was jubilant. President Truman. True man; what a strange name, come to think of it. We refer to Jesus Christ as true God and true man. Truman is a true man of his time in that he was jubilant. He was not a son of God, brother of Christ, brother of the Japanese, jubilating as he did. He went from table to table on the cruiser, which was bringing him home from the Big Three conference, telling the great news; “jubilant” the newspapers said. Jubilate Deo. We have killed 318,000 Japanese. 

That is, we hope we have killed them, the Associated Press, on page one, column one of the Herald Tribune, says. The effect is hoped for, not known. It is to be hoped they are vaporized, our Japanese brothers, scattered, men women and babies, to the four winds, over the seven seas. Perhaps we will breathe their dust into our nostrils, feel them in the fog of New York on our faces, feel them in the rain on the hills of Easton.

Day and her Workers sent a telegram to the President: “We beg you in the name of Christ crucified to do all in your power to cause this abomination of desolation, this new discovery to be buried forever. Far better to be destroyed ourselves than to destroy others with such fiendish and inhuman ingenuity.” 

Pleas for nuclear disarmament occupied many of The Catholic Worker’s pages in future years, but not before it dealt with a more personal tragedy—the death of Peter Maurin. 

Maurin’s Legacy

In April of 1944, Peter had a stroke that left him “unable to think,” as he put it. Although he remained with The Worker, his role in its operation decreased dramatically. His health, too, continued to fail until he was completely bed ridden, except for Sunday Mass, which he faithfully continued to attend. After much suffering, he died in March of 1949. 

Maurin had spent the last 15 years of his life building a dream. And what a reality it had become! As a result of The Catholic Worker, Maurin’s ideas had spread all across the country, as well as to Europe and Australia. Houses of Hospitality “for the immediate relief of those in need” opened in many major American cities. In Boston, St. Louis, and Washington, D.C.; in Cleveland, Los Angeles, and Chicago; in Detroit, Milwaukee, Buffalo, and Philadelphia houses were opened by enthusiasts who tried—each in his or her own way—to practice Peter’s “gentle personalism.” 

Many also started farming communes to prove that people could find work, food, and shelter on the land. The New York house bought a farm in 1935. It has maintained one ever since, first on Staten Island, then later at Easton, Pennsylvania, and Newburg, New York. Others, too, tried their hands at farming, though often unsuccessfully because of their lack of experience. Those who did succeed wrote glowingly of their experiences for the paper.

Maurin influenced an entire generation of American Catholics; his “green revolution,” as he called it, challenged the youth to delve more deeply into social questions and to experience the joys of Lady Poverty and of Christian Love for the least of Christ’s brethren. 

(To Be Continued)

[cam-laura]

2 Weeks in Winnipeg & Lots to Think About

After almost two weeks of joining the YWAM School of Peace & Justice (SOPJ) here in Winnipeg, it’s time for me to share my first blog post of my experiences. This will be a space where I reflect on classroom sessions, my project and book reports, our weekly outreaches to inner city kids, our experiences living in Chiara House (an affordable apartment building for people from low-income background and mental illnesses) and what I feel God is showing and teaching me through all of these experiences. I hope this can be a dialogue with fellow students and staff of the SOPJ, people I’m getting to know here in Winnipeg, and friends and family around the world.

When Laura and I first settled into the Spence neighbourhood in the West end of Winnipeg, we marvelled at how beautiful it is. Large, leafy trees seem to line almost every residential street. We noticed the cultural diversity in our neighbours, and the number of unique restaurants within walking distance. It wasn’t until our first guided walk around the neighbourhood that we began to notice the pain and struggle evident in the streets of the community. We noticed discarded syringes and condoms on the sidewalk. We saw many buildings with boarded up windows. We noticed that there were at least three pawn shops within a block of each other. We noticed that an apartment building down the street was in the news recently for a case of sex trafficking. We saw a young, First Nations man sleeping in the lawn of the church next to our apartment. We saw another man carrying his entire life possessions in a shopping cart.

Poverty is hell, and seeing it firsthand is hard. It can be easy to become numb to it, or think of yourself as superior because of your wealth and privilege. It’s easy to see wealthier, prosperous people and think ‘they have it together’.

And yet I am reminded that this brokenness and pain is also prevalent in our society’s middle and upper classes, it just takes different forms. We can obsess over making as much money as possible, only to miss out on important and intimate moments with friends and family. We can put our hope and trust in the latest gadgets, only to let them collect dust in our closets and basements. We can move to quiet, gated communities, only to grow isolated, detached, and unaware of who are next door neighbours even are. We can make our country, our weapons, our Prime Ministers, and Presidents to be the last, great hope in the world. We can be quick to judge each other based on ethnicity, profession, and physical appearance. We can be quick to think that we aren’t as bad as that politician, or that criminal, or that guy on the corner asking for change.

I am learning that we are all mutually broken, and have missed the mark in some way. I am learning that the people in this neighbourhood have a lot to teach me about my own brokenness and sin. I am learning to see Jesus in neighbourhood kids, in the eyes of the man asking for change outside of 7-Eleven, and in my neighbours of Chiara House. I am learning to see the Gospel not just as our souls being saved from Hell, but our bodies and our lives changed here and now.

I’m also learning to see different ways of doing church, and that the word ‘church’ certainly does not mean a physical building. Little Flowers Community is a house church planted by Jamie and Kim, connected to YWAM and Mennonite Church Manitoba. It was a privilege to get to eat, worship, and learn alongside people from the neighbourhood. This experience at Little Flowers Community was an important introduction to the topics we would go on to learn about in the week.

In the classroom (aka, Kim and Jamie’s living room) I’ve been reminded through Jamie’s teaching on God’s Shalom that Jesus didn’t just come to die for us. He also came to teach us how to live. Jesus has come to restore our relationship with God, with ourselves, with each other, and with creation. His death and resurrection shows us that the Good News is that another way of living is possible, and that the Kingdom of Heaven is both now and not yet.

And how do we express this Good News? One way I’ve learned this week is through radical hospitality. Jamie taught us hospitality was once central to the ecclesiology of the church. Welcoming all people in for food and rest was of great importance to the early Christians, but has been lost due to nominal beliefs and the institutionalization of hotels, etc. I was also very challenged through watching the film Entertaining Angels: The Dorothy Day Story. Her story of starting the Catholic Worker movement with Peter Maurin can often be idealized and romanticized. The film showed us how much sacrifice was made by her and other Christians to care for the poor and marginalized in New York during the Great Depression.

I felt like her life story was the perfect segue into Kim’s talk on gender inequality. Kim shared her passion for women’s equality and her own personal struggle of being a woman in ministry. She shared that it wasn’t through any feminist literature or movements that made her long for equality, but through Jesus himself. For it was Jesus who so often broke traditional, societal bounds to show women that they were loved. Heck, the first witnesses of Jesus’ resurrection were women! This would have been such a scandal in that culture, and it still can be today. I am thankful to have Kim leading this school and for her passion and insight on topics like this.

With these teachings in mind, we headed into our first week of getting more involved in the neighbourhood. Our first day of volunteering with kids in the neighbourhood was tiring, frustrating, but also life giving and incredibly eye opening. They loved to run around, play basketball, and sometimes get into fights with us and each other.

It was easy to get frustrated and overwhelmed, but a small moment making crafts with some of them reminded me of the peace and grace I needed to show them. During craft time I was lifting a stack of paper off of a table to give to a particularly fidgety and loud little boy. When he turned around and saw my arms in the air, his immediate reaction was to cower and protect his face. My heart immediately broke. Was this a reality for him at home? Were adult hands raised in the air a symbol of danger or hurt for him? It is little moments like these that remind me of the hospitality and grace I need to show to people, no matter how difficult they can be.

We also had a chance to get involved in the neighbourhood through the 7th annual March for Peace in the West End organized by various neighbourhood associations and organizations. This march was originally inspired by the levels of violence in the neighbourhood, and seeks to continue to end the culture of violence and hostility today. It was beautiful to see such a diverse group of people coming together in the name of peace. I was encouraged to see so many of the kids we were volunteering with join us in the march. I was also encouraged to see the First Nations women in leadership who organized and led the event.

I’m looking forward to these next months of learning, living and growing in this community. I look forward to the joys and challenges that lay ahead, and to truly learn what it means to live justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.

-- Cam

[janiklandre-blog]

Sunday, March 5, 2017

9:25 a.m.  very cold but sunny   a lonely Sunday morning - somewhere I read about the Sunday blues - earlier I have also written about all the people going to church - obviously a way to combat the Sunday blues. I tried - but rarely found services inspiring. For a while Paco and I attended the 6th Avenue Methodist Church in Brooklyn. Paco's second wife Elaine - 16 years younger than he, she dumped him and I met him - Elaine before being with Paco had found her way to the church of Finley Schaef - then off Washington Sqare to the West, Finley had been the first minister to speak out against the Vietnam war from the pulpit. His church was called the peace church - a group my friend Ari Salant was part of, Resist, met there and I went with him, Grace Paley was there - and days before I met Paco I had gone there with Robert Goldscheider and my sons - our sons - to see the San Francisco Mime Troupe performing at the church. My son later tried joining them in San Francisco, alas they said something to the effect that too many Jewish boys from New York were coming (our Jewish name does make us Jewish - there is my Jewish grandfather and Robert's Jewish father - Robert later with his third wife Janet joined a synagogue - my lose affiliations have been Christian, my sons never sought any, as far as I know.

Finley's church was a lively place - but then Finley became involved with the youthful assistant Nancy, his wife with the youth minister - Finley and Nancy a pair to this day - the liaison of his wife did not hold long - still the Methodist church too a dim view, Finley list his church (now condos) - worked in a bar for a year - then made apologies and was assigned the church in Brooklyn - this was around 1973 and Park Slope still a waste land where we could have bought a house for peanuts and I wish we had. While there, the area became gentrified and by the time Finley retired - I visited him and Nancy in Saugsrties not too long ago - it had become a posh neighborhood and a posh church.

After Elaine dumped Paco she was banished from his church, but Finley - and many other people - loved Paco, the charming and prolific azrtist. At times we walked to the church from our second avenue loft - over the Brooklyn bridge, up Flatbush avenue - we loved these long walks, took interesting photographs - all gone - we allotted two hours, still often came after the service had begun and Finley would stop and grandly welcome his painter friend and probably call me his wife - there was talk we might get married in a church ceremony, not the civil one - no legal obligations. We never did.

Finley had a strong theatrical flair - his services were theatrical and fun - he was of Catholic Lithuanian background but had converted to the Methodist church. The church was also very political, much attention was paid to events in Latin America and demonstrations were joined.

At the end of the service we always were invited to the Parish House - a select group - to a lavish brunch and often ended up in nearby Prospect Park. These were not lonely Sundays.

However, in the spring of 1988 when Paco decamped to East Hampton without me (he had waited until it got warm) - on mother's day I went alone to the church where I met Patty Lee Parmelee from my German group and the German woman theologian Soelle was visiting and Patty said, we are going to the Parish house - and I said, I am coming and Nancy stopped me and said: I don't think there is enough room.

Wham bam - only as an adjunct to Paco had I been welcome. Interesting. I did write them a letter and for many years stayed out of contact until I ran one day in the street into Finley who embraced me warmly, asked where I had been - he had forgotten all about that mother's day - by then he had retired and they had left New York - and invited me to come to Saugasrtie's - where I also have another friend who gave me warm hospitality. I spent a lovely weekend there - alas I no longer have the get up and go of my younger years - though coming Tuesday I will test if I can still catch the 5:49 to New Haven and find a bus there to take me to Northampton - a trip I enjoyed not that long ago.

Well, C.B. has shelved me - avoiding any conflict - unwilling to sit down for a talk - finding excuses not to see me. Which also does bring once again the highly critical letter of me I received from another friend - reminding me that when I met Robert G. in 1953 he had three close friends - Lenny, Kenny and David - he and Lenny Harvard law, Kenny and David Harvard med (( did write a novel about them in 1964, after Robert an I had attended his 10th reunion of Harvard law - a theatrical weekend) I did send the novel to a major publisher, got it back saying, very interesting, keep working on it - alas I never learned to work on my writing, In any event, Robert proudly told me of the mutual admiration society the four had formed - three were Jewish, Robert had a Jewish father - determined social climbers - aware of the importance of giving each other support and building each other up. Gesine in Germany is one of my women friends building me up - alas not all women are. So often I de experience women tearing each other down - a late glaring example the granddaughter of Dorothy Day at Mary House. I am aware of the envy and jealousy I have encountered - also sometimes disappointing friends - I can think of three - who met me when I was teaching at Columbia, expecting me to rise in the ranks - social climb myself! - disappointed when I sang: Hallelujah, I'm a bum again - hanging out with bums - not climbing socially but declining. Downward mobility they call it. It has not been voluntary poverty - I've now been around the Catholic Worker for more than 20 years - readily give them credit for making me part of their family - for giving me a home away from no home on ,many lonely days - feeding me a lot of food - and yet at this  very moment deeply disappointing me.

I have lived many different lives with many different groups of people - for many at the CW there has been great continuity in their lives - Roger going back to the 50's - Jane going back to the 70's - Dorothy Day's granddaughters - Kate who now is promoting her book - they have mountains of photographs, letters, books that go back to the time if my birth - 1933 when inspired by Peter Maurin the first issue of the Catholic Worker was published - a penny a copy - peddled in Union Square - a penny a copy to this day and still in the same format - I've read much of Dorothy's excellent writings - her memoir The Long Loneliness, very openly talking about her early days, her recently published extensive journals, a lot of her other writings - it is a fascinating story - what the synergy of two people created - a vital movement that today encompasses the world - and crfeated great continuity in the lives of many people whom I met and watched - good people.

After C.B. drew me in after 1997 - I helped her in the kitchen - saving my life on the day of the 2000 fire, when I left my apartment minutes before a feroceus fire broke in to go and help her in the kitchen.Having just returned from 10 years in Bolivia she knew few people in New York and cherished me as a friend - until very recently - when at the behest of her dear friend M.H. I too was put on their list of the old and feeble minded - to be tolerated as long asd they don't open their mouth. M.H. who always had followed C.B.to my house and was welcomed by me, found it deeply offending how dared I asking to be included when she was asking out C.B. for a humburger. She insulted me, ran off - and later said - I'll talk to you when you'll be a sweet silent old woman.

I guess when you have grown old and not climbed socially - have status and money - that is to be expected. Having watched the C.W. all these years I have come to realize that while the myth declares everybody equal - there too is rank and status and in earlier writings I often wrote about watching French Christine - the general's daughter of aristocrstic background - fighting tooth and nail to climb in the ranks - and glad for myself not to share that ambition. It caused her much grief - she constantly felt left out - she and I did have a few very pleasant encounters and we did like each other - but most of the time she was seeking out "people of value".

The young people who arrive - their youth much valued - if they so desire, quickly rise - immediately there writing in the paper is valued, they are invited on journeys to South Korea, Russia, Afganistan, Iraq and on and on - they are asked to give talks - I turned 60 in 1992 - I was appreciated washing dishes, chopping carrots and later labeling the newspaper - 80.000 copies not long ago, now reduced to 30.000 - postage too expensive. I quickly realized that bar coding would be cheaper than hand labeling - but a woman who has died, Kathy Temple - asked before her death fow a vow that bar coding would never be used - and so people continue to hand lable - it's a bit like in Russia where three people under communism were given the same job to maintain full employment and make sure everybody had a job..

I did it when I was joined by an interesting French priest - who introduced me to interesting French writers - on the tip of my tongue - an early critic of communism whose chauffeur he had once been, later an inmate in a German concentration camp - he was refused housing at CW when evicted in Brooklyn, was a mad driver and died shoveling his beat up Toyota out of the snow. I acutually was asked to write his obituary - I had much liked him

Then all kind of discord broke out in the mailing room - also I preferred writing this here now blog - I no longer was wanted in the kitchen - and alas, not a published author I ended up in a rather numerous category of poor, lonely old women who are greeted kindly and then ignored.

But the place does abound in interesting characters - Jane always talked of writing a Gothic Novel and I hope she has - weirdness abounds - and you don't have to go to any theater, there is enough theater there. Still - it is time for me to widen my circle - and deal with the fact that I can come as silent observer, but there are so many pwople with a great need to talk and men do assert themselves - and boy, do they talk and talk - but forbid women to talk, not only me. Must accept realities.

And so goes my life. Went for an icy walk yesterday, listenened to the ever crazier news - went out to buy the Sunday Times - quickly escaped a violent encounter between two men - violence in the air. Read the Sunday Times, slept rather well - left house at 7 a.m.. - empty cold streets, tons of litter - Bean not very cosy -loud militsry sounding music - a worker sawing metal - walked - ran into a couple people I knew, stopped at the bakery where I've gotten into talking to the woman from former Yugoslavia, 49, a grandmother, drives daily 40 minutes - does not know where in former Yugoslavia her parents came from, does not talk to her Muslim mother - has some nerve problem and barely sleeps but says she is never tired - a bit worrisome, I find - and here I am, spending my lonely Sunday morning g writing - enjoying writing - it's 11 I'll call a friend

Got her answering machine - I know she's not in church but likely out with her daughter. Yesterday I noticed what looked like an interesting lecture at the Deutshes Haus at NYU - modern German authors - since Goethe Haus on 5th Avenue closed I've lost touch with German writing - still - it still is of interest and so I'll skip the CW brunch.

This may the lst of my longblogs at least for a while - tomorrow at 9 a.m. I am to see the eye doctor about the cataracts - he gave me a long form to fill out and extensive material to read - others have told me about the tedious eye drops - and then I'll see how the day develops - Tuesday early I plan to leave for Massachusetts and let's see how this will go. I will take my ipad and see if my daughter-in-law can give me some lessons - many do write on it at length - and then also, those of you who have followed my writing - is it ten years? - have been witness to my waning and waxing energies - somebody called it being a prisoner to our emotions - I would love to keep going at my present rate - since my energies began waxing once again and M.H. and C.B. have been so totally offended by an "energized Marianne" - how dare you not be sweet and even tempered - I have done a lot of organizing, taken care of many things that my waning energies don't allow me to do - when I feel so blah, oh, so blah - yet my psychiatrist friends have assured me "Marianne "you don"t know what real depression is" - and I am thankful to them - thankful I never listened to the pill happy nurses who tell me - you MUST take pills - and worried about others in my life who may suffer from more serious forms of depression than I do. With me until now it has been a passing condition - when I barely find three words to stay - stop writing this here blog - do feel like, hey can't you pull yourself together - this all started after my mother killed herself in 1982 - days before her 80th birthday - she had had with indignities of old age. Only I wished she had not done it the way she did. A year later I for the first time urgently wished for death myself. It threw me and those close to me into terrible disarray. It took me time to learn about waning and waxing energies - I often have not dealt well with it - allowed my anger to surface - but am working hard at trying to be as palatable as possible to myself and to those around me. Whomever I may have offended, please forgive me - and those of you who recites the Lord's prayer, please listen to the words you utter and act on it. A la prochaine, until next time, as French Chrstine used to say - she is now in Paris, battling cancer, would like to be called on her cell phone which is terribly expensive, has not seen to getting hold of a computer - here she only went to the library where a kind young man helped her. Well - perhaps she does not have the energy. I do miss her. She did understand what others do not.

Last - I wish I had learned to write in word - as things get long - my email mode gets a bit rebellious. Still, thanks again Ken, and now Molly to getting me were I am. Marianne

[miniskirtday]

Response to AMA.

A few days ago I received an AMA. I responded that I wanted to take some time to think about it. Unfortunately, tumblr seems to have deleted the post! [GRRR] As I don’t remember the name of the one who asked, I am going to post here. I am paraphrasing the question to protect the sensitivity of the question [& I don’t remember the exact words. :-)] But first, to the original author: I’m terribly sorry I wasn’t more careful w/ your AMA. How do I encourage my wife to be more engaging sexually?

The original question was more specific to many ideas that I write about in my feed, but since I’m making this open to everyone I am making it a bit more general.

The “too long; didn’t read” version is this: I can only tell you about my journey. I have tips & resources at the bottom that I hope can help you better. At least they did for us.

Here is why that question is hard for me. If I were to go back in time to a younger me & tell me just how damaging my thoughts on sex were to my marriage, I’m not so sure I would believe myself. I had to hit a pretty hard low in order for the truth to hit me. I had to come to the realization that marriage is hard & I have to be just as proactive & engaged in working to build it as he was. I had to make myself realize that serving my husband visually, sexually, and physically was a ministry of service to him, our marriage, & then to myself.

It wasn’t immediate. It took time before my husband began to have a desire to serve me & my needs for emotional & spiritual connection. It wasn’t until that healing began that I could properly express my desires for him to step up & lead the family in the way that I & the children needed him to.

For some time, I worked HARD to serve him w/ little of my needs met in return. It’s tough work to kill it in the gym & lead a healthy lifestyle. It’s tougher to do that & raise young children. To add to that the time & energy to shave my legs daily & dress in ways that were visually appealing to him was a massive task. But all of that & then to give my body to him as well? There were days I wondered if it was worth it at all.

Now I know that YES! It IS worth it! Once hubby & I were communicating in love [& not yelling] we realized we work together quite well as a team. He leads the family as we need him to [including spiritually], & he seeks to meet my needs for our emotional connection. I seek to be a #VisuallyGenerousWife for him. As a family we are leading a more fit & healthy life which is great as we have support & encouragement w/ each other.

But I still have to work at sex. A lot. It is hard to push out distractions of the day some times. I have to force myself to learn & discover sex. While it has gotten SO much easier to enjoy [& I do enjoy it], it still doesn’t come as naturally as it does him. His drive is just much higher. I also had a LOT of garbage anti-sex rhetoric when I was younger [which I have ranted on in past posts]. It took SO much work for me to relax & begin to explore my sexuality w/ my hubby. But I learned so much when I finally did.

Honestly, one of the things that freaked me out at first but ended up being such a blessing, was when we made a rule together that basically said “In me, or on me.” I wanted to be a part of his every orgasm to better understand his drive. I knew he masturbated & it irritated me but mostly because I didn’t understand his need for release 3+ times a week. The first few times were awkward & near embarrassingly painful. I was terrible at providing visual stimulation & just laid there quiet & motionless [Please wives, don’t EVER do that!]. He felt just as awkward as I did. But we soon realized that I didn’t want to just be present, I wanted to be engaged & he NEEDED me to me engaged even if it was as simple as a smile & a wiggle of the hips. I found that I loved how much he adored me & looked forward to the times when I would tease him. He loved watching me dance & be provocative. It took SO LITTLE work on my part & we felt so much closer together as we cuddled in his post-masterbation-orgasm. On nights when I did want to have sex, that closeness was even sweeter.

If you don’t want to read about more “non-traditional” sex acts, please just skip this paragraph. The next step we took was when I let him pleasure himself w/ my legs. I work HARD to keep them looking good & I work HARD to keep them smooth. Yeah! Of course I want him to enjoy them! He’d better enjoy them every day for the work I put into them!! But especially on the days when I don’t want sex! It was such an easy next step as it required nothing more then what I was already doing, keeping my legs pleasurable. He did the work & we shared in the beautiful bonding after. [It took a while to go from ‘this is kind of weird’ to ‘this is really kinky & really hot that my hubby gets so excited about me’]. Another example. If you were to go back to me just before I got married & that me was to be told “You are going to absolutely adore the sexual pleasure your husband gives your ass that you are actually going to excitedly long for it” I can promise you I would’ve been so freaked out that I would’ve run away & never married. The abusive religious stigma that was my sexual education would’ve parallelized me even thinking about such a “degrading” act. Instead, it started w/ a post-gym-squat-challenge massage that felt amazing & I wanted more. 6 months later, I was craving his touch on my cheeks as we moved into exploratory. A YEAR & 9 months after the massage that it was sexual & the lies of my past were shattered when I said “How have we missed out on this for so long?!”

Here’s the thing, going from my “Good girls don’t do that” to “sex is fun” to “#MarriedSexRocks” to “Including non-traditional sex which can be delightful!” isn’t small steps. I don’t think there is any way you could have convinced the younger me to make those leaps. It absolutely is, in my opinion, “a journey of a thousand miles begins w/ one step.” I could NOT HAVE EVER allowed such things to happen if I didn’t absolutely trust my hubby, & it took us a lot of time, effort, & hard work to build that relationship to that point.

Back to the original question: How do I encourage my wife to be more engaging sexually? First, realize that women don’t have the same sex drive as men. Rude jokes, crude statements, & lewd behavior doesn’t work on us. The VAST majority of us need to have an emotional connection.

Second, if a woman doesn’t feel emotionally, financially, & physically secure, it is going to be harder for her to open up & relax. Establish trust & work to meet her needs. Trust me. This isn’t easy. This is hard. This is a lot of work. But it is worth it. The bonus, this is essentially a HUGE step of foreplay for a woman. Third, talk about sex freely. Get over the embarrassment. Have honest conversations about what you each want. Don’t be pushy, but be honest.

Fourth, seek help from people who have made it real priority in their life to deal w/ these kinds of topics & advice. There are a ton of great materials out there. As a Christian, these are the ones that helped me the most. For Books Sheila Gregoire - The Good Girl's Guide to Great Sex Dr. Douglas E. Rosenau - A Celebration of Sex Francis & Lisa Chan - You & me forever [I adore this book! Great for the spiritual connection that encourages spouses to be spiritually active] Kevin Leman - Sheet Music: Uncovering the Secrets of Sexual Intimacy in Marriage [Another I love] Tim Kimmel - Grace Filled Marriage: The Missing Piece [This helped us both through a rough patch; the timing was perfect for us on this one.] For blogs http://forgivenwife.com/ she speaks to my situation & does so far better than I could. https://www.hotholyhumorous.blogspot.com/ Parker has an amazing talent for dealing w/ women's sexual issues. She is so encouraging. http://www.the-generous-wife.com/  & www.the-generous-husband.com are both excellent sources of information & encouragement. Paul & Lori also run themarriagebed.com which I am a HUGE fan of. If you follow me on Gab or Twitter, I post/repost about them all the time. For Sex exploration http://www.christianfriendlysexpositions.com/ is a great resource for position ideas. http://www.marriagebed.tips/ gives excellent advice on things to try in bed. I hope that helps you some. May God heal your relationship & bring insane amounts of pleasure to your marriage bed. Edit & Update: Maurine made a great comment on Gab. “Sometimes it is simple things like good hygiene, doing chores so she has energy. Date nights...“ That is so good. Personally, I craved the emotional connection. I was ok w/ date nights happening infrequently & didn’t mind it being a cheap restaurant & a movie. But now, our monthly date nights are things that I really look forward to because we connect on so many more levels. Also, when hubby does chores off my to do list, that is sexy. :-)

[neomikey]

Unnamed: Chapter 2

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom?”

“Jordan!  Good to hear from you, baby.  How's Sharon been?”

“She's fine.  Listen, I don't have long.  Could you come here to the station today?”

“The station?  Jordan, what's this about?”

“There was a break-in at Aunt Gladys's place last night and some kids got hurt.”

“Oh, that's...y-yeah, sure.  I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“We got the guy who did it.”

“There's a 'guy?'”

“How soon can you be here?”

“I'll go clear my schedule for the day.  Be there in about a half-hour.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“See you soon.  Love you.”

“Love you too.”

~

The St. Elestria Police Department prided itself in its diversity.  While most of the staff were human, HR actively sought out animal people and elves to fill its ranks, sometimes going to the extent of recruiting them from across the country.  Ideally, their human staff could protect and serve the public just as good as anyone, but for the sake of getting differing viewpoints and having more representation while dealing with the sector's diverse populace, it helped to have more.

It certainly didn't hurt that it looked good for PR.

The station was rather easygoing for the afternoon.  It was the middle of the day shift, meaning many officers were out on patrol, while at the station, a number sat behind their desks, glumly filling out paperwork.  The Sector 12 station was located more towards the outskirts of St. Elestria proper, where there was generally little crime.  Instead of spending money on jail upkeep and high-end equipment, the precinct was able to afford allocating money from the budget to sprucing up the station without affecting their ability to fight crime.  They had a reputation among some of the other sector stations for being the “prissy” station, allegedly reserved for jaywalkers, candy bar thieves, and irate soccer moms.

An elf with short-cut silver hair was stationed at the front desk behind bullet-proof glass and was browsing through the SEPD database, trying to clarify an irritating report someone had turned in.  All that he could understand of the handwriting was that the offender's license plate started with J.

He was taking a pull from his Burger 'N Fries drink when a dark-skinned, gray-haired lady with a cardigan and black purse came into the lobby.  The elf perked up as the door sounded and momentarily scrambled to put away the fast food cup before he realized who it was.  He smiled brightly at the older lady.

“'Afternoon, Janice!”

“Maúrin,” she greeted back in her usual business-like tone.  “Did Jordan tell you I was coming by?”

“Yep, sure did. Let me page him real quick.”

“Sure, sure.”

Maurice picked up the comm nearby.  “Officer Henckley, there is a Code 7 at the front—“

“I didn't bring lunch,” Janice interrupted.

“—Code Mom at the front desk.”

“10-4,” came the staticky reply.

“He'll be just a moment,” Maurin confidently assured Janice.

“Of course.”

She took up a nearby clipboard and with her incredibly fancy pen, wrote her information on it, detailing her name, purpose of visit, officer she was seeing, and other pertinent information.  While waiting, she grabbed a coffee from their surprisingly expensive coffee machine. She never understood the fuss around coffee.  For her many years alive, she never could find anyone who truly “liked” the taste of coffee.  Whether it was cheap stuff bought from around the corner or the luxurious beans imported overseas from Stilneg, it all tasted bitter and had to be drowned in additives to be made palatable. Coffee was mostly about its effect.

Several sugars and flavored creams later, the door buzzed and opened, revealing her son. He had skin as dark as his mother's and was in full uniform, all the way up to the cap.  Jordan smiled brightly in greeting.  Janice did not reciprocate.

“So what happened?” she asked, as if already in the middle of a conversation.

“Nobody's dead,” he assured her.

“Good.  So what happened?”

“A vagrant happened.  We have him in holding right now.  Come on.”

Through the door they went.  It was a slow day in the Sector 12 station.  Some officers were at their desks, taking care of the minutiae of paperwork.  A few officers were checking social media.  It admittedly was a handy tool for investigations, but it also let officers look at the latest funny cat pictures.

“So these teenagers got into Aunt Gladys's house,” Jordan explained as they walked, “where this guy jumped 'em.  Stole this one kid's wallet, broke the other one's nose...it's all pretty messy.  He had several weapons, including a pistol, some knives, a sword....”

“What were they doing in Gladys's place?” Janice asked, her voice taking on an edge, seemingly disregarding all the weapons.

“Said they were just curious, Mom.  They were out on a midnight walk and saw the door open.”

“Are they stupid?”

“Teenagers – you tell me.”

Janice sighed and wiped at her face.  “Sweetie, I love you and know that you and everyone here have made great strides in keeping the district safe, but what kind of moron goes into some abandoned building in the middle of the—”

“Well, they did, and this is what we've got.  Processing the perp has been a bit difficult, since he has no ID and refuses to tell us his name, family, friends, or any kind of background.  No drugs or anything found in his system either, though he is suffering from mild malnutrition and exhaustion.  He just admits to the attack and says it was justified, but the evidence obviously isn't good for him.  Looks like he's likely gonna get thrown over to 19 and—“

“Don't you dare,” Janice suddenly interrupted.  “That—“

“Mom...!” Jordan hissed.  A couple nearby officers looked up for a moment, then went back to their deskwork.  He spoke just above a whisper.  “This is not the place to bring this up!”

Despite being almost a foot shorter than him, Janice's stern glare made Jordan feel like she towered over him.  Mothers never lost their edge.

“I would have already begun processing, but I knew you would want to talk to him. He's in the interrogation room right now with Rudy.  I'm told it's been rather quiet.”

“Not even talking about the Elks?”

Jordan scoffed. “He tried.”

With a swipe of his keycard, they entered the more secured area of the station.  Off to the side were concrete holding cells with thick glass walls, all of which were empty.  Only one had paperwork in the door slot.

“Hey, Janice!” the cop on duty cheerfully greeted.

“Not a Code 7,” Jordan informed her.  The lady's shoulders noticeably sagged, disheartened at the lack of food.

“Still in interrogation?” Janice asked.

“Yeah, go on ahead.

They rounded a corner, passed a few doors, and finally came to a door marked “Interview.”  There was a one-way mirror on the door, and within, they saw the vagrant.  His wrists were handcuffed to the chair, which was firmly bolted to the floor.  His clothes were tattered and dirty, and his right pantleg hung loosely from the stump.  Despite how ratty it was, the officers didn't take away the headband he wore which rested over his left eye.  A table sat in front of him (also bolted to the floor), and on the other side was a far more comfortable-looking chair.  His good eye was firmly locked on Rudy – a gray-haired rabbit man – who was leaning on the wall next to the door, bored since his attempt at sports-centered small talk had failed.  The homeless man, meanwhile, kept his eye on Rudy with palpable mistrust and caution.

“That's the savage who took out two teenagers?”

“Apparently,” Jordan confirmed.  “Wasn't exactly 'savage' when we picked him up either; more just seemed confused.  Didn't even recognize a taser when it was pointed right at him.”

“You didn't....”

Jordan sighed. “No, I didn't, Mom.  Just...listen, we can talk about all this later, okay?”

Before she could argue, he knocked on the door.  Rudy's ears went fully erect, his nose involuntarily twitched, and he stepped away from the door. Jordan opened it and Janice pushed past them.

“Thank you, gentlemen, I'll take it from here,” she informed them.

Rudy and Jordan locked eyes for a moment, before Jordan finally nodded.  “Yeah, sure,” he conceded,  “We'll be nearby.”  He nodded to the large mirror on the wall.  “You have ten minutes – no more.”

Janice folded her hands on her lap as she watched them leave, then allowed the door to shut on its own before finally turning to address the bedgraggled man.  “Well...” she began, “it seems like you've had an interesting day.”

The one-eyed man didn't seem to hear her, and instead was looking to the door.  Janice hung her purse on the back of the chair and went to sit down.

“My name is Janice Henckley, and I'm—“

“What was that beast?”

“'Beast'?” she said, an eyebrow slowly raising.  “You mean Rudy?” She waited for a response, but received none.  “He's a police officer, obviously.  A detective.”

“It wasn't human.”

“Of course not, he's a lapin.”

The man finally looked to her.

“A lapin,” she emphasized.  “A hybrid.”

His expression showed no comprehension.

“You...do know hybrids, don't you?”

His eye showed no understanding.  Janice resituated herself in her seat, suddenly finding the vagrant far more interesting.

“They're humans whose genetic make-up was mixed with those of animals as part of a military experiment over a hundred years ago who have since joined the average population,” she informed him.  “There are many different breeds out there.  Rudy there was a lapin, a rabbit hybrid. Canids are dogs, felids are cats, equids are horses, there are several others....  You've...never seen a hybrid?  Ever?”

“That's considered strange?”

“From where did you come?”

The man's eye went to the table.  A silence descended upon the room while Janice awaited an answer.

“You do know I was only given ten minutes to talk to you.  We can sit here in awkward silence the whole time or you can start talking to me.”

“Who are you?”

“Janice,” she repeated.  “I'm the owner of the house where you assaulted those two teens.”

“It was an act of self defense,” he explained.  “They threatened me.  Why do you own an abandoned house?”

“The teens threatened you how?”

“They tried to rob me.  Faced with death, I ensured that I would live.  I chose not to kill them, as that would have resulted in complications.”

“That's called 'second-degree murder,'” Janice explained, hiding mild amusement. “Did you pull the pistol on them?”

“'Pistol?'”

“Yeah.”

His expression was again showing little to no comprehension.  Janice furrowed her brow, then leaned on the table between them.  “What happened?”

“I was awoken, I was threatened, one brandished a knife, the other...something strange...and I defended myself.  I sent them away and that was the end of it.”

“'Strange?'” Janice seemed perplexed.  “What did it look like?”

“Metallic, had a cylinder, a grip—“

Janice interrupted with a heavy sigh, as she was developing more of a picture.  While she couldn't fully ascertain whether or not the man was telling the truth, she was finding his story more believable than the one Jordan had told her.

“So they had the pistol.”

“If that is its name, yes.”

“Why don't you know these things?” she asked with irritation, tapping the table.  “Hybrids, lapins, guns.  Seriously, just...where are you from?”

“I don't know anymore,” he finally admitted.  “I don't know where I am.”

“You're in St. Elestria.  Do you know where that is?”

“No.”

“How did you get here?”

“I stowed away upon a ship.”

“And from where did that ship sail?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't you know?”

“I didn't seek the answer.  I didn't want to know where I was going or from where I was leaving.”

“You had to come from somewhere,” Janice insisted.  “What country were you in before?”

“I...I don't know.”  There was uncertainty, tiredness, and frustration in his voice.  “There is so much I question now.  I have lost my use.  My life feels as if it were for naught.  I don't know what to do.”

Janice blew out a long breath through her nose as she studied the odd, shabby, one-eyed man before her.  A long and awkward silence descended upon them.

“I can't exactly help you with your existential crisis....  You probably won't give me your name if I ask you for it.”

“I don't have one.”

“Of course.” She paused for a moment before reaching into her purse.  Withdrawing a business card, she slid it across the table to him.  “Well...at least I can give a more formal introduction.  I'm the owner of Dead Trees and Ink, a book publisher here in St. Elestria, and you were in my sister's old house...which belongs to me now.  You were by all rights trespassing on private property—“

“It was boarded up and unused.”

“—I'm talking.”  The stern look she gave lasted only a moment.  “That was private property, but I do not intend to press charges against you...not that it would do any good.  You don't have any background, and I'm sure that you don't have any money, save what you took from the one kid.”

“I took no such thing,” he insisted.  “I only took his identification.”

She raised a brow. “I was told you ended up taking their wallet.  Why...why would you only take—?”

“Names have power, woman.  They encompass all that you are.  They give you identity.  They give you associations and attachments to people, places, things, and ideas.  They make you trackable and traceable. In the magical world, they bear an even greater liability.  It is for this reason that I choose not to have a name, and it is also for that reason that I took the boy's identification, so I would have said power over him.”

Janice was looking dumbfoundedly at him.  “Did you just call me 'woman'?”

“You are one, correct?”  He seemed entirely oblivious to his faux pas.

Janice sighed, then gave a dismissive wave.  “Nevermind.  Listen, I don't know what's going to happen with you.  Knowing the department here, you're probably going to be put back on the street.  Have you been homeless long?”

He took a moment to think it over.  “Yes.”

“I'll be frank, you certainly look it.  I know you probably know how to survive out there, but just keep in mind that there are social programs that will try and help you out...however they can.”  She gave a heavy sigh.  “You probably don't know about the Urban Refreshment Act, right?”

“Correct.”

“Let's just say...it isn't good for you to be homeless and out in the main city...so as long as you look like, well....”  She gestured at him. “...don't come back to that part of the city...or downtown for that matter.  Do you know anyone here in the city?”

“I have no associates.”

“Well, you'll need to make some.  I'll talk with Officer Henckley about what they're going to do with you, and we'll proceed from there.  Do you have any questions for me right now?”

The man looked away.  “Not for you, no.”

“Well all right then.”  She pushed the chair back, retrieved her purse, then nodded towards the mirror.  The vagrant looked puzzled by the action, unsure why people kept looking to the large mirror on the wall.  “For being homeless, you're rather well spoken.”

“I read.”

“Well...we share some common ground.”

As she approached the door, Rudy was there to open it.  Janice nodded her appreciation, then walked past to the connected observation room.  It was a dimly lit room, mostly illuminated by the few monitors that sat on a table next to recording equipment.  Jordan was sitting in a chair, forearm resting on the table.

“Now Mom....”

She had the decorum to close the door before starting.

“Tell me about the boys,” she said flatly.

Jordan had been dreading this.  “Mom....”

“Tell me about the boys.”

The officer looked up and sighed.  “All right...they have some minor records. Trouble in school, one has a broken family, and they match the description of a pair of troublemakers we've had reports about over there by Aunt Gladys's place.”

“So they caused the trouble and—“

“We have no evidence, Mom,” Jordan insisted.  He gestured to the window, where the homeless man sat glumly.  “What you're talking about is all circumstantial.  What we have is an unregistered man, a couple of assaulted teens, and weapons and a wallet all found there at the scene.  We were told he broke a cell phone by stabbing it, and guess what we found there.”

“Can't you bring in someone from Arcane Investigations to look into this?  Talk to those boys with a Truth spell enacted or...or something?”

“Bring in a mage for a homeless nobody?  Do you know how much paperwork it is to get them involved for legitimate crimes?  He admitted to attacking them, Mom!  The one teen's mother was in the mayor's office today, insisting we execute him.  This guy's nothing but trouble for us, so we're going to ship him to 19 and they can deal with him.”

“You'll do that to an innocent man?  I know that you know something isn't entirely right over there at—”

“He's not innocent, Mom!” Jordan sighed.  “He's admitted to assault!”

She crossed her arms and looked down at him.

“I shouldn't have invited you...” he grumbled to himself.

“So why did you?”

“Because we're honest with each other, Mom, and I'm not going to hide something happening at Aunt Gladys's place from you.”

Janice sat in the seat across from him, resting her elbows on her knees, and leaned in. Like a switch had been flipped, her countenance softened and her tone became compassionate.  “And that does mean a lot to me, baby.”

Jordan gave a relieved breath through his nose, then gestured to his mother.  “Do you see what situation I'm in here?  I don't like it either! I'm caught between my mom and my job.  Listen...I know those boys are probably guilty as sin, and if it were up to me, I'd hook this guy up with the best social worker we had and have those teens there in the room instead, but that's not how things are. I've gotta do what I've gotta do.  We have procedure here at the precinct.  It's part of my duty with serving and protecting the city.  I don't always like it, but it's all in place for a reason.”

Janice turned her mouth and looked down.  “I know....”  She looked into the room, where the man was looking about with mild curiosity.  He kept looking to the fluorescent tubes on the ceiling.  “What are they going to do over there in 19?”

Jordan sighed and shrugged.  “I don't know.  Take care of him?  He'll be fed and cared for.  Just look at him, he needs it.  It's better than living on the streets, right?”

Janice looked sympathetically to him.  “He did have shelter at Gladys's....”

“You can't save everyone.”

“I know, baby....”  She gave a heavy sigh, then pushed off the table to stand up.  “You don't need me for anything else, right?”

“No.”

“I'm going home then.  I could use the rest of the day off....”

“How's By'ir doing?”

She snorted in derision.  “As stubborn as ever.  Thinks that because he's our biggest seller he can dilly-dally and turn in his chapters whenever he wants.  Still throws a fit like a diva when we give criticism.”

“Writers....”

Janice tugged her purse strap against her shoulder.  “I should only let myself be upset at one thing at a time.”  There was a pause as she breathed in.  “Thank you for telling me about this man and being honest with me, Jordan.  We'll...talk later.”

Neither of them looked forward to that conversation.  Janice left the room and started for the lobby.  Jordan, meanwhile, leaned on the table, laced his fingers together, and looked intently at the homeless man.

~

The ride out to Sector 19, the Wharf District, was rather uneventful. The crippled homeless man sat next to the window in the back of the squad car, watching the evening's city life pass by.  The buildings slowly degraded in quality, mimicking the setting sun, until the lights became sparse and the road condition had deteriorated.

The car ride had been entirely silent.  Aside from some uninteresting squawks over the squad car radio, not a single word had been said.

Jordan turned the car down a dark alley and drove in, before coasting to a stop.  He turned off the car and extinguished all lights, leaving the two of them in complete darkness.  He took in a deep breath, while in the back seat, the vagrant looked about with growing trepidation. This was all wrong.

“Listen...” Jordan finally said.  He went to continue speaking, but couldn't find the words.  He let out a heavy breath, then leaned forward on the steering wheel.  “I'm not a bad guy, okay?  I want to do right. I'm an officer of the law.  But more importantly than the law and those who tell me what to do, I also know right and wrong.”

He looked into the back seat where the homeless man was staring at him with stern tenseness.  Jordan took off his cap, then leaned his arm against the glass separating them.

“Buddy...things aren't black and white in this world.  I know you probably did what you had to.  I'm not going to fault you for that.  And neither is 19. It's sloppily run over there and paperwork goes missing all the time.  I might have to do some reports later, but if you somehow went missing, the world wouldn't end.”

He hit the unlock button on the car door and all four doors clicked open.

“I need you to get lost, okay?”

The man remained perfectly still and continued to stare at Jordan in the dark.

“You're getting let go.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a conscience.  I'll be honest, Station 19 isn't a good place for people like you to be.  Because of the Urban Refreshment Act, however, this sector is basically the only place where you can be.  So...don't get picked up by the police, all right?  Behave yourself out there.  No more attacking people.  Find people to help you.  You don't have to be alone out here, okay?”

The vagrant slightly tilted his head to the side.  “What do you require in exchange?”

Jordan scoffed.  “Don't tell anyone I did this.  Help out somebody else who requires a bit of mercy too, all right?  'Pay it forward' and all that.”

“For my freedom, this sounds like an unequal exchange.”

“You're going to argue against this?”

The man fell silent for a long moment and Jordan let him mull upon this.

“I shall pay you back appropriately for this,” the vagrant finally said.  “I don't know when or how, but my debt to you shall be paid.”

“If you say so.  You're good?”

“In what respect?”

“In...the leaving kind?”

The vagrant thought for a moment before replying, “Yes...I am good in the leaving respect.”

“Good.”

Jordan unbuckled himself, then got out and opened the back door – the doors could only be opened from outside.  The vagrant had some issues undoing his seatbelt, but finally extricated himself.  Jordan offered out a hand, but it was entirely ignored.  The homeless man pushed off the frame of the door, then awkwardly got to standing on his single foot.

“Sorry I didn't bring any crutches.”

“My freedom is more than adequate.”

“If I can help it, let's not see each other again,” Jordan finally said.

“I will repay my debt to you.”

“Don't sweat it.  Just...go, all right?  And keep your head down.”

The man hopped away from the car and leaned against the alleyway's wall, while Jordan returned to the driver's seat.

“Take care,” he called from inside the car.  The vagrant was illuminated red by the car's rear lights, and moments later, was left there alone in the dark.

(Prologue) (Chapter 1) (Chapter 2) (Chapter 3)

[newstfionline]

Catholic Worker Houses Remain a Place for Protest and the Poor

By Amanda Abrams, Religion & Politics, January 30, 2018

Steve Baggarly is standing before a photo collage, musing about the people pictured. One man, he says, died in prison of AIDS; he was there for violating parole by stealing bread--”literally, a loaf of bread.” Baggarly points to another who was blind in one eye after having been whipped with a belt buckle as a child. A third man also died in jail, in this case because the dialysis machine he used there wasn’t clean.

It’s a heartbreaking litany, but Baggarly tells the stories calmly, almost fondly. He knew these people well. In many cases, he’d lived with them for months or even years. And he’s used to poverty, illness, bad luck. He’s been voluntarily surrounding himself with men and women on the receiving end of tragedy for years.

Baggarly, who lives in Norfolk, Virginia, is co-founder of a Catholic Worker house, a community that welcomes people who are homeless or sick or in transition--anyone, really. In their Sadako Sasaki House, Baggarly and his wife Kim Williams have been living in solidarity with the poor and suffering for almost 30 years, helping where they can while actively promoting nonviolence, and trying to align as closely as possible with Jesus’ teachings.

“The core love messages from Jesus--it’s a whole different way of life. ‘Love your enemies and do good to them; lend expecting nothing back,’” he says, paraphrasing the Bible verse Luke 6:35. “Just that one line turns our society on its head. Gospel economics is to give and share. Gospel politics is nonviolence. And it’s worth dedicating our lives to putting some of that into practice.”

Sharing almost everything they have, Baggarly and Williams are about as radical as one can be while still being a practicing Catholic. But their model is nothing new: The Catholic Worker movement has been around since 1933. It was founded by Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin, a Catholic convert journalist and French lay philosopher, respectively, who were looking to create a society structured according to the gospel.

The movement promotes simple living, nonviolence, and doing the “works of mercy,” actions like feeding the hungry and caring for the sick. What that looks like in practice depends on a region’s needs. “Each house takes on a different character and emphasis,” says Benjamin Peters, a professor at the University of Saint Joseph who helped start a Catholic Worker community in South Bend, Indiana, near Notre Dame University. “But what they have in common is the idea that they’re practicing the works of mercy and resisting the works of war.”

Best known are the hospitality houses, where the hosts and those in need live together like family. There are more than 200 of the institutions around the world, and just about every big city in America has one. As a movement, it’s anarchic and not formulaic. Each community has its own structure and rules, and ever since Day died in 1980, it’s been leaderless. It’s also pretty fringe, as religious movements go.

But that might be about to change. Formerly consigned to a few sentences in Catholic school textbooks, Day is now en route to being canonized--a years-long process with an uncertain outcome, but one that underscores her importance to Catholic thought and action. She was one of four people mentioned by Pope Francis in a speech he gave to Congress in 2015.

Presumably many more people will soon know who she is and what she stood for. But despite it being a wholly homegrown movement, the Catholic Worker movement seems completely out of sync with today’s America--a place where billionaires who run the country are considering cuts to programs for the poor, where those who are financially comfortable rarely interact with those in need, and where blaming poor people for their circumstances has become increasingly acceptable. The biblical commandment to “love thy neighbor” doesn’t seem to have much significance these days--but it’s a prescription Catholic Workers aim to wholly embody.

“YOU’VE GOT TO UNLEARN what society teaches us and learn the gospel,” Baggarly says. He and Williams have spent their adult lives unlearning the individualism and materialism of American culture. Both were raised Catholic. They first encountered the ideals of the Catholic Worker movement in college and were immediately smitten. After a stint with the Los Angeles Catholic Worker community, they moved to Norfolk and opened their own house.

A two-story Victorian in a low-income neighborhood, the place feels like a group house, with as many as seven rooms that can be used for guests. In the early days, says Baggarly, “we had all kinds of folks--disabled, farmworkers, people just out of jail or the psych ward, pregnant women.” The house isn’t far from one of the city’s main hospitals, so some of the residents were invariably sick, and the house often served as a hospice as well.

Some of that changed in 2003, after the couple’s second child was born. “It got a little overwhelming,” explains Williams. A number of the residents had untreated mental illness or substance abuse addictions, and the place could be chaotic. Plus, their oldest child was on the verge of adolescence, and they felt he needed his own space.

They bought a second house for their family but maintained the original one. Right now, there are four people living there, including a woman who was recently laid off and at risk of becoming homeless, and a Peruvian mother-daughter pair who have been in Norfolk for five years while a local doctor treats the daughter’s rare disorder.

Baggarly and Williams and an army of volunteers also provide breakfast to more than 100 Norfolk residents three mornings a week, and they have a food pantry in the house stocked with donations from local churches. They assist people in other ways, too, cleaning the houses of elderly friends who might otherwise have to leave their homes and helping former residents with their rent. They’re professional do-gooders, essentially, and their actions are funded by donations from supporters.

They also routinely protest violence and militarization. Pacifism is a key tenet of the Catholic Worker movement; Day opposed wars and violence without exception, and objected to public funding being used for weapons rather than to help people. Twice a month, the couple demonstrates in front of Norfolk’s military bases and defense contractors’ offices. Baggarly has participated in several “plowshares actions,” protests that symbolically damage military equipment to show opposition to war. The name comes from a Bible verse about beating swords into plowshares.

Both are motivated by outrage--Baggarly is fond of quoting the Oxfam statistic that eight men have as much wealth as half the world’s population--but it’s their faith that provides the backbone for their alternative lifestyle.

“The place where God dwells among us most intensely is where people are suffering,” explains Baggarly. “So living simply and with people who have nothing is our chance to learn what it is to be a human being. We can tear down the walls in our heart and be open to other people, to the messy work of accepting other viewpoints.”

Spending decades observing injustice up close and watching people struggle has got to be heartbreaking work. But Baggarly has a point: The effort is clearly transformational. Both he and Williams exude tranquility and warmth, with what seems to be a remarkable acceptance of life’s rhythms and our ultimate lack of control over them.

“I think educated white Americans feel, ‘If there’s a problem, I can fix it,’” muses Williams. “But not everything can be fixed. There’s a lot of problems I can’t help.” The question for her, she says, is: “How can I just be with someone, and be kind?”

Their approach to money is particularly unusual. In solidarity with the poor, Baggarly and Williams rarely splurge on themselves and would never consider vacationing in Paris, for instance. And despite being in their early 50s, they aren’t squirreling money away for retirement. They say they don’t think about it much, but are guessing they’ll inherit some money from their parents eventually, and will figure the rest out. It’s called walking by faith: simply trusting that things will come together.

WHILE THERE ARE fundamental similarities among Catholic Worker communities, the movement has a looseness that allows for a range of attitudes. That’s intentional. Dorothy Day in particular “made no attempt to police any of it,” says Harvard professor Dan McKanan, author of the 2008 book The Catholic Worker After Dorothy.

As a result, communities have waxed and waned and morphed over time, usually in step with changes in the country. They flourished during the Great Depression, and then collapsed during the economic boom and patriotism of the World War II years. Houses began to spring up again during the Vietnam conflict, and continued to grow in the 1980s in response to rising homelessness, the nuclear buildup, and Day’s death in 1980. That’s when plowshares actions, the kind Baggarly and Williams have engaged in, hit their heyday.

These days, the latest style is a theological orthodoxy combined with political liberalism, and a movement away from cities--where Catholic Worker houses have traditionally been located--to the land. When he was writing his book in 2008, says McKanan, “the new cutting edge was a swing back to the agrarian ideal by young idealistic folks.” The shift has only increased since then, and today there are Catholic Worker homesteads or sustainable farms in rural areas like Sheep Ranch, California; Lockport, Illinois; Cuba City, Wisconsin; and Louisa, Virginia.

The movement in general has grown. According to the Catholic Worker website, there are now 248 communities in the United States and around the world, just about as many as there have ever been. That’s probably an underestimate, given that Catholic Workers have never gravitated toward counting or codifying. And it doesn’t include the unofficial groups that may be evangelical or even nonreligious but are nonetheless inspired by the model.

Observers are heartened to see that twenty-somethings are still attracted to the movement. “Young people who’ve been exposed to the gospel and principles of justice and love in our world--they look at the Catholic Worker and think, ‘That’s what it looks like,’” says Michael Baxter, a professor at Regis University who has helped found two Catholic Worker houses, one in South Bend and the other in Phoenix.

Because of residents’ physical proximity, living in a community provides a deep education about people and hard times. “We’re all under the illusion that everything we have, we’ve earned, and it’s not really true,” says Baxter. “I remember meeting one guy. He’d watched his wife burn to death in a car accident, and he just went downhill from there. Who of us would be immune from that?”

JOE SROKA AND HIS WIFE MICHELLE are a couple of those young people Baxter was talking about. In their case, the community initially started in Durham, North Carolina, thanks to a handful of Duke Divinity School students who began inviting homeless people in. The Srokas moved the project out to the country in 2015, after most of the other students graduated and left the area. They themselves had married and had a child, and they thought the farming life might be a better fit for their family.

Today, they have two more kids, plus four men who live with them in a sprawling house they rent on a few acres in Chatham County, a mostly white, rural area in North Carolina’s Piedmont region, about 30 miles west of Durham. In that time, they’ve learned to take care of cows and chickens and vegetables; back in May, they slaughtered their first bull. “In two years out here, we have formerly homeless guys who can provide a meal without a grocery store involved,” says Joe, 33.

Living in the country is notably different from urban life because they spend so much time together. “In the city, the house was a place people came and went from,” says Michelle. “We’d have a house meeting and there might be more frustration and conflict. Now, we’re around each other so often--we’ve learned how to work with each other really well.”

The other residents are Larry, who is Joe’s uncle, another Larry, Gene, and Slim. None of them has anywhere else to go besides the streets. A California native who’d been living in the woods in Durham, Slim has been with the community for five years, longer than the others. “This house is about two things: love one another, and God first,” he says. He’s comfortable there, though living in the country means he’s more dependent on the others and their vehicles. “Living with people in a positive way started rubbing off on me. I started forgiving a lot of people, and I started seeing things differently.”

They all take turns cooking and washing the dishes, and with six adults tending to a small homestead, the chores get done without difficulty. The residents say the household functions with ease.

It’s going so well that they’re planning to expand. The Srokas have purchased 45 acres of land nearby and will move the operation there in December, with more animals and more residents, should they arrive. Right now, they’re supported by donations, but the couple envisions the farm eventually supporting everyone.

“Joe and I are just really committed to doing this,” says Michelle, who is 28. Their house, the Community of the Franciscan Way, is actually Episcopalian, but they fully consider it a Catholic Worker community, one that adheres to all of the common ideals.

Joe first started thinking about poverty differently while in divinity school. He was attending a local church, and panhandlers would ask for money before and after morning prayers; it wasn’t uncommon to give out $10 a day. “I asked the priest, ‘Is this right? This isn’t sustainable.’ And he said, “Yeah--when the poor ask of you, you give,” remembers Joe. “That was my first experience with there being no agenda to make the poor into anything else. Not ‘get a job,’ but just accepting them for who they are.”

He and Michelle have been on the same page since day one. Still, being part of a Catholic Worker community has been a huge learning experience for her. It’s fundamentally different from working in a soup kitchen, for example. “What’s missing is the relationship [there],” she says. “For me, one of the best things about this was getting over that fear of poor and homeless people. I have the same reaction as everyone does when they see a homeless person who smells. The point is to learn who they are beyond that, and see them as people.” That makes it more of a two-way exchange, she explains.

Like Baggarly and Williams, they have no retirement plan and little financial cushion. They figure farm work will support them long past retirement age. And their attitude toward material goods is also similar. When asked if they ever worry that a resident might steal something, Joe responds hypothetically, “Is a stolen bicycle more important than a person? If you really believe God created everything, it wasn’t your bike to start with. The poor are doing you a favor by reminding you about it.”

What a radical--and remarkably rare--concept.

[calm-studios]

Chapter 18

“Carve your name into my arm Instead of stressed I lie here charmed ’Cause there’s nothing else to do Every me and every you”

This month has been… Different to the last.

As sure as I was that I wouldn’t see Ashton again, it’s been the exact opposite.

He started coming by my work again, walking in with that same charismatic smile like he owned the place.

He has Maurine wrapped around his finger, she’s always patting him on the cheek and telling how lovely of a boy he is, always reminding him not to forget to drop by again soon.

I don’t miss the way he watches me at work, and he’s started a habit of sending me text messages while he’s there. Making vulgar or lewd remarks just to watch me nearly drop my phone or have to explain to Maurine why I look so flustered.

I remember the day I was standing on a step ladder, cleaning off the menu chalk board when my phone vibrated in my apron, when I pulled it out to check it I dropped the wash cloth and nearly fell backwards at the same time.

Ashton: Received 12.03pm Do us a favour and slip and fall off that onto my face darling :)

I earned an amused chuckle from Ashton from gripping onto the ladder like a scared cat.

Maurine had asked what was going on and Ashton simply smiled innocently at her saying “Nothing, I was just telling Abby she looks like she needs to sit down”

He’s a safety hazard.

A sinful bloody hazard.

The other habit that started, which has left me sleepless many times wondering what the cause is, were his desperate calls in the middle of the night, they weren’t too often, but they happened.

It would always result in the same thing, me turning up at his house to a destroyed looking Ashton, sometimes he was off his face, other times he just looked broken. They ended with us tangled in his bed, staying wrapped around each other till the next morning, sometimes having small conversations, sometimes just staying silent, until we fell asleep.

Not once has he ever remotely given me an answer to what’s been wrong, and after the first two nights I just stopped asking, deciding to just try to comfort him the best I can, because I realised that’s what he was after.

Sometimes he reminded me of a small child after a nightmare, needing to be reassured and soothed back to sleep, other times he just reminded me of a shell, completely blank and nothing inside.

I may not see him everyday, and some days I have no idea where he is, he just reappears like nothing happened, and I’ve almost become used to the routine of it.

I’m still just as confused as when this whole thing started, and I always have this sick feeling in my stomach that one day he won’t come striding though the front door at my work, or that my phone won’t ring in the middle of the night.

I’m just clinging to it while it lasts I guess.

…And I guess the other major difference this month is that I left Andy.

It was only a couple of days after the night Ashton took me home, I couldn’t handle the guilt any more. If I loved Andy as much as I thought I did, I wouldn’t be feeling these things towards Ashton. I would never want to lead someone on or toy with their emotions, there’s nothing more cruel than false hope.

I knew I was walking a dangerous tightrope spending time with Ashton, so I decided to end things before I slipped and fell, doing something I couldn’t come back from.

I thought ending things would hurt more, but I didn’t feel heartbroken, only guilty. And Ashton’s words kept going through my mind about how I always do what people want me to do, and not what I really want. I wonder if that’s what Andy was for me, the person I knew it would make everyone else happy for me to be with, mainly my mother.

The main deciding factor for me leaving Andy though, was Sophie. I finally told her what happened, the night he grabbed my arm and nearly smacked me in the face and her fury filled rant about how she was going to, in great detail, turn his testicles into a pair of earrings and make him wear them while she strangled him with his work tie had me in tears.

She made sure that I understood that no one is allowed to put their hands on me, and even once is too much, and I should of left him a long time ago.

Part of me knows she was secretly cheering on the inside when I told her that I’d ended things.

I still haven’t been able to explain Ashton to her though, I don’t know how to explain him to anyone.

I’m glad I had Sophie to talk to, when I explained it to my mother she was furious, telling me I was stupid and foolish to throw away someone as wonderful as Andy. When I told her what he had done, she asked what I had done to make him react that way, because that didn’t sound like the Andy that she knew.

I haven’t spoken to her since, I refuse to apologise for leaving him.

Andy has been persistently sending me flowers, chocolates, apology letters, no matter how much I’ve asked him to stop.

He’s pleaded that we at least stay friends, to which the guilt in me cautiously agreed, he’s still begging me to work at his father’s firm, and I don’t think he’s told his father yet that we aren’t together — he said it would embarrass him.

When I told Ashton I was considering working at Andy’s fathers firm, he went on a rant about how I’m just doing what people want me to do and I shouldn’t be working somewhere like that, that I was better than that.

I haven’t told Ashton I ended things with Andy, I’m not entirely sure why, I’m scared it will change the relationship we have when it feels so delicate already.

There’s also that anxiety in me that I don’t have Andy as an excuse any more, and to be honest I’m scared about what will happen if I take the final step and finally give in to Ashton.

There still seems to be this safe distance with us, where he’s close but not too close, and it makes me feel more at ease in case he does just disappear again.

I know kissing him will be the final nail in my coffin, and that terrifies me.

For once in my life, things aren’t predictable, they aren’t safe and I have no idea what’s going to happen but for once I actually feel alive.

I agreed to have Andy over for dinner tonight, his incessant begging breaking down my resolve and leaving me feeling sorry for him, the kindness in me still wants to believe he’s a good person, I’m just not meant for him.

I answer the door just as my phone rings, asking the pizza guy to please hold on one moment and apologising profusely.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter, answering it and holding it to my ear with my shoulder as I pay the teenage boy and tell him to keep the change.

“Hello?”

“Hi there, is this Abigail Reed?” a sweet female voice asks.

I frown at the unfamiliar voice, kicking the door shut with my foot and placing the pizza down on the kitchen bench “Yes, speaking”

“I’m sorry for calling you late, we had a busy day, my name is Claire from Preston Animal Rescue Shelter”

I pull my phone back, looking at it still puzzled before placing it back next to my ear “That’s okay… uh, how can I help you?”

“I was just calling to see if you were free next Monday for an interview? We received your resume and it’s just what we’re after” she asks.

I just about drop my phone “Uh-uhm, I’m, I beg your pardon? My resume?”

“Yes, the one you emailed us? It was in response to the Ad we posted for the photographer for the animals we in take at the shelter? You know, to help them look more adoptable. The nicer the photos, the more of a chance they have”

I look around my apartment confused, as if I’m looking for answers I won’t find. What the fuck is going on?

“I’m sorry, I’ve had a really stressful week, I really don’t mean to be rude, could you please just refresh my memory again, when did I send that in?”

The woman on the phone laughs warmly “Oh don’t worry honey, I understand a stressful week, trust me. It was last week”

I furrow my brows, trying to remember if I got black out drunk without realising and emailed an animal shelter on a whim.

“So is next Monday okay for you? The position is mostly photographing the animals but it will include general tasks around the place, from the reference letter I received with it I think you’ll be perfect for it”

I blink a few times, shaking my head with my mouth hung open “Uh… sure… Monday. Monday is fine — listen I’m really sorry to ask again, but who is the reference letter from?”

She pauses for a moment, sounding like she is flicking through papers “One second honey”

I chew on my nail cuticle, creasing my brows further as I try to think of how my resume ended up there, or who the hell would have my resume or if I did indeed just drink myself to the point of applying for a random job.

It’s my dream job but I don’t even have the capacity to register that at the moment.

Wait, am I dreaming?

I pinch my arm, jolting and cussing under my breath.

Nope.

I’m awake.

“It was a fantastic letter, really portrayed how important caring for animals is for you, your love for dogs in particular and your passion and talent with your photography, I wish someone wrote letters about me like that” she jokes, and I let out a nervous laugh that sounds like a wheeze.

“Ah! Here it is, it says here… The letter was written by Mr.Irwin, first name Ashton”

“What!” I shout out with eyes that look like they’re about to fall out of my head.

I quickly try and compose my out burst, thinking I’ve probably just sounded like a crazy person this whole conversation “Sorry, I’m so sorry again, there was a…spider in my kitchen”

“That’s… okay…” the woman sounds confused, that makes two of us.

“So” she clears her throat “Monday at 12pm work okay?”

I press my hand to my forehead pacing back and forth in my kitchen mouthing ’fuck fuck fuck fuck’

“That’s fine” I squeak, trying to hide the stressed crack to my voice.

“Wonderful! Well I’ll see you then Abby, you enjoy your Tuesday night”

“You too, thank you” I wheeze out, pinching the bridge of my nose.

As soon as the phone hangs up, I shriek “What the fuck!” smacking my hands against my forehead distressed, forgetting I’m still holding my phone and crack myself straight in the temple with it.

“Son of a bitch!” I hiss

I wince holding my head as I bring my phone down to squint at it, like I’m willing it to give me answers.

Did Ashton seriously send in my resume to that place without telling me? What the hell is with that reccomendation letter — how the fuck did he even get my resume?

Why would he do that?

I open my messages and type with my thumbs smacking against the key pad a hundred miles an hour.

Ashton: Sent 6pm Do you want to explain to me why I just got offered an interview at an animal shelter on Monday?

I grip my phone as I sit at my dining table, holding my forehead in my hand praying this is one of those days where he actually replies.

Within moments my phone dings.

Ashton: Received 6pm Oh you did? I had no idea. Congratulations love. ;)

I glare at the winky face. Picturing that smirk on his dumb head.

Ashton: Sent 6:01pm Do you want to explain to me how they got my resume?

Ashton: Received 6:01pm I’d assume it’s because you sent it to them.

Ashton: Sent 6:01pm Well I didn’t

Ashton: Received 6:02pm Huh… How strange

I grind my teeth, fed up with his playing dumb act and press the call button.

Within seconds he answers, purring casually into the phone “Evening little mouse, miss me already?”

“Cut the shit Ashton, how the hell did that place get my resume with a letter from you?” I snap exasperated.

He clicks his tongue disapprovingly “Are you alright love? You sound stressed”

I resist the urge to beat my head against the dining table and close my eyes taking a slow calming breath “Ashton… How did you get my resume?”

I can hear that fucking smirk in his voice “Have I ever told you how fond I am of that boss of yours?”

My jaw drops “Maurine was in on this with you?”

Ashton hums into the phone, his deep voice dripping with mischief “We’re thick as thieves young Mauzy and I, we’ve become quite close”

“Ashton! You can’t just go around handing my resume in at places! What were you thinking! What was Maurine thinking! Why the hell did you do that?” I rant stressed, feeling my blood pressure rise by the second.

“Tell me Abby, you like photography don’t you?” he asks, avoiding my frantic questions.

“What?” I scrunch my nose up “You know I do but—”

“And didn’t you say you’d love to work at an animal rescue?” he cuts me off casually.

“Well yes — But Ashton, you can’t just—”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is Thank you, Abby” he cuts me off again, sounding more and more entertained by my nervous break down.

I open my mouth, only to clamp it shut again, pulling the phone away from my ear and covering the mouth piece and whisper yelling ’what the fuck is wrong with him‘ at my potted cactus in the middle of the table, like it could honestly answer me.

I take a slow breath, bringing the phone back to my ear “Why did you do that Ashton?”

“Why do birds fly?” he asks instead of answering my question.

I rest my face in my hand, already defeated over his incessant inability to answer a question “I don’t know Ashton? because they can”

“There’s your answer” he says with that usual smug tone.

Before I can say anything else he speaks again “I have to go, but I’ll be seeing you soon Abby, say Hi to Maurine for me”

The call ends before I can object, and I toss my phone on the table, folding my arms on it and burying my face in them.

Everytime I think Ashton can’t possibly surprise or shock me, he always does something to rip the rug straight out from underneath me.

I barely have time to process the plot twist in my own life before there’s a knock at my door, and I drag myself to my feet, trudging towards it with a frown.

As I grab the doorknob and swing the door open, I want to slam it shut again. I forgot he was even coming after what just happened.

I look to the flowers gripped in his hands, and those same big brown puppy dog eyes.

“Hey Andy” I sigh “Come in”