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hieromonkcharbel · 3 years ago

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Diverting a bit from my approach to the writings of the Philokalia, I wish to put forward a few thoughts about how we often think about illness in our lives and how the Holy Fathers offer us fresh insight into the mystery of evil, sin, illness and their place in our struggle for holiness.

Often, when we are young, we do not think much about physical illness and the spiritual life. Life passes quickly as we are fully engaged in our work, studies and ministry and many of us rarely struggle with ill health except for the occasional flu or cold. But when illness does strike, in one form or another, suddenly our busy and “productive” lives can be disrupted and we are forced, as it were, to reconsider a great deal of things; not merely the meaning of health, that we have perhaps taken for granted, but the nature of our relationship with God, the depth of our faith or lack thereof, the meaning of suffering and how to engage it and not to become discourage even when we have been completely humbled by the burden of our physical and emotional vulnerabilities. When such circumstances arise, we are often unprepared for the trial - never imagining or wanting to think about the possibility of such a cross - a cross the comes to most all of us at some point. When illness plunges us into unfamiliar territory, even to the point of death, what place does it have within our struggle toward holiness? How do we pray when prayer seems impossible and when it feels as though our heart has been turned to stone? Where do we find our hope and with what faith must we enter the mystery of illness and suffering in order to know the healing touch of Christ, the Physician of our souls and bodies?

I offer for your consideration today brief excerpts from “The Holy Fathers on Illness” compiled by Bishop Alexander Mileant; in particular those thoughts from the Fathers on “Illness and Work of Perfection”. Their words offer some perspective on sickness and redemptive suffering as a means of glorifying God. There is much to say certainly about the meaning and origins of illness well beyond the purview of a simple post, but the Fathers show us in word and deed that it can be and often is a privileged way of holiness. Through thankfulness, endurance, and patience one can realize the highest form of ascetic practice and follow a spiritual path to intimacy with God. At such moments, one may exhibit no extraordinary virtue other than to suffer illness and its poverty with patience and so have this as one’s path to salvation. Thus, the Fathers’ words are full of hope and challenge:

“The desert ascetic Father, St. Abba Dorotheus, exhorts his disciples to "take the trouble to find out where you are: whether you have left your own town but remain just outside the gates, by the garbage dump, or whether you have gone ahead little or much, or whether you are half way on your journey, or whether you have gone two miles, then come back two miles, or perhaps even five miles, or whether you have journeyed as far as the Holy City and entered into Jerusalem itself, or whether you have remained outside and are unable to enter" (On Vigilance and Sobriety).

Illness helps us to see "where we are" on life's road: "sickness is a lesson from God and serves to help us in our progress if we give thanks to Him" (Sts. Barsanuphius and John, Philokalia).

No one may use illness as an excuse for resting from the labor of spiritual living. "Perhaps some might think that illness and bodily weakness hinder the work of perfection since the works and accomplishments of one's hands cannot continue. But it is not a hindrance" (St. Ambrose, Jacob and the Happy Life).

In the life of Riassophore-monk John, latter-day disciple of St. Nilus of Sora, we see how bodily infirmity is not allowed to interrupt the struggle for salvation. Riassophore-monk John was a cripple; because of this he had been compelled to leave the Monastery of St. Cyril of New Lake. Feeling sorry for himself, he shortly afterwards was standing for an all-night vigil in the deep of winter. "Suddenly he saw an unknown Elder in schema come out of the altar to him and say: 'Well, apparently you do not wish to serve me. If so, return to St. Cyril.

"At these words, the Elder struck him with his right hand quite strongly on the shoulder. Noting that the Elder exactly resembled St. Nilus as he is depicted on the icon over his relics, John was filled with great joy, all his grief disappeared, and he firmly resolved to spend the rest of his life in the Saint's skete" (The Northern Thebaid).

Even if we are bedridden, we are to continue the struggle against the passions, producing fruits worthy of repentance. This work of perfection demands that we acquire patience and longsuffering. What better way to do this than when we lie on a bed of infirmity? St. Tikhon of Zadonsk says that in suffering we can find out whether our faith is living or just "theoretical." The test of true faith is patience in the midst of sufferings, for "patience is the Christian's coat of arms." "What is it to follow Christ?" he asks. It is "to endure all things, looking upon Christ Who suffered. Many wish to be glorified with Christ, but few seek to remain with the suffering Christ. Yet not merely by tribulation, but even in much tribulation does one enter the Kingdom of God."

To those who suppose that they can only progress in the spiritual life when all else is "well," St. John Cassian replies, "You should not think that you can find virtue when you are not irritated — for it is not in your power to prevent troubles from happening. Rather, you should look for patience as the result of your own humility and longsuffering, for patience does depend upon your own will" {Institutes). Towards the end of his life, St. Seraphim of Sarov suffered from open ulcers on his legs. "Yet," as his Life tells us, "in appearance he was always bright and cheerful, for in spirit he felt that heavenly peace and joy which are the riches of the glorious inheritance of the saints."

"You are stricken by this sickness," the Holy Fathers say, "so that you will not depart barren to God. If you can endure, and give thanks to God, this sickness will be accounted to you as a spiritual work" (Sts. Barsanouphius and John, Philokalia).

Bishop Theophan the Recluse explains: "Enduring unpleasant things cheerfully, you approach a little to the martyrs. But if you complain, you will not only lose your share with the martyrs, but will be responsible for complaining besides. Therefore, be cheerful!"

In order not to lose heart when we fall sick we are to think about and mentally "kiss the sufferings of our Savior just as though we were with Him while He suffers abuses, wounds, humiliations...shame, the pain of the nails, the piercing with the lance, the flow of water and blood. From this we will receive consolation in our sickness. Our Lord will not let these efforts go unrewarded " (St. Tikhon of Zadonsk).

The patience we can learn on a sickbed cannot be overemphasized. Elder Macarius of Optina wrote about this to one who was ill:

"I was much pleased to hear from your relation how bravely you are bearing the cruel scourge of your heavy sickness. Verily, as the man of the flesh perishes, so is the spiritual man renewed."

And to another he wrote: "Praised be the Lord that you accept your illness so meekly! The bearing of sickness with patience and gratitude is reckoned highly by Him Who often rewards sufferers with His imperishable gifts.

"Ponder these words: Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed."

St. Ambrose of Milan compared an infirm body to a broken musical instrument. He explained how the "musician" can still produce God-pleasing "music" without his instrument:

"If a man used to singing to the accompaniment of a harp finds the harp broken, and its strings undone...he puts it aside and instead of calling for its notes he delights himself with his own voice.

"In the same way, a sick man allows the harp of his body to lie unused. He finds delight within his heart and comfort in the knowledge that his conscience is clear. He sustains himself with God's words and the prophetic writings and, holding these sweet and pleasant in his soul, he embraces them with his mind. Nothing can happen to him because God's graceful presence breathes favor upon him....He is filled with spiritual tranquility" (Jacob and the Happy Life).

Quite often the most God-pleasing spiritual "music" of all is produced in anonymity, by unknown or nearly-unknown saints. But such holy "melodies" are all the more sweet because they are heard by God alone. One such modern sufferer who lived an angel-like life in spite of advanced and terrible sickness was the holy New Russian Martyr, Mother Maria of Gatchina. Her story is known to us only because it pleased God to providentially arrange for one of her visitors, Professor I. M. Andreyev, to record his memories of her.

Mother Maria suffered from encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) and Parkinson's disease. "Her whole body became as it were chained and immovable, her face anemic and like a mask; she could speak, but she began to talk with half-closed mouth, through her teeth, pronouncing slowly and in a monotone. She was a total invalid and was in constant need of help and careful looking after. Usually this disease proceeds with sharp psychological changes, as a result of which such patients often ended up in psychiatric hospitals. But Mother Maria, being a total physical invalid, not only did not degenerate psychically, but revealed completely extraordinary features of personality and character not characteristic of such patients: she became extremely meek, humble, submissive, undemanding, concentrated in herself; she became engrossed in constant prayer, bearing her difficult condition without the least murmuring.

"As if as a reward for this humility and patience, the Lord sent her a gift: consolation of the sorrowing. Completely strange and unknown people, finding themselves in sorrows, grief, depression, and despondency, began to visit her and converse with her. And everyone who came to her left consoled, feeling an illumination of their grief, a pacifying of sorrow, a calming of fears, a taking away of depression and despondency" (The Orthodox Word, vol. 13, no. 3).

"Thus God has acted. Like a provident Father and not like a kidnapper has He first involved us in grievous things, giving us over to tribulation as it were to schoolmasters and teachers, so that being chastened and sobered by these things we may, after showing forth all patience and learning, all right discipline, inherit the Kingdom of Heaven" (St. John Chrysostom, Homily 18, On the Statues).”

Excerpts taken from:

Missionary Leaflet # EA30

466 Foothill Blvd, Box 397, La Canada, Ca 91011

Editor: Bishop Alexander (Mileant)

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walkswithmyfather · 4 years ago

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[Holy Week: “Pause. Ponder. Pray.” YouVersion Devotional Day Five]

“And they went out to a place called Golgotha (which means “Place of the Skull”). The soldiers gave Jesus wine mixed with bitter gall, but when he had tasted it, he refused to drink it. After they had nailed him to the cross, the soldiers gambled for his clothes by throwing dice. Then they sat around and kept guard as he hung there. A sign was fastened above Jesus’ head, announcing the charge against him. It read: “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews.” Two revolutionaries were crucified with him, one on his right and one on his left. The people passing by shouted abuse, shaking their heads in mockery. “Look at you now!” they yelled at him. “You said you were going to destroy the Temple and rebuild it in three days. Well then, if you are the Son of God, save yourself and come down from the cross!” The leading priests, the teachers of religious law, and the elders also mocked Jesus. “He saved others,” they scoffed, “but he can’t save himself! So he is the King of Israel, is he? Let him come down from the cross right now, and we will believe in him! He trusted God, so let God rescue him now if he wants him! For he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” Even the revolutionaries who were crucified with him ridiculed him in the same way. At noon, darkness fell across the whole land until three o’clock. At about three o’clock, Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” which means “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?” Some of the bystanders misunderstood and thought he was calling for the prophet Elijah. One of them ran and filled a sponge with sour wine, holding it up to him on a reed stick so he could drink. But the rest said, “Wait! Let’s see whether Elijah comes to save him.” Then Jesus shouted out again, and he released his spirit. At that moment the curtain in the sanctuary of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, rocks split apart, and tombs opened. The bodies of many godly men and women who had died were raised from the dead. They left the cemetery after Jesus’ resurrection, went into the holy city of Jerusalem, and appeared to many people. The Roman officer and the other soldiers at the crucifixion were terrified by the earthquake and all that had happened. They said, “This man truly was the Son of God!” Matthew 27:33‭-‬54 (NLT)

“For God made Christ, who never sinned, to be the offering for our sin, so that we could be made right with God through Christ.” 2 Corinthians 5:21 (NLT)

“PAUSE. Dear Rescued One, pause for a moment, something too fantastic to invent, something so incredibly God. The Creator of All in the womb of a woman, conceived by the Holy Spirit. The King of kings, Lord of lords, Almighty God was born of a woman, laid in a manger, walked in our shoes, lived a perfect life, and died in our place.

He overcame sin, death, and despair and in exchange gave us His righteousness, His hope, and His grace. Let us be humbled by this amazing love and mercy in light of our terrible sin and rebellion. Let us be compelled by this amazing compassion in view of our tremendous weakness and frailty.

PONDER. TAKE THE TRUTH TO HEART. Moment by moment may we thank Jesus for Calvary. May we love Him with of our lives exalting Him above all. May we be more than willing to put our flesh to death and live for Him. In deepness of gratitude may we joyfully and faithfully fix our eyes upon Him and pick up and carry our cross in the power of His grace. As a result, may others see their Savior, look to Calvary's cross for their redemption, and receive His righteousness, His hope, and His grace!

PRAY. Lord Jesus, I thank you for dying for us for taking our sin and the penalty it deserved so that we might live.I praise you for your great mercy and your wonderful, extravagant grace! Where would I be without you? Help me live each day with this in mind. Help me be full of grace and gratitude. In your name I pray, Amen.”

#Matthew 27:33‭-‬54 #2 Corinthians 5:21 #crucifixion #Jesus #cross #forgiveness of sin #holy week #bible #bibletranslations #biblequotes #christian blog #prayer #god #jesus #youversiondevotional #youversion

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 4 years ago

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TITLE: Healing Wounds

A/N: Songsty (soft and angsty) Ichabbie fic borne out of a little hurt/comfort.

"Is it still bleeding?" Ichabod slowly pulled the gauze pad she'd given him from the glove box away from his head and eyed the pool of red it'd soaked up. "Significantly less now, but yes." He pressed the gauze back against the deep gash along his hairline and sucked air in through his teeth at the sharp pain. Abbie glanced in her rearview mirror, half expecting to see the demon who'd nearly bested them following, regardless of the fact they'd sent it screaming back to hell. Instead she saw only inky blackness. Still, visions of the demon scratched at her brain: an ugly, horrid, horned beast of a thing, similar to Moloch in size, ferociousness, and power. And it'd used that power to nearly choke Crane to death. Until, armed with the weapons Jenny had discovered would kill it, she'd stabbed it with a wooden shard made from a cross around the time of Christ and flung salt blessed by a priest on it. At which point the demon had screamed in agony, threw Crane with all of its might, and nearly imploded in a burst of brilliant light. She'd run to him then, her unmoving partner whose head had collided with an old brick wall delineating the property they fought on. Her heart in her throat but breathing his name all the same, she gently eased him onto his back, afraid the light had left his eyes. He blinked rapidly, stunned, and she started breathing again, tears stinging her eyes as she felt the rise and fall of his chest where her hand lay upon him. If she'd lost him...no, she couldn't think about that, needed to check his injuries and see for herself he was alright. She shook the minutes-old memory from her mind and focused on the road in front of her. "We're almost home," she stated unnecessarily, trying to ease any worry he felt, to calm herself. A few minutes later, she swung the car into the driveway and bolted out, meeting Ichabod near the front bumper and holding on to his arm as she assisted him inside. He appeared to have all his faculties, but the wobbling he'd done for the first minute after taking that hit to the head had her worried. "Sit here," she commanded, patting one of the stools at the breakfast bar on her way to the freezer. He complied without comment, head pounding too hard to calm her nerves—or his own—though he managed to keep a neutral look on his face. He'd seen the worry on her since she'd rolled him onto his back after that hell monster had thrown him, and it hadn't left her since. He could feel Abbie's concern, felt the tension in her the whole ride home, watched her fingers absently tap the steering wheel to some silent tune of agitation.

He couldn't fault her: it'd been his fear for her safety that'd put him in the grips of that demon to begin with. The thought of her small body, fierce though it may be, in the hands of the horrid monster had compelled him to forfeit their plan and go rogue. He felt no regret though; a concussion was a small price to pay to protect her, to ensure her safety. Abbie grabbed an ice pack from the freezer and pressed it into his hand before heading down the hallway to grab the first aid kit. By the time she returned, Ichabod had removed his coat and thrown it over the back of the couch and now held the ice pack over the gauze.

She set the kit on the breakfast bar and held her hand out to him. "I'm gonna get you some water so you can take these," she explained as she dropped Tylenol into his open palm. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he intoned gratefully, if wearily. Abbie handed him a bottle of water from the fridge, then flung open the first aid kit and rifled through it until she found the needle and medical thread. She laid them out on a kitchen towel, along with gauze, cotton balls, bandages, antiseptic, and medical tape. "How you doing, Crane?" she asked him lightly after he'd swallowed the medicine, her voice betraying the fear she felt at how quiet he'd stayed since taking the hit to the head. He smiled reassuringly at her. "I'm still alive, which is a vast improvement over other battles I've experienced." She eyed him warily, her head tilted in consternation. "A tad woozy," he admitted sheepishly. "And my head is pounding." "The Tylenol will help with that, but let's take a look." He gently removed the ice pack and the gauze, and he breathed in deeply, steeling himself as Abbie stepped in close to him. Heat radiated from her—or was that him?—and he welcomed her proximity, the feel of her soft hands and gentle touch on his brow. He never took hits purposefully, but her ministrations almost made it worthwhile. Even now, with a harsh blow to the head, her fingertips pushing his hair away from his face sent shivers running through him. Abbie pushed her fear aside and inspected his head, the ache in her heart easing slightly now that she could doctor his wound in the safety of their home. The two-plus inch gash looked angry and deep but had nearly stopped bleeding. "It needs a few stitches," she mumbled, more to herself than to him, forcing herself to stay on task and her emotions down. "But...it should be fine." She could feel him watching her carefully, intensely, but she avoided his gaze, not wanting him to see how much their scuffle with the demon, how watching him go airborne only to land head-first into a wall, had shaken her. It was a wonder he hadn’t broken his neck. She got to work cleaning the wound, dabbing at it with an antiseptic-soaked cotton ball as gently as possible. She could see him holding his breath against the pain, though he only let a few, nearly imperceptible moans escape. Each one stabbed at her heart though, and she forced herself to concentrate harder on the wound and less on the man. Ichabod tried to keep his breathing steady as she stitched him up, and he made his mind focus on each inhale and exhale instead of the pain. Not to mention her hands on him, her body only inches from him, the tension emanating off of her. There'd be hell to pay later for his wayward actions in the woods tonight. He didn't relish the thought but couldn't help feeling grateful he was still around for Abbie to reprimand. And she would, he acknowledged to himself in adoration of her. She'd glare and scold and sound fierce and fiery, and he'd apologize—and mean it. He'd stood on the other side of a plan when someone had gone rogue and knew the righteous anger that accompanied that.—while admiring her spirit and strength and fortitude of character. Which she was currently exhibiting: keenly focused, strong as steel, gentle as silk. Right now he was the task at hand, and he felt most grateful, much preferring her doctoring over an emergency room technician’s. Her fingertips skimmed his brow line, feathered through his hair, and his eyes dropped closed for a moment at the sensation. Abbie tied off the stitches and covered the gash with gauze, taping it to his forehead. She eyed her handiwork, estimating he may have a faint scar but hoping this latest fight wouldn't mar him. "It's gonna be painful for a while, but I think it should heal nicely. Hopefully without a scar." He remained silent, unsure what to say, too many emotions roiling inside of him. The adrenaline of another fight, fear for her safety, then for his own, relief they’d survived, sheepishness at having made the fight more difficult for her, the pain flooding him, her agitation and solemnity, her proximity, her touch, everything about her filling his senses…he felt drained and emotionally raw, a bad combination to keep himself under control. "You okay?" she asked, her brow wrinkled with quiet concern. She stood next to him, in his space, closer than normal—not nearly close enough if he had his say. But he didn't, and now wasn't the time, no matter how much he desired her. He wanted to reach out and wipe the worry from her face, to assure her that everything would be fine, so long as she stayed right here with him, kept stroking his brow, playing with his hair, breathing against his skin. Instead, he gave her a reassuring half-smile. “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant.” Abbie eyed him curiously, wondering at the strange expression on his face, the far-off look in his eyes, but she let him have his secrets for the time being. They had enough to discuss after tonight's deviation from their plan, but it could wait until tomorrow. Right now he needed to rest, and though it wouldn't be his inclination, she meant to ensure he got it. She nodded once. "You need a little more ice and then some rest." He needed more than that, but he kept his thoughts and comments to himself. Grabbing the ice pack off the breakfast bar, he stood and instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness came over him. He reached for the counter, dropping the ice as the world slowly set itself right. Abbie watched him wobble and instinctively reached to help steady him, one hand gripping his forearm, the other landing flat against his chest. "Woah," she said softly, staring up at him, trying to decipher from his expression whether he could stand on his own two feet or not. She attempted a small smile of encouragement, but she felt more distressed than reassuring at the moment.

She wasn’t ignorant of the dangers of head wounds and wondered if she should’ve taken him to the ER instead of handling it herself. He’d have resisted, but she could have persuaded him—and if not, she’d been driving; she could’ve made him go.

The fear gripping her insides squeezed relentlessly. If she lost him, she couldn't be sure she'd continue this fight. Not after losing Corbin, her mother, Frank, and Joe to it. She couldn't add another casualty—couldn’t add him—to the tragic roster of failures. And especially not without him knowing how she felt. And what do I feel? she wondered, eyes locked on the man standing before her, filling her vision. Was it simple affection that left her smiling at his quirks and historical rants and funny descriptions of modern day appliances? Was it attraction that made her stare a bit too long into those baby blues when he got revved up retelling colonial stories or caused her eyes to roam his fine features—long, lean, strong hands, hair you could run your fingers through, wide shoulders, toned arms that encircled her comfortingly—when he wasn't looking? Was it mere friendship that made her want to spend more hours than she rightly should learning more and more about him, about his previous life, his hopes for one beyond this infernal apocalypse, all the facets of him and his mind and his heart that they hadn't had time to explore yet?

No, it was something more, something she feared putting a name to. And right now she didn’t have to; she just needed to make sure he survived this latest wound.

She shook away her thoughts. "Take it slow," she advised as she pushed his hair back once more to check the bandage on his head. Ichabod had nearly collapsed, and yet all his senses remained attuned to Abbie standing mere inches from him, her hands upon him, the faint scent of her lotion teasing his nostrils. He'd caught her furtive glances, her emotions on edge, both of them coming down from the high of battle to the realization of the aftermath. But this felt different. Abbie's movements were taut and precise, more clinical than normal and cool in their familiarity. Until now. Now he felt her hands on him, her breath against his chest, her gaze burning his skin, the air between them charged, morphing into something altogether heavy and heated. She was a live wire, and he couldn't help but touch her. Her hand against his heartbeat and her fingers in his hair again sent his pulse racing, and his hand came to rest over hers where it lay against his chest. She avoided his eyes—had since they'd sent the demon back where it belonged, he calculated—as her gaze followed her hand, which trailed down a lock of his hair to his jaw. Her fingers caressed down the side of his beard until they dropped to his collarbone, sliding along it until they dipped into the hollow of his throat. He swallowed hard, her exploration sending both shivers and heat racing through him. Could she not see what she was doing to him? Did she not know the depth of his attraction to her, the swell of desire she elicited, his yearning to be with her? Apparently not since her fingertips continued their study of him, teasingly snaking along his chest where his shirt lay open, the drawstrings having come undone sometime during the demon fight. Only when she reached the v-point of his shirt did she lay her palm flat against his breastbone and finally, finally look at him. What he saw in her eyes sent his head swimming: bright brown pools of desire and aching need coupled with fear. He felt dizzy again, and this time it had nothing to do with his head and everything to do with the woman before him invading his heart. Her touch sent his blood boiling, left his knees weak, and he slowly sat down again, putting them nearly at eye-level. Abbie didn't know what’d come over her, what made her cross the unwritten boundary line that'd always kept them professional and friendly, even if at times they became flirty or intensely heady. Didn't know what’d possessed her to trace that tempting patch of bare skin that taunted her every day, wondering what it'd feel like to touch him. She feared she’d made a mistake, and an icy-hot sensation flooded her. It wasn’t enough that she worried about his safety; now she worried she’d destroyed their partnership with her wayward hands and inappropriate thoughts, and she wilted inside.

She could handle rejection and embarrassment—though God knew the humiliation would sicken her—and courageously face any demon or monster to protect the world, but she couldn’t bear the idea of her actions changing their dynamic, the way they worked and communicated and played off of each other on a daily basis. She still wanted him around to cause her headaches and irritation and laughter and companionship...and now maybe more? His skin, warm to the touch, made her crave more, and she gazed up at him. Fire burned in his eyes, making her heart pound, and when he dropped to the bar stool again, she wanted nothing more than to move against him, press into him, feel the length of his body warm and hard against her. She saw his eyes drop to her mouth for a second, causing her stomach to dance somersaults, and she unconsciously licked her lips in anticipation. "Abbie," he whispered, his breath feathering against her lips, and she didn't know how he'd learned to speak a plea, a statement, and a question all at once. Her heart had jumped into her throat and, unable to respond, she merely nodded, her wide, trusting eyes never leaving his. One of his hands, warm and gentle, cupped her shoulder, drawing her closer as he leaned towards her, and when his lips touched hers, the earth fell out from beneath her. His lips moved softly, tentatively against hers, and she let the moment wash over her. The miles they'd traversed to make it here, the hurts and losses and aches and triumphs and long days and lonely nights and missed opportunities they'd endured to arrive at this moment, here, together, hearts yearning, blood pounding, lips speaking a new language as old as time itself. Too much—every nerve ending attuned to him, his hands sliding heat along her arms as he moved to embrace her, his lips firm but tender, his mustache deliciously abrasive, his body close—and entirely not enough at the same time. Ichabod floated through a dream, utterly awash with Abbie: her hands flat against his chest even as she pressed against him, her small frame held in his arms, her full lips, warm and inviting, pressed against his. And then she stepped between his legs, her hands sliding up and over his shoulders, fingers lacing into his hair as she snaked her arms around his neck. He felt aflame and started to pull back for air, then changed his mind, kissing her anew, this time more insistently as she moaned low in her throat. Abbie felt like she was simultaneously floating, falling, and flying, and she couldn't get enough. His lips molded to hers, hot and needy and insistent and more perfect than she’d ever imagined. His mustache scratched and tickled her, an entirely erotic sensation she could get used to. The mouth that infuriated and encouraged her, that spoke in eloquence and intellect, would now be her undoing.

“Lieutenant,” he rumbled her name against her lips.

It washed over her like a potent elixir, and she silenced him easily, kissing him harder, unable to mask her ardor any longer. He succumbed with a pleased sigh as her hands roamed over him every place she could reach, his nape and back, broad shoulders, the pulse point at his neck, his strong jawline. And then she started over again, running her hands through his hair, a fantasy she'd imagined thousands of times. But in her fantasies, she'd never hurt him doing so. He suddenly jerked away from her and gasped lightly, her hand having brushed over his wound in her fervor. Regret instantly took over her face. "Sorry, I'm so sorry," she gasped.

He shook his head slightly, brushing aside the pain and giving her a gentle smile before setting his hands on her hips and leaning his forehead against hers for a moment. When he pulled away, she cupped his face in her hands, her thumbs feathering over his lips, still mesmerized that he'd kissed her. His mouth quirked up beneath her ministrations. "You are most adept at this, Lieutenant," he admired, his Puritan sensibilities screaming against the passion racing through him now that her mouth wasn’t working magic on his. He kissed her thumbs where they lay against his lips.

“As are you,” she returned, feeling a slight flush on her cheeks. She ran her hands down his arms as she stepped back from him, only now realizing as his hands dropped from her waist how intimately she’d moved into him.

He clasped her hands before she trailed them away, holding her at arms’ length and staring openly at her, at her flushed cheeks and wide, bright eyes, luscious, just-kissed lips, the light purple shirt that lent her skin a rosy complexion, small waist perfect for his hands, jean-clad legs that teased him on a daily basis.

The attraction he felt for her actually made him hurt.

Rein yourself in, scoundrel, he commanded himself. Swallowing hard, he met her eyes, which did nothing to help his cause as her heated, sultry gaze set him on fire anew.

“I…” He swallowed down the desire threatening to overwhelm him again. “I believe I could use that ice now.”

He realized the unintentional innuendo of his words as her face broke into a smile, and they both burst out laughing, releasing their clasped hands as Abbie handed him the ice pack.

“Come on,” Abbie motioned for him to follow her as she headed to the living room and sat on the couch. Ichabod held the ice pack against his wound and followed her, sitting near her but leaving a few much-needed inches between them since his heartrate still raced wildly.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, each lost in thoughts of what’d just passed, their evolving relationship, the delicious tension that still wound around and through them.

After a few moments, Abbie peered up at him. “You alright, Crane?” she asked, indicating his wound.

He nodded once. “I am quite more than ‘alright,’ Lieutenant. Abbie,” he corrected, his voice dropping low as he gazed at her appreciatively. “I have the best doctor in town.”

Was he flirting with her? She felt giddy at the prospect. “Don’t let it get out. I don’t do house calls.”

“I certainly hope not. You’d cause significantly more heart palpitations than you’d cure. Speaking from first-hand experience, as it were,” he teased.

She chuckled, kicking her feet up onto the couch, wrapping her hands around his bicep, and leaning into him. “I could get used to your flattery,” she admitted on a sigh.

“And I to your…ardent bedside manner.”

She turned her head and kissed his shoulder, tucking closer into his side. “Keep up the sweet talk, Crane, and there’ll be a whole lot more of it.”

“I can only pray this isn’t a wonderfully potent dream induced by my head injury.” He nuzzled the top of her head.

“Wonderful, potent, and dreamy. And as real as the possibility that you may have a concussion,” she affirmed, turning serious for a moment.

“Mmm, it is concerning.”

“We should stay up for a while, make sure you’re still feeling well.”

“Hm.” He nodded in agreement, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Whatever shall we do with our free time?” he queried coyly.

She smirked up at him. “You can start by telling me why you went rogue out there.”

The amusement dropped from his face, replaced by chagrin, and he relaxed back into the couch with Abbie’s weight pressed comfortingly into his side. Better now than later, he mused. The quicker we can return to making up.

“Yes…,” he began. “About that…”

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mattchase82 · 3 years ago

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OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL HELP

The Picture

The original picture painted on gold ground, is the work of a devout and skillful master. The best judges concede that it must have been painted in the 13th or 14th century, in the East, as its Grecian or Byzantine style plainly shows. The Blessed Mother, in half-figure, has her child on her left arm, and in her right hand, she holds the hand of her Divine Infant. Her beautiful eyes are directed towards the beholder with an expression of tender reproach, and speak eloquently of her great anguish at the sufferings of her Son. On either side of her head are four Greek letters, which stand for the words "Mother of God."

The Divine Infant is in full figure. On his head is a crown. He wears sandals, one of which is fastened to his left foot, the other hangs loose from the right. Over his left shoulder are the Greek letters signifying "Jesus Christ." He clasps his mother's right hand in both his own, as though seeking protection from the instrument of His Passion, presented to Him by the two angels at his side. The Angel on the right, over whom are to be seen in Greek the initials of the name of "Michael the Archangel," presents to the Holy Child, the Lance, the Reed and the Sponge of His future Passion, while the Angel on the left holds up before His gaze four nails and a cross, with two beams, as well as the tablet of the inscription; over Him are the initials in Greek of "Gabriel the Archangel." The drapery of the picture is exquisite.

History of The Picture

The original picture, just described, was venerated for many years in the Island of Crete (now called Candia), when upon an invasion by the Turks, about 400 years ago, it was taken away by a pious merchant of that Island to escape profanation. Having been the means of enlisting the power of the Mother of God during a violent storm which occurred on the voyage, a landing was finally made at Ostia, near Rome. At Rome, by a clear manifestation of God's will, the picture was to remain. The pious merchant, falling grievously ill, and feeling death's approach, summoned his host and friend, and exacting from him a strict promise that he would have the picture set up for veneration in one of the churches of Rome, he confided the precious treasure to his care, and then breathed his last. Now become manifest the wondrous ways of God. The wife of the man who had the holy picture confided to him, conceiving a strong natural affection for the Madonna, deaf to her husband's representations, finally prevailed upon him to disregard his promise and retain the picture. Three different times the Blessed Mother appeared in a dream to the unhappy man to remind him of his obligation. Affrighted, he related these occurrences to his wife, who only laughed at his credulity. A fourth time Our Blessed Lady appeared, and said to him in a tone of great severity: "I have now warned thee three times, but in vain,--I see there is no other means of leaving thy house, than that thou be first carried out of it." Very soon after the man died.

The husband's death seems to have been no warning to the obstinate widow. A new warning was at hand. One day her daughter, a young innocent girl, came running to her, saying: "Mother, I have just seen, in our house, oh, such a beautiful Lady, who said to me, 'Go tell your mother and your grandfather that the 'Mother of Perpetual Help' (for the Blessed Virgin gave herself this sweet title) 'wishes her picture to be set up for public veneration in one of the churches in Rome.'" The mother, deeply moved, was about to comply. But a wicked woman of the neighborhood, hearing of the mother's determination, violently opposed the plan, and at the same time insulted and blaspemed Our Blessed Lady. Instant retribution followed. She was stricken down with mortal illness, but repentant and confessing her crime, was permitted to touch the holy picture, when she was instantly cured. The evident miracle conquered the widow's obstinacy. But now the question presented itself: "To which of the three hundred churches of Rome shall the picture be given?" Our Blessed Lady herself graciously deigned to answer this question, by appearing a second time to the child and saying to her: "I desire to have my home between my beloved Church of St. Mary Major, and that of my dear adopted son John (St. John Lateran)." Between these two Basilicas stood the Church of St. Matthew, at that time in charge of the religious of the Augustinian Order. To the Prior, then, of these religious the Picture was given.

On March 27th, 1499, by a triumphant procession through the streets of Rome, the picture was solemnly installed over the High Altar of the Church of St. Matthew, where, for three hundred years it was the fruitful source of numberless graces and favors to the Romans and their neighbors. In the year 1600, a Roman historian writes: "In the Church of St. Matthew is a picture of the Blessed Virgin, which, from the numbers of miracles wrought and the countless graces received, well merits to be regarded as Miraculous.

During the French occupation of Rome (1809—1814) the Church of St. Matthew was demolished by order of the usurping government, compelling the Augustinian Fathers to abandon their monastery. On removing to the Church of Santa Maria, in Posterula, they took with them the miraculous picture but no longer exposed it for public veneration, dreading sacrilegious profanation. One by one the older members of the Community, who had known the Church of St. Matthew in happier days, passed away. In the year 1846, however, two persons were praying in the oratory of the Augustinian Monastery of Santa Maria, in Posterula, one an old man of more than seventy years, the other a youth. Suddenly the old man, pointing out to the youth this long-forgotten picture of the Madonna of Perpetual Help, on the wall of the oratory, said impressively, "This picture was formerly held in great veneration in the Church of St. Matthew, and every year a feast was celebrated in its honor." The speaker was an Augustinian Brother, Orsette by name, the last survivor of the Community of St. Matthew. The youth, Michael Marchi by name, looked attentively at the picture, but attached no great importance to the old Brother's words. Towards the close of his life, Brother Orsette, now almost blind, took great pleasure in conversing with young Marchi of his dear Madonna, her glory and the magnificent feasts of former days. He would sometimes say, with great earnestness and in a mysterious way, "You understand, Michael, that the Madonna, so long venerated in St. Matthew's is the one you see here in the chapel. Mind, don't forget it," adding, "I tell you, Michael, this is certain. Do you hear me? Do you understand what I say? Oh, how many miracles this picture has wrought! Oh, it was indeed miraculous!" The young Marchi listened and "kept all these things in his heart."

Not long after the death of Orsette (1853), Pope Pius IX. ordered the Superior-General of the Redemptorists to transfer the Central House of the Order from Naples to Rome; hence, the Redemptorists, in June, 1854, purchased, on the Esquiline, the Villa Caserta, an old Roman palace, in the garden of which were still visible some ruins of the Church of St. Matthew. The house was transformed into a monastery, and a new church was built close by, dedicated to St. Alphonsus, the founder of the Redemptorist Order. One of the Fathers of Villa Caserta, searching one day among some old books and manuscripts for historical information concerning the site on the Esquiline, discovered some valuable documents relating to the ruined Church of St. Matthew, and in particular to a Picture of Our Lady, famous for its many miracles. When he gave an account of what he had found out, one of the Fathers suddenly exclaimed, "I know where this miraculous Madonna is. I have seen it myself many a time, in the chapel of the Augustinians of Sancta Maria, in Posterula." The Father who thus spoke was none other than the youthful confidant of Brother Orsette, Michael Marchi, who had become a Redemptorist soon after the foundation of the Villa Caserta. He died there in January, 1886.

One Saturday, in February, 1863, Father Blosi, S. J., preaching on the glories of Mary, took for his subject the ancient and miraculous "Picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Help," recalling its past glory and how the Blessed Mother had made known her will, that the picture should be placed for veneration in a church situated between St. John Lateran and St. Mary Major. The Redemptorists were deeply impressed when they heard of this sermon, for many providential circumstances pointed clearly to their own Church of St. Alphonsus as the new sanctuary chosen by Our Lady of Perpetual Help. The Very Rev. Father Mauron having waited two years longer and after many prayers offered to ascertain God's will, on December 11th, 1865, had an audience with Pope Pius the IXth, in which he presented a supplication, that His Holiness would deign to grant to the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer the possession of that venerable picture. Pius IX. gladly signed the petition, and January 19th, 1866, after a banishment of sixty years, Our Lady of Perpetual Help was again brought back to a sanctuary between St. Mary Major and St. John Lateran.

On April 26th, the Feast of Our Lady of Good Counsel, and of St. Cletus, the Pope, who first built the Church of St. Matthew, the holy picture was carried in solemn procession through decorated streets, amid the acclamations of more than 20,000 people, to its place in the Church of St. Alphonsus.

During the Triduum more than 50,000 persons came to honor the sacred picture. Again, as in 1499. Mary strewed her path with graces and miracles. On May 5th, Pius IX. himself came to honor the Madonna. He had already placed a copy of the original picture in his Chapel.

The Chapter of St. Peter at Rome has the custom of crowning with a golden diadem the most illustrious and venerated pictures of the Madonna. On the Sunday preceding the Feast of St. John Baptist, the Dean of the Chapter confided the crown to the Most Rev. Father-General of the Redemptorists, after receiving from him an oath, that it would always remain over the picture. Mass and the ceremony of coronation followed, whilst outside the roaring of cannon and the pealing of bells announced, that the Picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Help was numbered among those worthy of the title miraculous.

The beneficent action of miraculous pictures is generally confined within certain limits, and does not extend beyond the shrine where the original picture is venerated, but not so in regard to Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Her sweet influence extends wherever this devotion is practised.

The devotion to Our Lady of Perpetual Help soon spread throughout the Christian world. Exact copies of the beautiful picture were made, and a greater value was given them by the fact that they were touched to the original picture in Rome. Notwithstanding the unholy carpings of captious critics, there is nothing unreasonable in this practice. If we treasure a lock of hair of some dear departed one; if we stand with reverent mien in the apartment used by a saint of God, and there yield our soul to holy reveries; if we value at an unspeakable price a shred of the garment, or a tiny bone of God's heroes and heroines; if we kiss with reverent love those spots pressed by the Saviour's feet; why should we not place a special value upon that which has touched a wonder-working picture, made illustrious by God's holy Mother?

Prayer to Our Lady of Perpetual Help

O Holy Virgin Mary! Thy sweet name, "Mother of Perpetual Help," inspires me with unlimited confidence. I beg of thee to help me at all times and in all places; in my temptations, after my falls, in all my difficulties, in all the miseries of this life; but above all at the hour of my death. May I always have recourse to thee, for I feel sure that if I invoke thee faithfully, thou wilt be faithful in helping me. Obtain for me, then, the grace to pray to thee with the confidence of a child in order that I may secure thy perpetual help and final perseverance. Bless me, O tender Mother; and pray for me now and at the hour of my death. Amen.

PRAYER OF CONFIDENCE

O Holy Virgin Mary, who to inspire us with boundless confidence, hast been pleased to take the sweet name of Our Mother of Perpetual Help, I implore thee to come to my aid always and everywhere in my temptations, after my falls, in my difficulties, in all the miseries of life, and above all, at the hour of my death. Give me, O loving Mother, the desire and the habit always to have recourse to thee trusting that thou wilt be faithful and come to my assistance. Obtain for me the this grace of graces, the grace to pray to thee without ceasing and with childlike confidence, that I mayest ensure thy perpetual help and final perseverance. O Mother of Perpetual Help, pray for me now and at the hour of my death. Amen.

Litany of Our Lady of Perpetual Help

For Private Use Only.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.

Christ, hear us.

Christ, graciously hear us.

God, the Father of Heaven,

have mercy on us.

God the Son, Redeemer of the World,

have mercy on us.

God the Holy Ghost,

have mercy on us.

Holy Trinity, One God,

have mercy on us.

Holy Mary,

pray for us.

Holy Mother of God,

pray for us.

Holy Virgin of virgins,

pray for us.

Mother of Christ,

pray for us.

Queen conceived without the stain of Original Sin,

pray for us.

Queen of the most Holy Rosary,

pray for us.

Our Lady of Perpetual Help,

pray for us.

O Mother of Perpetual Help,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may love God with all my heart,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may in all things conform my will to that of thy Divine Son,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may always shun sin, the only real evil,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may always remember my last end,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may often and devoutly receive the Sacraments,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may avoid every proximate occasion of sin,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may never neglect prayer,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may ever remember to invoke thee,

particularly in time of temptation,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may always be victorious in the hour of temptation,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may generously pardon my enemies,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may arise quickly, should I have the misfortune

of falling into mortal sin,

Come to my aid. O loving Mother.

That I may courageously resist the seductions of evil companions,

Come to my aid. O loving Mother.

That I may be strong against my own inconstancy,

Come to my aid. O loving Mother.

That I may not delay my conversion from day to day,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may labor zealously to eradicate my evil habits,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may ever love to serve thee,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may lead others to love and serve thee,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

That I may live and die in the friendship of God,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In all necessities of body and soul,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In sickness and pain,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In poverty and distress,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In persecution and abandonment,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In grief and dereliction of mind,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In time of war, famine and contagion,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

In every danger of sin,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When assailed by the evil spirits,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When tempted by the allurements of a deceitful world,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When struggling against the inclinations of my corrupt nature,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When tempted against the holy virtue of purity,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When death is nigh,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When the loss of my senses shall warn me that my

earthly career is at an end,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When the thought of my approaching dissolution shall fill me with fear and terror,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When at the decisive hour of death, the evil spirit will endeavor

to plunge my soul into despair,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When the priest of God shall give me Extreme Unction,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When my friends and relations, surrounding my bed moved with compassion,

shall invoke thy clemency on my behalf,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When the world will vanish from my sight, and my heart will cease to beat,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When I shall yield my soul into the hands of its Creator,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When my soul will appear before its Sovereign Judge,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When the irrevocable sentence will be pronounced,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

When I will be suffering in Purgatory, and sighing for the vision of God,

Come to my aid, O loving Mother.

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Spare us, O Lord!.

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Graciously hear us, O Lord!

Lamb of God, Who takest away the sins of the world,

Have mercy on us.

V. Pray for us, our powerful Mediatrix,

R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

Let us pray.

O Almighty and merciful God, Who, in order to succor the human race, hast willed the Blessed Virgin Mary to become the Mother of Thy only-begotten Son, grant, we beseech Thee, that by her intercession we may avoid the contagion of sin and serve Thee with a pure heart, through the same Christ Our Lord. Amen.

http://catholicharboroffaithandmorals.com/Our%20Lady%20of%20Perpetual%20Help.html

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araitsume · 3 years ago

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The Acts of the Apostles, pp. 359-371: Chapter (34) A Consecrated Ministry

In His life and lessons Christ has given a perfect exemplification of the unselfish ministry which has its origin in God. God does not live for Himself. By creating the world, and by upholding all things, He is constantly ministering to others. “He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” Matthew 5:45. This ideal of ministry the Father committed to His Son. Jesus was given to stand at the head of humanity, by His example to teach what it means to minister. His whole life was under a law of service. He served all, ministered to all.

Again and again Jesus tried to establish his principle among His disciples. When James and John made their request for pre-eminence, He said, “Whosoever will be great among you, let him be your minister; and whosoever will be chief among you, let him be your servant: even as the Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give His life a ransom for many.” Matthew 20:26-28.

Since His ascension Christ has carried forward His work on the earth by chosen ambassadors, through whom He speaks to the children of men and ministers to their needs. The great Head of the church superintends His work through the instrumentality of men ordained by God to act as His representatives.

The position of those who have been called of God to labor in word and doctrine for the upbuilding of His church, is one of grave responsibility. In Christ's stead they are to beseech men and women to be reconciled to God, and they can fulfill their mission only as they receive wisdom and power from above.

Christ's ministers are the spiritual guardians of the people entrusted to their care. Their work has been likened to that of watchmen. In ancient times sentinels were often stationed on the walls of cities, where, from points of vantage, they could overlook important posts to be guarded, and give warning of the approach of an enemy. Upon their faithfulness depended the safety of all within. At stated intervals they were required to call to one another, to make sure that all were awake and that no harm had befallen any. The cry of good cheer or of warning was borne from one to another, each repeating the call till it echoed round the city.

To every minister the Lord declares: “O son of man, I have set thee a watchman unto the house of Israel; therefore thou shalt hear the word at My mouth, and warn them from Me. When I say unto the wicked, O wicked man, thou shalt surely die; if thou dost not speak to warn the wicked from his way, that wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thine hand. Nevertheless, if thou warn the wicked of his way to turn from it, ... thou hast delivered thy soul.” Ezekiel 33:7-9.

The words of the prophet declare the solemn responsibility of those who are appointed as guardians of the church of God, stewards of the mysteries of God. They are to stand as watchmen on the walls of Zion, to sound the note of alarm at the approach of the enemy. Souls are in danger of falling under temptation, and they will perish unless God's ministers are faithful to their trust. If for any reason their spiritual senses become so benumbed that they are unable to discern danger, and through their failure to give warning the people perish, God will require at their hands the blood of those who are lost.

It is the privilege of the watchmen on the walls of Zion to live so near to God, and to be susceptible to the impressions of His Spirit, that He can work through them to tell men and women of their peril and point them to the place of safety. Faithfully are they to warn them of the sure result of transgression, and faithfully are they to safeguard the interests of the church. At no time may they relax their vigilance. Theirs is a work requiring the exercise of every faculty of the being. In trumpet tones their voices are to be lifted, and never are they to sound one wavering, uncertain note. Not for wages are they to labor, but because they cannot do otherwise, because they realize that there is a woe upon them if they fail to preach the gospel. Chosen of God, sealed with the blood of consecration, they are to rescue men and women from impending destruction.

The minister who is a co-worker with Christ will have a deep sense of the sacredness of his work and of the toil and sacrifice required to perform it successfully. He does not study his own ease or convenience. He is forgetful of self. In his search for the lost sheep he does not realize that he himself is weary, cold, and hungry. He has but one object in view—the saving of the lost.

He who serves under the bloodstained banner of Immanuel will have that to do which will call for heroic effort and patient endurance. But the soldier of the cross stands unshrinkingly in the forefront of the battle. As the enemy presses the attack against him, he turns to the stronghold for aid, and as he brings to the Lord the promises of the word, he is strengthened for the duties of the hour. He realizes his need of strength from above. The victories that he gains do not lead to self exaltation, but cause him to lean more and more heavily on the Mighty One. Relying upon that Power, he is enabled to present the message of salvation so forcibly that it vibrates in other minds.

He who teaches the word must himself live in conscious, hourly communion with God through prayer and a study of His word, for here is the source of strength. Communion with God will impart to the minister's efforts a power greater than the influence of his preaching. Of this power he must not allow himself to be deprived. With an earnestness that cannot be denied, he must plead with God to strengthen and fortify him for duty and trial, and to touch his lips with living fire. All too slight is the hold that Christ's ambassadors often have upon eternal realities. If men will walk with God, He will hide them in the cleft of the Rock. Thus hidden, they can see God, even as Moses saw Him. By the power and light that He imparts they can comprehend more and accomplish more than their finite judgment had deemed possible.

Satan's craft is most successfully used against those who are depressed. When discouragement threatens to overwhelm the minister, let him spread out before God his necessities. It was when the heavens were as brass over Paul that he trusted most fully in God. More than most men, he knew the meaning of affliction; but listen to his triumphant cry as, beset by temptation and conflict, his feet press heavenward: “Our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory; while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen.” 2 Corinthians 4:17, 18. Paul's eyes were ever fastened on the unseen and eternal. Realizing that he was fighting against supernatural powers, he placed his dependence on God, and in this lay his strength. It is by seeing Him who is invisible that strength and vigor of soul are gained and the power of earth over mind and character is broken.

A pastor should mingle freely with the people for whom he labors, that by becoming acquainted with them he may know how to adapt his teaching to their needs. When a minister has preached a sermon, his work has but just begun. There is personal work for him to do. He should visit the people in their homes, talking and praying with them in earnestness and humility. There are families who will never be reached by the truths of God's word unless the stewards of His grace enter their homes and point them to the higher way. But the hearts of those who do this work must throb in unison with the heart of Christ.

Much is comprehended in the command, “Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that My house may be filled.” Luke 14:23. Let ministers teach the truth in families, drawing close to those for whom they labor, and as they thus co-operate with God, He will clothe them with spiritual power. Christ will guide them in their work, giving them words to speak that will sink deep into the hearts of the listeners. It is the privilege of every minister to be able to say with Paul, “I have not shunned to declare unto you all the counsel of God.” “I kept back nothing that was profitable unto you, but have showed you, and have taught you publicly, and from house to house, ... repentance toward God, and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ.” Acts 20:27, 20, 21.

The Saviour went from house to house, healing the sick, comforting the mourners, soothing the afflicted, speaking peace to the disconsolate. He took the little children in His arms and blessed them, and spoke words of hope and comfort to the weary mothers. With unfailing tenderness and gentleness He met every form of human woe and affliction. Not for Himself but for others did He labor. He was the servant of all. It was His meat and drink to bring hope and strength to all with whom He came in contact. And as men and women listened to the truths that fell from His lips, so different from the traditions and dogmas taught by the rabbis, hope sprang up in their hearts. In His teaching there was an earnestness that sent His words home with convicting power.

God's ministers are to learn Christ's method of laboring, that they may bring from the storehouse of His word that which will supply the spiritual needs of those for whom they labor. Thus only can they fulfill their trust. The same Spirit that dwelt in Christ as He imparted the instruction He was constantly receiving, is to be the source of their knowledge and the secret of their power in carrying on the Saviour's work in the world.

Some who have labored in the ministry have failed of attaining success because they have not given their undivided interest to the Lord's work. Ministers should have no engrossing interests aside from the great work of leading souls to the Saviour. The fishermen whom Christ called, straightway left their nets and followed Him. Ministers cannot do acceptable work for God and at the same time carry the burden of large personal business enterprises. Such a division of interest dims their spiritual perception. The mind and heart are occupied with earthly things, and the service of Christ takes a second place. They seek to shape their work for God by their circumstances, instead of shaping circumstances to meet the demands of God.

The energies of the minister are all needed for his high calling. His best powers belong to God. He should not engage in speculation or in any other business that would turn him aside from his great work. “No man that warreth,” Paul declared, “entangleth himself with the affairs of this life; that he may please him who hath chosen him to be a soldier.” 2 Timothy 2:4. Thus the apostle emphasized the minister's need of unreserved consecration to the Master's service. The minister who is wholly consecrated to God refuses to engage in business that would hinder him from giving himself fully to his sacred calling. He is not striving for earthly honor or riches; his one purpose is to tell others of the Saviour, who gave Himself to bring to human beings the riches of eternal life. His highest desire is not to lay up treasure in this world, but to bring to the attention of the indifferent and the disloyal the realities of eternity. He may be asked to engage in enterprises which promise large worldly gain, but to such temptations he returns the answer, “What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” Mark 8:36.

Satan presented this inducement to Christ, knowing that if He accepted it, the world would never be ransomed. And under different guises he presents the same temptation to God's ministers today, knowing that those who are beguiled by it will be false to their trust.

It is not God's will that His ministers should seek to be rich. Regarding this, Paul wrote to Timothy: “The love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows. But thou, O man of God, flee these things; and follow after righteousness, godliness, faith, love, patience, meekness.” By example as well as by precept, the ambassador for Christ is to “charge them that are rich in this world, that they be not high-minded, nor trust in uncertain riches, but in the living God, who giveth us richly all things to enjoy; that they do good, that they be rich in good works, ready to distribute, willing to communicate; laying up in store for themselves a good foundation against the time to come, that they may lay hold on eternal life.” 1 Timothy 6:10, 11, 17-19.

The experiences of the apostle Paul and his instruction regarding the sacredness of the minister's work are a source of help and inspiration to those engaged in the gospel ministry. Paul's heart burned with a love for sinners, and he put all his energies into the work of soul winning. There never lived a more self-denying, persevering worker. The blessings he received he prized as so many advantages to be used in blessing others. He lost no opportunity of speaking of the Saviour or of helping those in trouble. From place to place he went, preaching the gospel of Christ and establishing churches. Wherever he could find a hearing, he sought to counteract wrong, and to turn the feet of men and women into the path of righteousness.

Paul did not forget the churches that he had established. After making a missionary tour, he and Barnabas retraced their steps and visited the churches they had raised up, choosing from them men whom they could train to unite in proclaiming the gospel.

This feature of Paul's work contains an important lesson for ministers today. The apostle made it a part of his work to educate young men for the office of the ministry. He took them with him on his missionary journeys, and thus they gained an experience that later enabled them to fill positions of responsibility. When separated from them, he still kept in touch with their work, and his letters to Timothy and to Titus are evidences of how deep was his desire for their success.

Experienced workers today do a noble work when, instead of trying to carry all the burdens themselves, they train younger workers and place burdens on their shoulders.

Paul never forgot the responsibility resting on him as a minister of Christ, or that if souls were lost through unfaithfulness on his part, God would hold him accountable. “Whereof I am made a minister,” he declared of the gospel, “according to the dispensation of God which is given to me for you, to fulfill the word of God; even the mystery which hath been hid from ages and from generations, but now is made manifest to His saints: to whom God would make known what is the riches of the glory of this mystery among the Gentiles; which is Christ in you, the hope of glory: whom we preach, warning every man, and teaching every man in all wisdom; that we may present every man perfect in Christ Jesus: whereunto I also labor, striving according to His working, which worketh in me mightily.” Colossians 1:25-29.

These words present before the worker for Christ a high attainment, yet this attainment all can reach who, putting themselves under the control of the Great Teacher, learn daily in the school of Christ. The power at God's command is limitless, and the minister who in his great need shuts himself in with the Lord may be assured that he will receive that which will be to his hearers a savor of life unto life.

Paul's writings show that the gospel minister should be an example of the truths that he teaches, “giving no offense in anything, that the ministry be not blamed.” Of his own work he has left us a picture in his letter to the Corinthian believers: “In all things approving ourselves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses, in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults, in labors, in watchings, in fastings; by pureness, by knowledge, by long suffering, by kindness, by the Holy Ghost, by love unfeigned, by the word of truth, by the power of God, by the armor of righteousness on the right hand and on the left, by honor and dishonor, by evil report and good report: as deceivers, and yet true; as unknown, and yet well known; as dying, and, behold, we live; as chastened, and not killed; as sorrowful, yet alway rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich.” 2 Corinthians 6:3, 4-10.

To Titus he wrote: “Young men likewise exhort to be sober-minded. In all things showing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine showing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.” Titus 2:6-8.

There is nothing more precious in the sight of God than His ministers, who go forth into the waste places of the earth to sow the seeds of truth, looking forward to the harvest. None but Christ can measure the solicitude of His servants as they seek for the lost. He imparts His Spirit to them, and by their efforts souls are led to turn from sin to righteousness.

God is calling for men who are willing to leave their farms, their business, if need be their families, to become missionaries for Him. And the call will be answered. In the past there have been men who, stirred by the love of Christ and the needs of the lost, have left the comforts of home and the society of friends, even that of wife and children, to go into foreign lands, among idolaters and savages, to proclaim the message of mercy. Many in the attempt have lost their lives, but others have been raised up to carry on the work. Thus step by step the cause of Christ has progressed, and the seed sown in sorrow has yielded a bountiful harvest. The knowledge of God has been widely extended and the banner of the cross planted in heathen lands.

For the conversion of one sinner the minister should tax his resources to the utmost. The soul that God has created and Christ has redeemed is of great value because of the possibilities before it, the spiritual advantages that have been granted it, the capabilities that it may possess if vitalized by the word of God, and the immortality it may gain through the hope presented in the gospel. And if Christ left the ninety and nine that He might seek and save one lost sheep, can we be justified in doing less? Is not a neglect to work as Christ worked, to sacrifice as He sacrificed, a betrayal of sacred trusts, an insult to God?

The heart of the true minister is filled with an intense longing to save souls. Time and strength are spent, toilsome effort is not shunned; for others must hear the truths that brought to his own soul such gladness and peace and joy. The Spirit of Christ rests upon him. He watches for souls as one that must give an account. With his eyes fixed on the cross of Calvary, beholding the uplifted Saviour, relying on His grace, believing that He will be with him until the end, as his shield, his strength, his efficiency, he works for God. With invitations and pleadings, mingled with the assurances of God's love, he seeks to win souls to Jesus, and in heaven he is numbered among those who are “called, and chosen, and faithful.” Revelation 17:14.

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pengychan · 4 years ago

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[Good Omens] Winging It - James 1:14

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: Beelzebub gets sneakier. Results are still questionable.

***

“We need to talk.”

“Jesus Christ!”

CRASH.

“... No. Definitely not that brat.” Beelzebub raised an eyebrow, glancing down at the shattered glass and the water spreading across the floor. “Does your boss’ kid usually visit you at night?”

“Ah-- no, that is just something humans--”

“Do you usually wake up at night to throw glasses on the floor?”

“I had to drink-- what are you doing here at three in the morning? Are you trying to give me a heart attack??”

“Not until you surrender your soul, I’m not.”

“Get off my table!”

“Make me.”

Unsurprisingly, Gabriel did not attempt to make them move off the table. He may be an idiot, but he was at least aware of what was proper behavior around the Lord of the Flies and what was not. The fact Beelzebub would not end his mortal life knowing his soul might return to Heaven, forever beyond their grasp, would protect him from death but not from mind-shattering suffering they had the power to inflict.

Not that they planned to, but it would do the former archangel well to remember that was still an option. And he did, judging from the somber expression on his face as surprise faded and he seemed no longer at risk of, as he put it, a heart attack.

“... Why are you here?”

Beelzebub shrugged. “I told you,” they said, waving a hand towards the glass and causing the shards to join back together into one full glass. They could have also dried up the water, but there was no reason to be excessively magnanimous. It wasn’t like they could take credit for Gabriel’s skittishness and slack grip, anyway. “We need to talk.”

That gained them a wary look, and no thanks whatsoever for fixing the glass. If not for the fact being thanked for a nice gesture was not becoming a Prince of Hell, they may have been displeased.

“Talk?” Gabriel repeated. “About what?”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. He was playing foolish, and they did not suffer foolishness gladly. “You know about what.”

“I have no idea whatsoever,” was the reply. His voice was firm, but he turned to avoid their gaze.

“As much as I appreciate you sinning, trying to lie will not get you anywhere this time. Even you cannot be this dense.”

“You said we would speak no more of it.”

“See, you do know.”

“And we will speak no more of it.”

“Well, now I am saying we have to speak of--”

“No.”

Among the very many things Beelzebub Did Not Appreciate, being cut off was rather high on the list. Even higher, however, was being snapped at, which was something that just plainly Did Not Happen. No creature in Hell, or even in Heaven when they had to meet on neutral ground, was foolish enough to try.

The only exception was probably Satan himself, of course, as he could do as he pleased… and now this particular idiot, mortal and powerless as he was, thought he could do the same. Oh no, he was sorely mistaken and the least Beelzebub ought to do was giving him a very harsh and painful lesson. Except that… well…

That would be the opposite of what I came here for.

“One would think you’d have won him over by now,” Asmodeus had sneered. “Out of practice, are you?”

Admittedly - not that they would admit it aloud - they were indeed out of practice. Or, to be more accurate, they’d never had any practice at all. Swaying mortals was for lesser demons; they were a Prince of Hell, and had different duties, a higher calling. Or rather, a lower calling. Whichever - the bottom line was that they had failed to obtain results so far, and they should rethink what little strategy they had.

Gabriel was clearly not easily compelled into random acts of violence; they had to think of a different sort of temptation... and nauseating as their recent discovery about the past may be, it could give them a sort of leverage they did not have before. But they had to go about it wisely, which meant no painful punishment for insolence for time being.

Anyone with a modicum amount of foresight could have predicted right at that point that the Prince of Hell was bound to be hoisted by their own petard, but unsurprisingly most of the folks who thought rebelling against God would be a good plan did not, in fact, have a modicum amount of foresight.

So the Lord of the Flies, failing to see the trap they were laying for themselves, turned the annoyed buzzing sound already leaving them into a deep breath, and spoke calmly. “I was under the impression you wished me to remain and talk. Is that not why you so rudely grabbed my arm?”

Something twisted Gabriel’s features, an obvious stab of pain, there one moment and go the next. His expression smoothed, as though they were discussing business as they had so many times before. “If I recall correctly, you threatened me with the loss of another limb if I did not unhand you.”

“Another?” Beelzebub asked, only a moment before they recalled the jagged scars on Gabriel’s back. “Ah. Those. Well, that was not me.”

“You said what we saw changed nothing. You were right. Why speak of it?”

“Why did you want to speak of it?”

“I never said I did.”

“You tried to keep me from leaving, why would you unless it was to talk about it?”

“I…” he hesitated, clearly caught off guard, and turned away. “... Well, I changed my mind.”

“Since when are you fickle as a mortal?”

“Since I became one, if I had to guess,” was the dry reply. “You said it yourself, we are not the beings we were then. Or are we?”

“... No. We are not.” Beelzebub said quietly. Might be for the best, that - which was to say, for the worst. They couldn’t sway him when they’d been Ba’al, after all.

But neither had he been cast out. And maybe Beelzebub will succeed where Ba’al did not.

Unaware of their thoughts, Gabriel crossed his arms. “And as you also said yourself, it changes nothing. Or does it?”

“I don’t know.” Beelzebub’s response came out as a frustrated growl, in no way planned or thought through. It caught them off guard as well as Gabriel, but they were quick to hide it. “Listen, you brought up things I did not remember or understand--”

“It was by your request--”

“-- and now that I remember, I still don’t understand,” Beelzebub cut him off, not about to waste time fuming over being interrupted. “And I want to.”

“Ah,” Gabriel said. Not a very intelligent reply, that, but he seemed to realize that himself at least, because he quickly spoke again. “But why?”

“Why the Heaven not?”

“We’re not the beings we were then.”

“But we’re the closest to those beings that are left.”

He didn’t seem to have a good response for that; another point for the Lord of the Flies. Gabriel stared for a few long moments, and Beelzebub decided they had been patient enough in giving him fifteen entire seconds to muster a reply before speaking again themselves. “That settles it. I assume you have to-- eat? Is it time to eat?”

“It’s three in the morning.”

“That is not an answer,” Beelzebub pointed out. They stared at each other for a few moments, and Gabriel finally reached for his coat.

“... There’s a fast food open all night nearby.”

“Ah, fast foods. I like those. Junk food, overworked staff, miserable wages. I’m in,” Beelzebub snapped their fingers, and a coat appeared on them as well; not that they were bothered to go without, there or in the North Pole, but may as well blend in. “Lead the way.”

***

Hastur was not supposed to be there.

After that stunt with the holy water and the rubber duck, Hell had been very clear over the fact Crowley or his pet angel were not to be approached, for any reason, under any circumstances. And no matter how much he’d itched to take his chances and attempt taking him on in Hell that day - an order had been given, and it was to be obeyed. So he did.

But it didn’t mean he did so willingly. And if from time to time he happened to pass by the building that traitor had made his lair, well, it simply happened to be along his way. He wasn’t precisely approaching, was he? He was passing by, that was all.

Once or twice he’d caught a glimpse of him and he’d been so close to trying to do something drastic, even though he knew there was nothing he could do without calling horrible punishment upon himself for disobeying direct orders. The fact alone Ligur had been utterly destroyed by his little trap while he just sat in holy water demanding a rubber duck instead of melting in screams and pain drove him near madness.

Well. Nearer madness. He had already been well on his way to it ever since the Fall and maybe a little bit before that.

He should stop passing by, really. It did him no good, knowing there was nothing he could actually do to harm him, no action he could take. So he just walked away, once again, doing nothing. But maybe he’d walk by again, one of those days.

Just in case, he thought.

Not that he had the slightest idea what said case would be.

***

“... What I’m getting is that you really need to streamline the process to register arrivals and--”

“Absolutely not. The paperwork is supposed to be nightmarish. What kind of punishment would it be otherwise?”

“Ah. My mistake.”

Beelzebub made a vague gesture with the hand still holding the cheeseburger, speaking through a mouthful. “It’s a Circle of Hell in itself, the souls who end up there have to sort out the mess while the new arrivals are sent from office to office. You see, as a punishment, it is very effective.”

Gabriel had to concede they did have a point. Still…

“But you just said it turned out to be a nuisance for you as well.”

A hum. “Dagon takes care of most of it before it gets to me for signing. We call her the Lord of the Files for a reason.”

“But this means she is unavailable for other tasks.”

“... It does.”

“It really sounds like you’d greatly benefit from a centralized database. Since we switched to computers in Heaven, it’s been a great deal easier.”

Beelzebub scoffed. “You talk like it’s still something of your concern,” they muttered.

Ah. Right.

Gabriel fell silent a moment and looked down at his food, a familiar ache in his chest, and tried to think of a remark - but Beelzebub spoke again before he could.

“... That was uncalled for,” they said, causing him to blink, taken aback. It was uncalled for, but he did not expect the Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies to say as much. And their next words caught him even less prepared. “Apologies.”

Gabriel stared, speechless. Beelzebub had spoken that last word through gritted teeth, but an apology it was, and he was too stunned not to take it. “Ah, that was-- I-- I mean, well, it has been a while. I should be used to it, and...” he cleared his throat before dipping his chicken nugget in a generous dose of sauce whose name and origin escaped him and biting into it. The brief pause to chew and swallow helped him recollect.

“Either way, a more efficient system is well worth implementing.”

“How do you not get it that it’s not meant to be--”

“I’m not saying you should get rid of the current system,” Gabriel added. “Just create a more efficient one to run simultaneously, for your own use.”

“Two systems? And what would be the point in keeping the old one?”

“As punishment, as I believe you made plain.”

Beelzebub blinked. “So you’re telling me that they not only would have to fill, wade through and sort nightmarish heaps of paperwork, but that it should be all for nothing on top of it?”

Gabriel shrugged. “If you need added punishment, believe me when I say digitalizing folders going back millennia is amazingly tedious. I kept having to replace angels every few months on the job to give everyone a break, or else they threatened to unionize.”

There was a moment of silence, then Beelzebub laughed, so loudly it startled a couple of other patrons who were rather clearly there to get some food in their stomach to avoid a horrid hangover the next morning. They choked a little on the fries they had been eating, coughed, laughed some more.

“Hahahaha! That’s... that’s actually a good idea! From you!”

“Thanks, I figured-- wait. What is that supposed to mean?”

“You of all people!”

"... I get the feeling I ought to be insulted by that."

Beelzebub’s laughter died down to a snicker. "Do feel insulted, I don't mind,” they said, and leaned forward, grinning widely. “You might be a better fit in Hell than you know.”

“Is that meant to be an insult, or…?”

“A compliment, this once.”

“Ah. Thank you. I suppose.” Gabriel said, rather uncertain he should think of it as a compliment, even if meant to be one. Beelzebub clearly didn’t pay any mind to his hesitation.

“Well, how does your streamlined system work?”

“I’m… not sure I should discuss that.”

“Why not?”

“You know, volunteering information to the other side is-- frowned upon. To say the very least.”

Aziraphale consorting with a demon over the course of several millennia was clearly an exception in God’s books - not the Book, but rather those none of them got to glimpse at. If the pair of ragged scars over his shoulder blades was of any indication, Gabriel wasn’t likely to get the same privilege.

Unaware of his thoughts, Beelzebub snorted. “Other side? That would imply you still have any business with Heaven.”

Gabriel bit his lower lip. “But I was--”

“And so was I. Not more, either of us.” Beelzebub leaned against the backrest, the junk food on his tray all gone. “Heaven cast you out, and it’s their loss.”

They seem to be doing well without me, Gabriel thought. Not that much of a loss.

“... So you see, you owe them nothing,” Beelzebub finished, unaware of his thoughts.

That was true, Gabriel thought for a brief moment, some anger rearing its head again. It died down quickly - he’d done wrong, he knew he’d done wrong - but either way, but Beelzebub had said was true: Gabriel was no longer part of Heaven. He certainly wouldn’t lend his help to anything that might do harm to the Heavenly host, least of all his friends, but this… it would be such a small thing. Insignificant.

And he’d always enjoyed planning out that sort of thing, it would feel good to go back to doing it on a larger scale than he currently was. Managing work and shifts across a couple of warehouses kept a roof over his head, but it was still quite the downgrade from running Heaven.

“Well... I suppose that whether your bureaucracy is more efficient or not won’t truly make any difference if-- when Armageddon does happen,” Gabriel said, though he found himself rather hoping Armageddon might, after all, simply never happen. “It’s not precisely aiding Hell, is it?”

The Prince of Hell shrugged. “Of course not. Would just spare me a few headaches, that’s all. Think of it as a personal favor.”

Gabriel nodded. “Of course. Well, if you have pen and paper-- wait, the napkin will do. Do you have a pen?”

They did.

Gabriel chose not to ask which plane of existence Beelzebub had pulled it out of, and why it still gave out a vague smell of sulphur.

***

The former Archangel Gabriel - now known as Gabriel F. Archer - did, as all mortals, have a folder dedicated to him specifically in Hell’s overflowing archives. Dagon had found it on Beelzebub’s request; a measly thing, thinner than most on accounts of Gabriel having been a mortal for only a few months.

It picked up the night he had been cast out and it did mention a few sins, yes, but hardly anything serious enough to warrant Hell. Beelzebub supposed that the matching file in Heaven, the one dedicated to good deeds, would be about as thin. However they suspected the good deeds it contained - specifically that saccharine crap he had pulled helping out Daniel Brown and seeking out his sibling to give closure - would, for time being, make the scale tilt rather more decisively towards Heaven upon his death. But no matter: he was not actively dying - although from a certain point of view he kind of was, slowly dying was all humans did in their ridiculously short lives - and that meant there would be time to change that.

The Lord of the Flies had rather hoped that helping them improve the speed at which paperwork was processed in Hell would figure in nice bold lettering on the folder of his sins, but as it turned out, it was not the case. It hadn’t been a sin nor a good deed, it seemed; too technical, no extra harm really coming out of it. In that regard, it had not been the resounding success they were hoping for… but it was something. A step in the right direction, which was actually the wrong direction, but it would lead to Hell and it was all that mattered.

Gabriel was beginning to trust them more, letting his guard down around them, and it was a victory nonetheless; Beelzebub would only need to play the long game. It would mean having to meet him again, coaxing him closer to damnation little by little, and they were famously lacking in patience… but no matter. They would get there, even if it meant having to meet Gabriel often. Which was necessary for the greater evil, if very annoying.

Kind of annoying.

A little annoying.

***

All right, that was weird.

Warlock Dowling didn’t think that kind of thing very often, because his upbringing had included a lot of rather weird shit that he’d thought normal until his classmates had reacted to his tales - “No way your nanny breathed fire”, they had said, and looking back Warlock could almost convince himself he had dreamed it up - but this was, admittedly, weird.

He’d never really looked up the address Brother Francis has said he could address his postcards to him when he had left, but he had now and what he got was a bookstore. And one that had been there a very long time, too, so it wasn’t like his old gardener could have moved away recently.

Weird. Did he get any of his postcards? The thought he hadn’t was more than a little annoying, but maybe there was an explanation. Maybe the store belonged to a brother or a cousin or a friend or something, and he got his mail there. Well, he’d check it out once he got to Lond--

The screen of his phone lit up with an international call from his mother, and Warlock groaned. Surely she hadn’t already realized he had snuck out of school, had she? It had taken so long to convince her to send him back to England in a boarding school, it would royally suck if she caught him in the act the first time he tried to sneak in a visit to London on his own and pull him out of the school.

“Ma?”

“Hello, sweetheart. How is it going.”

Whew.

Warlock held back a sigh of relief, gave her the usual spiel - all well, hu-uh, sure, food still sucked… yep, same old, cricket match next week - and ended the call with a grin, very pleased that his escapade hadn’t been found out. It wasn’t that he couldn’t go to London if he wanted, but he’d have to take bodyguards and that was stupid. It wasn’t like anyone would look at him in the face and know whose son he was, anyway.

Well, Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth would, clearly, but they were unlikely to kidnap him for ransom. Brother Francis, mostly. He was a bit on the fence with the nanny, but he was sure she would make it fun.

… Maybe he should search her address next, come to think of it. Maybe it would turn out to be a cinema or a restaurant or… ah, no. A normal address. That was a relief, Warlock thought, and maybe she’d know where to find Brother Francis too, if he was still in London.

They were pretty close friends back when he was little, Warlock remembered that much, no matter how much they bickered and how badly they tried to hide it. Even to a child, it had been obvious. He’d once asked his nanny if they were getting married, and she had seemed to choke on thin hair before stammering - and she didn’t stammer often - that it was a ridiculous thought he should leave to those inferior to him, which in her definition was quite literally everyone else on Earth. It had only further convinced Warlock that he was right.

But then again, his mother always did say he was an especially clever boy.

***

“You shouldn’t leave a tip to the server.”

“Why not?”

“She was slow to bring the drinks.”

“It is a busy day, there is a full table just behind--”

“It’s no excuse. You shouldn't leave a tip. Actually, you should complain to the manager…”

Gabriel did not talk to the manager, but neither did he leave a tip, which Beelzebub supposed he could count as a small victory: a sin added to his folder in Hell. A small sin, of course - demanding to talk to the manager would have scored a bigger one - but they all would add up, when the time came for his soul to be judged.

They had done well, and Beelzebub enjoyed the feeling for precisely a minute and twenty-three seconds, until they passed by a beggar on the sidewalk and Gabriel dropped the coins he hadn’t used for a tip in the small dish on the ground.

A good deed for the ledger in Heaven. For Satan’s sake, was he doing that on purpose to annoy them? Or maybe, just maybe, he was doing it purposely to score a point towards Heaven - in which case the point would be null and void, or at least would be open to dispute later on.

“You know you can’t buy your way back into Heaven, right?” Beelzebub snorted, only to gain themselves a rather confused look.

“What?”

Ah, what the Heaven, so it was a genuine good deed. Beelzebub ground their teeth. “Nothing,” they muttered, kicking a pebble. All right, they had to come up with something else, a sin they could tempt them into without him realizing, or else the day would be wasted and--

“Ah, the museum is open.”

Beelzebub looked up, raising an eyebrow. “Museum?” he asked. Before them, he could only see the docks. Gabriel tilted his head left.

“That one, it has an exhibit on the Titanic - I think you mentioned you like this place because it sailed from here?”

The Prince of Hell grinned. “Ah, yes. That was a good day for Hell.”

“You had a hand in it?”

“Of course we did.” Or so they assumed, it had been a while. They did remember giving a commendation to Crowley around that time, that was probably it. The fact it might have been the work of the traitor somewhat soured the memory.

(As a matter of fact, Crowley had been in Southampton by sheer coincidence when the Titanic sailed off and his entire contribution to the entire matter was getting a few sailors so drunk in a pub nearby they were unable to board the next morning, but Hell did not need to know that.)

“Mph. Should have known.”

“We could have had more if your lot hadn’t intervened with the Carpathia.”

“The-- ah. That. Yes, that was-- that was our work, without a doubt.” Gabriel coughed a couple of times. “Anyway. Perhaps you’d like to have a look at the museum?”

It sounded suspiciously like an attempt at changing the subject, but Beelzebub couldn’t say they weren't rather curious to see the museum. Might be a matter of nostalgia for a really good day. A bad day. But a bad day is always a good day in Hell.

“You keep surprising me with uncharacteristically good ideas these days,” Beelzebub said, and Gabriel rolled his eyes - though he wasn’t quick enough to hide what looked markedly like a small smile as he followed them.

***

“But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire.” -- James 1:14

***

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pamphletstoinspire · 4 years ago

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August 30 - Today is the feast day of Saint Rose of Lima. Ora pro nobis.

Born Isabella de Flores, Saint Rose was the daughter of a Spanish immigrant father and a Peruvian mother. She was personally confirmed by the Archbishop of Lima, Saint Turibiuis de Mongrovejo, and took the name Rose. Her family and friends had been calling her “Rosa,” as when she was still an infant, one of the family’s servants had seen her face miraculously transform into the vision of a mystical Rose. All of Saint Rose's sufferings were offered for the conversion of sinners, and the thought of the multitudes in hell was ever before her soul. She died in 1617, at the age of thirty-one.

by F. M. Capes, 1899

We may not say that St. Rose was the first saint of the New World, for God only knows His own; but she was the first of America's children to be placed in the calendar of canonized saints–the first flower gathered from that part of the great garden over which St. Dominic has been placed as the husbandman of Jesus Christ.

Almost before she was out of her infancy, that love of Our Lord's suffering, which was afterwards to become the ruling passion of her life, began to lay hold of little Rose's heart. How God speaks to the baby souls of those early-chosen children of His special delight; by what channels the Divine secrets are imparted to their barely-opened minds; what marvelous gift enables them to entertain and understand thoughts far beyond their years–we cannot know; but that such special communications are made to some of the Saints even as little children is certain.

In St. Rose's case the working of these mysterious operations in her heart was witnessed to by the fact that, as a little thing barely able to walk, she would often be found, having managed to escape from her guardians or companions, absorbed in deep infantine contemplation before a picture of the thorn-crowned Christ, in His mantle of scorn, which hung in her mother's room.

Her own apprenticeship in her Master's school, too, began early; for from the time that she was three years old Rose de Flores was the subject of one accident or complaint after another, and was kept perpetually in states of suffering which were sharp trials to her childish patience.

This ideal she realized in her life. It is this life of penance and mysticism which is presented to the reader in these pages. Everything in her life calls for admiration, many things for imitation, some, maybe, for explanation. The reader of this record of her ways and works will perforce exclaim: ‘Wonderful is God in His saints'–wonderful in their number, in their graces, in their variety.

St. Rose's life was eminently wonderful in its marvelous penance, its deep, earnest, and all but continuous prayer, its perfect union with God. She studied in the school of Christ; her book was the Cross; her Master the Crucified. Naturally of delicate health, weak in body, and physically feeble, hers was a life of chronic suffering. To this she added much fasting, abstinence, and penances of every kind, as will be seen from the perusal of this interesting and instructive life. But all her sufferings, whether sent by God or self-inflicted, were borne for God, with God, and in God.

She could say with the Apostle: ‘With Christ I am nailed to the Cross; and I live, now not I, but Christ liveth in me. Her suffering life was a life of detachment from the world–a life of union with God. If she could make her own the words of St. Paul, ‘The world is crucified to me, and I to the world, she could add with equal truth, ‘I live in the faith of the Son of God, Who loved me and delivered Himself for me.'

ST. ROSE OF LIMA, VIRGIN BY FATHER FRANCIS XAVIER WENINGER, 1876

God gave to the Christians of America, and all over the world, a beautiful example of holiness, at the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth century, in the Saint whose festival is this day commemorated by the Catholic Church. Her native place was Lima, the capital of Peru. She was named Isabel, but while yet in the cradle, she was called Rose, as her face, in its loveliness, resembled a rose. She took the surname of St. Mary, by order of the Blessed Virgin. Already in her childhood, her conduct was holy. Her intention was to follow the example of St. Catherine of Sienna, whose life she had read, and therefore she entered the third order of St. Dominic. When five years old, she consecrated her virginity to God, and was such a perfect hand-maiden of the Lord, that during her whole life, she never offended Him by a mortal sin, nor even intentionally by one that was venial. Her time was divided between prayer and work. Twelve hours she gave to devout exercises, two or three to sleep, the rest to work.

When grown to womanhood, her hand was sought by several, but she always unhesitatingly gave the answer, that she was already promised to a heavenly spouse. That, however, her parents might no further urge her, she herself cut off her hair, as a sign of her consecration to God. She treated her innocent body with extreme severity. From her childhood she abstained from fruit, which, in Peru, is so delicious. Her fasts and abstinences were more than human; for, when scarcely six years old, her nourishment consisted almost entirely of water and bread. At the age of fifteen, she made a vow never to eat meat, except when obliged by obedience. Not even when sick did she partake of better food. Sometimes for five or eight days, she ate nothing at all, living only on the bread of angels. During the whole of Lent, she took only five citron seeds, daily. Incredible as this may appear to the reader, it is told by unquestionable authority. Her bed was a rough board, or some knotted logs of wood. Her pillow was a bag filled with rushes or stones.

Every night she scourged her body with two small iron chains, in remembrance of the painful scourging of our Saviour, and for the conversion of sinners. When, however, her Confessor forbade her this, she, after the example of St. Catherine of Sienna, bound, three times around her body, a thin chain, which in a few weeks, had cut so deeply into the flesh that it was scarcely to be seen. Fearing that she would be compelled to reveal it, she prayed to God for help, and the chain became loose of itself. Hardly were the wounds healed, when she again wore the chain, until her Confessor, being informed of it, forbade her to do so, She then had a penitential robe made of horse-hair, which reached below her knees, and occasioned her intense suffering. She wore under her veil, in remembrance of our Saviour's crown of thorns, a crown which was studded inside with pins, and which wounded her head most painfully. To attend the better to her prayers, she loved solitude above everything.

To this end, she asked the permission of her parents to build a small cell for herself in the corner of the garden. This cell was only five feet long and four feet wide; but she lived more happily in it than many others do in royal palaces. O, how many graces she obtained from heaven in this place! How many visions she had there of St. Catherine of Sienna, her Guardian Angel, the Blessed Virgin, and even of Christ Himself! She was also frequently favored with visions in other places. The most remarkable of these was one which she had on Palm Sunday, in the chapel of the Holy Rosary, before an image of the Blessed Virgin. Rose, gazing at the picture, perceived that the Virgin Mother, as well as the divine Child, regarded her most graciously, and at last she heard distinctly from the lips of the divine Child, the words: “Rose, you shall be my spouse.” Although filled with holy awe, she replied, in the words which the Blessed Virgin had spoken to the Angel: ” Behold, I am a handmaid of the Lord, be it done to me according to thy word.” After this, the Virgin Mother said: “May you well appreciate the favor which my Son has accorded to you, dear Rose!”

I leave it to the pious reader to picture to himself the inexpressible joy which this vision gave to Rose. It served her as a most powerful incentive to the practice of all virtues. Among these virtues, surely not the least was the heroic patience which this holy virgin showed, as well in bodily suffering, as in interior, spiritual anguish. The Almighty permitted her, for fifteen years, to be daily tormented, at least, for an hour, by the most hideous imaginations, which were of such a nature, that she sometimes thought that she was in the midst of hell. She could think neither of God nor of the graces He had bestowed upon her; neither did prayer or devout reading give her any comfort. It sometimes seemed as if she had been forsaken by God. In this manner, God wished to prove and purify her virtue, as He had done in regard to many other Saints. Her patience was also most severely tried by painful diseases, as she sometimes had a combination of two or three maladies at the same time, and suffered most intensely.

During the last three years of her life, she was disabled in almost all her limbs; but her resignation to the will of God was too perfect to allow her to utter a word of complaint. All she desired and prayed for was to suffer still more for Christ's sake. She, at the same time, encouraged other sick persons, whom she served with indescribable kindness, as long as she was well. She endeavored to comfort them when it was necessary to prepare them for a happy death; for, her greatest joy was to speak of God and to lead others to Him. One day when she was greatly troubled about her salvation, Christ appeared to her and said: ” My daughter, I condemn those only who will not be saved.” He assured her at the same time, first, that she would go to heaven; secondly, that she never would lose His grace through mortal sin; thirdly, that divine assistance would never fail her in any emergency. God also revealed to her the day and hour of her death, which took place in her thirty-first year. After the holy sacraments had been administered to her, she begged all present to forgive her faults, and exhorted them to love God. The nearer the hour of her death approached, the greater became her joy.

Shortly before her end, she went into an ecstasy, and after it, she said to her Confessor: ” Oh! how much I could tell you of the sweetness of God, and of the blissful heavenly dwelling of the Almighty!” She requested her brother to take away the pillow that had been placed under her head, that she might die on the boards, as Christ had died on the cross. When this was done, she exclaimed three times: “Jesus, Jesus, be with me!” and expired. After death, her face was so beautiful, that all who looked at her were lost in astonishment. Her funeral was most imposing. The Canons first carried the body a part of the way to the church; after them the senate, and finally, the superiors of the different orders, so great was the esteem they all entertained for her holiness. God honored her after her death, by many miracles; and Clement X. canonized her in 1671 and placed her among the number of the holy virgins.

#st rose of lima

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bluemoonroseart · 4 years ago

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Surrealism: The Art of Dreaming

Using artworks by Surrealist artists René Magritte, Dorothea Tanning and Salvador Dalí, I’m going to broadly look at the movement and compare their approach to tackling subject matter that most artists fear to tread. They have a similar style in the way that some of their work has illusionistic quality to it, and as well as working in the Surrealist movement they also worked with abstraction.

Surrealism was a revolt against formalist art that started in Paris in 1924 and ended in 1966. Experimenting with pure psychic automation, the surrealists aimed to revolutionise the human experience, rejecting a rational vision of life in favour of one that asserted the value of the unconscious and dreams. Essentially, the word ‘surrealist’ suggests ‘beyond reality’.

Dorothea Tanning's self-portrait 'Birthday' (1942) may appear tame for a surrealist painting, especially in comparison to her wild, nightmarish depictions of sinister sunflowers and twisted fairy-tales. However, I think that despite its more minimalistic façade there is a lot of underlying meaning to interpret, and it becomes more surreal the more that you study it.

Tanning is shown standing with her weight in her toes, tipping forwards as if ready to flee. Unlike most self-portraits, this is strangely unrevealing of her true personality, like she’s a character in her own story, the way that she used to invent make-believe worlds for herself to delve into when she was a child. The paint has a luminescent quality, lending to the dream-like narrative woven evocatively into it.

The turbulent, difficult to decipher perspective of the composition leads the eye to the background, behind and beyond her, into the overlapping multitude of doors, perhaps representing an invitation into the complex state of her psyche. Tanning's gaze is slightly off-centre, like she’s looking at someone or something behind us, and the way that she clutches the doorknob is almost like she's inviting them into the corridor, for her to follow after them into this portal of limitless possibility. This quickly snowballs and leaves the viewer in wonder, yearning to join and discover whatever location that it leads to.

Her idiosyncratic Jacobean-style garments make me wonder whether she has come from the unknown land beyond the doors and returned to bring someone back with her. Fantasy art often draws upon natural materials like plants to clothe their characters, so Tanning could be referencing this in the vine-like tendrils coiling off from the sides of her dress.

Although Tanning rejected being labelled a feminist, it is difficult not to see her work in this light. Sexual motifs of fetishized female body parts recur in Tanning’s work, and clothing makes no attempt to cover her chest in this portrait. Additionally, she was key in challenging preconceptions and defining her individual Surrealist style at a time where the critics commonly perceived women artists to have a passive role.

The fantastical bat-like creature has a peculiar timidity and sits beside her bare feet. Instead of appearing demonic, its small scale and stance make it appear vulnerable and creates a sort of pathos in the viewer. I think that it could be a mythological personification of the dark side of her tumultuous mind, and the fragility that perhaps isn't always visible.

Although it was painted around her birthday, the title’s intention was to suggest rebirth from the real into the surreal.

Unlike Tanning’s paintings, which some suggest frequently carry an erotic undertone, despite the title, René Magritte’s ‘The Lovers II’ (1928) is the opposite. This is a companion piece to ‘The Lovers I’ (also 1928) which depicted a man and woman posing for a photograph with white hoods covering their heads, a shocking juxtaposition of the peaceful backdrop of the countryside. However, the latter piece has a darker tone and is much more intimate, exploring the complex theme of ‘surrealist love’.

Supposedly the same couple are yet again the protagonists of this offbeat narrative, still with opaque hoods over their heads, but this time there is an added intimacy of the fact that they appear to be kissing inside a private space. As a viewer, it seems like we've stumbled into a personal moment that we shouldn’t have, but now that we’ve arrived in this room the piece is so transfixing, we can’t leave.

The application of paint is more romantic than some of his other more flatly painted works. There is a realism in Magritte's use of tone, and the chiaroscuro, murky colour palette and dark ambiance lends to the shrouded mystery of it. The enigma is further deepened by the ambiguity of the abstract background; we are given no clues to their backstory. The idiosyncratic contrast of the muted blue and deep, passionate red painted walls perhaps suggests the complexity of their relationship.

Furthermore, their concealed faces mean that they have no perceivable identity, so Magritte calls into question not only individual experience but a collective, universal human narrative. They are archetypes of people, perhaps representing an emotional barrier between everyone, no matter how intimate the relationship. Potentially it is not that they cannot understand each other, but that an onlooker could never truly comprehend the meaning of the connection between strangers.

The fact that the pair seem to be oblivious to their veils leads me to further believe that it isn’t physical fabric at all, but a manifestation of their emotional state. Although the stance of the man is more dominant, the fact that the fabric is wrapped around his neck makes it feel like he's being strangled by his situation. Additionally, Magritte's compositional decision to include the ceiling adds a sense of claustrophobia.

This painting has now become an iconic image in the time of coronavirus, and surreal as our everyday life is now, it has spawned many imitations, including a masked kiss on a Vogue cover.

After an era of irreverent and explicit anti-Catholicism, in 1951 Salvador Dalí painted ‘Christ of Saint John of the Cross’. Some have claimed that it is ‘kitsch, shallow, and obvious’, however, others believe that it is the best painting ever produced.

In a “cosmic dream” on ecstasy, Dalí saw that the “nucleus of the atom” was in fact Christ himself. He found this confirmed by a drawing by St John of the Cross, which inspired this painting. The stark, black backdrop of nothingness further illuminates the figure of Jesus.

I think that in this image Dalí is strongly playing with the concept of life after death. Underneath the cross is a lake with two people and a boat, offset by a strikingly expressive sky. A theory that I have is that it's potentially an allusion to the ferryman taking people to the underworld in classic mythology. This can be backed up by his exceptional use of foreshortening - referencing the way that a priest holds out a crucifix for people to kiss when they're on their deathbed - and Dalí's personal interest in mythology.

The lack of details such as sweat and nails takes the suffering out of the image and emphasises the religious belief that the Son of God sacrificed himself because he wanted to, not because he had to.

All three of these thought-provoking surrealist paintings lead the observer into an unpredictable narrative, and their use of colour, composition and paint application make the unbelievable contents believable, strongly influencing the viewer’s response to the work. Their compelling nature makes it feel as though these paintings are just the surface of a much wider story, an analysis of human psychology: the intense and ungraspable sense of fear and love, driven by the power of the subconscious. Tanning, Magritte and Dalí have all let strangers into their own dreams and nightmares, giving us the rare insight to be a witness to the manifestations of their own internal universe and lending brief escapism from our own.

In conclusion, through trying to understand themselves through Surrealism, perhaps they have handed humanity the key to unlock our own true nature, and why this movement is so treasured is simply because as humans we love to dream.

Bibliography

Piper, D (2004). The Illustrated History of Art. 5th ed. London: Bounty Books. p422.

Unknown. (2020). SURREALISM. Available: https://www.tate.org.uk/art/art-terms/s/surrealism. Last accessed 26th Jan 2021.

Feigel, L. (2019). Dangerous appetites: the weird, wild world of Dorothea Tanning. Available: https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2019/feb/08/dangerous-appetites-the-weird-wild-world-of-artist-dorothea-tanning. Last accessed 26th Jan 2021.

Unknown. (2020). Dorothea Tanning Artworks. Available: https://www.theartstory.org/artist/tanning-dorothea/artworks/. Last accessed 28th Jan 2021.

Gilles, N (2000). Dali. Germany: Taschen. p74-75.

Bazan, C. (2017). The Surrealist Love and Bizarre Romance of Rene Magritte. Available: https://musartboutique.com/surrealist-love-rene-magritte/. Last accessed 29th Jan 2021.

Unknown. (2020). The Lovers II, 1928 by Rene Magritte. Available: https://www.renemagritte.org/the-lovers-2.jsp. Last accessed 29th Jan 2021.

Bradley, F. (2020). Work in focus: ‘Christ of Saint John of the Cross’ by Salvador Dalí Talk. Available: https://www.royalacademy.org.uk/event/work-in-focus-christ-of-saint-john. Last accessed 29th Jan 2021.

#arthistory #surrealism #artwriter #arthistoryessay #dali #magritte #artmovement #art history

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jetsetlife138 · 5 years ago

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Would love to request 75. :3 The "friends don't do this" with BJ

Summary: Friendship only goes so far. You and Beetlejuice decide to take it to the next level.

Paring: Beetlejuice x fem!Reader

Word Count: 1,600

Warnings: Religious imagery, dirty talk, blow jobs, cum swallowing

Smut Prompt: #75 - “Friends don’t do this kind of shit!”

Your best friend was a dead guy. Huh. Who would have thought?

It was all fun and games at first. When you first discovered him, you tried everything to get him out of your house, even going so far as to hire a paranormal expert who claimed that he could cleanse your home of unwanted spirits. His attempt was lackluster at best.

The man looked like he was about to pass out from fright the first time Beetlejuice appeared to him, a playful smirk plastered on his face. “Y-You must crossover!” The paranormal “expert” bellowed before he hastily reached into his bag and pulled out a crucifix, holding it in front of your ghostly guest. “You have no business here! Get out! The power of Christ-”

“Compels me? Oh, I don’t think so.” Beetlejuice cackled as he twirled his finger and the cross went flying out of the guy’s hands and across the room, falling with a loud thud to the floor.

Shaking violently, the man swallowed hard as he looked back at Beetlejuice, not prepared for the ghoul to teleport right in front of his face and say, “You’re adorable,” before pressing his mouth against the unsuspecting victim in a rough kiss.

You had never seen anyone run so fast in all your life, earning gleeful laughter from the unwanted intruder. Admittedly, you found it pretty funny, and found yourself laughing right along with him, which didn’t go unnoticed by Beetlejuice. After that, the two of you were thick as thieves, finding genuine joy in each other’s company.

He was constantly seeking reassurance from you regarding your friendship. Of course, he never let up on his cocky, egotistical demeanor, but there were brief moments where you could tell he was being sincere, and truly valued friendship, which moved you. However, that did nothing to suppress his attempts to seduce you. He was a shameless flirt and would always offer to be of sexual service, to which you always replied, “Beetlejuice, we’re friends. That’s it.”

The phrase was always met with a groan, or an eye roll, or some snarky comment, but you knew he was happy with your friendship just the same. He had obviously been lonely before you came along, and if you were being honest with yourself, being around him made you feel better and less lonely, too.

Little did either of you know that over time, you would start to see him in a whole new light. It took you by complete surprise one day when you and Beetlejuice were contently sitting on the couch, watching tv, and you looked over and suddenly… wanted him? It wasn’t too shocking, considering how much you two had actually cared for each other, but still… you never would have thought that you would feel anything sexually for a ghost.

No longer having the willpower to ignore your urges, you uttered, “BJ?”

“Hmm?”

The moment he turned to you, you crushed your mouth against his and kissed him fiercely with a desperate, unspoken need.

Not needing any convincing whatsoever, he moaned against your lips as his tongue begged for entry, to which you happily accepted. You relished in his taste as he explored your mouth before he eagerly took your bottom lip in between his teeth and pulled gently, releasing it shortly after to place soft kisses along your jawline while you breathed heavily with arousal.

Your hands worked their way down to his pants as you tried to make quick work of unbuckling his belt, but you were stopped when he placed his hands over yours. “Whoa! Christ, babe. I thought you wanted to be friends? Friends don’t do this kind of shit!”

You placed a soft peck on his lips and nudged his hands away to continue undoing his belt. “We’re still friends,” you breathed against his mouth. “Just… with benefits.”

He bit his lip and groaned as he shifted forward to remove his jacket before leaning back on the couch, his eyes blown with desire and lust.

Noting his consent and after removing his belt, you slowly started to unzip his pants, purposely running your palm over the obvious bulge inside of them as you did so, earning a breathy groan from his swollen lips. You smiled at his desperate state as you hiked his pants down his hips, just enough to allow his strained cock to spring free of its confinement, pleasantly surprised by his girth.

Moving off of the couch, you fell to your knees onto the floor before pulling him closer to the edge of the couch for easier access. Angling yourself over him, you kissed each side of his hips as he arched his back with anticipation. Just to be a dick, you opened your mouth and blew air over his tip, causing him to sit up and glare at you. “Seriously? You’re going to be a fucking tease? I’m dead and haven’t had any action in a millenia. Have some sympathy.”

Chucking darkly, you pressed on his chest, forcing him to lay back on the couch once more. “Don’t complain or you won’t get anything at all.” He bit his lip and nodded his head in fervent agreement as you positioned your mouth over his fully erect cock once more.

Seductively, you ran the tip of your tongue over his slit in small kitty licks, causing Beetlejuice to inhale deeply, but he didn’t complain or move. With a little more force, you licked along the vein underneath his cock. His body trembled as you took each of his balls into your mouth, one by one, sucking gently while pumping him slowly, barely causing any friction. He whimpered eagerly as you continued nuzzling against his sac, reveling in the effect it was having on him.

After a few more moments of torture, you figured that you had teased him enough, and was getting impatient yourself, realizing how much you wanted to please him. Abruptly, you engulfed the head of his dick, sucking harshly as he pushed his hips forward, desperate for more contact. “Fuuuuck, babe. Oh, shit… feels so fucking good” he mewled as you took more of his cock into your mouth.

Pulling back, you circled the head of his length with your tongue, digging into the slit, which made the demon choke on his own breath and moan wantonly in approval. Hollowing your cheeks, you started to deep throat him, swallowing his length as his head hit the back of your throat. Gagging a bit, you felt tears welling up in your eyes, but you kept going, knowing how good it was making him feel.

“Oh, fuck. Mmph, babe… yes, just like that,” he urged as you sucked him harder, grazing the underside of his cock with your teeth.

It was obvious that he was close when he grabbed your hair roughly and pulled you closer. His back was arched severely and he was trembling with loss of control. Suddenly, you felt a foreign, blissful sensation throughout your entire body.

You choked on his dick, not expecting the pleasurable attack on my netherregions as you pulled off of him, earning a whine from the loss of contact. Once his hand stopped gripping your hair, the feeling ceased and you sat back, dumbfounded. “BJ, what… what the fuck was that?”

“Fuck, babe,” he breathed as he composed himself. “I just wanted to return the favor. Come on, don’t stop.” Okay, so he had sex powers? Huh. Interesting. That was something new. It would definitely benefit you in the future.

Still dazed, you started to pump him again, squeezing your hand slightly and flicking your thumb over his heavily leaking slit. “I think I’m going to like this whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing,” he chuckled, struggling to form coherent sentences.

Unable to find a reason to protest, you enveloped Beetlejuice’s thick cock once more, making obscene slurping noises as you bobbed your head up and down over his length.

A few moments later, his hand once again gripped your hair and the unbelievable pleasure continued to surge through your body. You started to lose your rhythm as the feeling became rapidly overwhelming, but you were still focused enough to flick and roll your tongue in all the right spots, causing Beetlejuice to groan whorishly, only increasing your desire to bring him over the edge.

Not long after that, his girth twitched inside of your mouth, barely giving you a warning before his chilled cum started lining the back of your throat in heavy spurts. He cried out as his orgasm consumed him completely, stuttering, “B-babe, shit! Oh my god…”

It was as if his release heightened his powerful abilities because as he was spilling himself into your mouth, the pleasurable sensation escalated immensely, instantly bringing you over the edge. Pulling yourself off of his length, you shamelessly moaned in bliss as your own release ripped through you violently.

When you regained your composure and came down from your high, you took Beetlejuice’s softening length into your mouth once more to lick up any remnants that you may have left behind when you had pulled off so abruptly. He gasped lightly as you sucked him, weak from his release and over-sensitized.

Once you were confident you sucked him dry, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and crawled next to him on the couch, admiring the way his chest rose and fell calmly. A smile was playing on his lips as his eyes remained closed with euphoric contentment.

He must have felt you staring at him because he then opened his eyes and grinned widely when he turned to you. “Friends, huh?”

Winking at him, you replied, “More or less.”

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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Vikings Season 6 Episode 13 Review: The Signal

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This Vikings review contains spoilers.

Vikings Season 6 Episode 13

“If anyone kills him, it should be me. A brother’s privilege.”

Like most shows, Vikings is at its best when the action and dialogue flow easily, and the seemingly disparate storylines offer some measure of cohesion. Even though there’s still significant physical and narrative distance among them, “The Signal” presents highly satisfying developments in Kiev, Kattegat, and aboard Ubbe’s ill fated voyage.

It’s never easy to understand the Lothbrok brothers, and the circuitous route that eventually reunites Ivar and Hvitserk provides an opportunity for both to confess their true feelings about their strained relationship. While Ivar recognizes his brother’s emotional weaknesses and has always been willing to forgive any perceived lack of loyalty, this physically brutal confrontation ironically sets the stage for the alliance that allows Prince Igor to escape Kiev. To this point the action sequences have been relatively light, but when Hvitserk holds Ivar’s swordlike crutch aloft, his decision to throw it aside rather than impale his younger brother speaks volumes about the blood that flows through their veins.

Of course, the exchange begins when Hvitserk turns Ivar away from seeing Oleg, and we’re still not certain how things will transpire as we watch Oleg and Katia peering down on the brothers as they scuffle in the street. When Oleg tells Ivar that “I believe he loves and hates you in equal measure,” in retrospect, Ivar’s response appears to function as a means to keep the prince in the dark about the plan to leave with Igor. This introspective scene works because we still don’t know whether Katia has betrayed Ivar’s confidences about Igor, and with all the talk of killing, the threat hanging over Ivar’s head appears to increase.

Vikings Season 6 Episode 12 Review: All Change

By Dave Vitagliano

Vikings Season 6 Part Two Review (Spoiler-Free)

By Jamie Andrew

Though the brotherly reconciliation remains tenuous, Hvitserk’s suggestion that they use the impending Easter celebration as a distraction forces Ivar to make a decision about how much faith he puts in his brother’s assessment of the situation. When Katia, adorned in a striking white fur coat and matching hat, comes to retrieve the young prince for his escape, the narrative flow embodies equal parts hope and danger. Watching a bloodied man struggle with a realistic facsimile of Christ’s cross momentarily distracts Prince Oleg from the clear and present danger the Lothbrok brothers represent, and when he suddenly notices Igor’s absence, the tension escalates. The ill-advised trope of a guard preventing Ivar’s cart from leaving the city burdens an otherwise perfect sequence. True, from a storytelling perspective, this cart search could go either way, but allowing Ivar, Hvitserk, Igor, and Katia to escape and make their way back to Kattegat to ultimately face King Harald makes for much more compelling television.

Ubbe’s decision to leave the Icelandic colony hopefully leaves that story behind in favor of the dark intrigue surrounding Kjetill and his family. Now, however, caught in the midst of a terrible storm, Ubbe and Torvi may not have to carry through on their undisclosed plan to deal with Kjetill’s atrocities. Though it seems unlikely this is the first storm these seafaring people have experienced, its ferocity signals an impending doom that leads to an emotionally crushing scene when Torvi’s child is swept overboard.

Never given enough screen time, Georgia Hirst (Torvi) gives an absolutely gut wrenching performance as she desperately clutches her newborn son Ragnar while frantically searching the ship for her daughter. We see the heartbreaking image of the child’s vision of a sea monster seconds before succumbing to the vicious waves, a call back to the story Torvi tells her as a means of calming her fears caused by the storm. Once the storm abates, Ubbe must face the ramifications of his decision to take his family on an expedition that leads to the loss of yet another child and whether Torvi holds him responsible for this tragic event.

As viewers navigate the turbulent waters of the Vikings landscape, all signs point toward a convergence in Kattegat. It’s fascinating to watch the wives of Bjorn Ironside delicately maneuver both their relationship with each other but with opportunist Erik as well. Gunnhild knows she’s the best choice to lead Kattegat, but must now contend with Ingrid as well as Erik who disingenuously claims he has no desire to rule. We’ve watched a number of sleazy characters come and go during the series’ six year run, and while Erik may not sit at the top of the list, he certainly deserves consideration. This is the crown Ragnar Lothbrok forged we’re talking about.

Nevertheless, Erik’s insertion into the election process pales in comparison to the unexpected resurrection of King Harald Finehair. His entrance is nicely foreshadowed by the strangers who steal into Kattegat, murder a guard, and seemingly set out to wreak mayhem. But we’re not sure who they are or from where they’ve come which adds to the already tense situation that surrounds the election. Whether he anticipated this or not, when the dead guard’s body is discovered, the alarm sounds, and the election process is interrupted giving Harald the perfect opportunity to make his dramatic entrance.

That Kattegat conducts free and democratic elections speaks to Ragnar’s legacy, but like most political processes, the true intrigue remains hidden behind the scenes. Vikings has certainly presented its fair share of supernatural situations, most often centering on some sort of ceremony or a mysterious meeting with The Seer, but “The Signal” takes that aspect of the show to a new level when Ingrid reveals another side of herself that likely won’t end well for her. Clawing away at the rocks sealing Bjorn’s tomb, we’re immediately struck by her desperation, but what happens next opens up a fresh narrative detail that takes viewers into new territory. Summoning Frey and Freya’s magic, Ingrid performs an erotic, yet frightening ritual that probably won’t sit well with the community should she be discovered. Again, Erik’s presence as he peers into the tomb to witness Ingrid’s prayers seems a bit too easy since we know what comes next.

Harald’s entrance, however, changes the dynamics and takes away much of the power inherent in Erik’s manipulative schemes with Gunnhild and Ingrid. Of course, it’s impossible to ignore the irony of the last meeting between Erik and Harald as Finehair lay gravely wounded on the battlefield. Though we generally abhor Harald’s methods, there’s a certain charismatic quality he exudes that transcends this behavior. Will the election even continue now that he reminds the people he has already been chosen king of all Norway precluding any need for Gunnhild and Ingrid to carry through with what he now views as political theater. Or, do Erik and the two wives of Bjorn Ironside take a page from the Kievan playbook and plot to eliminate Harald from the equation and secure the throne for themselves?

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Will Ivar bring Prince Igor to Kattegat and prepare him to eventually claim the Rus throne? Will Ubbe and Torvi find their way back to Kattegat and search for new meaning after the disastrous voyage? And will Gunnhild stand by silently and allow Harald to run roughshod over her plans for the village? “The Signal” seamlessly weaves the three threads together setting into motion a much more expansive tale as Vikings moves through its sixth and final season.

The post Vikings Season 6 Episode 13 Review: The Signal appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/382S6jO

#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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mybeautifulchristianjourney · 4 years ago

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Charles Spurgeon's "Morning & Evening"

Devotions for November 19

MORNING

"For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ." - 2 Corinthians 1:5

There is a blessed proportion. The Ruler of Providence bears a pair of scales-in this side he puts his people's trials, and in that he puts their consolations. When the scale of trial is nearly empty, you will always find the scale of consolation in nearly the same condition; and when the scale of trials is full, you will find the scale of consolation just as heavy. When the black clouds gather most, the light is the more brightly revealed to us. When the night lowers and the tempest is coming on, the Heavenly Captain is always closest to his crew. It is a blessed thing, that when we are most cast down, then it is that we are most lifted up by the consolations of the Spirit. One reason is, because trials make more room for consolation. Great hearts can only be made by great troubles. The spade of trouble digs the reservoir of comfort deeper, and makes more room for consolation. God comes into our heart-he finds it full-he begins to break our comforts and to make it empty; then there is more room for grace. The humbler a man lies, the more comfort he will always have, because he will be more fitted to receive it. Another reason why we are often most happy in our troubles, is this-then we have the closest dealings with God. When the barn is full, man can live without God: when the purse is bursting with gold, we try to do without so much prayer. But once take our gourds away, and we want our God; once cleanse the idols out of the house, then we are compelled to honour Jehovah. "Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord." There is no cry so good as that which comes from the bottom of the mountains; no prayer half so hearty as that which comes up from the depths of the soul, through deep trials and afflictions. Hence they bring us to God, and we are happier; for nearness to God is happiness. Come, troubled believer, fret not over your heavy troubles, for they are the heralds of weighty mercies.

https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/shallow-focus-shot-female-down-ground-praying-while-wearing-biblical-robe_10303609.htm#page=2&query=Christianity&position=19

EVENING

"He shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever." - John 14:16

Great Father revealed himself to believers of old before the coming of his Son, and was known to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as the God Almighty. Then Jesus came, and the ever-blessed Son in his own proper person, was the delight of his people's eyes. At the time of the Redeemer's ascension, the Holy Spirit became the head of the present dispensation, and his power was gloriously manifested in and after Pentecost. He remains at this hour the present Immanuel-God with us, dwelling in and with his people, quickening, guiding, and ruling in their midst. Is his presence recognized as it ought to be? We cannot control his working; he is most sovereign in all his operations, but are we sufficiently anxious to obtain his help, or sufficiently watchful lest we provoke him to withdraw his aid? Without him we can do nothing, but by his almighty energy the most extraordinary results can be produced: everything depends upon his manifesting or concealing his power. Do we always look up to him both for our inner life and our outward service with the respectful dependence which is fitting? Do we not too often run before his call and act independently of his aid? Let us humble ourselves this evening for past neglects, and now entreat the heavenly dew to rest upon us, the sacred oil to anoint us, the celestial flame to burn within us. The Holy Ghost is no temporary gift, he abides with the saints. We have but to seek him aright, and he will be found of us. He is jealous, but he is pitiful; if he leaves in anger, he returns in mercy. Condescending and tender, he does not weary of us, but awaits to be gracious still.

Sin has been hammering my heart Unto a hardness, void of love, Let supplying grace to cross his art Drop from above.

https://www.freepik.com/free-photo/group-people-holding-hands-praying-worship-believe_5216362.htm#page=2&query=Christianity&position=29

#Charles Spurgeon #Morning and Evening #devotional #November 19 #2020 #Holy Spirit #Comforter #sent #God #John 14:16 #suffering #cross bearing #joined #Christ #2 Corinthians 1:5

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ftpthemovement · 5 years ago

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A message to The Lords Saints.

WAKE UP sons of God, and be numbered amongst the the Lords flock! Herding goats to the slaughter while preaching messages that tickles their ears isn’t pleasing in the fathers sight. No matter how many passion and tear filled messages you speak, they must be complemented with actions through the Holy Spirit that bears fruit within us!

To live is Christ and to die I gain. If you aren’t willing to die knowing each day could be your last for serving him, you are not fit to lead. You should step down from the mantle of leadership and faithfully believe God will fill it. May God expose the truth. The building and the congregants aren’t relying on you, they are relying on the power of God to be made manifest through your actions of discipleship leading the way.

The world sees crazy, but Christ is king! He knew that the cross was Him laying his life down for his loved ones, and we have been called to do the same. Refrain from reading the scriptures through the lens of the comfortable life you’ve grown accustom to, and read it for how it’s actually written. Question your stance, are you really on solid ground? Do you do the works Christ did and far greater? If so, your fruit would be evident! If he was called the prince of demons, what are they calling you!?

“Woe to you when everyone speaks well of you, for that is how their ancestors treated the false prophets.” Luke 6:26

What do you believe God was referring to when he said don’t put your light under a basket? You think it was because you preached his word? Knowledge without application is like faith without works, it is dead. Stop sugar glazing manure and calling it a donut. Allow room for God to convict your heart, and increase your wisdom. If congregants are against you, and you are abiding by the word, they were never for God or you in the first place. When they see you they should see Jesus. Don’t be a coward!

1 John 2:19 “They went out from us, but they did not really belong to us. For if they had belonged to us, they would have remained with us; but their going showed that none of them belonged to us.”

Set the example of what the church actually is supposed to look like. Don’t ask me, LOOK TO SCRIPTURE TO GUIDE YOU!

“They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe at the many wonders and signs performed by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.”Acts‬ ‭2:42-47‬ ‭

If the flock God has entrusted to you doesn’t look like this, or operate in similar context, you are RUNNING A BUSINESS NOT HIS CHURCH. I don’t set the example, CHRITS DID, followed by his apostles. Yet in this day in age most of “people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me.” Why be purchased again into slavery by a ruthless and obstinate people? Why not risk it all for your father, our king?

Your seats are warm and your worldly titles give you comfort? “They love the place of honor at banquets and the most important seats in the synagogues; they love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and to be called ‘Rabbi’ by others.” Teacher, Pastor, Preacher, Evangelist etc.

‭He would rather have one Shepard boy with faith, then legions of armed men. You think stagnant congregations impress our father? They are nothing more than fig trees that bear no fruit. Pray that The Lord allows another year to produce. Pray The Lord doesn’t come in this moment of denial. Pray The Lord convicts the hearts of leaders who adore their positions. Pray The Lord awakens the body of Christ to unification and not division.

What do I mean by pray? I mean to thank God that he’s already given us the opportunity and the freewill to turn from our ways, increase in wisdom and add to our learning! Christ in me that compels me to ask that you remove yourself from leadership if you are not fit for the Fight. Do not let pride keep you preaching a message of power that lacks the actions that back the message! Go be the example even if it’s alone! It’s time for the true followers of God to lead the way. A line has been drawn in the sand. Chose this day who you serve and let your actions be the answer and not your words.

By the power of God, the dead works be exposed, may the weak watered down leadership be exposed. If you go before a congregation that deny the works of Christ, wipe the sand from your sandles and take your blessing with you. If it ends up just you and God, then you have the majority vote. Don’t weaken, sugar coat, or water down this gospel for anybody. This is for the ambassadors of Christ and if that ain’t you, then what are you doing!?

Wake up sleeper! This is the time, this is the hour, this is the reason why you were born.

Stop allowing the ways of the world and an adulterous people lead you astray. In just a couple of days, they were building a golden calf and creating an alter to false Gods. God said it would be as the times of Noah, look around warriors, what do you see?

Prepare yourself for what is coming, and seize the day. You are at war men of God, be numbered with the righteous or find you’re self falling with the wicked. The sons of light will unite and lead the way, so stop falling victim to complacency and the comfort of your families, jobs, and homes. Your excuses are void in the face of our father who bankrupted heaven and risked it all just do you could have life. Stop thinking your “oh woah wretched me” speech will hold any weight in heaven, when he has given you everything needed to do what he did and far greater.

Either step up, or step out of the way. The time is now, the warriors are here, and the true power of God is being made manifest. He is calling out the fake and exposing the real. It’s not about how you feel, it’s about his will.

So, how do followers know the difference? Look to the leaders who operate in the spirit of God power l, not those who cower in the ways of the world. Look for the ones who are bold in the face of adversity, look to those look to those who look after widows and orphans in their affliction, and keep themself polluted for the world. For those who always remember the poor, and prisoners. Those who are a light shinning in dark places. The ones who lay hands and the sick are healed. Those who walk in brotherly love, esteeming others higher than themselves. Look to those denying themselves daily, picking up their cross and following God boldly. Look for those who know “To Live is Christ, to die is Gain” look for true followers of the way. Don’t be lead astray. Anybody’s can preach the gospel, who’s living it through action and in truth.

Grace and peace be yours in abundance, ES

#ftpthemovement #eliasstrategos #pastor #blessed #christianity

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hieromonkcharbel · 5 years ago

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The Holy Fathers on Illness and Perfection:

Illness helps us to see "where we are" on life's road: "sickness is a lesson from God and serves to help us in our progress if we give thanks to Him" (Sts. Barsanuphius and John, Philokalia).

The patience we can learn on a sickbed cannot be overemphasized. Elder Macarius of Optina wrote about this to one who was ill:

"I was much pleased to hear from your relation how bravely you are bearing the cruel scourge of your heavy sickness. Verily, as the man of the flesh perishes, so is the spiritual man renewed."

"Ponder these words: Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed."

St. Ambrose of Milan compared an infirm body to a broken musical instrument. He explained how the "musician" can still produce God-pleasing "music" without his instrument:

"If a man used to singing to the accompaniment of a harp finds the harp broken, and its strings undone...he puts it aside and instead of calling for its notes he delights himself with his own voice.

Excerpts taken from:

Missionary Leaflet # EA30

466 Foothill Blvd, Box 397, La Canada, Ca 91011

Editor: Bishop Alexander (Mileant)

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chwrpg · 5 years ago

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ARDEN ATKINS. college sophomore; nineteen. sydney sweeney. TAKEN.

and, as amber atkins once said:

“Oh my God! Jesus Christ on a cross! Look, number one rule in a funeral home: never sneak up on the living. You never know who might have an enbalming needle or a skull saw in their hand. Mr. Larson’s son learned the hard way. He’s buried next to my grandpa.”

BEFORE THE PARTY;

At the age of nineteen, Arden has already achieved more than what most would have throughout their entire academic career. She’s always been a go-getter, possessing a dire need to propel herself forward in life in spite of the circumstances she’s been stuck with. Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks meant things never came easy, and the instability of her home life only ever seemed to add fuel to the fire. But rather than let it get her down, Arden continued to prosper, her home life and upbringing only making her work that much harder towards a better and brighter future. Even something as crushing as her parents split wouldn’t define how she felt towards life, and she refused to let a relationship filled with so much toxicity get the better of her, especially now that it was over.

Luckily, she’d had more of a say in the matter than most children did at her age. Once her father left, she was given a choice – stay in contact with him, or ditch him entirely along with the rest of her family. Arden chose the latter, feeling as though he didn’t deserve to have her in his life after the way he’d gone out. Her dad been a heavy drinker and gambler, blowing their money on odds that were never in his favor and coming home night after night smelling like cheap vodka and gin. It was only a matter of time before her mother followed suit, and more often than not she was following him around like a lost puppy, encouraging his conquests and going along for the ride as if she actually wanted to. If it hadn’t been for her grandmother stepping in when she had, the family would have lost more than just their house to his gambling. They would have lost Arden too.

Consequently, Arden’s father moved across country, leaving behind all of his bad habits for her mother to eventually outgrow with the help of Arden and her grandmother. Slowly but surely, they picked up the pieces, each getting jobs to compensate for everything they’d lost in his drunken endeavors and moving into a trailer big enough to hold the three of them. It didn’t seem like a lot, and it certainly wasn’t as much as they’d had before, but Arden could be happy so long as they were all together. In fact, she made sure she was.

Whether she cared to admit it or not, a lot of her determination stemmed from her father’s absence. Coming from nothing meant she wanted to be everything, and that was exactly why she picked up as many extracurricular activities as she did. Her GPA stayed at an impressive 4.0, and her list of accolades grew with each school year that passed. It was only a matter of time before she added beauty pageants into the mix as well, her curiosity getting the best of her when she just so happened to be handed a flyer for a local competition while she was at school.

Had the idea not fallen into her lap, Arden would have never given pageantry a chance. The idea of standing in front of a crowd wearing a dress that cost more than she earned at Mallrats and reciting answers like she was reading from a book all seemed nauseating to the girl. But when the opportunity presented itself, she couldn’t quite help but take it, no matter how out of character it was for her.

Surprisingly, the pageant world wasn’t nearly as daunting as she’d thought it would be. If anything, it was a land of opportunity for someone who wanted to take steps forward in their professional life, and not just some superficial show put on for the sake of exploiting women. Networking and meeting people all seemed to be a part of the job, and Arden didn’t mind using that to her advantage if it meant getting her name out there. People like Diane Sawyer and Oprah Winfrey had done exactly that, and those were exactly the kind of women she aspired to be. Journalism had always been her career of choice, and if she wanted to carry on to writing professionally one day, she needed to make an active effort to do so.

But it just so happened that she excelled at it, too. Where she lacked in expensive gowns and jewels, she made up for in the talent portions and the Q and A’s. Her reputation in the pageant community quickly became sterling, and it only took her a couple of pageants in practice before she was winning every title she went for. Most girls spent their entire lives preparing for the stage, but the star quality that came with being a beauty queen just happened to come naturally to Arden, as if she had been put on earth to do exactly that. It was thrilling to say the least, and despite her lack of effort, Arden enjoyed every second of it.

But with all success comes a certain degree of jealousy, and it was only natural for Arden to turn a couple of heads with each title she earned. How did the poor, dorky girl manage to steal every one of their crowns anyways? Saying it was unfair to her competitors would have been the understatement of the century, and it wasn’t until she beat out Beverly in a Miss Rosewood pageant that her greatness was truly realized.

From that moment on, she made herself a powerful enemy. One that would ensure that she never won again. Arden might not have seen the cutthroat, gory parts of the pageant world yet, but Beverly and her friends were more than willing to show her.

May the best beauty queen win.

DURING THE PARTY;

Arden had initially planned on staying in on the night of the party. With the Miss Chicago pageant looming, it only seemed right that she dedicate her spare time to working on her finale gown, ensuring that every little detail of it was preened to perfection. But after receiving a text from Luna, Arden felt compelled to make an appearance, if just to give the girl a quick hello and acknowledge the fact that she’d invited her at all. Arden had always gotten the distinct impression that she and the rest of her friends didn’t like her, so the fact that they’d extended the hand to her was as amazing as it was astonishing.

She hadn’t been at the party for five minutes before Rosie was shoving a red cup in her face and pulling her towards the bar, the other girls waiting there for her with shots in hand and smiles reaching up to their ears. Arden typically didn’t drink, but they were insistent that she break out of her shell for the night and have a good time with them now that she was finally a part of their group. So despite her morals, she went along with it, taking any and all drinks they threw at her and not stopping until she the three of them disappeared into the crowd, leaving Arden all by her lonesome. She wasn’t sure where they’d gone, but by that point she was too far gone to care, so she made a mental note to text Luna about it in the morning and headed home.

The rest of the night seemed to happen in a flash. The home she came back to wasn’t at all like the one she had left. Fireman, police officers, and onlooking neighbors flooded the surrounding area, each one of them in a state of panic as a result of the scene before them. It was her trailer up in flames, smoke radiating off of its surfaces as the firefighters worked helplessly to try and extinguish it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, was her mom being carried out on a stretcher, her body laced with equal amounts of burn marks and ash.

Amongst the chaos, Arden could only wonder: How on earth did this happen?

alternate faceclaims and prompts.

#rp #rpg #roleplay #bio rp #original rp #amber atkins #drop dead gorgeous #arden atkins #sydney sweeney #takenf

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