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gracethefoundfamilyfan · 11 months

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ok i frickin love my found family lemme just say

first of all we all go to a baptist church and we call ourselves the jesus freaks after that DC Talk song even though we're all 12-19 (except for the Fathers who are some of our dads) and im making us all jesus freak shirts

second of all despite the baptist-ness we sound like a catholic something or other my dad is referred to as 'Father Louis' my "brother" is Brother George my 'sister' is Sister Abigail and there's also Sister Meredith and Sister Grace (me) and Father John (George's real life dad).

and the best part is we act like a family. Abigail and George and I are doubles in the same row in handbells choir and we smack each other and steal phones and all sorts of stuff. My 'nephew' (George's 'son') is a twelve year old little hispanic kid but his two real life brother's are my brothers not his don't ask me why but he and I are writing a play together because he asked me for help with the stage directions and Abigail helped him with his Etsy shop

and I'm the Grand Mother so i basically know/take care of everyone and everything and its literally the reason i live

George and I never talk over text except to send each other dog pictures at three in the morning (both kinds)

SIster Lily and i work at the same restaurant so sometimes they all come in and annoy the heck out of us

Any parent. and i mean ANY parent. (Like real life one). Is referred to as mom or dad. Period. I have fourteen or more moms. I love it.

We have a group bible study that gets heckin chaotic because everyone gets into debates

then there's brother caden who is a little ADHD preacher and also pole dances and he's the most horrible goofy kid ever but he also was the first one of us to lead a kid to christ and he prays like nobody's business

we all are helping each other discover our spiritual gifts (aka what we're best at that God wants us to use to further our group/the church in general's ministry to help people have a little bit better of a life here on earth)

we also protect each other

like david and i were arguing because we couldn't figure out which bells went in which case (we have three sets of eight octaves plus chimes and aluminums, screw it) and he paused for a second to pull me out of the way of a cart that almost ran over my feet and he was like 'you good' and i was like 'yeah' and then we went back to arguing

oh and there's this one kid who's called the Grand Father because he says he's my dad's dad (my dad is 60, he's fourteen, but math and our family don't go well together so whatever) and he kind of just. hovers. on our family tree.

also we're gosh darn near emotionally connected. like we did a feet washing ceremony (don't ask, we're teenagers with too much time on our hands) and some of us were super nervous about showing our dogs but we prayed for God to use our dumbness and then Caden started crying at the end of it and lily and i went to pray for him and then we started crying and before you knew it we were all sobbing and we were singing and praying for our nation and our friends and i've never felt more free than i did sitting on the dusty tile floor of that random church basement out in Appalachia with my family and God. Juju (the protector of the family, seriously she will kill anyone who lays a hand on us) said it felt like 'something big and hot and awesome was bursting out of my chest and making everyone's lives brighter'. That's the closest thing to poetry i've ever heard come out of her lips.

there's alexis too she and i almost dated (long story) but when I told her i wanted to follow the traditional view of the bible she said it was okay and she supported me and now she's best friends with my entire irl family

oh and there's katie she's the weird adopted neighbor lol she loves knives and debating with people about the existence of the Bible

back to the spritual gifts thing, Lily and I were the first to understand ours. Mine is... hmm, the best way to describe it, I guess, is empathy. it's an ability to read people, to discern? maybe? to see through their reactions into their soul and what they really need, and the most loving way to give it to them. Lily's is basically spiritual sight-- she's seen demons since she was little. she told me she saw something dark in me the day after i started cutting, and she told me she could tell the difference when i stopped. no one else except for alexis and juju knew. now i've told my story more, but not much yet. I think the day we realized this weird crap was real was the day a guy walked into the amish market. normal as ever, he'd come in there before, but I literally cringed when he came up to make his order. there was someting off about him, something dangerous. I turned to Lily and told her when he was way out of earshot and she was already giving me the exact same look. she said there was darkness in him. we prayed for him for almost an hour, off and on while we did our work. when he left we breathed a sigh of relief. turns out he'd robbed a nearby place earlier in the day and was armed he was picked up.

there was another time one of my friends from another church got stuck when that plane thing crashed into the main power lines and all the street lights and stuff went out? they were all stuck at their church and one of the new attendees pulled out a gun. he texted us. i texted the group. we started praying. the guy never shot anyone, and the police said he handed his weapon over without a fight.

we also crave discomfort. it's a brave thing, learning to be comfortable in discomfort. i've never met any other group, christian or not, who jumps at the chance to help a group of heroin addicts get cleaned up for job interviews, or volunteers to clean out an entire warehouse full of dust and inhalants and possibly mold or lice or bed bugs or who knew what else as we worked. but we did it. we cheered. we sang. we laughed. we connected with people. and when we came home it didn't stop. every time we meet we do something. we pray for change. we go out and hand out soda and ask people if there's anything we can pray for. we've made friends with every family within ten miles of our church. we regularly bring food and candy to people. we're hosting a trunk or treat and i was asked to do the Chops Fam (get it, knives) trunk. i can't fathom how to represent us well. maybe that's why my brain needed to shove all this out.

we also renovate houses. for fun. did i mention that? the only thing more satisfying than ripping into walls with three of your best friends beside you is the looks on people's faces when they see how much we've done and how much we care and how it's all free because we'll take the load for you this once because 'if we have the power to give even one person a little bit of relief, how can we not give it?'

oh, and one time a crazy guy came to our church. we gave him a doughnut and a coupon to the local bakery before we called the authorities (and then prayed until they got there).

then a bunch of teens came in and smoked marijuanna in our barn (yes, youth group happens in a renovated barn. we fixed it up ourselves. it's freaking awesome.) We set out snacks for them and put up signs to let them know when the doors would be unlocked and the wifi password, so they could stay-- as long as they didn't smoke inside or break anything. they haven't come for service or youth yet, but they come just before. sometimes we see them leave. we wave, they wave back. maybe someday they'll want to meet us.

i've never felt more alive than when eight of us are all crammed on one couch, calling out answers and debating things and stuffing our faces with food, or when you're at the end of a street and you look back and see all the groups spread out like a tree, handing out candy and praying and laying hands on people and giving people hugs. my dad finally reconciled his past of drug abuse when he met the addicts we were loving. he wrote music with one of them. one of them gave him an extra Bible, just about the only thing they owned, and later that day George gave it to a kid who followed us to ask Caden why we were so nice.

I remember us all crying on the floor of that basement. I remember crying at worship, leading my family up to the front, locking arms at the shoulders like we were going to war, screaming the words at the tops of our lungs. i remember holding a girl for hours while she cried and sobbed and begged God to forgive her. I remember someone sobbing as they were freed from the depression that had held them captive for so long. I remember the senior, if not his name, who walked up to me during worship and told me God had a message for me-- that I was waiting on something important, something school related, and I was stressed, but God's answer was no and it was for the best. Two days later I was rejected from the early college program. This year i have the time to support three of my friends who are going through the most stressful time of their lives, and my dad, who just lost a friend. and even when that happened, all of his 'kids' gathered around and prayed for him. we send him messages every day reminding him that there is hope. that he will be okay. that he will see his friend again. we're still hoping that friend will get off his deathbed, but if he doesn't, we're still here. we're still fighting. God's will be done. We never pray for anything else.

i remember standing around that friend's parents and praying, not for their son to survive, although that too, but for them to have strength. peace. their tears were dried. they smiled for the first time in weeks.

i remember screaming. laughing. crying.

i remember feeling nothing at all, and i wonder

how could i not be so endlessly greatful?

in short, i love my family, and i refuse to outgrow them. call it a cult if you must, but they are my life, my hope for the future, my pride, and my joy. we keep each other accountable. we lift each other up. We encourage each other We fight for each other. We see the crap the world pulls, and we say fuck that. We choose to love. We choose to spread light. We choose to love. We choose to pray in public places, and sing on the streets. We choose to do all we can for our neighbors, the people God tells us to serve the most. We are the servants. We are the rebels. We are the change.

That's not to say we don't have a lot of fun, either. We dance and laugh and try on each other's lip gloss and have karaoke at one in the morning and that one time we all caught the same flu bug at church camp we still beat the other churches' asses and then collapsed on the floor of the common room in bags and told each other stories. We sneak out and sit on roofs and look at the stars. We watch the meteors and talk about life. We have an entire row of the tree (my grandchildren) that are stuffed animals, each with their own names and personalities and birthdays which are heavily celebrated. we make the birthday kid feel as awkward as humanly possible. we wrestle. we go to bell festival once a year and chug energy drinks and try to sing our parts on the bells until the adults threaten to turn around and go home. we built a gaga ball pit-- leveled the ground, built the pit, churned out the gravel, tamped it, decorated it, all by ourselves. church work days are a fricking BLAST.

i love my family. i love my home. i love the life that i live. and i wouldn't change it for the world.

because when you have all this, who cares what some random strangers on the internet say?

#christianity #jesus freaks #friends #found family #love #beauty #jesus

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sutrala · 2 years

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Watch on; Colin Kaepernick’s New Comic Book (even against the white couple who adopted and raised him giving him the chance he would've never had after his birth parents abandoned him) is not the whole of this analysis.

Mark jokes about the ridiculous, but make no mistake, this guy is a renown in depth researcher. We have that brotherhood in common as do we in our faith in Jesus Christ. Mark is one of my favorite authors and researchers be aise he doesn't compromise and he's on the same level I go to to find the truth.

As for the red shoes, The "red boots" goes deeper than comedy for fashion. For centuries red shoes have been infused symbolism in many occultic circles as a sign of blood trampling over human and animal sacrificing going back to the literal practices of ancient Babylon.

There are warnings in the Bible about this because it is seen by God as a sign of disrespect (kinda like sticking out your tongue with a proud face like the false Hindu god Kali) because it devalues the purpose of the animal sacrifice performed by the Levi Priest in the Temple of Solomon that was conducted before Jesus came in human form to be the ultimate sacrifice for all.

"Catholic" means "universal". "Holy" means "set apart". Those two things don't go together. Romanism is paganism and includes all false religions into one, which is why Pope Francis is projecting the heresy of ecumenical movement at a rapid pace. The Pope wears his red shoes to symbolize trampling on the blood of Christians and innocent children per occultic dogma and doctrine.

You will see the child traffickers like John Podesta, his brother, Oprah, rich oligarchs young and old, and other suspected elite pedos showing off photos while wearing RED SHOES. The moment I saw these that's immediately what went off in my head. I know this stuff as deeply as Mark in many ways.

And the fact it's a fashion company pushing it? Especially after Balenciaga, is there any doubt of the obvious connect?

Jesus said "like unto the days of Noah, so is the coming of the Son of Man". They were doing these things back then. Including their version of "Oscars" with Osiris/Amon, Ta/Isis, Ra/Horus in ancient Egypt. Solomon said it best, "There's nothing new under the sun. What was will be again."

As for the black equestrian? That's not her real hair. Imagine the irony of complaining about a sport with White and Asian roots while wearing fake hair invented by Whites, in a a style called "Dutch Braid", a White Norse style of braid dating back thousands of years, while riding a horse?

A horse's a** riding a horse wearing horse hair complaining about the helmet for it. Amazing.

youtube

#Youtube

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notquitetwilight · 4 years

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Would you mind sharing some headcanons for Irish/American Emmett?? 🥺 What do you think is the story of his parents or like what connection does he have with his identity? Both in Cullanos or in canon?

Irish-American culture seems quite different to Irish culture in a lot of ways (when I was in the US I first heard the term “an Irish goodbye”, which apparently means leaving a place without saying goodbye, and that was so bizarre to me because actual Irish people say goodbye about four times and are still there talking an hour after saying their first 💀) so I’m not entirely sure but I’m gonna project as someone who lived in the US for a period of time and wondered how I’d keep my kids close to my culture if I was to settle there!!!!!! Lol

I know that while a lot of plastic Paddys claim heritage without knowing anything about where their ancestors came from, the country itself, or the culture and instead perpetuate cringe stereotypes about The Old Country™️, there are plenty of Irish-Americans who are closer to their roots, especially when their parents or grandparents were Irish and so an actual Irish person from Ireland had a hand in how they were raised. Given the time and place Canon Emmett is from (Tennessee, 1915), he’s probably more likely to be a descendant of immigrants or indentured servants to the Appalachian region in the 18th Century.

But I like to pretend he was born in NYC or Boston to fresh-off-the-boat parents from Cork (where the McCarthy with a T surname hails from). Cities on the coastal East make a lot of sense, given how many Irish construction workers sailed across the Atlantic there for a better life at that time bc of how poverty-stricken Ireland was while under British rule. And his English forename would still make sense bc English would’ve been widely spoken in Ireland by that point, plus many Irish immigrants would’ve given their American-born kids English names for assimilation purposes.

I like to think of first-gen Emmett’s bedtime stories coming from Irish legends and folklore; his mother telling him about Oisín and Niamh in Tír na nÓg, the Children of Lir, the Salmon of Knowledge and so much more. My personal lil headcanon is that Emmett truly respects the wolf pack and is actually happy when the Cullens finally get to work with them, because they remind him of the stories he grew up listening to about shapeshifters who took the form of wolves (this is a really common thing in Irish mythology).

His surname suggests he’s also Irish Catholic so I find the idea of his mother dragging him to mass or confession hilarious. I can literally picture him in the confession box mumbling “bless me Father for I have sinned” and the priest recognising his voice and smelling the stale alcohol and being like “Christ above, Emmett, what have you done this time?”

We know he was into his drinking, gambling and womanising as a human so I’d say he was consistently threatened with this Irish Mammy favourite:

👆🏻This also fits perfectly with the fandom canon that Emmett calls Esme “Ma”, it’s what many Irish people call their mothers (as fans of Derry Girls will know). Irish mothers also worship their first-born son so I’d say he was such a mama’s boy who adored her and that’s why he adores Esme — he loves that maternal dynamic.

The eldest kids in large Irish families also would’ve had quite a few responsibilities when it came to looking after the younger kids (taking them to school, minding them etc) because both parents had to work to make ends meet and/or bc there were so many kids to be looked after! So I imagine Emmett as a loving older brother who was surprisingly responsible in his care-taking duties. With both this and what I hc about his mother, I find it very hard to get on board with the idea that he just took to his new vampire life with no questions or hesitations. I hc him and Rose having a much more slow-burning romance than they were given, and that they bonded while she grieved her humanity and he grieved his family.

I think it’s really sweet to imagine them spending one of their honeymoons in Ireland, given how his parents likely wouldn’t have been able to ever afford going back once they immigrated. So he’d never have seen the country he heard so much about growing up while human, and I think he’d make it his business to do so as a vampire. Plus it’s such a small island that it’d probably take them 5 mins to run from one side of the coast to the other, meaning they’d fit lots of different parts of the country in on their visit!!!! There’s this Celtic wedding tradition called handfasting which symbolises the binding of two lives by tying the couples’ hands together with knots of cloth (it’s actually where the phrase “tie the knot” comes from!), so I also hc them having an extra lil ceremony to do that while they’re there, maybe in Cork as a nod to his parents. 🥺🥰

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chrispevanss · 4 years

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Sinful Intensions

A/N: A smutty, smutty, filthy, Priest!Bucky AU. I’m not a catholic, and I had to google a lot of this, so if I messed up, don’t come for me.

Warnings: Smut, Oral, Unprotected Sex (remember: no glove, no love), Blasphemy

I don’t own or claim to own the pictures used below

Your fingers slid across the crucifix that hung from your neck as you slowly approached the old church. You hadn’t been there in years, but at your mother’s insistence you decided your niece’s christening was the exception.

The instant you walked into the church your nerves fired up, little pin pricks that made your skin crawl. You weren’t sure if it was God smiting you from above or the old school nuns looking condescendingly at your slightly too short, and definitely too low cut dress that clung to your figure.

The old pew creaked as you sat down, the cool wood pressed against your thighs and you shivered slightly. The church smelled musty, old, but familiar. Your mother’s eyes caught the hem of your dress and she twisted her mouth in disdain.

“You didn’t have anything else?” She whispered “This isn’t the club, you know. This is God’s house! You aren’t supposed to be parading around on display like that,” she spat. You smoothed the material down your thighs, willing it to somehow grow longer.

Before you could brace yourself from the same barrage of words you were sure were going to come from your father as well, mass had started. A man stood up at the front, your brother and his wife cradled their newborn baby girl in front, her godparents sat to the side. You knew you should be focusing on your niece, it was her day after all, but when you looked up and caught the eye of the celebrant, it all went out the window.

He had dark hair, closely cropped, steely blue eyes, and even though he was cloaked in an oversized vestment, you could see that he treated his body like the temple he preached it was. Thick fingers wrapped around the Bible in his hand, a kind smile lit up his face as he spoke of the blessings of parenthood. The joys of raising a child in the church, to walk in and live in Christ. Verbiage you had heard hundreds if not thousands of times growing up.

You unconsciously shifted in your seat, pressing your thighs together to stave off the warmth that began in your toes and traveled north.

“May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you.” His voice washed over you, pulling you from your less than holy thoughts.

“Amen,” You muttered with the congregation. You stood up, eager to shake the uncomfortable feeling this church gave you. You silently waited as others passed you, searching hopefully for a break in the crowd, when you were stopped.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before, I’m Father Barnes.” Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up and met the very eyes you had spent the entire mass getting lost in. He held out his hand and you shook it with a kind smile.

“Y/N. My niece was the one you baptized today,” You slipped your hand from his grasp. He pressed up against the edge of the pew as your great aunt, Agnes shuffled by.

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you at church before. Your parents are William and Cindy, correct?” You nodded and stepped out of the pew, following the young priest as he began to walk up the aisle.

“I, uh, church is complicated.” You breathed out, wringing your hands. You half expected him to tell you he was different and to give the church a chance.

“I understand. We all have a relationship with God, some choose to have that relationship in a church, some choose not to.” Father Barnes unlocked a large wooden door and pushed it open, gesturing you into his small office.

You took a seat in an overstuffed, puke green, crushed velvet chair. Gasping as you leaned back a lot farther than you gauged, your knees practically up to your chin. Father Barnes chuckled softly and pulled open a small closet door.

“Why aren’t you judging me for not coming to church and not being on 7 different committees, and basically being the polar opposite of my super fu-super religious parents, Father?” You chewed on your bottom lip at your almost swear, wishing you could sink back even further into the chair.

The young clergyman didn’t answer you as he slipped his white vestment over his head and hung it neatly in the open closet. You stole a glance at the way his black dress shirt clung to his body just so. The way his slacks molded to his ass and thighs. Father Barnes was, in a word, delicious. He moved to stand in front of you, leaning against the old desk, hands planted firmly on top.

“Because I was like you once. Fresh outta high school, I joined the Army with my best friend. Before that though I hadn’t been to church in years, didn’t even know if I believed in God. And then I spent 6 months in Kuwait. After seeing all that death, seeing friends die, I found comfort in God. And when I was discharged a few years later, I joined the seminary.” He looked down and unbuttoned the cuffs on his shirt, pushing the sleeves up to his elbows. Heat spread outward as his tattoos peeled out from underneath the shirt he wore, something about the move and his look feeling much more sexual than it should have in front of a priest.

You gasped softly as your eyes trailed up and down his forearms, admiring the work of art his body was. Literally.

“See something you like?” Father Barnes smirked and grabbed your chin in between his fingers, forcing you to stare into those steely blue eyes of his.

“I, uh, um…” You started and he chuckled softly.

“Cause I sure do.” He winked and released his hold on your chin as your mother rounded the corner.

“There you are!” She huffed, walking into the small office, standing next to you, her eyes bore holes into your skull as you sat there.

“We’re all heading over to the house for lunch, if you’d like to join.” She practically sneered. You gulped, and pushed yourself out of the chair.

“Yes. I’ll meet you at the car. I was just talking to Father Barnes about rejoining the congregation on Sundays. You met Father Barnes’ steel blue eyes, his gaze sent a rush of heat through your body once again.

“Alright,” Your mother conceded, turning on her heel and walking back up the hallway, exiting through the large door at the end.

“So, see you Sunday?” Father Barnes raised a brow in your direction and you couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across your face.

“Front and Center, Father.” You purred, stepping closer. You could hear a groan bubble deep in his chest as you let the scent of Pine and Musk overwhelm your senses.

Before Father Barnes could form thoughts that were appropriate for a priest, you had gathered your purse and coat and were standing at the door.

“See you Sunday,” You blew a kiss and winked at the stunned priest before making your way down the hall. You could feel his gaze follow you, and you wiggled your ass just a little, teasing him.

——

Sunday came all too quickly, and at the same time, not quick enough. You swiped on a layer of lip gloss, and adjusted the top of your romper. You wanted to give Father Barnes a tasteful glance at your cleavage, not have your tits on display for the congregation. It was still a church after all.

Your gold crucifix laid delicately against your cleavage as you slid in the pew next to your parents. Father Barnes had already started service, and you smiled softly as he grabbed your gaze. His eyes grew wide at your choice of outfit and you smirked as he stumbled over the Bible verse he was reciting.

You bowed your head, your eyes closed as you attempted to look focused on the Homily. But as interesting and attractive as Father Barnes was, sermons were just as uninteresting. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to keep yourself from slipping over the precipice of sleep.

As the Homily came to a close, you found yourself shuffling along the worn carpet to the front of the chapel for communion. You followed your parents, almost obediently, keeping your gaze cast down to the floor until you approached the front of the line. You looked up at Father Barnes, feigned innocence clouded your eyes. You opened your mouth and accepted the small wafer, winking as he swallowed thickly. You whispered a meek, “Thank you Father,” as you retreated back to your pew.

As the service came to a close, you found yourself hanging back, almost hopefully, as the chapel emptied. Father Barnes approached you, you couldn’t quite put your finger on the look in his eyes, but it excited you nonetheless.

“Y/N, So good to see you!” He beamed, clutching his old, well-read bible to his chest.

“The service was great today, Father,” You smiled back, following him up the aisle to the doors. “Do you have a moment that I could talk to you, privately?” You whispered.

He nodded, opening the doors into the hallway, gesturing for you to follow him to that same cramped office as before.

“For you? Always.” He unlocked the door, setting his bible and service notes on the massive desk. He moved to the closet, slipping off the white vestment to reveal that same, all-black outfit that made you weak. He carefully hung it on a wood hanger and turned to face you. You shook your head, trying to clear it, and swallowed thickly.

“Everything alright?” Father Barnes leaned against his desk. You hadn’t moved from the doorway. Your eyes met his and you nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just distracted by some personal stuff I guess,” You laughed softly and sat in the same overstuffed chair as last time. Father Barnes unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and began rolling them up his arms, revealing the beautiful, intricate line work of his forearms.

“Alright. What did you want to talk about?” Father Barnes shuffled through his notes from the service. He absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, pushing the dark tendrils back. You chewed thoughtfully on your bottom lip as you stood up.

Father Barnes’ gaze met yours as you approached, standing close enough he could smell the sweet coconut of your shampoo. A scent that sent a shot of arousal straight through his body. You swallowed thickly as you played with the edge of his collar.

“Wh-What’s goin on?” Father Barnes chuckled uncomfortably, taking a step back. You followed him and cupped his face in your hands, pressing your lips to his. His lips stilled for a moment as yours moved insistently against his. You slid your hands to his hair, knotting the chestnut locks in your fingers and tugging softly. Father Barnes groaned softly and wrapped an arm around you. You gently licked at his lower lip, prodding him to open, he complied and you moaned as his tongue met yours. It was electrifying, the thought of doing something so taboo with Father Barnes. It made you feel alive.

Your hands slid down the front of his black dress shirt, and tugged it from his slacks. You were desperate to feel every inch of him. But he stilled. You pulled back, panting slightly, a smirk danced across your face.

“What is it, Father?” You whispered, a hand reached up and twirled some hair at the base of his neck.

Father Barnes stepped away and scrubbed a hand down his face.

“We-I can’t.” He sighed. Your face dropped, your eyes cast down at the worn burgundy carpet. The clock ticked as the two of you stood in uncomfortable silence.

“You should go.” He finally broke the silence. “We shouldn’t meet like this anymore, either. We can’t. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

You swallowed back the hot tears of embarrassment that pricked at your eyes. You quickly gathered your purse and started for the door.

“See you Sunday,” Father Barnes called from his desk. You nodded softly and walked towards the large doors at the end of the hall.

————

It was three weeks before you dared go near the church again. Confessional was held on Saturday night, you tentatively approached the church, stepping inside, your stomach churned.

The familiar smell of old wood, and must filled you with comfort as you stepped towards the confessional booth. You let out a breath, before speaking.

“Bless Me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was..” You paused thoughtfully, almost laughing when you couldn’t remember. “Many years ago..”

“I see,” The priest mumbled from his side. And you drew in a shaky breath.

“See, I’ve been having these thoughts about a man I considered a friend and a confidant. They have been incredibly impure thoughts, and I acted on them a number of weeks ago. He didn’t return my affections, and I haven’t been able to face him since. He was the first one in a long time who understood why I fell away from the church, and he helped me. A lot. Both personally and spiritually. I saw how good of a person he was and it made me want to be a better person.” Tears rolled down your cheeks and you sniffed softly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.

“Is there anything else you wish to confess?” His voice filtered through and a fresh wave of tears streamed down your face as you shook your head.

“N-No Father. That’s all.”

Father Barnes swallowed thickly before he broke the silence.

“I see you are remorseful. But you did commit a sin in the eyes of our Father and must do penance to receive his forgiveness.”

“Yes, Father,” You whispered meekly, wringing your hands.

“I require of you 3 Our Fathers and 5 Hail Marys. As well as regular church attendance.”

Before you could open your mouth, he had already exited the booth, the door slamming behind him. You tentatively pushed the door open, hoping to spot him. But your stomach sank as you realized you were alone. You spent the drive home in silence. You didn’t sleep that night and were nearly late to mass the following morning.

You slid into the pew next to your parents as Mass began, breathing out a sigh of relief. Father Barnes looked haggard this morning. Dark circles under his eyes, and when he spoke, he didn’t have as much enthusiasm or that usual sparkle in his eye.

Communion came and you shuffled up to the front. Your eyes didn’t meet, Father Barnes’ and you held out your hand for the small wafer. The feel of his fingers touching your skin as he placed it gingerly in your palm was electric. You heard him stiffen as you placed it on your tongue and walked back to your seat. You spent the rest of the service with your eyes cast down, your hands in your lap.

“May almighty God, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, bless you.” Father Barnes’ bible closed with an audible thud and you glanced up.

“Amen.” You muttered with the rest of the congregation. You stood up as soon as the hymn ended, eager to leave the building.

“Can we talk?” A shiver crawled up your spine, and embarrassment reddened your cheeks as you turned to face the man behind you.

“Good Morning, Father.” You plastered a fake smile on your face as you greeted the clergyman.

“Can we talk? In private.” Father Barnes restated his question before you could put a thought together though, you had already agreed. You followed him out of the chapel to that same office. That same offending office you had been in three weeks ago.

You sat timidly on the edge of the puke green chair and watched as Father Barnes shut the door and began moving around. He removed his vestment, hanging it in the closet, and set his well-read bible and notes on the shelf behind his desk.

“Father, I-if this is about confession last night, I apologize. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything. I just wanted to say I was sorry for what happened a few weeks ago but I couldn’t bring myself to face you and tell you.” Your head snapped up when he chuckled softly. You scowled at him, how dare he laugh when you’re here pouring your heart out!

Father Barnes didn’t answer, he simply followed his routine of rolling up his sleeves and leaning against the old desk in front of you. He smiled gently and tucked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“First, call me Bucky, when we’re here, I’m a friend, not a priest. Second, well..” He leaned forward and took your lips in a gentle, passionate kiss. You whined softly as his tongue traced your lower lip. He licked into your mouth as he pulled you out of the chair to straddle him. Your knees dug into the edge of the desk, the uncomfortable pain was the last thing on your mind as his hands ran down your back and grabbed 2 handfuls of your ass.

“Fuck,” You whispered as Bucky broke the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your neck, licking and sucking at the soft skin. Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging at the chestnut tendrils as a wanton moan escaped your lips. You ground your still clothed core over the bulge that was beginning to form in his slacks. Bucky stilled for a moment holding your hips in place.

“Fuck, doll, if you keep doing that I might not last long and believe you me, I wanna feel that pretty little pussy wrapped around my cock.” He nipped your earlobe, your hands trailed down his front, unbuttoning the black dress shirt, pushing it down his arms. He let go of you for a moment, only to toss the offending material behind his desk. But then his lips were back on your neck, hungrily kissing and sucking at the already tender skin.

Bucky stood up and carried you over to the couch next to the door. His hair was mussed, his lips, kiss swollen as he laid you down and slotted himself between your legs.

You started unbuttoning your sundress, when he stopped you.

“Let me,” His voice was gruff but his actions were gentle as he pushed each button through the hole, slowly revealing your body to him. When you were clad in a simple white bra and plain cotton panties, Bucky sat back on his haunches to admire you.

“God, you’re like a fuckin work of art, babe.” He grunted, leaning down to kiss you, dropping your dress on the floor. Your hands reached down, desperately seeking his belt buckle. You groaned softly when you felt the leather slip from the metal buckle. Bucky’s hands met yours and he quickly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants letting them fall to the floor with your dress.

“Someone’s a work of art,” You muttered as you trailed your hand down his chest and stomach, marveling at how toned his whole body was. You traced a nail across the linework of a tattoo that sat right on his left pec before dragging your hands back down and toying with the edge of his boxer briefs.

“You just gonna tease me all day, doll? Or are we gonna do this?” Bucky canted his hips forward, nudging your still clothed clit. You whimpered, biting your lip as a fresh wave of arousal shot through your body.

“Buck. Please.” Your nails dug into his shoulders, and you moaned against his neck as he repeated the action.

“Been thinkin’ about this pretty little pussy since I first met you,” Bucky drawled in your ear, he dragged his fingertips down your body, stopping when he reached the band of your panties.

“You gonna do something about it?” You mocked his earlier argument. His fingers curled around the waistband of your panties, bunching the thin cotton between his fingers. Before you could protest, he ripped the material, discarding it on the floor.

“Come here,” Bucky growled, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pulling you to him and kissing the sensitive skin. Breathy moans escaped your lips as he continued his ministrations.

“Oh fu-mmmm” You grabbed Bucky’s hair in between your fingers as he gently kissed your clit.

“Fuck, Princess, you’re so wet.” Bucky slid a finger inside your waiting heat as he wrapped his lips around your swollen clit. You nearly screamed at the sensations overwhelming your body.

He added another finger, scissoring you open, his mouth never leaving your clit. You thought you had died and gone to heaven when the coil in your belly snapped and you came all over his fingers.

“That’s a good girl,” Bucky smirked, licking his fingers with an exaggerated pop as he crawled back up to kiss you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, moaning as he licked into your mouth, usually, you’d find the thought of tasting yourself a complete turn-off, even gross. But something about tasting yourself as Bucky’s tongue explored your mouth turned you on even more.

You hooked your feet into the elastic waistband of Bucky’s underwear and pushed it down, freeing his strained erection. You gasped softly, he was bigger than you had imagined, thick, the tip dripped with precum as you slid your hand up and down his shaft. Bucky’s cock was, in a word, beautiful.

His large hand covered you and he kissed your cheek chastely before moving to whisper in your ear.

“I’d rather cum inside you, than on you.” A shiver ran up your spine, a soft whimper escaped your mouth.

“Do it, then,” You challenged him.

Bucky sat back on his haunches again, spreading your legs as far apart as they would go. He tenderly dragged the head of his cock through your wet folds, both of you moaned at the sensation. And finally, ever so slowly, he sank into you, filling you up, making you feel like you were about to burst.

“Oh fuck!” You moaned as Bucky bottomed out, stilling his hips for a moment, his lips met yours tenderly. He rolled your pebbled nipples between his fingers as he began thrusting. Your toes curled and you gasped against his mouth.

You whimpered a meek, “Faster. Harder.”

Bucky grabbed your calf and lifted a leg over his shoulder. The angle made him feel so much bigger, so much deeper. You were almost positive you wouldn’t walk out of this normally. Bucky’s hands dug into your hips as he thrust into you, almost animalistically. You cried out, fingers tugging on your nipples.

Your head was thrown back, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

“You’re so fuckin tight, Princess. God, squeezing my cock real nice,” Bucky panted above you. A thin sheen of sweat covered both of your bodies when he pulled out suddenly. You protested at the loss of sensation until he flipped you over, one leg propped up on the arm of the couch as he slid back inside.

“B-Bucky!” You cried out, tears of pleasure streamed down your cheeks as you neared your second release.

Bucky’s hand traveled around your hips, the roughened tip of his pointer finger began rubbing your clit in time to his thrusts. And that’s when everything exploded. You swore you saw stars as your walls clenched down around him. Your fingers dug into the back of the couch and you couldn’t contain the shout that escaped your throat in a fit of passion.

“Ah fuck, baby, just like that,” Bucky cooed in your ear, his arms wrapped around your front and held you up as he found his own release. You moaned at the warmth that filled your belly, Bucky kissed your shoulder softly and helped you lie down on the couch. He lay behind you, cock still firmly tucked into your pulsing cunt.

“Holy shit,” You laughed, reaching down to Bucky’s hands on your stomach and lacing your fingers with his.

“Yeah..” Bucky chewed thoughtfully on his lip. You didn’t want to intrude, but the words left your mouth before you could think.

“Is everything okay?” You asked, you rubbed the back of his hand with your thumb. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

“I don’t think I can be a priest anymore, and after meeting you, I don’t know if I even want to.” Bucky squeezed your hand in his, taking your lips in a tender kiss.

“Wanna go on a date?” Bucky chuckled softly. You laughed, rolling over on the couch to face your partner.

“Only if you shower first, you smell like sex,” You chided playfully. Bucky’s arms tightened around you and you giggled through his assault of neck kisses.

“And then after, we can run away together, and live on the beach, and be naked 24/7, and fuck like bunnies,” Bucky muttered against your neck. You sighed in contentment, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I like that. A disgraced priest, and his sinner girlfriend living on the beach, naked and fucking,” You laughed as Bucky placed another kiss on your lips, pulling you closer to him.

#Bucky Barnes #James Buchanan Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel #the winter soldier #Bucky Barnes Fanfiction #Sebastian Stan #Sebastian Stan fanfiction #marvel fanfic #Bucky barnes AU

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noonymoon · 4 years

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JUSTICE FOR JESUS — Misconceptions & Prejudices about the Faith in the Biblical Jesus Christ.

INTRO

Jesus put it on my heart to write about one of the main factors that keep people away from Him nowadays and I feel qualified to do that since I was in exactly that peer group before Christ knocked on my door (the second time) and showered me with His Love. As some maybe have read in my first testimony, at first I had violently pushed Him away (and I was extremely rude, I remember how I sent a ten minutes audio voice message to a friend [i mean, who does that...??], and philosophized about how the God of the Bible could be the Devil Himself and that maybe it‘s a trap for the weak people who need Religion to cope in this life; looking back that was just entirely bonkers and also very wrong, and now that I know Jesus, I am ashamed that I‘ve ever thought something evil like this, but gladly He has a heart probably bigger than the Universe itself and will always forgive)

Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven. — Matthew 18:21-22

and among all the outrageously horrible things I‘ve done in my life, this was probably the most bad error ever. God thought that by now I sure was humble enough to be approached (you know after my Mama died, I‘ve had 2 strokes, I‘ve been in a terribly traumatic violent relationship for over 2 years, I‘ve lost my apartment and almost lost my mind as well clearing out the apartment, was homeless for several months and received multiple thousands of Euros debts in my name because of the situation that was going on in my living community and with my Ex, people who have been following this blog know what I am talking about) but I was sooooo stubborn and DUMB. and not humble at all. I‘ve thought I had all the answers because „Spirituality“ is so much better than „Religion“ and because esoteric and occult knowledge is the Truth and that I would be „enlightened“ someday when I just kept „working“ to „spiritually grow“, meditate, doing divination about „my soul“ and my „past lives“ and „my future“, and „manifest“ my life however I wanted it to be.

A month after I‘ve pushed Jesus away and blasphemed His intentions, well, I was laying on my (new apartment) floor, having the worst seizure one can imagine, my brain was flooded in blood, the pressure and pain on me was extreme, my whole body clenched, the paramedics spoke to me very alarmed and dramatically, and I could hear and understand them but I was entirely paralyzed within my body, I could not speak, I could not move, I sweated so hard that my entire clothes were soaked from only 20 minutes of laying there, then I‘ve had to vomit twice, almost drifted off to unconsciousness, was freezing cold, got transported as fast as possible to the hospital... had a 6 hour brain surgery, was in a coma for 2-3 days and when I woke up I‘ve lived through almost an entire month of hospital „terror“ (I am very sure that I‘ve had something like an almost-psychosis in the first 2 weeks because really weird things happened in my mind back then that I cannot even explain) and it was already the Covid-19 panic, so I was literally alone all day, every day until I was stabilized and was allowed to leave the hospital at the end of April.

I‘m not saying that God punished me, not at all. But what He indeed does is disciplining the ones that He has chosen to be His child, just like an actual Father has to sometimes discipline his child for the sake of proper parenting. When I was stubborn and pushed Jesus away, Satan had legitimate authority to do whatever he wanted, except that I die. We see a similar situation in the book of Job 1:6-12

After I got home, I was still in horrible shape, I could barely walk (I‘ve used a rollator and later on I‘ve used crutches), I‘ve had a bad headache pretty much all the time (I still do, not all of the time, but very often), I‘ve done my daily rehab until first week of July, and now I am on weekly rehab. People would say I‘ve had enormous „luck“ or a „guardian angel“ but I know now that it was God who protected me. He needed to make sure that I meet Jesus AND accept Him before I truly die because death without Jesus means death eternal.

And so, Jesus approached me another time and I‘ve wrestled with Him and I‘ve almost pushed Him away again but THANK GOD, to the exact same time, an old friend from TUMBLR found me on Twitter (she was @spirit-mouse back on here) and also at the same time I‘ve heard of Courtney (@powerpriestess) turning to Christ, and at first I was like „?????“ and it was a huge struggle back and forth for days and I‘ve ALMOST pushed Jesus away again but ... talking with this old friend, who also felt a pull towards Jesus, I let it happen, because she let it happen, like a few days before me, and now I am just eternally grateful that my pride, stubbornness and idiocy didn‘t get a hold of me again and that I just let it happen and it was the best decision in my ENTIRE life. I am just filled with love and eternal gratitude for God and Jesus for not giving up on me, for humbling me enough to make it happen, and I literally don‘t go more than 15 minutes of my day without thinking of them, every single day, since July. It‘s just NOT possible to be born-again and to not think of God all the time *lol* - I have never been more satisfied, happy and peaceful in my entire existence and I could literally drop dead right now and I know it would be okay! (well okay, I really want to be baptized first..)

HOWEVER, - this was a long intro - the misconceptions about the Faith in the Biblical Jesus Christ are severe (!) and since I, myself, had aaaall the evil prejudices that one can have, I want to clear them aaaall up in this post series. My prayer is that people who feel a pull towards Jesus won‘t do the same mistake that I did and that maybe I can help to clear away the stigma and confusion about the faith in Jesus and following Him.

If anyone needs help along the way, you can contact me on Instagram @ noony.newborn - I know just how confusing EVERYTHING is when you start your relationship with Christ and how utterly confusing the Bible is, and sadly, these days, you can literally not trust a SINGLE pastor because Satan has infiltrated the institutional Church around 300 A.D. and ever since then, it just got worse and worse and worse with the blasphemy and deception.

I don‘t have an exact outline but some of the things I‘d like to talk about are the things you most definitely do NOT need to know, love, follow and obey Jesus Christ: Institutional Church, a Pastor, Religion, Creeds and man-made Doctrines, the Pope, Catholic Catechism, Rules, Bible Commentaries of religious Authors, nothing of that. The literally only thing you need is a Bible, Prayer and JESUS and that‘s all that you need. Of course a congregation is a nice thing to have but trust me, you rather want to be alone with Jesus than to be at your local Sunday Service and be entirely devoid of the presence of Christ, His Holy Spirit.

I will include a handful of testimonies of real people who met Jesus, were born-again and are absolutely in Love with Him, on each of these posts. The variety of people who come to Jesus is just incredible and I cry every time when I see such testimonies because I can so much relate to the emotional atmosphere and how everyone is just so grateful. I have been crying pretty much daily since July just because His love is so overwhelming and a human can not possibly hold it inside without shaking and wanting to burst, tears are the only suitable reaction for me (and as far as I’ve seen in the testimonies, every born-again believer feels the same way, it’s beautiful beyond anything).

I pray that you are open to this series of posts and that maybe God can reach you through them, so that you, too, can be born-again and just joyful and at peace with your life forever and ever.

May Jesus bless you ♡

TESTIMONIES

Melody Alisa - From New Age to Jesus | My Testimony

Kyle - Suicidal Atheist Finds Jesus | Testimony

Ayelet - I am Jewish and I Believe in Yeshua - Jesus!

Shokit Ali - A Muslim gets saved by Jesus Christ! Powerful Testimony!

Samuel A. Perez - Gay Stripper Saved By Jesus | Christian Testimony

#Jesus Christ #jesus loves you #justice for jesus

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soho-x · 5 years

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EB 224

I’ve been trying to gather my thoughts on today’s events all day, and I think maybe the best way to do that is to just start typing.

I grew up in a catholic household, in a southern state, and at a very young age, started to doubt the existence of god. I remember being about 6 years old and was given one of those comic book bibles. I was so excited to read it! My brother and sister both had proper bibles and it always seemed so special that they got to take them to church and follow along and make notes! I wanted that. I wanted to be like them, grown up enough to do such a thing (I also envied the fact that they got to do homework until I actually had to do homework.)

I read through the first bit of it, making my way through most of Genesis, before I had to ask my parents a question. If god created everything in seven days, where did god come from? If there was nothing before this miraculous week, how was he there? where did he come from. why did he decide to create the world and everything in it?

My parents only had one answer he was always there. He just existed. Don’t question it.

I was never satisfied with it. I remember being about 7 or 8 years old, sitting in a church pew, listening to someone read the liturgy and thinking none of this makes any sense. I simply can’t believe it.

I also remember that night, crying, sobbing on my knees asking god to forgive me for my moment of weakness and begging not to damn me to hell.

The next time I went to church I felt that same absence of belief. This went on for a long time. Finally, in my teenage years, I realized I simply could not get myself to believe what I was being taught. I found a word for it, Athiest, and although it terrified me, I begin to identify with it.

The thing about deciding you don’t believe in what everyone around you believes in, means you’re left without a community. As far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single other kid in my middle or high school that didn’t believe in god. youth groups were where all the kids hung out. There wasn’t a single aspect of life that wasn’t built around some religious event or another. Even at family gatherings, saying grace was mandatory, singing hymnals was mandatory. I felt like an outcast in every social situation I found myself in. There were any times that i longed to believe, just so that I would have a sense of acceptance and community. It would’ve been so much easier to get through life without the abject loneliness you feel with isolation.

Growing up in the south, baptist and catholic missionaries are a literal way of life. Everyone is one or knows one, and they’re always trying to convince you to see the light. I understood this. and I understood that no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t. But let me tell you, the appeal of being able to fit in was so tempting, that many times I would go along with it just to be accepted.

I’ve since found acceptance in that I don’t believe, found like minded individuals to align myself with without fear of being coerced into changing.

I think RandL decided to share this part of themselves with us to show that, hey, as kids we were wrapped up in this idea of this community, we found acceptance and purpose, however misguided it may or may not have been. I think in time they will reveal that they saw the toxic nature of the specific church system they grew up in. We all know that now they are fairly progressive in their views on the world. People can change, especially when removed from the systems that built their views on the world in the first place.

I do want to reiterate, I do not think that every church is toxic, nor is every Christian. There are churches and Christians doing amazing things in the name of God and I appreciate that. Jesus Christ is a figure that I do try to model my life after, even if I don’t specifically believe he is the son of a deity. I believe he is a historical figure that did exist, that did do good things, (although maybe not miraculous things), and that did teach a philosophy that is still valid. Forgiveness and acceptance. And if he were alive today, he would have more in common with a lot of us than we’d ever expect.

Again, even if RandL do still have some form of faith, or whether they have decided they’re dedicated Atheists, they still believe in inclusion and acceptance of all Mythical Beasts. Please remember that there is no one right or wrong way to live your life. We are all valid and we are all important. Every single one of us contributes something special to this space, and even if in the grand scheme of things, our existential views don’t align perfectly, I hope you all know I count you amongst my most important friends. Be good to each other, and to yourselves.

#eb224 #tw: religious beliefs #tw: atheism

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aemonded · 4 years

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3, 7, 9, 15, 18

booknet ask game (Apologies for the delay!):

3. what was the last book you rated 1/5?

Probably this horrific and justifiably priced 0.25 cent paperback I got from the library book sale. I care so little about the title I’m not even going to bother getting up to look at it, but basically it was somehow involving a mystery on a liner heading to New York, and The Kennedys circa 1941 when Joe (’God what a terrible person’) Kennedy was ambassador to England (And casual Nazi supporter/isolationist, lovely).

But the book promises you that it will mostly talk about Rosemary Kennedy as a character. Which I liked, because in case you don’t know, Rosemary Kennedy was JFK’s sister who was considered the ‘prettiest’ of all the Kennedy girls, but also constantly was on a diet because she ‘put on weight easily’ (Poor girl), and because she was seen as ‘simple.’ Supposedly when she was in her early twenties, she had the mental capacities or a naive thirteen year old/ writing level of an eight year old. They kept basically shoving her into boarding schools to try to push her forward in terms of education, but obviously when she most likely had something like a severe case of autism, there weren’t exactly many programs that directly addressed those who were learning disabled, and being a Kennedy, they most likely were like PUSH HER THROUGH IT AND SHE’LL BE FINE (Great, thanks guys).

All this being said, there is proof in terms of letters that basically everyone was afraid, because once she became a teenager, she started running away from these schools or sneaking out late at night, and they were literally worried because of how ‘naive’ she was, that she’d end up getting pregnant by some weirdo guy forcing himself on her/ convincing her to have sex. What most normal people/historians think now, is that she saw her brother being John F. Kennedy, El Primo Playboy of the World 1941, dating movie stars and having a buttload of friends (As my older brother used to say), and she obviously wanted to be involved in this glamorous, fun life with the rest of her family, rather than shoved away at some crappy boarding school with nuns the age of time immemorial (Understandable). (Also, for what it’s worth, JFK basically WAS a great older brother, for what I’ve heard, and wanted his parents to loosen up on her. He involved her in his social groups if she was around and never pushed her into anything that someone with her ‘limitations’ might be hurt by).

So of course the natural thing would be to do is to give her a lobotomy so she doesn’t run away, and of course, it had some horrific side effects and basically killed her personality entirely from all accounts, making her basically a human vegetable with only a shadow of the person she’d been before. After that Joe ‘I’m the Worst’ Kennedy carted his daughter off, and debatably, depending on who you ask, she was basically ignored by most of the family for 60+ years of her living in a care home, or embraced in private (The Kennedy message/propaganda/nice try guys). There’s really only consistent public photos of Ted Kennedy visiting her, because besides the whole ‘I accidentally murdered a woman I was having an affair with’ thing, Ted was the baby and seemed actually like ironically the most ‘Christian’ in the most broadest sense of the word besides Bobby Kennedy (Yes, I know they’re Catholic, it’s an analogy).

So bringing this back to this awful book, the ‘mystery’ on the cruise liner shit basically seemingly revolves around Rosemary pre-lobotomy and how she wants to get married to a ‘coloured jazz man.’ BUT THIS NEVER FACTORS INTO THE PLOT. NONE OF THE HISTORICAL FIGURES ABOARD DO EVEN THOUGH THEY HAVE ‘POV’ CHAPTERS ASIDE ORIGINAL CHARACTERS.

You heard me right. xD I KNOW IT’S THE 1940S IN THE BOOKS AND THERE’S FAR WORSE THAT COULD HAVE BEEN DONE AND THE JAZZ MAN IS NICE AND ALL BUT DAMN IT’S SORT OF THE WORST, BECAUSE THEY BASICALLY MAKE THIS THE ENTIRE REASON FOR HER LOBOTOMY AND WHILE THEORETICALLY IT WOULD FIT IN WITH JOE’S MOTIVATIONS HISTORICALLY, IT JUST CAME OFF AS SUPER SKEEZY AND UGH. Mostly the book A) Actually did a considerable job giving Rosemary a sweet and loving personality that you like, but considering what you know if you’re probably reading this book and how they’re just dropping bread crumbs the entire way through, it’s just incredibly morbid and bleh.

If you’re going to write historical characters and fiction well, at least have something more to back it up than ‘Racism was more (outwardly) prevalent back then so she was going to be in an interracial relationship so lobotomy.” It just came off as conflating two important issues (The rights of the learning disabled to date and have families of their own, and interracial romances versus status in society), and just came out to justify it for a lobotomy we never even see. (Trust me, I’m making it sound far more interesting than it is).

Plus the mystery on the liner is the main aspect of the story, and I think that’s what makes it the worst: This author just chose to have these random historical figures on BECAUSE, and considering Rosemary’s background and what we know happened to her, it just seemed like a pretty desperate ploy to reel people in (like myself), and have them go, “Wait, this is just a sub-par mystery book, not a historical mystery book: She used that whole actual living person who existed and who was screwed over by her own family as ‘shock value’ and a ‘hook’ for the audience.” Double EW.

7. what was the last book that made you cry?

Indian Horse by Richard Wagamese, who is unfortunately no longer with us but a BEACON of Canadian Literature, and I'm SO sad he didn’t get to write more books, because his writing style is BEAUTIFUL and poetic.

“Saul Indian Horse is an alcoholic Ojibway man who finds himself the reluctant resident of an alcohol treatment centre after his latest binge. To come to peace with himself, he must tell his story. Richard Wagamese takes readers on the often difficult journey through Saul's life, from his painful forced separation from his family and land when he's sent to a residential school to the brief salvation he finds in playing hockey. The novel is an unflinching portrayal of the harsh reality of life in 1960s Canada, where racism reigns and Saul's spirit is destroyed by the alienating effects of cultural displacement.”

What you also don’t get about the book from this review, is the role hockey plays as being central to the narrative. In that moment, and when Saul is young, inside his own head, he is just what we as the reader see him as: A young boy who loves a sport and finds it freeing. A PERSON. A kid who loves hockey.

He’s so good that he has a chance to make it to the NHL. He’s good enough to play on the ‘white teams,’ but when he starts beating white players, grown men and women throw things at him, like plastic ‘Indians’ from a ‘Cowboy and Indian’ set.

He is a skilled player. He has raw talent. But to make it to the next level, and because they won’t let him be on the team in any other role, because a Native man can’t become a skilled star in 1960s Canada, he has to become a ‘goon.’ There’s actually a moment in the book where he snaps, and it’s so well written and heartbreaking, where it’s like this Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde dynamic inside of him, where he literally just goes, “Okay? You want me to be a bloodthirsty ‘Indian’? Then I’ll be that for you.”

There’s also a movie I haven’t had the guts to watch all the way through, because I tried watching it on a plane ride from Australia to Canada without actually having read the book first, and having no idea what the movie was about aside from hockey and Indigenous culture, and Jesus Christ IT KILLED ME. I’m terrible at flying, had been throwing up and thoroughly miserable for about three hours at that point on the plane, tried to turn on a movie to distract myself, and within ten minutes, I was like “No, I think sticking to the vomiting is justified.” (To give you an idea of the directing style, it’s bizarrely produced by uber-Republican yet ‘weirdly-obsessed with Indigenous people’ movie star Clint Eastwood. If you’ve seen his other films and how sparse and depressing they can be, you can only IMAGINE what this material lends itself to. So I’d really stick to reading the book first. Because Wagamese’s voice is so much stronger within the book, and the pain and horror poor Saul is exposed to serves a purpose within the larger narrative much more clearly, and even when he is an alcoholic, he still is able to find hope within himself and returning to his people, and that’s a beautiful thing that I think was lost in the portions of the film I was able to catch.) Check it out: It was only written in 2012, but it’s already being heralded as a ‘classic’ in Canadian Indigenous Literature.

9. do you actually check out books that have been recommended for you?

I do. I might not actually READ them, but I’ll at least check out a snippet on Amazon to see if it’s my cup of tea. So if anyone has any recommendations, go right on ahead <3

15. how do you feel about reading buddies?

I would love a reading buddy! <3 Feel free to message me if you’re keen. <3

18. what was your favourite book when you were 10?

Probably something by Roald Dahl or The Hobbit, if we’re talking sheer escapism or enjoyment (Or the original run of Harry Potter). My Dad is an English teacher, so I was always reading older books than were probably age-appropriate (I was placed at a college-reading level at twelve on an assessment test), so other than that, a lot of classic literature: Just name it, I’ve probably read it.

I also was a nerd who decided to read the entire dictionary back to front somewhere around this time and copy down all the words I actually didn’t know on a list, so that was a hobby. xD I guess I could count that as a ‘favourite book.’ (-Insert Homer Simpson “NEEeeeRRRddddd” gif here-).

#asteriah #sorry this took too long bb! <3 #answers #personal #literature

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pilgrimbenham · 5 years

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Reformation Day (and the Five Solas)

Did you ever notice that our society celebrates everything? In September alone we celebrated “Random Acts of Poetry Day” (September 6), “Video Games Day” (Sep 12), “White Chocolate Day” (September 22), “Punctuation Day” (Sep 24), and every parent’s favorite—“Quiet Day” (Sep 12). Somehow my kids missed that last one.

But October 31--what many people celebrate as Halloween--should be remembered and celebrated by Protestant Christians, because it is the day we celebrate a huge moment--when a monumental change occurred in the church.

We call it "Reformation Day"--because on that day 502 years ago, a German monk, pastor and seminary professor named Martin Luther published 95 complaints against the Catholic church practice of selling reductions to the penalty of sin (called indulgences). In a sense, Luther had the boldness to share what the church should and shouldn't be.

What Was Wrong

Imagine coming to church, but you don't learn to lean on the Bible and base your life accordingly--but instead you had to rely on tradition and opinion and just follow all the rules someone made up.

Imagine coming to church where the Gospel isn't preached. Ever.

Imagine coming to church where you could buy forgiveness. Literally.

Imagine coming to church and if you were put outside of the church--kicked out--that meant to them that you were literally going to hell. There was no salvation at that point—just the expectation of condemnation.

Imagine coming to church where the leader of the church was also a political ruler who was incredibly corrupt--so that all the church was doing was to generate money and was wicked to the core.

That was the condition of the Catholic church when Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses on the door of the church in Wittenberg.

Martin Luther wasn't the only one who felt this way. Many others were concerned with where the church had gone, and were desiring to come back to a place that honored God and that returned to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Five Big Ideas

The Reformers believed differently than the Catholic Church. They distilled their core beliefs into what we call the “Five Solas”.

Imagine you were asked to sum up your identity in five words. It sounds relatively easy--but try doing it. What if you had to distill your LinkedIn profile down to merely five identity describers—what words would you eliminate? How would you adjust your Instagram or Facebook profile, your Match or eHarmony profile (no I’m not judging), or your Tinder profile (ok now I’m judging). What five words would best characterize you?

I started thinking about words that describe me, and initially I thought this would be easy:

Obviously that’s a lot more than five! Now imagine having to do that same exercise to sum up not your own personal identity, but all of orthodox Christianity--but you can only use five identity words. That's exactly what the Reformers did when they sought to distinguish themselves from Catholicism.

What are the foundations of the Gospel? What would be the pillars that are holding up the building, so to speak?

The Reformers wrestled with that question, in large part because the church at that time was broken. The Catholic church—whatever your thoughts are about it—was a mess at best, or absolute apostasy and a brainchild of Lucifer at worst, so essentially three things had happened.

Overly Traditional, Political, Comfortable

The church had gotten:

Overly traditional

Political

Comfortable

(Sadly, those three things are still plaguing the American church today, both in Catholicism and Protestantism. In fact, those are three things that will kill any church given enough time).

An overly traditional, political, and comfortable church can always look ahead for a season of reforming, and renewal. The Catholic church had departed from the foundations of the faith and believed many things outside of the Scriptures. They held tradition on par with the Bible. They believed there were other mediators through which sin could be forgiven or atoned for. They had a different take on how one is justified--made right--with God. The church itself was the dispenser of divine favor--so if you found yourself politically outside of the church for any reason, you were excluded from the divine favor of God.

Now enter the Reformers.

They wanted to get back to the basics, back to the pillars, and thus we have what are called the Five Solas of the Reformation. "Sola" of course means "only". The idea is that we need this alone for the basics, the pillars, the foundation, of the Gospel.

Christ | Scriptures | Grace | Faith | Glory of God

The message of the Protestant Reformation was that our faith is in Christ alone, revealed through the Scriptures alone, by grace alone, through faith alone, to the glory of God alone.

Think about those for a moment:

Christ: the only Mediator Scriptures: the only Message Grace: the only Means Faith: the only Method Glory of God: the greatest Meaning

In the following five blog posts this month, we will unpack and explore each of these concepts in a deeper way. Shoreline Church, along with Northwest Bradenton Baptist, and Cornerstone Baptist of Sarasota, is excited to be hosting a:

“Night of Reformation: Celebrating the Five Solas” on Saturday, November 2nd at 6pm at The Port Coffee. RSVP on Facebook will be posted soon!

Consider these five solas for a moment: Christ Alone: Jesus is the only Mediator. Because Jesus is the sole meditator between God and man, salvation is possible only by His atoning death and triumphant resurrection.

Scripture Alone: The Bible is the only Message (or foundation). The Bible alone is the highest authority for governing issues of life and doctrine. We don't just listen to church tradition or the priest's opinions.

Grace Alone: Grace is the only Method. There isn't a special act or condition that man does to be saved--it is a sovereign act of God on behalf of sinners. It isn't birthright, but the grace of God.

Faith alone: Faith is the only Means. It isn't by works that we are saved, or through church attendance, but by faith in Jesus.

Glory of God Alone: The greatest Meaning, the greatest ambition. The purpose of our creation is to give glory to God. All glory and honor is due to God alone. We don't give glory to a man, a church, a denomination, a pope, etc. We give glory to God, and everything we do is for Him.

On October 31 every year, as children are dressing up in costumes, the Protestant church is praising God for the boldness of Luther and others, for the return to the Gospel and the importance of building our lives and doctrine from the Holy Scriptures. Every year we can celebrate by thanking God for the work of His Holy Spirit in reforming the church to honor Him and to share this message of reconciliation with a lost and needy world.

The Five Solas and Today

You and I who are born again are a part of a great tradition--but the church isn't done yet. Today we live in a time when the church today is falling into apostasy and compromise. The church didn't conquer Rome in the first millennia: no, Rome conquered the church. And today, it may not be Rome, but it is the philosophy of this age, the secular humanism and postmodern thought, coupled with a feel-good message that appeals to the senses and is soft on doctrine, that is conquering the church you and I are growing up in as a generation.

And yet, with every generation since Christ, it has taken bold men and women of the faith to stand up and be willing to speak truth even when there is great opposition. For centuries, people were silent as the church drifted further and further from God's design, and it finally took someone like Luther--and others--to stand up and stop it. Will you celebrate the Reformation with me by being absolutely sold out for the Gospel--being willing to die proclaiming the truth about Christ? Will you be willing to offer your life to the Lord and worship Him above yourself or others? Will someone stand up in this generation and live their life for God's glory alone, resting in the grace of God, trusting Christ, building their doctrine, hope and life upon the unchangeable word of God, walking an amazing and dangerous life of faith?

May we have the boldness of Luther to stand up among people of this generation and speak truth! When people who claim to be Christians try to stop or silence us, may we be willing to say alongside Martin Luther: I cannot and will not recant anything, for to go against conscience is neither right nor safe. Here I stand, I can do no other, so help me God. Amen.

Pastor Pilgrim Benham

Make plans to join us Saturday, November 2nd at 6pm for our Night of Reformation: Celebrating the Five Solas at The Port (4908 Lena Road #104, Bradenton, FL 34211).

#reformation #reformation day #five solas #solas #sola #Jesus #church #christianity #calvary chapel #october 31 #luther #martin luther #scripture #faith #grace #glory #Christ

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punkscowardschampions · 5 years

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Ali & Tommy

Ali: TOM BOMB Ali: you will never guess what Tommy: you're adopted? CALLED IT Tommy: too fabulous for those heathens Ali: way to make my actual news look less 😏 Ali: isn't don't oversell it like rule #1 Ali: [sends cast list so its all official] Tommy: darling, breaking every rule is rule #1 Tommy: you ain't that adopted Tommy: OH MY SWEET LORD! YOU BETTER NOT BE TROLLING ME ALISON Tommy: I know your genius extends to photoshop pro but you mustn't use it for such evil Ali: who would I really be hurting with that troll, huh Ali: no one but myself Ali: but if its good enough for Queen Meryl 😁😁😁 Tommy: Preach it sister Ali: I'm so fucking excited I could burst Tommy: Meanwhile my school is putting Fanny and Alexander Tommy: like that Ingmar Bergman fever dream can or should be adapted for the stage Tommy: Jesus Christ Ali: we LOVE child abuse for a fun family night out Ali: guess the parentals like to be shown their money is being spent SERIOUSLY on SERIOUS theatré Tommy: The guardian voted it 8th best arthouse film OF ALL TIME therefore it must be worthy Tommy: I will not hesitate to put on a wig and replace you, Kit Tommy: before I do, 1 question Tommy: WHY AND HOW THE FUCK IS MEENA'S BROTHER NOT PLAYING THE SWEDISH LOTHARIO?!! Tommy: what is your casting director 🚬? Ali: I dread to think what 9 and 10 were 😏 Ali: must put them on my not-to-watch list Ali: 😂 Ro literally called it, we all know, I will uninvite you if you even THINK of upstaging me 😉 Ali: IKR its so funny Ali: maybe he thought he was being subversive casting a black guy Ali: but then I wouldn't have my role if that was his jam so 🤷 go off Tommy: Yeah HARD same 🙄😴 Tommy: you can try but I've sent a congrats text to Carls and she'll re-invite me Tommy: if he was the baby daddy the whole island would know but alright, like Ali: also true Ali: 😂 SERIOUSLY Ali: like hmm, I wonder where this white blonde blue eyed baby came from Ali: when you get diverse with your casting and the plot falls apart 😏 god bless, they're trying Tommy: that's WHY he cast Drew, he's being very catholic and trying to marry you off to the right man at the end Tommy: Sir you can't be deciding he's the daddy like that, how dare you! Ali: and that's WHY he cast me as Donna Ali: knows our ma won't flip out on the implication her daughter hoe'd around all summer and has no idea who fathered her child Ali: the subtle shade of it all Tommy: 😂 Tommy: I can't wait to see her go full Molly Weasley when she realises the plot of the thing Tommy: my Alison COULD NEVER you wanker! Tommy: would never 'cause you'd be in chains 😏 Ali: that's the other possibility, he hasn't clocked I'm GayLite and he thinks the idea I'm knocked up is right jokes Ali: Ma wishes 🤞🤞🤞 Tommy: Or he's calling out his biphobia and everyone who is as a HUGE whore Tommy: that's awkward Ali: when you don't prove the haters wrong 😬 Ali: whoops Tommy: When's opening night? I gotta see this Ali: duh, I've already begged on your behalf Ali: [the date] Tommy: I'm so ready for my handbags at dawn moment with Robbie Tommy: always a pleasure Tommy: unlike witnessing Drew outdoing Pierce Brosnan as the hottie who can't hold a note and DYING on stage Ali: I'll hold your earrings, babe Ali: if he can wait for the show to be over Ali: and don't be mean 🤫 Ali: he...needs some work Ali: but I'm willing to be like your worst teacher on speed about it, have him west end ready in, however many weeks they're giving us Tommy: Cheers, 'course I was born ready whenever he wants to go though 🥊🩰 Tommy: You know I'm here if you need me, fairy gaybrother and all Tommy: he will go to the (disco) ball! Ali: I'll let him know as much 😏 Ali: 💚 Ali: Luckily the choreo is simple, so he's got that down Ali: and how hard is it to pretend you're in love with me, honestly Ali: the singing though Tommy: how many songs does he have? Are they staying movie true? Ali: WELL, the tea is we've already cut a me him duet flashback to a solo for moi, but he HAS to do SOS to drive the plot, then its minimal lines on Our Last Summer, which Robbie is THRILLED about obvs, but he also HAS to do When All Is Said And Done, though maybe I can convince the director that'd work better as a toast moment legit, sans singing Tommy: Fucking hell Tommy: yeah unless there's somebody he could mime for Tommy: or a girl they could drag up to resemble him for the musical numbers Ali: REALLY go in and make it obvious who the dad is 😂 Ali: comes to something when the only viable option is the out out gay kid Tommy: SOS is gonna be brutal but I reckon you're onto something cutting the last number down Tommy: by then the audience will either be LIVING for you or DYING over him and we all know how the drama dept would rather it Tommy: arts funding is already in the bog, like Ali: Truly... fuck it, if we don't get it then instead of taking turns at a verse each we'll do it together and I will belt the fuck out of it Ali: you don't have to tell me, the wardrobe is abhorrent Ali: but we're already on that, even if I have to dress the entire cast myself Tommy: Christ alive, I will come home early and help you save the show, bags full of stolen props and costumes Tommy: Sorry not sorry, mother Ali: Oh LORDT, what even is the costuming for fucking Ali: fanny and whathisface Ali: I bet you are LIVING Tommy: Everyone here has now said fuck it and we're sorting out watching Mamma Mia Tommy: the girls and gays are 💔😭 Tommy: Straight Simon alone is unaffected Tommy: SEND HELP ALL MY MATES ARE ASKING IF DREW'S TOO WHITE TO TURN SOS INTO A RAP 😂 Ali: that boy is an enigma Ali: do not encourage him PLEASE 😭😭😭 Ali: all for mixing it up but if I have to look 💔 at a boy rapping about what happened to our love...nah Ali: even Meryl couldn't Tommy: Quick, dish on the rest of your all star cast, that'll 100% work in amusing them Tommy: any room to judge and they don't give a fuck about a single thing else Ali: Oh well, let's see Tommy: I'm the proudest of my sweet baby Carls and know she'll be grand, but the people are restless and thirsty for that hot tea Ali: Rosie's a sweetie, she jams with us on the drums every now and then, so you'd recognize her face not her name, she's gonna be so funny, perf for that role so I can't slag on her, I'm afraid darlings Ali: right?! MY BABY 💕 Ali: we did our auditions in groups of about 3 so it was just me, her and Cavante, she killed it forreal Tommy: Yeah? I do remember her! She comments on many o' Meena posts and you can hear the 🍀 Tommy: I'm gonna call her later, Carls that is, not your drummer Ali: I'm DYING for her to give the brummie a go, if that's as hilariously bad as we're all imagining, I'll send that to quench your mates thirst 🍵 Tommy: You're a star on so many levels Ali: 🥰 Ali: Who else DON'T you know? 🤔 Ali: the girls playing Meena's friends, me either Ali: they're her year though Ali: one of them has the good=loud vibe so I wouldn't be surprised if she went to one of your theatre groups as a kid Tommy: The lad in her year too? I dunno him Ali: Yes, which is rude Ali: he's got hot over the summer clearly 'cos like, HELLO? Ali: he's decent though, fair craic Tommy: Every show needs a dark horse Ali: they're cute Ali: some of his friends, esp. the one Carls has to seduce are 😬 Ali: thank God she's talented Tommy: at least some fuckers'll have chemistry Tommy: you'll be full Meryl-ing to convince ANYONE that Drew's the love of your life Tommy: and Carly would never waste a second on a younger lad Ali: at least I get to be fuming at him most the time Ali: lying cheating bastard 😏 Tommy: 👀🔪 Tommy: I'm well jealous Ali: I know, babes, I know Tommy: less gutted now this sing-a-long is kicking off Tommy: you wanna be facetimed in? Ali: um YES Ali: counts as a rehearsal Tommy: [does call her so she can join]

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shellybeebee · 5 years

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I completed my first dream when I was 16. I remember thinking well I’ve completed a dream. And it felt magical, but then it was over, and I wondered well I guess I’ll have to have another dream, but to know that the feeling is all that I made it to be and that once it’s over it’ll be back to square one it truly drove me to a dark place. A place that made me question my own happiness, and that I didn’t want fleeting happiness like after a night of drinking with good friends or a fun day.

I wanted a happiness that I would wake up and say “ yes, I get to live another day, and I am happy” So quickly did I spiral with having such a thought. I kept asking “ why aren’t you happy? You have everything?” And I did besides a broken family, terrible communication skills, and an inability to love myself without trying to prescribe a physical worth to myself.

You see all the time that so-and-so is worth a net worth, and you go... well then what about me? Even to die will cost 7 grand.

I became exhausted everyday trying to work and work to make myself try and believe if I worked hard enough I would get somewhere. There was some truth to that because I did learn a lot. However the cost of pursuing such things isn’t worth it.

I would stare across a bridge every night leaving work dreaming of jumping and it all to be over. I would put myself in tears to think of such things, but it felt like it would be such a relief. To the point I had to go to the doctor and demand that I can’t do this anymore.

They put me on lexapro and I got into therapy. That was only the beginning of a very long journey.

When you walk around pretending everything is okay with a smile because your soul cannot bear to see another soul unhappy like yourself you give the world to them. Even if you don’t have it. Because you want to believe it.

Until they tell you that you make them happy everyday with your smile and you cry because you can’t make yourself happy.

I realized going through the motions that well... nothing brought me lasting happiness. I even went back to a job I hated to prove this to myself that I can find happiness admits the chaos, and I did. Leaving there a second time I wasn’t given the harsh goodbye I did before, but a wow you’ve changed and I will miss you.

It was after that and a little vacation and strong intentions that I gave up all the dreams I had in life. I had focused on my getting better and made a promise to the universe that if it takes me my entire life to figure this out then so be it.

I need to pass on the info because too many of my loved ones and myself are suffering from these mental illnesses.

What happened next. I will never forget, and I’m sure you will think, maybe she mentally broke? I thought so too, but the only way to describe it was that I felt like Lucy from the movie Lucy. The only thing I do is smoke weed and drink here and there.

April 14th I came out as an atheist. I was tired of hiding it and I’m surrounded by a Christian community. To everyone. Even telling my parents and close friends how I was involved with my cousin in sex play when I was younger and felt guilt about it and torment about it. Though I found many children do this. My body was stuck in a freeze mode because when it happened I went with it instead of saying I don’t want to do this, and it tormented me since it happened. I’ve even talked to my cousin after blocking her. She is one of my dearest friends even though that happened. For it takes two to tango.

I ripped my nail twice speaking these things. Then I went and saw my brother and his girlfriend and I hugged and apologized for disappearing because again when a relationship withers it’s because 2 didn’t make an effort and if one did then shame on the other, unless it was toxic and you needed space.

We spoke and I even asked if I came off manic because I felt like I could be. Like a flood of dopamine came into my brain and my depression and anxiety gone. She said there had to be a higher power and we talked of astrology and how even astrology was real, and for the first time I believed her. I realized no the astrology we created isn’t real, but astrology is if you see it as prophecies I came to learn.

Then we turned on the TV and notre dame was burning as moments ago it said. I said “ let it burn” what good has the Catholic Church done, but compile money and lead people astray” God’s church is us and I began rebuking my statements as an atheist to everyone I said it to.

I said to them “I can feel him” and it changed my perspective on everything”

I then went to whole foods and everyone was so nice to me, oddly nice, I live in mass and most people treat me like I’m invisible and some did... to a literal point where I was like “behind you” (I’m a chef so I feel inclined). The woman at the register asked how I was doing and we chatted and then she asked again how I was doing. I was weirded out and said “very good” I looked around to see if anyone noticed, but they were all distracted. She said “ You made it through the madness, good for you” and I was on my way. A few other said things that resided in my as my soul no longer was heavy carrying such burdens. Some even told me I was confused when I spoke of the things that happened.

He revealed so much to me and I realized who my enemy was. I even burnt sage shouting that I was a child of God and you are not welcomed here. In my garage I heard shaking and a squeal but no movement to even place where it was. I was shook.

I’m okay if you don’t believe me. Old me wouldn’t believe me either. She was quite the If I see it I’ll believe it kinda girl. The kinda girl who accepted that this may be all that’s it and end up brain dead in the grave so make sure you live your life. The kind that didn’t believe in anything, except maybe evolution and adaptability. So I get it I truly do.

A girl who was much more into the darker side of spirituality even told me one night out that I was protected after the rock in my necklace fell out on the floor. I didn’t understand what she meant.

I went to a friend a very close one much more of a Christian than I who got into a terrible accident and I think that’s what woke her up, and she told me that people are waking up. Instantly I said your right and started explaining what I believe and her eyes looked at mine in fear/aw because she said it took her a while to learn such things. That Christ was merely a man who was able to tap into God because Christ was the epitome of who we were meant to be. gods. In the old testimont in Isaiah it says we were gods of the earth, but Satan has made us lose the way through our desires to have and be without God and feel like all we do is through ourselves.

We are quite mistaken for God and Satan are energies as the world and universe is. So we either go on God’s path for us and give in completely or be subjected to Satan’s chaotic world where nothing makes sense besides thinking shit happens.

I never cared when I died. I thought it would be 25, and alas I am 25 I just didn’t realize the death I would experiance wasn’t physical, but earthly.

I continue to seek to be more like Christ and beg for forgiveness when I think I’ve done things myself. That is my testimony, and I hope you may see there is always a way because there is always a will.

God Bless your souls, he loves us all. Even when we turn away.

#vulnerability comes healing #healing #mental health #recovery #ptsd #narcisistic abuse #god is good #testimony #believe me or not Idk #already been told that im crazy #im okay with that #im finally happy #every fucking day #because God is real and he is so fucking good #Death will not take us

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pengychan · 6 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 4

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: I finished proofreading this while half-drunk at the airport. Here's hoping that's not too obvious.

***

Considering that Ernesto had absolutely no clue what the hell he was even doing, he thought things were going rather well.

His way of handling things had definitely raised a few brows, of course, but no one had called his bluff and no one was chasing him with sticks demanding to know what he’d done with the real priest - funny story, that. So he counted it as a success.

He’d even remembered how to handle the Rite of Eucharist, even if he’d maybe gulped down more wine than he should have, because at one point he could have sworn he’d seen Sister Sofia licking her lips while staring at him from her place among the other nuns. He’d blinked and she looked perfectly normal, so he must have imagined it - a sure sign he’d gone too long without a woman.

Other than that, all was well. The Mass was over, everyone go in peace or something, and his cover was still up - a rather original priest from out of town. Even that bag of laughs of the Mother Superior seemed to suspect nothing. She looked slightly perplexed, maybe, but nothing more. He could pull this off for as long as it was needed.

If he didn’t know that would look odd, Ernesto would have patted himself on the back; instead, he just settled for exchanging pleasantries and nods with the parishioners as they began leaving the church… only that quickly enough the steady line towards the exit came to a halt, and a few murmurs went through the crowd, causing Ernesto to blink.

“Who may that be?”

“A gringo…?”

“Mamá, why is that man pink?”

What the…?

The crowd seemed to suddenly part in two, like the Red Sea before Moses - look, mamá, I’m getting the hang of this priest thing - and walking up to him there was… well, it was a gringo all right, with straw-like hair and beard. And, unless that town had somehow become a beacon for chronic liars in clergy clothes, he was also a priest.

Uh-oh.

“Father Ernest,” the man called out, and took another step forward, bowing his head slightly. It was only the two of them before the altar, everyone else several steps away. Ernesto had enough time to wonder if he was really talking to him, but not enough say anything - let alone to correct him on his name - before he spoke again. “Laudetur Jesus Christus.”

Ernesto blinked. “I don’t speak English,” he said, only realizing his mistake when the priest - Ernesto had never in his life seen someone so ridiculously pink - blinked, taken aback.

“Wha–” he began, only to trail off when someone suddenly laughed uproariously and grasped Ernesto’s cassock.

“Hahahaha! Good one!” Miguel exclaimed, grinning up at both of them. Where had he come from? “It was funny, wasn’t it? Padre Ernesto tells the best jokes!” he added, and the grip on the cassock tightened. Realization - he knew - hit Ernesto like a jolt, but he managed not to make his shock plain. Despite the fact his heart seemed to have sunk somewhere in the vicinity of his kneecaps, Ernesto managed to smile.

“I can never resist,” he said, gaining himself a less than impressed look from the other man - who was, very clearly, allergic to fun. Still, his gaze softened when he looked at Miguel.

“Oh, the altar boy,” he said. His Spanish was… passable, Ernesto supposed, but the accent was so thick it made some words quite hard to understand. “Good afternoon. I’m Father John. And you are…?”

“Miguel. I, uh, really need to speak to Padre Ernesto a minute here, but I’ll give him back–”

“It won’t be long, Michael,” Father John said, causing Miguel to blink in confusion and Ernesto to frown. “Father Ernest and I–”

“Ernesto,” Ernesto found himself saying, more coldly than he should have. He had to shed who he was, and he had to shed his surname, but the name his parents had given him was still his own and like hell he’d let some sunburnt gringo twist it. “I was christened Ernesto, with an o at the end. And his name is Miguel.”

It was as though he had said nothing at all. “–Have some matters to discuss,” he finished, and turned those unnerving watery eyes back to him. Ernesto met his gaze with an unimpressed look of his own. In a way, annoyance was a blessing: it kept him from freaking out over the fact that, well, the altar boy had caught him out.

“Sure thing, Padre Juan,” he said, his voice tight, and the faint smile on Father John’s face faded.

Good.

He fully expected a cold remark, but just then Héctor approached with quick steps, waving off the small crowd that had been standing a few steps away. They seemed to get the message and resumed walking out of the church, although several of them paused to glance back, clearly puzzled. The nuns, too, looked perplexed as they passed by. Soon enough, there was only them in the church… and a very confused-looking Gustavo somewhere in the back.

“We had no idea there would be a visitor,” Héctor said, smiling widely. His voice seemed to echo in the church. “Welcome among us, Padre… I’m sorry, I did not catch that. My ears were kind of ringing a bit. The organ, you know?”

“Juan,” Ernesto quipped.

“John,” the gringo said pointedly, then smiled at Héctor. “I supposed you are the novice Father Edmund spoke of so highly of in his letters. Brother Hector, is that it?”

He pronounced it funny, but at least his name was spared. Héctor nodded. “That would be me, yes. Did you say Padre Edmundo wrote to you?”

A nod, and Father John turned back to Ernesto. The smile had already faded. “I understand that you have only just arrived in this parish,” he said. “Fresh out of seminary, I assume.”

Fresh out of the army and oh, did I learn a thing or two there I’d like to do right now.

“You could say that,” Ernesto said instead, his voice carefully controlled, gaining himself another nod.

“I have been in touch with your predecessor, may God take him in His glory. He kindly said he’d let me stay for a time. I have been traveling Mexico for the past year--”

“Vacation?” Ernesto guessed. The guy had noticeable self-control, he had to give him that, but this time he just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“I am on a mission, on behalf of the Holy Catholic Church,” he said, his voice tight. It made his awful accent even worse, somehow. “To evangelize the people of this country.”

Ernesto blinked, and turned to Héctor, who looked back at him at an absolute loss. Not help there, then. Wondering if he hadn’t simply heard wrong - he was hard to understand at times, really - Ernesto cleared his throat. “You might be… a few centuries too late.”

“The work of God is never done.”

“No, I mean… you are. Everyone and their dog is already Catholic,” Ernesto pointed out, and the gringo glowered at him.

“Surely you jest,” he muttered. “Although this is no jesting matter. Animals lack souls. They cannot possibly be Catholic.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“I didn’t mean that literally. Either way, the fact stays that we’re all Catholic. So sorry you had to waste a trip. But if you’d like to stay a night or two before you move on someplace else where your help is needed--”

“From what I have seen today, I believe my help is needed here and now. Especially during Lent, I believe it quite important that the holy Mass is held properly,” Father John cut him off, and Ernesto held back a groan. All right, so this guy clearly was not a fan of the spin he’d put to the traditional mass. Can’t please everyone and all that, but did he really have to be such a miserable pain in the ass?

“Well, things are still a bit, uh. As you said, I just arrived. But I guarantee we are all Catholic, so it would be rather redundant to bring over Catholicism all over aga--”

“I am talking of proper Catholicism, Father Ernest,” the man said, tilting up his chin. “Not the watered down kind you practice here, laced with pagan fetishes and superstition.”

Hijo de tu puta madre, Ernesto thought. It was a very tempting retort to utter, if a decidedly un-priestly one - and maybe the thought had showed on his face, because suddenly there was another very urgent pull at his cassock and Miguel was speaking fast.

“No! I mean-- that’s really interesting, Padre Jua-- Father John!” he blurted out, and smiled, ignoring how both Ernesto and Héctor were blinking down at him. “Why don’t you hold mass for a while? As our guest?”

That caused the gringo to blink before the surprise melted in a smile that was surprisingly warm. “I’d be happy to, if Father Ernest is willing to let me.”

“Wha--” Ernesto began to protest, only to trail off when Miguel’s foot suddenly stomped down on his - a sudden, painful reminder of two things: that the boy knew, and that he couldn’t hold mass for shit. “Agh! I mean - ah, what a good idea!”

Héctor frowned, eyes shifting between them. “Miguel, are you all--”

“Never been better! But now I think I really need to borrow Padre Ernesto for a minute. Or two. Or twenty,” he exclaimed, grinning widely, and began dragging Ernesto towards the sacristy. “Why don’t you show Father John around? Gustavo can look after his… horse?”

“I came with a donkey.”

“An ass on top of an ass,” Ernesto muttered under his breath, and held back a yelp when Miguel swiftly kicked his shin. Within moments they were back in the sacristy, and Miguel was slamming the door shut behind them. “That kick was entirely unnecess--”

“Who are you?” Miguel demanded to know, crossing his arms, and Ernesto shut his mouth.

Oh, he thought. Right. He figured it out. Should have left him to drown.

“I…” he began, glancing around the sacristy. He had left his gun in his room, hidden in the mattress, but he wouldn’t need that to overpower a child. He could smother him easily. But still, how could he get away without anyone noticing? Witnesses had seen him entering the room with Miguel; even if he got out from the back door after dealing with him, he… he…

“You are not a priest,” Miguel said, arms still crossed, but he didn’t look hostile; rather, he seemed curious - the way kids can be, and the full implications of what he’d been thinking hit him like a bucket of cold water. For a moment he could see the glare of the sun on the barrel of his gun and Alberto’s unprotected back in front of him, and smell gunpowder and blood in the air… only that now he wasn’t looking at a grown man at all.

A kid, Jesus Christ, he was standing there thinking of how to best kill a kid.

“Uh, Padr-- Ernest-- señor?” Miguel’s voice reached Ernesto as though from a mile away; there was no mirror for him to look into nearby, but if there were, he was fairly sure he would have found himself staring at a face as pale as ash. He staggered backwards, and his back hit the wall.

“I…” he began, and swallowed. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. If he’d had a gun at had, if not for that gringo and for Héctor just out of the door, what would have have done? “Miguel, I… how…?”

Entirely unaware of the thoughts that had been storming through his mind, Miguel shrugged. “I saw you trying to read the Bible. You didn’t just decide to do things differently, right? You don’t know any Latin.”

“I…” Ernesto swallowed again. His mouth felt dry as sandpaper. “No. I don’t know Latin.”

“So you are not a priest.”

“... No. I need to know, did you tell anyone--”

“Of course not!” Miguel exclaimed, cutting him off, and now he seemed offended. “You kept the secret when you found me at the stream and I wasn’t supposed to, remember?”

Ernesto blinked. That… wasn’t the reply he had expected, but it made sense, in a childish kind of way. Won’t tell if you don’t. “Ah,” he said, and sighed in relief. “That.”

“And I know people would assume all the wrong things, like, that you’re a spy from the government,” Miguel went on, rolling his eyes and not realizing the way Ernesto had stilled. “They see spies in every newcomer - I bet they’ll watch that gringo like hawks now. They think I don’t understand what they’re talking about, but I do. So maybe they would get the wrong idea, but I know better,” he added, and grinned. “You’re a good guy.”

“... Am I now?”

Miguel nodded, in a way only a nine year old stating the tenets of the universe can. “Yes! You saved me from the stream, kept it a secret, and then taught me a song,” he declared, counting each feat on his fingers. “That’s good guy stuff. You can’t be with the government.”

Ernesto blinked for a few more moment before giving a guffawing laugh. What a childish, simplistic world view… and how very convenient for him. “No,” he said, and crouched down to be closer to Miguel’s eye level. “I am not with the government. Not anymore.”

For a moment, the boy seemed to falter. “Anymore…?”

“I was forced to join the army, and escaped.” Shot a man in the process, but all wars have their casualties. “Now I’m hiding from them.”

“Oh, I see. They forced some men from here to join, too. So you switched sides?”

“No,” Ernesto replied, more harshly than he’d meant to. “I have no side. I want no part in this war at all. I’m just trying to live through it - I’m a musician, not a damn soldier.”

Miguel nodded. “Oh, that’s why you’re so good at playing and singing! And that’s why you’re pretending to be a priest… without knowing Latin. You didn’t plan this very well, did you?”

Ernesto rubbed the back of his neck. “Planning is… not my greatest talent. I met the priest who was sent here from Oaxaca on the way, but he was caught up in a fight. Didn’t make it. That’s when I decided to take his place. I seized my moment,” he added. It sounded better than ‘I am sort of winging it as I go’, which was the overly honest version.

The notion seemed to sadden the boy, but only for a few moments. After all, they were talking about a man he had never met nor known. “Will they hang you if they catch you?” he asked, and suddenly sounded excited. Ernesto did not like that.

“... Very likely. I’d rather not find out, though,” he added, reaching up for his throat.

“Fair enough. Good thing I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked. “What?” he asked, and Miguel grinned, starting to pace back and forth.

“Yes, it’s perfect! That gringo arrived just at the right time!”

“Wha--”

“Everyone will focus on him! And he can say mass while you learn Latin!”

“I am not going to learn--”

“All right, maybe not that, but you can memorize the stuff you need to say! I did,” the boy cut him off, and tapped his forehead. “It’s all in here. It’s boring, but I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked, taken aback. The notion of keeping up that charade for more than a few days seemed… slightly less insane than it had just a few minutes ago, really. He was a good actor; he had good memory. Maybe he could pull it off, and get to spend the rest of that stupid war hidden away in that small town, eating three meals a day and with very little danger of being caught and hanged. He just needed… a little help.

“You can help me,” he repeated, and raised an eyebrow. “All right. What’s the catch, niño?”

He’d half-expected the boy to play innocent, but he didn’t even bother to; instead, he smiled widely. “I need your help to stop Héctor before he becomes a priest.”

That was just about the last thing he expected to hear. “You need my help to-- what?”

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! He shouldn’t be a priest! He should marry Imelda, everyone knows he likes her!”

“And Imelda is…?”

“Oh, right. You haven’t met her. They call her Sister Gisela now.”

Ernesto could feel the first stab of something that threatened to turn into a huge headache. “You want me get a novice to drop his vows and marry a nun, did I hear that right?”

“She’s not a nun yet! We also have to stop that from happening, by the way.”

“I have to stop him from becoming a priest, her from becoming a nun, and get them married.”

“Yes!” Miguel exclaimed, clearly glad to see he’d caught on. “I mean, you’re the parish priest! Well, the think you are. They will listen to you,” he added, then paused, frowning in thought. “... Well, maybe Héctor is more likely to listen. But you should talk with Sister Sofía! She also thinks they should drop their vows, and Imelda listens to her. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe.”

“I’m sorta, kinda, maybe thinking I should have let the army hang me.”

Miguel made a face. “Being hanged sounds unpleasant.”

All right, so maybe that was exaggerating just a little bit. Ernesto shrugged, conceding the point. “Fine. Let me see if I understood you correctly. You are going to keep this a secret and teach me whatever crap I have to say during Mass while Padre Culo Blanco covers that for time being,” he said, jabbing an index finger against Miguel’s chest before pointing at himself with the thumb. “And in exchange, I convince a priest and a nun--”

“They aren’t yet a priest and a nun.”

“Fine. I convince two novices to drop their holy vows and know each other biblically, possibly within the sacred bond of marriage. Is that it? That’s the deal?”

Miguel seemed just slightly confused. “What does it mean, know each other biblically?”

“How old are you again, niño?”

“Nine.”

“... It means they kiss.”

“Eeeugh.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich, coming from a self-professed matchmaker,” he joked, but the smile faded quickly. “Miguel. Do you swear you won’t say a word about this?”

“I’ll be silent as a grave,” the kid promised, and as he began quickly suggesting a course of action for his - their - matchmaking project, Ernesto did his best to listen… and not to think of the terrifying moment when he’d seriously considered blowing a hole in the boy’s head.

***

“Juanita doesn’t like that gringo.”

“Juanita doesn’t like anyone.”

“I don’t like that gringo.”

“You don’t like anyone, either.”

Chicharrón scoffed, and held the rooster in his lap somewhat protectively. “I like Juanita.”

“... Right.”

“No one likes that gringo, Héctor,” Cheech muttered through the stick in his mouth, and Héctor had to admit he had a point. Most people had put on a polite expression because that’s what you do with a priest, after all… but anyone who knew them - and he would, he’d grown up in those streets - could tell.

It was hard to trust newcomers, those days; Padre Ernesto was already well-liked, despite raising a few brows with that… interesting Mass, but it didn’t mean he was fully trusted. And that man - an American - seemed suspicious from a mile away. Distrust was natural and, really, he wasn’t helping his case at all with his condescending comments on how they handled religious matters, about pagan beliefs to be eradicated, how he was on a mission on God’s behalf to set things right.

Honestly, despite the smile Héctor had pasted on his face, he couldn’t recall anyone going that out of his way to grate on everyone’s nerves since… Gustavo, maybe, back when he’d just arrived at the orphanage and mocked everyone else by insisting that he wasn’t like them, he had a mamá and she would be back to pick him up soon, just you wait, she’ll be back for me before you know it.

She had never come, and Héctor had felt sorry for him, but all of his attempts at showing friendship were thrown back in his face and thus he’d stopped trying very quickly. This, however, was a priest - someone he should at least try to get on with.

“He’s not that bad,” he muttered, tuning his guitar. To be fair, Father John hadn’t been like that the entire time. He’d told him a few really interesting things about his travels, had been really interested in the charity work the parish did and shown interest in getting involved, and he’d seemed genuinely impressed by what little English Héctor could speak - which, to be entirely honest, wasn’t as good as the man’s slightly shaky Spanish. He’d smiled warmly, corrected his pronunciation, and then even laughed a bit.

“My apologies, I forget myself,” he’d said. “I’m not here for a language lesson - but sometimes it feels good, hearing your language when you’re far from home,” he’d added, and then suddenly excused himself.

Héctor strummed the guitar, a frown creasing his brow. There had been something on the man’s face as he’d spoken those words, there one moment and gone the next: a sort of desperate longing that had made him pause. He remembered seeing that look before, on the faces of other children who talked about parents they would never see again.

Unaware of his thoughts, Cheech was scoffing. “He is that bad. Bad news.”

“Maybe we should give him a chance. Maybe he’s just… well…”

“A pompous white ass.”

“American.”

“That’s what I said.”

Héctor laughed. “Hah! Don’t let him hear you.”

“I want him to hear me.”

“And I would like to change subject,” Héctor said, rolling his eyes. Come to think of it, where was Miguel? After he’d gone off somewhere with Padre Ernesto, he hadn’t seen him aroun--

“Oh, right. Almost forgot. They’re coming to take their stuff tonight.”

The casual comment caused Héctor to wince, and his hand slipped off the guitar strings. “Cheech! Not that loud!”

“And who’s gonna hear us, dead people?” Chicharrón scoffed, but he did him the favor to lower his voice. “It’s all sorted, in the usual coffins, in the usual place. You would know, you moved them. They’ll be gone by morning and that will be it.”

“Until the next message.”

“Until the next message, yes,” Cheech muttered, and scratched Juanita’s head. “Wonder who else gets them. I doubt we’re the only ones.”

Héctor had wondered that from time to time, too, and more. “Do you ever wonder who is it, leaving us instructions?”

“Oh, of course. I thought it was old Alejandro for a while, but then he went six feet under and the notes kept coming. Same handwriting and all,” he said, and shrugged. “Maybe it’s Ceci.”

“Ceci?” Héctor repeated, raising an eyebrow. It seemed… unlikely, that their local seamstress would be the mind behind it all. Of course, you never know; something was slightly off with her, with the amount of clothes for the poor that had suddenly become ‘unmendable’ and disappeared. Ceci had always taken pride in her skill to salvage even the most worn-out rags, and Héctor suspected that some of those clothes were mendable after all, and went to other people who had use for them. Can’t fight a Revolution naked, after all.

“I saw her around here not long before I found the note in the usual place,” Cheech was saying, unaware of his thoughts. “This is not the day to collect donated clothing.”

“She was here to make changes to the robes. They’re too tight for Padre Ernesto.”

“Hmmm. Guess that explains it,” Cheech muttered, and shrugged again. “Well, I got nothing, then. I could be anyo--”

“Héctor! Are you still wasting your time with the old goat?” Gustavo’s voice rang out.

Cheech let out a grumble. “Except this cabrón.”

“... Yes. Except this cabrón,” Héctor muttered, causing the old man to chortle.

"Oh, listen to yourself, Brother Héctor. You’ll have to wash your mouth with soap now."

Héctor laughed, and stood. Gustavo was at the low wall between the path and the cemetery, a scowl on his face. "Here you are. Sofía decided to make me her errand boy and--"

"Sister Sofía, you mean."

“I can think of other ways to call her, and none of them is sister,” Gustavo scoffed. "She says dinner is ready, and that you should dine with Padre Ernesto and Padre Jua-- Father John," he corrected himself quickly, and Héctor had to hold back a chuckle. So, that nickname was catching up already. Father John wasn't going to be pleased, but then again he seemed difficult to please either way.

"You're lucky, no chorizo,” Gustavo was going on. “You should live to see another day."

The remark caused Héctor to scowl. "It was one time," he protested. Really, one time you eat too quickly, one time you get a chorizo stuck in your throat, one time you puke it right back up in front of everyone, and there is some pendejo who'll never let you forget about it.

"And very nearly your last,” Gustavo mocked him, and turned to walk away. Héctor wondered about that; usually, as the sexton, he had most meals at the parish.

“Aren’t you coming?” he called out, gaining himself a scoff and a glare over his shoulder.

“Unlike a certain someone, I have more to do then toying with guitars.”

Héctor rolled his eyes. “Self-important jerk,” he muttered, and headed back to the parish with the guitar over his shoulder.

***

Ernesto had never enjoyed killing.

He had done it anyway, of course, and several times. During a battle or an ambush, to finish off wounded enemies afterwards - those were the easiest ones, because it was kill or be killed in one case and a mercy in the other.

But then there had been the other times. The times were men would stand accused of aiding the revolutionaries, found guilty after a joke of a trial, and publicly shot; the times he was picked to be part of the firing squad and made himself go through the motions, the screams and pleas and curses of those witnessing - mothers and wives, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters - ringing in his ears for a long time afterwards.

There had been one time when they’d begun moving on, only to hear the village’s church ringing its bell in a death toll to mourn their dead; their commander had been so infuriated that he’d made them all turn around, had the bellringer dragged out, and shot him point blank in the face. Ernesto hadn’t been the only one to turn on his saddle to vomit in the dirt.

The nightmares had eased after some time, but that bitter taste in the back of his throat would return, unannounced, more often than he’d have liked. He’d tasted it after gunning down Alberto to get away, after ending the dying priest whose cloth he’d taken, and he could taste it now, too. He hadn’t shot Miguel for knowing too much, but the thought had been there and Christ, he needed something strong to wash it away. Except that he could have no such thing, because good old Padre Juan had decided that they shouldn’t have even wine.

“It is Lent, after all. We are meant to give up on such small luxuries. Our Lord certainly had none, alone in the desert as he faced the Devil.”

No, Ernesto had no taste for killing… but the more that gringo talked, the more he felt that could be an exception. Thankfully, Brother Héctor had taken one for the team by engaging with that ass first; it seemed to have backfired, because now he just wouldn’t stop spewing out theological crap and suggesting he could give him English lessons. It was easy to tell Héctor was regretting his decision to start small talk, but Ernesto had absolutely no desire to intervene. The less he had to talk with John Proper Catholicism Johnson, the better.

Really, at that point Héctor just kept nodding with a rather faraway look in his eyes. Was he thinking about this Imelda to keep himself sane? Ernesto sure hoped so, as he hoped he would find the note he had slipped under his door. Miguel had said he’d make sure the other one would find its way in Imelda’s own room. Not precisely the brightest or most original of plans, getting them alone in the same place at night, but they had to start somewhere.

If those two liked each other as Miguel claimed they did, it might just work.

“... As a matter of fact, I never found any of you to be intellectually lacking compared to the white man, save a few exceptions,” the gringo was saying, so very magnanimously. “I do disagree with that school of thought. One cannot help the circumstances of one’s birth, but it is our duty to seek to elevate ourselves and help those less fortunate--”

Ernesto forced himself to let go of the fork. Anything could be turned into a weapon and he was Not Supposed to kill any more priests that week. Or ever, possibly. And well, it looked like he wasn’t the only one who was getting seriously fed up. A few steps away, Sister Sofía - or Sister Sophie, according to the gringo - was holding a frying pan in her hand, eyes shifting from it to Father John and then back again.

Ernesto smiled a bit, and that was when her gaze paused on him. She raised both eyebrows.

You can absolve me later, she mouthed, and Ernesto bit the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

“... What do you think, Father Ernest?” Father John’s grating voice caused him to recoil and look back to him… and at Héctor, who looked like he’d had his soul sucked out of his body.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’d like to join Padre Hector and me in the chapel for the evening prayer. Certainly that is not a good habit you have shed along with your Latin, is it?”

Ernesto’s eyes flickered behind him. Sister Sofía raised the frying pan, tilting her head in a mute question. It was funny enough to help him not lose his temper, and he managed to smile as though he meant it. “I would love to, but I prefer to say the evening prayer on my own,” he said. “After some private reflection.”

To his relief, he didn’t insist further; he just wished him and Sister Sophie a good night, and left along with a rather resigned-looking Héctor. Ernesto sighed and leaned back on the chair as soon as the door closed behind them. “God give me patience.”

“I’ve got something better,” Sister Sofía said, and within moments there was a bottle of mass wine on the table, plus a second glass. Ernesto raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “What Padre Juan doesn’t know cannot hurt him. As much as I would like to do that at times,” she quipped, pouring wine in his glass, and Ernesto barked out a laugh, taking it.

“Telling me you’d like to harm another member of the clergy, Sister?”

“You can absolve me later,” she smiled, and picked up her own glass. “He’s probably going to be a complete killjoy at Mass. A shame, that,” she added, and smiled, putting a hand on his arm. “I liked your take on it.”

Ernesto thought back of the moment when he’d thought he had seen her licking her lips while staring at him and wondered, suddenly, if that hadn’t been just his imagination after all.

“... I think I noticed,” he found himself saying, and her laughter as she lifted the glass - the glint in her eyes as she glanced at him as though he were a tasty morsel - confirmed his suspicion. He found he liked that thought; there was something flattering about it. She wasn’t that much to look at, short and thin as a twig in robes that were hardly meant to be flattering, but he hadn’t been with a woman for so, so long.

You have a cover to keep, no point in risking it. This is not the hill you want to die on, idiota.

But then again, a nun? She had all the more reasons to keep whatever may happen a secret, he thought as she brought the glass to her lips with a smile. Ernesto did the same and finally, as he gulped it down, the taste of bile in the back of his throat began to fade.

***

His old Bible was where John had left it, on the small table at his bedside.

Most of his few belongings had yet to be unpacked - he’d simply left them in the small room he’d been offered before Brother Hector had begun showing him around - and he would do that early the next morning. Now he was so tired, he wished for nothing but sleep. But not just yet; with his evening prayers uttered, there was one thing yet to do before he could rest.

First thing in the morning and last thing in the evening, so that you never forget.

There was a folded, worn-out letter marking the page he was looking for. He held it in one hand, careful not to crease it, and his eyes rested on the one passage he’d underlined, circled, and read so many times. And he read it again now, so he could never forget.

Then, he unfolded the letter. It wasn’t a much longer read than the passage; a few sentences that were like a slammed door. John read each word, folded the sheet of paper again, placed it back on the Bible, and closed it. He kissed its cover, put it down on the table and then - only then - did he reach up to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand.

It hurt. Twelve years, and it still hurt. Every morning and evening, until he could redeem himself; until he saved enough souls to be deserving of a second chance for his own.

So that you never forget.

***

Getting in the basement of the orphanage was… oddly easy.

It would have been easy either way, truth be told: Héctor had access to the keys of the small door that let to it from outside, and he had taken them before leaving the parish, but as it turned out it wasn’t needed. After going down the stone steps below the road level, he’d found the door was already open. That was… odd, but no odder than the note he had found in his room when he’d returned after the evening prayer with Father John.

Come at the orphanage’s basement at midnight. It is important. Tell no one.

It was written in uppercase, and he did not recognize the handwriting. He wondered if it may be from the same person who left Cheech the instructions about the weapons and supplies, but he had never seen what the writing in those looked like, so he wasn’t sure.

He’d show Cheech the note and ask the next day; now he had to focus on… whatever that was about.

Why me, though? Cheech is their man. I only helped him.

A good question, and with nothing anywhere close to an answer. That unnerved him more than the near-complete darkness in the basement; the candle he’d lit gave some light, but the deep shadows it cast only made the place more ominous. But he had been there before as a child, sometimes as punishment and sometimes just to get some time by himself, and he could walk through it with his eyes shut.

What unnerved him the most was the silence. There was no one aside for himself; all he could see was the heap of old furniture, wood to burn in winter, broken things and… what was that, in the back? Héctor moved towards the back of the room where, besides a few shelves with canned food, he could see what looked like a few crates covered with tarp.

Unlike all the rest, that wasn’t covered in dust; it looked out of place, and he wondered--

“Who’s there?”

“Eeek!” The less than dignified shriek left him just as he dropped the candle, which extinguished itself before it even touched the ground. Still, he was not left in darkness: when he turned he found himself facing someone else who was, too, holding a candle. “... Imelda?”

“Héctor?”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. She looked surprised, and beautiful in the flickering light of the candle, in that moment of stillness and silence as the world slept and it felt as though there was only the two of them awake. In an empty basement. Alone.

Bad, bad, bad. This is bad.

“I mean--” Héctor cleared his throat. “Sister Gisela,” he said, and she seemed relieved.

“Brother Héctor,” she greeted him back, and stood there as Héctor quickly went to pick up the candle. She held out her own to let him light it up again, and then took a couple of steps back. She was fully dressed in her robe and headdress, and he was wearing his cassock, but somehow the entire situation felt extraordinarily inappropriate. “What are you doing here? This time of the night?” she asked, her voice cautious.

Not knowing how much he could or should tell her, Héctor could have asked the same - but before he could utter a single word there was light, stronger than that cast by their candles, and a man’s voice rang out. “Well, this is more crowded than I was expecting.”

They both winced and turned to see that they were no longer alone. A few steps from them there were a few men, all of them armed. The closest one, carrying an oil lamp, chuckled.

“Well, look at that,” he said, and smiled with a mouth full of crooked teeth before gesturing for the men to lower their guns. “It’s you. Nice to finally meet you in person, amigos,” he added, and Héctor knew he wasn’t going to die that night.

Well, that was turning out to be a really odd night.

***

Imelda had known something was off the moment she had found the note in her room, clearly slipped in beneath the door, telling her to go down in the basement at midnight and tell no one. She’d figured right away it had to have something to do with the weapons she was keeping there, of course - what else could it be about? - but it was also very, very odd.

Her presence had never been required or requested when it was time for the revolutionaries to come and collect them and, most of all, the note itself was different: the handwriting was different, or at least so it seemed to her. It was hard to tell, since this one was in uppercase and none of the others had been.

It unnerved her, and she wished she could tell Sofía about it, but it was not an option that evening: she was away, taking care of the parish and, if she got her way, of the priest as well. Granted, now that a gringo had gotten there, Padre Ernesto was no longer the one Imelda was most interested in knowing about. While an outsider, and clearly not a very conventional priest, at least Padre Ernesto wasn’t a foreigner. An American’s presence there of all places made little sense, and Imelda didn’t like that. Something was up with that man, she could tell.

Maybe, she’d thought, that was the reason why someone wanted to speak to her, and she’d gone down in the basement at midnight, walking through empty and silent halls, not quite knowing what she would find.

Admittedly, Héctor - Brother Héctor - was not among the various options she’d imagined.

"Well, this is awkward, huh? You guys weren't really meant to meet. Safer for everyone if each of you knows as little as possible," the man with the oil lamp - José, he’d called himself, but Imelda suspected that was not his real name - said with another smile as his companions quickly took the weapons and loaded on a small cart they had left outside.

“You…?” both Imelda and Héctor exclaimed, looking at each other and then falling silent.

Imelda was at a loss for words. All of those notes, all along, it had been Héctor of all people? Unaware of the fact Héctor was thinking exactly the same thing - all of those nose, all along, it had been Imelda? - she turned away, Sofía’s words echoing in the back of her mind.

Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for.

“Still, what’s done is done. Thanks for the help,” José was adding, thankfully unaware of her thoughts. “The army is still stretched pretty thin, but some of them are getting closer. We’ll send most of these to our friends up north, but will keep a few as well. Just in case.”

That caused Héctor to stop staring at her with his mouth agape and frown. “Do you think they’ll get to Santa Cecilia? Again?” he asked. The mere thought was enough to make Imelda feel cold; last time the army had been there they had taken men, and they had been able to hide away the boys. Next time, they may not be so lucky; orphans were very convenient in war. No one would fight to keep them… or so the Federales seemed to think.

“Maybe we should keep a few rifles,” Imelda spoke up, causing Héctor to wince and José to raise an eyebrow. “In case they come for the children.”

The man barked out a laugh. “Hah! I like the way you think, Sister, but not to worry. If you’re ever in trouble, we will know. And we will fight,” he promised, then he tilted his head. “So. What is this I heard about a gringo in town… ?”

As Héctor filled him in with what he knew about Father John - which was not much, truth be told, but he seemed to think he was relatively inoffensive, if annoying - and promised to keep an eye on him, Imelda found herself staring at him more intensely than she had in years. In the sharp light of the oil lamp he looked, for the first time, more like a man - a world away from the boy she thought she’d known.

Something was going on, something much bigger than either of them, and they were in it together.

***

[Back to Part 3]

[On to Part 5]

#pixar coco #miguel rivera #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco #fake priest au

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hollenka99 · 6 years

Text

Relating to Things

Okay, now that Dublin has seen the show and the How Did We Get Here Tour is officially over, I want to talk about some stuff I related to.

Just a heads up: It's mostly about being Catholic.

Seán talked about being the youngest in his family. For him, that meant being the youngest of 5 children. For me, that meant being the youngest member of my extended family. My dad's an only child (as am I) while my mum has a brother who is 7 years older. Mum's side of the family all live in Poland. My cousins are also 13-15 years older than me. Everyone sees me as the child and now that I'm 19, it's getting incredibly frustrating. I know I was my mum's parents' favourite grandchild simply because I was the baby of the family and I actually visited them.

I also understand everyone knowing who you are. A couple months before my 5th birthday, we moved to the village we still live in. My hair was way curlier back then so all these elderly women would stop us in the street to comment about it. None more so than the other members of our church. Everyone there knows me. They've watched me grow up, from the 5 year old who got so bored once she danced to a hymn next to our pew, to the person I am today. They were all there for my first holy communion and one woman tried to give me £50 as a confirmation gift last year. My dad's an atheist so it was Mum who raised me in the faith and went to church with me. We are literally Holly and Holly's Mum. Occasionally, we might be Holly and [Horribly Butchered Pronunciation of Her Polish Name]. The point still stands, I am basically the child of the congregation because barely any kids are Catholic in my village.

I wasn't an altar girl. However, around the time I was 8 and preparing for my first holy communion, I started bringing up the bread or wine during the offertory. After 10 years of doing it, I subconsciously judge people who speed off before I can tell them to wait for our priest to get into position because I know how to do it, damn it. Yeah, I might silently be an asshole. Let's forget about the time where I walked off prematurely because I misinterpreted a cue. That was just one time. It certainly wasn't super awkward when I sat down and realised my mistake.

Being brought up in the faith also meant certain traditions. The thing is, I didn't just grow up Catholic. I grew up a half-Polish Catholic. The Polish are equally as devout as the Irish. My babcia attended mass everyday until her stroke in 2016. She still tried to go for the service on Sunday until her death in January. One of the things I grew up with was not eating meat on Fridays. It makes sense; Jesus died on a Friday so we have Friday abstinence as a mark of respect. I never really questioned it, I just spent every Friday being a pescatarian. One Friday when I was 9, my school did some pizza day and I forgot what day of the week it was. When I told my mum about it on the way home, she made me realise my mistake. Despite my mother insisting it was only a sin if deliberate, I didn't forgive myself for like a week. The people running the local Christian kids' group were all from the Church of England, pretty much all the kids were too. So I assumed it was a Catholic thing. But nobody in my parish knew what I was talking about. A Polish thing then? No, they're moving away from it as well. It didn't occur to me how strange 'No meat on Fridays' must sound as a rule until I was 14/15. That's when I even began wondering why we did it all because I'd followed it blindly since birth. It's not exactly flaming pitchforks on New Year's Eve but it was definitely something nobody outside of my family could relate to.

It was just cool to hear @therealjacksepticeye talk about being Catholic, even briefly. 90% of my parish is over the age of 60 with the other 9.9% being adults. None of the kids outside the children's church group appeared to be religious either. Being Catholic seemed to be the thing that separated me from everyone else. So thanks for being relatable, I guess?

(Honestly, I'm surprised you questioned the existence of God and Jesus when Jesus Christ literally saved you in an embarrassing situation).

Your show was amazing. I'm glad I was able see it. I hope you had much fun performing as we did watching. Looking forward to the next big thing you take part in.

#hdwgh tour #how did we get here tour #jacksepticeye #catholicism #catholic #growing up catholic #friday abstinence #relating to stuff

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skystonedclouds · 6 years

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why do you believe in God?

Dear Anon,

I was raised in an “atheist style” that is my parents never forced a belief on me. My mother was a closeted catholic and my father agnostic atheist. They agreed to raise me “neutrally”. They also kind of raised me morally neutral so I was a bit sociopathic. I was not taught much of right from wrong just what pleased my parents. I was disciplined if I did a good thing just if they did not like it.

I kind of always believed in a “sort of God”. By that I mean I would have considered advanced aliens as “God like”. Had they been benevolent they being able to tap into all our technology they may be able to play the role of a God. That is they may take pity on people. In that sense defining God would be more vague like “advanced omniscient-like being with superior morals”.

I started begging my mother to take me to church. I mean if there was something to be known about God that He wanted to be spread. Then some major group would probably know about it because He would ensure it.

I would leave feeling like I learned nothing. I either did not understand or she chose churches that didn’t talk about the gospel. I mean in my adulthood when we did a church exchange she took me to a church where they just read “inspiring quotes”. I was angry that I knew nothing about God.

I prayed “God. Everything has a family. Every bacteria, every plant, every animal and every human. I want to know one thing about you. I would settle to even just that you have a family. It could even just be a son even if they died”. Noticing everything in creation has a family should reflect on God. A family to love says a lot about character. I then went on to be a satanist in part to provoke God.

In my life I had developed depression for many reasons. I was just about to give my life to the devil officially when right before I did I learned about Christ. I learned God had a family that is a son. I saw all the evil I had done in my life only I was not saved. I was not born again because I thought I had to earn God’s favor. I felt I had to somehow be self righteous enough.

No one loved me. All I ever wanted was to be loved. In my growing depression many times I would ask Christ “Do you love me? If you love me do this miracle for me”. I was so depressed if one miracle was not done I would have killed myself. I would have been sure no one loved me so I was just a burden. I didn’t ask for proof of God rather I asked for proof of love.

Miracles.

One: In 2013 I prayed for the power outage at the Superbowl the day before the Superbowl. It happened actually to my surprised. I went in thinking “for sure this will not happen and I can see there is no loving God”.

Two: In 2017 I prayed a friend would get rest from them working two jobs. I prayed for them then they ended up getting a vacation without asking able to go sky gazing on the hills the night of the eclipse. It is even more incredible because they did not want a vacation. In the end they ended up enjoying it.

Three: Many times I prayed for rest from school for myself getting snow storms. In some cases they would not even cancel school unless the entire province had a snow storm. I asked the teacher the probability of a day off and he laughed because it never happened before. It was shocking when it happened.

In a February I was talking to my brother where he expressed doubts. He said “I prayed and for a snow storm for a day off and nothing happened all winter”. I said “God is loving like a father. A father that loves can wait for a special day to make it super special. He is just waiting for your birthday!”. I wrote this down in an email I sent to my friend about how I told my brother that there is a loving God. A God who is just waiting for a special day because he’s not a genie but a loving person. A loved one surprises you on your birthday as a good father. My brother’s birthday is in April which is spring. His birthday roles by then he wakes up in the morning and there is a huge snow storm. It was so big flights were cancelled. My brother said “How could this happen? Didn’t we talk about this?”. I said “Yes! I have proof in this email I sent to a friend back in February”.

Four: I heard someone lost their ring which meant a lot to them while at school. I heard all her friends swear she had in on in the morning. I prayed it be returned to her. I find out she found the ring on her bed neatly placed there. In confusion she asked her family if they had neatly placed her ring there for her when she lost it. It made no sense to her when they all denied ever even touching her ring.

Five: I prayed for child abuse to be exposed and punished. Then the 1000+ child grooming scandal in Europe was exposed. The people were punished.

Doubts.

This was all great and helped me keep going. I kept living knowing there was a loving God. A loving God is important not just for me but everyone. I then one day thought “What if it’s all in my head?”. I know there was so many miracles over years that I bet my life on some really strange. I just didn’t want to be “that person”. I decided the only way to know for sure there is a loving God was to kill myself. I would be dead in hell for all the evil I had done which I could never shed. I would pay for all the times I was unloving an cruel. All the while knowing there is someone who has loved us all.

I wanted to be dead if there is no God to escape. I wanted to be dead if there was a God to know we are loved. Knowing there is a benevolent force of love in the universe is all that I needed to be happy.

I tried to kill myself and failed. I wrote a will down then I slashed my wrists vertically over and over again waiting in the shower for hours. I saw my wrists heal immediately. I was a cutter so I sliced my ankles and they bled out all over. I tried my wrists again there was blood but then it seal up with he blood going back into my body. I was either experiencing a miracle or I was really bad at this even though I had been cutting myself for years.

I said “God you have not stopped me. I will try again every day from now”. I woke up the next day with one goal. I wanted to die. I was on my way to kill myself when I met someone. I did not know them at all and they said “Do not harm yourself angel”. I had no scars showing, I did not even speak to them and no one knew I had depression. It made no sense so I decided to give them the time of day. I spoke to them and they gave me their number. I asked them how they knew I was depressed and suicidal. In their response they just said “I could tell by your reservation” which literally made no sense since I never talked to them. They talked me out of killing myself. I felt like it was a message from God.

Faith.

I then idolized them man because I thought I found love. He became my boyfriend. I was disillusioned when he left me for dead. I could have died and his excuse was “I was too weak to be worthy of respect”. I then saw the one person who never betrayed me was God. He always stood by me patiently even letting me run off with an idol to sin just to save me life. God let me have an idol sinning just so I could live another day. That’s “if you love them let them go”. God really loved me and he proved it. He always gave me just what I needed to feel loved. I didn’t need perfect circumstances just perfect love. I wouldn’t mind losing everything for love.

I then put my faith in God. I saw salvation was a free gift of love from the debts paid on the cross. I know it’s pretty easy when He already showed He loved me. I had faith that He would always love me and do the best for me even if I don’t understand. I recover from depression seeing everything with new hope. I didn’t have to know everything just know that there is a force of love.

I was then born again. I felt the power of the Holy Spirit. I could finally break the chains of the past life of sin. I could live “dying to self”. I was really free even through the process of sanctification I became more free.

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Reasons.

There are other reasons I believe. Comparative reasons. Historical reasons. Moral reasons. I didn’t use to like the moral reason until I saw this apologetic..

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Most importantly… The love reason.

1 John 4:8 He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.

I know they say “God is love” all cliche. It is only in the bible not the Quran, not the Hadiths, not the Torah, not the Talmud, not the Vedas. God is a personal God in the bible who is love. He is more than just someone to worship he’s an interactive relational being. It’s not just about books of someone who knew someone who knew God. It’s about knowing God personally.

I know one might say “but you don’t need God to love there is empathy in us”. I saw a testimony of a sociopath convert who killed his own father. He has no empathy. In prison he met a Christian who annoyed him so he picked on him. Then one day he found God. Now he is law abiding and following Christ. He forsook his past evils to be born again.

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Conclusion.

This post is mostly personal I know. It has some reasons that are objective. I am not sure if you wanted me to give you some kind of like “hook”. I made a side blog where I cultivate all the accumulative small reasons I find to believe in God. None on their own mean much just as it grows can become more and more convincing.

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/eternalloveheart

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