#I can pray the rosary and it feels good and healing

[teaboot]

nah, not Agnostic like "I'll believe it when I have proof" or Faithful like "I don't need proof" but something Different, like "I've Seen Over And Over Something Which Could Be Proof, Proof Of Something, Of Anything, Like I've Spoken Into The Void And The Void Has Listened Quietly And Said Nothing Back, But Still, I Have Been Heard, And The Act Of Listening Is The Invisible Difference Between Absence And Inaction Which Has Meaning Only To A Speaker Who Wishes To Be Heard, But I Fear The Power Of Blind Servitude And Delusion, And So I Remain On The Edge, Looking Out Into The Abyss, And Throw Small Stones In The Hope Of Hearing Them Hit The Bottom, And None Ever Do" and really, I'd be happy to follow any god who wants to be kind

Not a Christian not an Atheist but a third, secret thing (superstitious and a bit fucked up)

[nile-the-empathy-cleric]

Reflections on folk Catholicism, Italian folk magic, and an Italian folk magic inspired candle spell

Over the course of my almost 15 year witchcraft and folk magic journey I have gone from where almost every baby witch starts (cobbled together wicca and unknowingly appropriating closed practices) to working to unlearn all the harmful things I was brought up on. For the past 7-ish years I’ve been reconnecting with my cultural heritage and the folk practices of my ancestors. During this time I learned that there were designated and initiated folk healers in my family, including a living relative who was the go to Malocchio remover. While she is too poorly to teach me, hearing from relatives about her gifts and the type of healing she did gave me a great sense of connection and confidence to practice these traditions. This journey also changed my perspective on Catholicism. Understanding that folk Catholicism and Catholicism™️ are not the same allowed me to see my family’s faith and practice as a sort of animism and devotion to a divine power rather than strict, intolerant dogma with an oppressive ideology.

If you look at folk Catholicism, especially southern Italian, Sicilian, and Sardinian practices, you find that every profession, person, place, thing has a Saint associated with it— not unlike the belief in animism that places and things have their own spirits. You come to learn that folk Catholics worship the Madonna far more than God— paralleling goddess worship. Seeing this helped ease a significant part of my religious trauma. That is not to say that I’m suddenly Catholic again, rather I feel I can safely incorporate the Catholic aspects of my family’s folk healing practice into my own craft without feeling distressed.

Before, I was entirely avoidant of saying the prayers that empowered traditional spells, but recently in a moment of intense panic, pain, and sadness I did an impromptu candle spell and prayed the rosary (much to my surprise). It was almost instinctive… unlike the last time I prayed the rosary for a spell. That time I made a conscious effort to pray for someone who was Catholic using folk Catholicism. This time I found myself intuitively reaching for my rosary and saying the prayers as if I said them every day. I prayed the rosary 3 times as a watched my candle spell burn to completion. In doing so I was plucked from my distress and felt an eerie sense of calm. My mind was quiet and I could breathe.

The day I did this spell I had come upon a horrific car accident on my way home from work and felt traumatized by what I saw. I couldn’t calm down and was spiraling in an OCD loop of violent intrusive thoughts about what might have happened to the person in the car. I kept worrying about them, hoping for an outcome that wasn’t tragic. When I got home the only thing I could think to do was to focus my energy into something positive. So, I sat and decided to do a blessing spell for the person in the car, regardless of the outcome. Now, I’m sharing that candle spell with you (whoever’s reading this).

I used 2 chime candles, one white and one purple for blessing and peaceful energies. Then I ground basil (protection, purification), lavender (peace, rest), chamomile (peace, protection), and red clover (blessing, good fortune) with my mortar and pestle. I anointed the candles with olive oil, dragging the oil away from me. I then rolled the candles through the ground herbs and set them on either side of an amethyst crystal. After lighting the candles I prayed my first rosary. Using my amethyst rosary beads, I circled the candles clockwise 3 times after I finished my first set of prayers. I repeated the rosary and circling 2 more times as I focused on the candles burning and my intent. As the candles melted almost all the way down, I flicked some acqua di San Giovanni onto them for more blessing energy. And that’s the spell. Maybe this will be meaningful for someone other than me. Thank you for reading

[angeltreasure]

hello, please pray for me. I have been struggling with strong sexual temptations since childhood and as of recent they usually flare up as a response to stress. I was triggered badly today; my family has been extremely stressed and we have not been able to do our daily Rosary for a few days now. I’ve abstained from explicit content for several years. Ive been to Reconciliation twice in the past month and as I committed the act i wanted to cry in despair… I know God loves the fallen but I don’t know what to do; praying does not come second nature to me in that I don’t know what to say, so my prayers are often my trying to bear how I feel in silence, and I don’t know how effective this is. I have moved away from my constant confessor and I can’t talk to anyone about this… and my family wouldn’t let me see a counselor if I asked

I would do two things, 1. Go to a new confessor and 2. You must get rid of all which leads to those sins. If you must do this: delete all sinful apps, block sinful websites, throw bad magazines and movies in the trash, delete all the music that has those sin references, stop hanging around bad people if they try to influence you to sin, cut down on social media time if you find the sin by social media, and most importantly stop isolating yourself. You need to surround yourself with family even if you’re stressed together, you need to have good friends you can reach out to. If family cannot keep you accountable for these sins, a true friend will. Just like any person with addiction to drugs and alcohol, they cannot heal by being isolated. Now replace all of the bad with good, true, and holy things.

Praying might seem difficult especially when we are stressed, but when we are in a state of mortal sin, we must not feel ashamed to pray to ask for help, even if we feel we can’t pray well. If you need to go every week to confession, keep going. Do not fall into despair. A simple prayer can be good try this: “God, please have mercy on me, a sinner.” I know struggle with habitual sin is not easy, I’ve also cried from the pain I know I must have caused to offend God. You are not alone. I will absolutely pray for you my brother or sister, as well as your family. When you go to confession and do penance, did you know that all of Heaven rejoices? Ask your guardian angel to help you fight away this temptation. That is one of his special abilities. I can’t promise tomorrow will be easier but I can promise you that God does indeed love you no matter what and no amount of sin you make can drive Him away. Your sins are just a tiny drop in the ocean of His mercy. God waits for you in the confession (and the Eucharist) with open arms, ready to run to welcome home the Prodigal Son. Come home. Do not be afraid.

[amicidomenicani]

Question Dear Father, I discovered this site while surfing the internet. I have many doubts and I am in so much pain lately. Now, this is why: I have always been attentive to the precepts of the Catholic Church, but as a child I realized I was inclined towards homosexuality. Carnal desire in adolescence became always greater, till falling into homosexual intercourses. Now I live in fear of not getting into God's good graces. What can I do to put it right? Will I go down to hell? How can I heal? Should I confess everything to my mother? The psychologist told me it is normal and not against nature. But I feel dirty. I do not deny having thought about suicide, but I would do other evil afore God who granted me life. I said that only to my parish priest and he refused my confession, telling me to go to a psychological support center. Give me some answers, please! I will pray for you, if I can offer that despite my impurity. Best regards The answer of the Priest Dear, 1. I am very surprised that your parish priest refused your confession. It was your right to confess.  It was his duty to listen and give absolution if he had deemed you sufficiently repentant. 2. I do not deny that psychological support can help at least in some cases. But in others, such as yours, it was detrimental. What is the use to send you to a psychologist who tells you that homosexual inclination and practice are normal? Unless the parish priest wanted to tell you: listen to the psychologist and not to worry. But I refuse even just to think that the priest meant such a thing. You tell me that after those sins you feel dirty. That is natural. Certainly, that use of sexuality does not follow God's plan, that plan which is written in the depths of our sexual nature. 3. What do you need to do? First, you must stop homosexual activities. The Magisterium of the Church says that "when they engage in homosexual activity they confirm within themselves a disordered sexual inclination which is essentially self-indulgent" (Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith [1.10.1986], Homosexualitatis problema, 7). And it adds: " As in every moral disorder, homosexual activity prevents one's own fulfillment and happiness by acting contrary to the creative wisdom of God. The Church, in rejecting erroneous opinions regarding homosexuality, does not limit but rather defends personal freedom and dignity realistically and authentically understood” (HP, 7). 4. In fact, homosexual gratification is perceived as inadequate. It often comes along with feelings of frustration and depression. A moral theologian wrote: [tr.] “Few homosexuals, if any, are truly at peace with their perversion; as a matter of fact, that path toward gratification is unstable and incomplete and the degree of gratification is always limited in perversion. The fact of unconscious guilt becomes largely clear in many of those individuals” (K. Peschke, Christian Ethics, vol. II, p. 577). 5. Also, you must try to live in God's grace. Only the presence of God in your soul gives a certain sense of fullness by means of His sanctifying grace. A soul in grace enjoys a priceless serenity. 6. Besides avoiding mortal sin, you will have to confess regularly and frequently: once every fortnight, even better if once a week, to keep yourself in grace. Confessing even only venial sins confers an increase in grace, helps to avoid temptations, makes you feel a certain inner freshness that you will not be able to do without. Go to a priest whom you feel trustworthy, and who welcomes you with kindness. He shall not necessarily be your parish priest. 7. Then, you need to pray. Jesus said: "Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test" (Mt 26:41). Which better prayer than reciting daily the holy Rosary? You will see so much peace in this prayer, which leads your soul together with Jesus, Our Lady, and the inhabitants of Heave

n. 8. Try to live in chastity, dedicating yourself to the service of God, of the Church and of others. Chastity prevents your fall into the lust of the flesh and, on the other hand, it pushes to give yourself totally dedicated to increase personal and communitarian good with every energy. From this point of view, the homosexual tendency can prove to be a reason to do good in a different direction. The masters in spiritual living speak of a need to profit even from one's faults. 9. If you live this way, you will be serene and you can turn into a saint. Be conscious that the Lord abandons nobody, and so take courage. He is always close to you and helps make possible what humanly might seem impossible. I assure you of my prayers and my remembrance in the celebration of the Holy Mass. I bless you. Father Angelo

[famouslastwrdz]

i tell mr cult about my worlds, and he's silent.

he picks at the scabs on my calves and puts them on his own knees, crosslegged on the floor. licks his fingers and tells me im a virgo.

i carry on with my story.

he moves to bite my stitches out through fabric and i swat him away. he twirls his mason ring around skinny fingers and tells me my worldbuilding isnt believable. blue scoffs behind my eyes.

he rubs his palms along the carpet to burn them and i kick his hands back up to his knees. he looks up at me sat in the armchair in the corner and his eyes are full of tears. i cant feel sorry for him. i cant feel anything. i feel tired.

he shifts awkwardly when that familiar voice rips out of my throat to tell him to just get the fuck on a chair, come on. dont sit on the fucking floor. youre making it weird.

i take a breath and carry on with explaining my military and he picks at his scabby knuckles with the sharp end of his ring , not allowed, i might add. he tells me that im not meant to be here, im not insane. im just a writer. girls write a lot.

i tell him im not a writer, i just have too much imagination. he frowns. tries to jigsaw puzzle my scabs back into their places. taps his fingers against my knees as if he can heal them directly. asks to see my eye.

we go to bed, him tapping the wall gently all night next door. im allowed my phone. i put brown noise on. i behave. i am so good here, a model patient. i keep to myself and i talk in abandoned servers and catch up on the news and pray my sharpie rosary and wish myself home. im not the person who walked into this building and when i walk out in a few hours i will be different again.

i think my dosage is too high and the corner angel agrees. it covers me in holy dark as i try to sleep and i think of how much i miss dreaming. i miss feeling sad or happy or angry or anything that isnt this. i sing under my breath to mom, ave maria, and mr cult stops tapping. i thank mom and then i lay me down to sleep in this ratty sweaty homestuck shirt.

[lindajenni]

sep 30

let's talk amongst ourselves

"then those who feared the Lord spoke to one another, and the Lord listened and heard them; so a book of remembrance was written before Him for those who fear the Lord and who meditate on His name. 'they shall be Mine,' says the Lord of hosts, on the day that I make them My jewels. and I will spare them as a man spares his own son who serves him." mal 3:16-17

i don't know about you, but that sounds like a pretty good reason to meditate and discuss the wonders of our Lord. the wonders awaiting those who fear and honor His name. so let's have our discussion about Him now.

yesterday morning as i awoke and prepared for the day, i was gazing out my window unattentively, when suddenly i noticed the moon. it was the last of four supermoons this year; the harvest moon. the Lord blessed me to see it's slow dissension from view. the scripture came into my mind, "the harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved!" jer 8:20

indeed it looks as if our hopes of a rapture have faded if we hold fast the belief His coming would fulfill one of the known fall feasts. in my heart i still have hopes it will be this year, perhaps His gathering being reserved in a secret, hidden time as it is in my heart. it's not escapism that captivates our heart but a longing to be with the One we adore. He has put it in our hearts and only He can take it away. but i will have more to say later about what many are calling, "the wasted hours watching."

i would like to talk again about prayer now; it's need and it's urgency. is your prayer time (if existing at all) still merely a task required instead of an intimate sharing with your Lord. even though it may not be the rote saying of a rosary, are your words as lifeless and without heart. if prayer must be missed do you feel guilt or loss instead?

we are often in a religious hurry in our devotions. how much time do we spend in them daily? can it not be easily reckoned in minutes? who ever knew an eminently holy man who did not spend much of his time in prayer? did ever a man exhibit much of the spirit of prayer, who did not devote much time in his closet?

whitefield says, “whole days and weeks have i spent prostrate on the ground, in silent or vocal prayer." "fall upon your knees and grow there," is the language of another, who knew whereof he affirmed.

"it has been said that no great work in literature or science was ever wrought by a man who did not love solitude. we may lay it down as an elemental principle of religion, that no large growth in holiness was ever gained by one who did not take time to be often, and long, alone with God." — the still hour

pray the psalms if you must. it was david and others pouring out their hearts to God - and Him responding. as one learns from them they will eventually grow into their own depth of longing. do any of you treasure psalm 103 as much as i do? it starts out with a bang and just keeps getting better from there. just think. He crowns us with "lovingkindness and tender mercies." He satisfies our mouth with good things; on the just and the unjust. if one cuts their finger, does He not bring healing, deserved or not?

if that doesn't do it for you, try psalm 139. one finds true peace when they find their center, and Jesus is that center. "behold, I stand at the door and knock. if anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me." rev 3:20 if only you knew how much He longs to dine with you - at the wedding feast!

[workingclassbible]

This is a bit of a throw-back as I still need to take pictures of my recently updated altar, but this was my Lourdes healing altar configuration for a long while as part of my prayers for world health. 

Lady of Lourdes Healing Altar: Suggested Offerings

These are just what I suggest to include-- not all of these, but any of these you may feel resonate with you-- on any kind of healing/health/sickness/wellbeing altar. 

White Flowers 

I suggest lilies, although of course if you have pets, please do not risk using white lilies as anecdotally I have noticed these shed more pollen than most other lilies for whatever reason, and that presents a TOXIN THREAT to small animals and household pets.  

White roses are perfect and work just as well. I try to include both when I can as a personal thing, as roses bring love and compassionate care and healing, while white lilies are also an offering of peace for any souls who may be on palliative care or those with poor prognosis. 

Prayer Hands Candle

If you can obtain one of these, I highly recommend dressing it in any healing oil of your choice and allowing it to absorb as much as possible into the wax, fully drying before lighting it, 

It is also good to never burn and simply leave on the altar for if/when you may feel called to use it. It will accumulate the prayers issued at the altar prior to being burned. 

Lady of Lourdes Prayer Beads or Blue Rosary 

Blue is the colour of calm and healing, as well as the associated colour of water, which can also represent any medicines or aspects of treatment (such as IV fluids). 

Holy Water Bottle 

It’s hard to see here, but I have a holy water bottle from Westminster Cathedral on my altar here placed sideways as I was in the middle of cleaning my Lourdes holy water bottle when this photo was taken. 

To help preserve the holy water bottle while it stands on the altar, place at least three drops of isopropyl alcohol in the bottle to prevent the growth of any bacterium. 

Wooden Cross 

Ideally made of oak (strength), cedar (whose oil has been used as a medicine and astringent in Europe for centuries), or olive (holy wood).

The ornate cross here was one I obtained when I made my traditional pilgrimage from Southwark Cathedral to Canterbury Cathedral; This cross was bought at Canterbury, but if you live in London, you may find similar crosses at Westminster Abbey as well, if it is easier for you to obtain spiritual supplies there in central London. 

It is best to use a cross made of wood that you have a personal connection to, as this is to emphasise our connection spiritually to one another and to all higher powers, to unite us in life and death, illness and health, to draw upon collective wellbeing to balance collective sickness.

Coffee

I used my large coffee glass container to hold the roses; Coffee is a stimulant and is used to pray for endurance, energy, and stamina (quick healing) for those who are acutely or chronically ill. 

Skull or Other Bones 

You can use anything from cleaned chicken bones to a full skull (mine was gifted to me by a farmer friend after this goat died of natural causes). 

The bones represent the physical body and the impermanent nature of life; A traditional altar memento mori, to encourage prayer and meditation on the nature of life. 

I put roses in the eye sockets; Red rose for love, yellow rose for friendship and companionship, solidarity and empathy for those who are struggling with poor health. 

Small Bottle of Alcohol 

I mixed rum and whiskey, as both are traditionally used around the world as the base for tinctures or medicines currently and throughout history. 

Salt Candle

If you have a salt candle, you may add it to a healing altar to represent the clearing of miasma or lingering illness. 

Any plain white, blue, or pink candle works for this purpose as well. 

Cinnamon and Various Spices 

Similar to the coffee, this is to represent vitality. 

Saint Candle 

I used St. Lucy here, as my partner’s brother was just diagnosed with macular degeneration (gradual blindness) when I assembled this altar, so this candle is intended for him as well as for a co-worker who lost an eye owing to complications from diabetes around this time as well. 

I recommend St. Jude, St. Raphael, St. Dymphna, or St. Rita for broad application in regards to health or health concerns. 

Icons 

Made of wood as with the cross notes above is preferable, but not required; You may use any icons or prayer cards etc. that you may have which you feel are appropriate. 

Here, I included a pocket diptych of Mary and Jesus, and a St. Michael pomegranate that a very good friend of mine gifted me from Cyprus. 

Statues or Statuettes 

I have my pocket Lady of Lourdes here, so that she is physically and visibly represented on the altar as a focus of prayer or meditation. 

These little plastic pocket statuettes also glow in the dark, so they charge up with photons during the day and with the lights off, they glow beautifully on the altar. 

They are inexpensive, making them a great option if you can find these types of mini statues anywhere. 

Garlic

Used for waring away illness or evil, also represents purification and protection.

Incense 

If you have asthma or cannot tolerate incense, use a bell and ring it three times at least twice a day, once in the morning and again in the evening, at the altar or before and after praying/meditating. 

For incense options, I recommend lavender (calming), rose (love and compassion), or rosemary (used traditionally as an astringent and antibacterial medicine). 

I hope this is helpful for someone out there, and if you would like, please feel free to share your own healing altar suggestions, ideas, or practices! :) The more we share, the more we learn. 

[genuinely-annie]

Just finished praying a 54 day Rosary novena about my future husband and marriage. One day I just felt lead bet the Holy Spirit to do it. I remember thinking that I don't believe I can commit to such a long prayer, but immediately felt God saying: "Annie, if you don't think you can handle a small commitment to a prayer like this, how do you think you're gonna handle commitment to another person for the rest of your life?" I felt lovingly schooled and I loved it so much. 😄

I think this was one of the most spiritually intense seasons I've ever had. I remember on one of the first days of that prayer I asked Jesus to just take control over all of this. And funnily enough, the next moment I had a tiny vision where Jesus took over the weel, and the next thing I saw was that the weel belonged to a sports car. I was so amused, and that vision came true quickly because starting from day one of the novena, God was doing stuff in my life and in my heart, and He was doing it FAST.

Long story short:

- He showed everything that was wrong and toxic in my 5 year long friendship with this one guy (I loved him, he loved me. He had narcissistic tendences, I was kind of addicted to it. I strongly believed I was gonna marry him someday)

- He set me free from that relationship and broke soul ties with that guy

- He lead me to get rid of everything that has anything to do with the guy. Threw out a human sized teddy bear he got me, deleted chats we had across all social media, deleted every single picture I had of him. All of it is gone and it feels so good.

- After all that, one day during prayer I had this tiny visison of me on a hike with my husband-to-be in a forest. I felt what kind of person he is, how special he is. That awesome overwhelming experience of getting to know my husband continued for at least a half an hour - God was just giving me little bits about that person and I kept writing them down.

- God has healed my heart and restored it and my personality

- He led me closer to Himself and showed what needed to be done in my relationship with Him. He reminded me that even though I'm going to be married someday, I still need to stand firm in my personal relationship with Jesus.

I am so thankful for this novenna and season in my life. Can't wait to see what He has prepared next. Praise God!

[angeltreasure]

Heya what are your thoughts on deliverance ministry?

I ask this because I recently expressed that I’d been feeling quite low and I know I have dealt with particular mental health issues for a while. My church has never said anything more about it but someone told me the other day that I may have a demonic spirit which (yano after seeing a lot of things online tends to come up every now and then lol) but it always kinda freaks me out a bit. Anyway, this person has asked to do a deliverance kind of thing for me and I do know how it’s supposed to work but I don’t know; I guess if you or anyone here has views on this I’d love to know.

Now, are we speaking about a non-Catholic deliverance ministry, a specific exorcist ministry in the Catholic Church like Fr. Ripperger’s, a Catholic Healing Mass, the charismatic movement in the Catholic Church? Or is it laity? I could give my different opinions for each listed above. And maybe you have another in mind?

For a non Catholic ones like I see on tv, I’m very skeptical, I respectfully keep away. I’m not too sure on the charismatic movement because I’ve never been a part of it but it seems to really help some people! I’ve been to many Healing Masses and they do feel pretty good. I believe evil does exist (I have experienced a lot of real spiritual attack) and exorcists can teach us a lot of what to be aware of—— not to say be afraid of turning every corner, but rather, to know why things happen and know that God is in complete control. I listen to a variety of exorcists but I have been hooked on this recently.

Did you know that there are ministries in the Catholic Church for mental health? My diocese of Phoenix has one! It’s called Office of Mental Health Ministry. You don’t have to be in Arizona to look at the page and the resources. Check it out! Our health, whether physical, mental, or spiritual, is important because our bodies are precious temples of the Holy Spirit. Yes, even on days where we feel unworthy and broken. The Holy Spirit lovessss to dwell in you. God loves you! Not all mental illnesses means demons. We just need tender love, healing, and care.

You can do little things to help combat spiritual attack. For example, pray the Rosary, keeping on hand a blessed Green Scapular, making the sign of the cross with Holy Water, sprinkling some blessed salt around your house, wearing a medal of St. Benedict or St. Michael. The sacrament of Confession is very powerful. I suggest going if you haven’t been there in a while. Turn away from things that lead to sin…. Start in baby steps at the pace you feel comfortable with.

The devil will try many ways to make you afraid, in a goal to scare you away from God and make you hurt.

Do not be afraid. You and I are soldiers of God. We are children of light, not darkness.. so together, no matter the distance, we can help each put on the armor of God which shines even in the greatest darkness. You’ll be in my prayers! ⚔️

[traumacatholic]

Do you know of any tips or tricks for dealing with living with an abusive parent? It's ok if not. I am struggling with my mom's near-constant put-downs, gaslighting, unstated but strict expectations, tendency to lash out physically, and more. I can't move out rn because of money issues, and most of the resources I've found are for after you're in the situation. I pray my rosary a lot and turn to Mama Mary for a nurturing, healthy mother figure, and hole up in my room a lot? And yet--

I'm really sorry that you're having to deal with that. Do you have any commitments that allow you to be away from her for a long period of time? If not, I would suggest trying to limit contact with her as much as you can. I appreciate because of lockdown restrictions (if your area has any) might make this difficult - but something like going out for a walk to get a break from it for an hour or two might help, or going to a park to sit.

I would recommend looking into charities in your local area that deal with this kind of issue. If you contact them and explain your situation, they may be able to offer you better resources and advice for your situation. If you're able to, I would also recommend reaching out to your friends. Any time that you can get away is at least some time away from that hostile environment.

I know it's hard, but remember that your worth and value is not based off of what she says. It's tough, and I've been in that position too - although my mum overtime has definitely reduced the number of putdowns and so on. What's important is that you enjoy the things you do, and you get value and fun out of them. The skills and experiences you have aren't devalued just because she says they are.

I don't think there is a way to navigate that kind of environment with a particular trick. Controlling parents don't actually have a set list of rules. They're more than capable of changing them as it suits. This inconsistency is designed to wear you down. They might not even realise how inconsistent they are. Because they're feeling so attached to their feelings right now in that particular situation, that they don't even think about the rules they gave you another day. It's hard, but remember that these rules aren't created fairly. You can't safely navigate their rules all the time. It's about trying to unlearn the mindset that you're doing something wrong and failing to live up to their rules.

As for particular resource recommendations, some of this might be helpful. Some of these books may be targeted towards people that have left the situation but you might still find a lot of use from them:

https://www.quora.com/What-are-good-books-on-emotional-abusive-parents

https://medium.com/the-virago/11-books-for-healing-childhood-trauma-and-dealing-with-toxic-parents-8c8102f69152

https://www.reddit.com/r/raisedbynarcissists/ - I would encourage you to reach out to such a community. They again may be able to provide more helpful resources. And you can use this as a safe way to vent about your day.

https://bookriot.com/books-for-readers-with-toxic-parents/ - Retreating into fictional books can also be helpful, and while they might not offer direct advice, I do think just hearing stories about lives similar to yours can be helpful.

I'd also encourage anyone who has some advice or resource recommendations to respond.

I will be praying for you, I'm so very sorry you're having to deal with this. I hope you can get to a place of safety soon. God bless you.

[hansoulo]

your heart wears night armor

part 9 of ain’t it a gentle sound (the rolling in the graves)

pairing: Horacio Carrillo/f!Reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: cursing, discussions canon-typical violence and blood, descriptions of religion, catholic imagery, and praying (it’s 2 paragraphs before the first break and you can just scroll past if you’re uncomfortable/don’t care to read it) uhh…, i think that’s it?? light angst but we kinda been knew at this point

gif credit: my soulmate @pascalplease​

A/N:  @1zashreena1 i owe u and that first day of school ask my life god bless 🙏🙏 set in like 1991 idk time isn’t real

masterlist carrd

Domesticity during war is a curious thing. You’d left your old apartment years ago and a man had moved in beside you, in your new, promoted house, with his young wife and her stomach swollen by pregnancy. You’d smiled and been neighborly. Teased about play-dates and dinner parties and tight-lipped husbands, the way you used to. Had actually gone to a dinner party and admired their blue-edged china, pouring out the woman’s sparkling water as Isabella grabbed at your wrists.

She’d moved out, alone save for her child and one gifted medal. He was very brave, apparently.

You weren’t surprised when a new couple came by a few months later.

So you lived your life, a good life, a happy one, shielded by shoulders and smiles and rough-hewn hands clasped in prayer. Receiving the good favor of a virgin mother, wearing a painted clay veil and balming men’s conscience. Good Catholic boys, who died in the name of a “something” and looked Saint Peter in the eyes when they met him again. Your good, Catholic man. Rosaries and holy water. Unholy blood. Stained cherry glass and crimson hands. Prayers and prayers and prayers, made by mothers and fathers and wives.

You had prayed, once. Had knelt at an altar and let the wood dig into your knees like a penance for a sin you didn’t remember committing but felt guilty for enjoying anyhow. You pleaded for one promise to keep him safe and thanked a nameless saint for your fortune, sated when you heard the slap of your sandals on marble and the echo of all your thoughts in the high, vaulted ceilings.

Guilt is strange. “Healing” in quotation marks is strange. You always hated the way people phrased it, as if one day you’d arrive someplace and get a lacquered button pinned to your shirt pocket reading a congratulations. Dr. Reyes hated it, too, and you’d smiled when she made some long-winded metaphor about journeys and life and cat posters. For now you were content with walking, one hand held and one hand holding, with white-knuckled palm promises and the warm, curled grasp of a child.

⫸ ——— ⫷

You gripped the car keys, feeling them dig into your palm as you tried to brush off the hand on the doorknob. “Horacio,” you let out, frazzled with all the rush of a January morning, anxious and tired from the previous day’s shift. You didn’t need to work today though, thank god . “I can take my own damn daughter to her first day of school.”

His hand left the door, only to snake loosely around your waist. When you only sighed, not pulling away, a rough thumb came to rub at the curve of your jaw and bid your gaze to meet his. She has your eyes, you’d once said. Dark and sloping, edged by black lashes. Bright. Gentle.

“No,” he said, apologetic but resolute.  “You can’t.”

“I can,” you repeated weakly to yourself, your own hand starting to loosen its hold around the cold rings of metal. “Horacio,” you whispered, shaking your head as his arms wrapped a bit tighter. “The guards, the- the guns. They scare her.”

His brows knitted together while you spoke, quiet as to not alarm Isabella - now a few months shy of six - sitting by the kitchen counter in a blue school skirt. She didn’t look up from her the contents of her backpack, so you continued. “I’m just- I’m tired, I guess,” you admitted with a small hitch in your voice, examining the angry red indents left in your palms. You let him shift you until you faced away from the door, tucked closer into his chest, and reached to fiddle with the silver buttons of his uniform while you spoke.“It’s bad enough that they’re always outside.”

You looked up to see Isabella clambering off of her chair with a scrape of its legs against your kitchen tiles. It’s first grade, she’d reminded you the night before in hurried Spanish while you brushed her hair, chiding her to sit still. She’d set out her uniform carefully, insisting on brightly colored hair clips and two tight braids. We can’t be late.

Your now-husband squeezed your shoulders and his lips were pursed - not in annoyance, but in concern. “Mi amor,” Horacio began, cupping the base of your neck and squeezing softly. Mi amor, he called you. A love. His love. Saccharine, maybe, to foreign ears but to him, to him it was doctrine.  You let out a shallow breath. “It’s too dangerous without them,” Horacio reminded you, the rough pad of his thumb tracing over your lips. “You know that.”

You closed your eyes, nodding into the lingering kiss left on your forehead. “Yeah, I know.” Smoothing away the pretend lint on his collar, you pressed your nose to his jaw before moving to step away, inhaling the soft scent of laundry and sandalwood soap. The arms around you loosened to let you go. “Doesn’t mean I like it though,” you mumbled, attempting petulance but failing when another kiss was placed on your cheek.

“We’ll be with her,” Horacio reminded you, his voice placating in your ear. “And it’s just Trujillo,” he assured. You perked up at the name and laughed when Isabella did likewise, her steps towards the both of you quick and echoing her new school shoes.

“Is he coming?” she asked, repeating the question in English and then Spanish again when neither of you answered quickly enough for her liking. Bouncing on the balls of her heels, Isabella tugged on the fabric of your pants with an urgency that seemed unfit for the slightness of her body. “Is he here? Is he going to drive us?”

You reached to smooth down the loose curls escaping from her braids and looked back behind you for confirmation, pleased to report in the affirmative when Horacio nodded.

She didn’t wait much longer for you to open the door, bounding down your front steps to meet the man now standing by a shelled vehicle, a tanned hand resting on the holster at his hip.

“The Jeep?” you asked, incredulous.

Horacio shrugged. “It’s bulletproof.”

“Right,” you answered slowly, watching Trujillo bend down to give the girl a hug. “And they couldn’t bulletproof, say, a minivan?” Horacio only chuckled, walking you down to the car, and you grew more serious.  “Thank you, though. For bringing him, and not the… cavalry, I guess.”

In sunlight, Horacio's eyes were lighter - edged by shadowed rings but pooling in deep, fractured amber. Apologetic. “It’s the least I could do,” he said.

Isabella glanced back towards the both of you and you caught the flash of a cellophane candy wrapper, accompanied by a no le digas a tu mamá when Trujillo slipped it in her pocket. Waving at you with an impish smile, the officer slid into the passenger seat.

“I heard that,” you called out. He raised his eyebrows, declaring his innocence, and said nothing more.

The weather was slow with its languid breezes, blanketing everything in the soft smell of baked clay and clear mountain air. In the distance, the first swells of morning traffic began their course.

Isabella climbed into the car (or tank, depending on who you asked) and helped you buckle her seatbelt. When you turned to meet the back of the man behind you,  you heard the girl plead, “Don’t kiss.”

When you asked why, she wrinkled her nose. “It’s gross.”

“You see us kiss all the time,” you replied, handing her her backpack. Horacio’s hand came to pass gently along your waist, a quiet reminder of the openness of the road you now stood on.

Isabella shook her head, the dark braids tumbling beside her rounded cheeks. “It’s still gross.”

“How ‘bout you close your eyes,” you offered, leaning out of the car and hearing your husband’s quiet laugh. Catching Trujillo’s face in the reflection of the side mirrors, you grinned. “I can count down if you want.”

“Promise?” Isabella asked, raising her hands to cover her face.

“Promise,” you answered. “Are they closed? Good, okay on three. Ready? One… two… thr-” but your count was muffled, turning into a soft mmph by a pressing mouth. Horacio’s hands curling around the Jeep doors as you reached to steady yourself on his shoulders. The kiss was chaste, quick and barely a peck, but you still smiled when he pulled away.

Running your tongue along your front teeth, you could taste the slow dilution of orange juice.  “You can open them now,” you assured Isabella. The girl peeked out between her fingers and sighed in dramatic relief, letting her arms fall to her sides. “You too,” you said to the officer in the passenger seat. Trujillo only rolled his eyes in mild amusement, his gaze fixed firmly on a point far, far off in the distance.

Horacio pressed his lips against your temple once more before you moved to sit down, waiting until you’d done your own seatbelt to close the car door behind you. His boots scuffed heavy against the stoned street and you spoke to Isabella as he walked to the driver’s side. “One day, y’know, you might actually like kissing.”

She shook her head emphatically, her expression one of exaggerated disgust. “Never. Never ever.”

“Suit yourself,” you responded, moving to face the front windows to see your husband now at the steering wheel, his expression fighting to keep itself stern. “Y’know,” you added in a stage whisper, “your dad’s a very good kisser.”

“Gross!”

⫸ ——— ⫷

“I didn’t cry,” you said, shaking your head as Horacio opened the car door for you a few minutes after the first school bell rang. When he only hummed and Trujillo (now on the driver’s side) let out a barking laugh, you protested. “I didn’t!”

Horacio hid his unconvinced sincerity with a slow nod. You leant against the edge of the door when it shut, its hollow metal hot from the sun underneath your temples. Orange starbursts swam across your vision when you swiped quickly at your face with your knuckles. “I didn’t cry,” you maintained, feeling the rising stuffiness of your throat. “It’s allergies. I’m very- I’m very... pollen-sensitive.”

That was technically true - he'd bought you enough pink antihistamine tablets and tissues enough times to prove it - but you knew it wasn’t the cause of anything now. The reason for your swollen eyes was sitting in a real, grownup chair after two years of preschool and one year of kindergarten, a pencil case filled to the brim with bright, sparkly markers. At school.  

The car floor shifted under your feet when your husband turned back towards you, offering the polaroids he’d taken just moments earlier. “Do you want-”

“-yesthankyou-” you exhaled, grabbing the stack of photos from his hands. Spreading them out across your lap, you tried to swallow the lump in your throat. There was one of her getting out of the car… then her walking up to the front entrance... then another of her backpack, then of her shoes and Jesus, how many were there?

You flipped through the rest, scatterbrained and trying to commit every single picture to memory until something prompted your pausing. It was a picture of you.

He must’ve taken it while you weren’t paying attention, oblivious to the camera and turned away, but you were smiling. A bright, blinding smile that seemed to seep pure sunlight through the waxy white paper, up through your fingertips and back towards the swelling of your quickening heartbeat.

“That one,” Horacio said, taking the photograph from you and tucking it into the front pocket of his uniform. “Is for me.”

⫸ ——— ⫷

The engine rolled as the men parked. “Are you sure he’s here?” Javier asked, taking off his aviators to examine the row of terracotta houses, with their red-tile roofs and stucco walls. It was quiet in the mid-morning, temperate and warm. Medellín, the city of eternal spring,  was living up to its name.

Steve stuffed his government I.D (the only way they’d gotten through the gate) back into his pocket and adjusted the belt on his hips. “S’worth a shot. Wasn’t at the office, was he?”

“No,” Javier hummed, scanning the street with his arms crossed, his fingers curling into the fabric of his shirtsleeves. “No, he wasn’t.”

Neither of the men seemed to notice the officer parked beside the street, waiting for his colonel to retrieve some forgotten files before returning to the embassy.

They walked closer towards the house, stepping over a small tricycle that lay forgotten on the front lawn. Steve lowered his sunglasses. “You think it’s his?”

A low laugh escaped Javier’s chest and he shook his head, his steps meeting the front door. “Nah, he has a little girl. From his first wife.”

Somewhere in the house footsteps echoed with a soft voice, too muffled to make out anything beyond the fact that it was a woman. Steve looked back towards his partner, perplexed.

“Second wife,” Javier explained before ringing the doorbell. “Never met her, though.”

The steps grew louder until a pause, with the small peephole of the door waxing their reflections. Steve held up his badge again and stepped back when various locks unlatched until the door was opened, creaking quietly on its joints.  The first thing they saw was your arms, balancing a precarious stack of plastic toys while you nudged the door farther open with a struggling foot. Steve rushed forward to take some from your hands and you smiled back at him, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Sorry about that,” you breathed, setting the brightly colored books and toys on the floor beside you. “Caught me in the middle of cleaning up.” The men shared a quick look at each other, schooling their expressions from the slight shock created at your appearance. You were pretty and barefoot, sporting marker-stained jeans and a loose t-shirt. If they were expecting anyone, this definitely wasn’t it. “You’re DEA, right?”

Javier cleared his throat, elbowing the man beside him. Steve spoke up after a moment. “Yes ma’am. My name’s Agent Murphy, this man right here is Agent-”

“Oh!” you interrupted with a soft slap of your palm against your forehead, chiding yourself and opening the door farther. “Murphy? And Peña, right?”

They both nodded, albeit slowly, but you seemed impervious to their surprise, asking them if they wanted to come inside. The men declined and remained on the stoop, Steve realizing he still held a small rubber ball in his hands while Javier tried to keep his eyes above the scooped neck of your top.

“Was there something you needed?” you continued, bending down to kick out a rise in your runner carpet. “Horacio’s talked about you sometimes, y’know. It’s nice to actually put a face to the name.”

“Horacio?” Steve mumbled to Javier, his lips curling back in an amused, Southern cadence. A man - Colonel to them, or maybe just Carrillo, but Horacio to you - loomed near the edges of the hallway and turned closer when you spoke, his face and his voice familiar as it called out your name. “Speak of the devil,” the blonde agent whispered.

When you leant back into the man’s chest, both men quickly cleared their throats. Javier’s hands rested at his hips in a cocked stance, watching curiously as the colonel turned to whisper in your ear. The words were too quiet for anyone else to hear but you cast your eyes down, smiling to yourself before he pulled away.

You looked back up, the open brightness of your face only magnified when it was placed beside your husband’s stern posture. “I think they need you,” you reminded him. Javier confirmed this with some big lead about a “La Quica” and you bit back a snort at the nickname, pressing your lips together to hide your laugh. It must’ve been kismet, Javier thought, that brought someone like you to someone like him. Someone, he suddenly remembered, who worked in a hospital, witness and mender to the very things Carrillo caused. The man’s eyes were marginally softer here, though, and his hand lingered light on your waist. So maybe it worked.

“You’ll call later?” you asked, catching a soft grip on the colonel’s wrist when he moved to cross through the door. Steve glanced upwards when lips pressed quickly against your forehead, a quiet “of course” spoken into your hair before he walked away down the front steps.

“Surprised someone like that puts up with you,” Javier ribbed, bemused when Carrillo rolled his eyes.

Steve chuckled as they walked in steady tandem towards the parked cars. “Jealous?”

Javier hummed a casual maybe, catching the faint edge of a smile on your husband’s face when you looked out the front window, your silhouette a shadow through gauzy yellow curtains.

⫸ ——— ⫷

You leaned down to whisper in Isabella’s ear, encouraging her to take the few steps forward through the threshold of the office as she held a tall, disposable coffee cup. The rest that you’d brought were quickly put down before being taken by grateful men, their thanks muffled by the sound of lips on crinkling styrofoam. A man, the man you’d come to see, looked up to see you standing beside his desk, your frame edged by the evening light fracturing through the windows.

“You didn’t walk here, did you?” Horacio asked, his voice and his brow drawn over with concern. You lay a hand on his arm, a quiet placation as you rested your hip on a rounded wooden edge.

“I didn’t,” you glanced at the cluster of men on the other side of the room. You heard Isabella laugh, her small legs swinging back and forth as she was placed in a newly-emptied seat. “Hugo drove me.”

Horacio’s thumb traced over the slope of your wrist. “Hugo?”

“Pimienta,” you finished with another look towards the mass of dark green shoulders. “The new recruit.” Horacio nodded with a quiet I see and you give another smile, too observed to do much more. “He’s very sweet,” you assured your husband, offering a small wave when the man (or boy, more like) looked back towards the both of you. Hugo’s returning  grin was awkward, endearingly so, and you bit back a laugh when you caught the embarrassed ducking of his head, his dark skin hiding any rising blush.

He was young, barely out of training and still learning to hide his fear. They all were. Stoic, maybe, when they opened your doors and carried your groceries, but young. So, so young.

You picked up a stray pen, twirling it in your hands as you surveyed his desk. It was annoying neat, and you huffed as you tried to find something more interesting than typed field reports and stacks of manila folders. “No pictures?” you teased. He only pointed to the top corner and your eyes followed, falling on a small frame holding a color photograph. It was mostly of you, but you could see Isabella’s face peeking out of its bottom edge, intruding on the shot with a goofy smile. Her hair was short, curling in dark loops around her ears, so it must’ve been from a few years ago. ‘89, maybe. Yeah, ‘89, when he took that week off in Panama City and spent the whole time trying to teach Isabella how to swim. “That one?” you asked, curious. “I thought you’d want something more… I don’t know… official? Looking?”

He raised an eyebrow, adjusting the frame to its proper place. “Would you like to pose for another one?”

You sucked in a breath through your teeth, remembering the day you had to pin what seemed like fifty military badges to his uniform. “No,” you said, examining the photo and shaking your head. “No, that one’s good.”

Horacio pulled you into the slight alcove of the office, the one filled with high-backed chairs and radio equipment that lay partially hidden from view. “They’re looking,” you mumbled, suddenly more conscious of the officers standing a few feet away. “They think we’re up to something.”

 “Are we?” he asked, smiling. A laugh bubbled up in your throat and you shook your head.

“I...” you began, your voice trailing off. He looked tired, and you were reminded of before, when infants used to cry in hallways and walls were thin. “I probably shouldn’t have come but you said you wouldn’t be home and I just- I just wanted…”

He slid his hands up your arms until they rested at your shoulders, hushing you quietly before speaking. The soft skin of your lips fell from between your teeth and you swallowed, the words resting unfinished beneath your sternum.

I just wanted to see you.

While I knew you were here.

While I knew I still could.

 His fingers rested heavy on the juncture of your neck, their tapering familiarity smoothing back the ache of knotting muscle. His watch was heavy, a tactical thing with a million little numbers, and its ribbed black straps dragged against the necklace holding your wedding ring.  You heard Horacio’s men making conversation - questions in Spanish about Isabella’s school and her favorite colors, compliments on how nice her new shoes looked and that tu madre fue muy dulce al traernos este café - but they floated out of your head, momentary and paling in importance to the way his hands seemed to smooth out every wrinkle of your thoughts, until they lay flat and rubbed back softer with sandpaper fingerprints.

“You never told me why you needed to stay late,” you whispered. He frowned slightly when you noticed the copper blooms dotting the edges of his sleeves, rolled up to rest at his elbows. “Did something happen?”

Horacio’s expression turned softer. Maybe to tamp down your worry. Maybe to try and make you forget it completely. He was like that with you. More gentle. Earnest. One hand raised to cup your jaw. “Nothing bad,” he said, shaking his head at your widened eyes, their color glassy from the fluorescence of office lamps.

“Promise?” you asked, wavering an echo of a morning’s conversation.

He straightened out, an oak to wrapping, shaded ivy. “Promise.”

[conquerthedevil]

How to Fight the Enemy: Spiritual Direction

Spiritual direction can deepen a person’s relationship with God, help them see more clearly how the Holy Spirit communicates with them, and make them more aware of God’s presence in their lives. It can also help a person see more clearly what God’s will is for them, thus encouraging them to form their thoughts and actions accordingly. A spiritual director can be a priest, religious, or layperson, but God is the One who directs the person. He works through the spiritual director, so you must choose a director wisely. I wasn’t looking for a spiritual director, and I didn’t want one. But the Holy Spirit kept bringing it to my mind, so I knew I needed to consider it. I spent a lot of time in prayer and discernment before making a decision, and then everything just fell into place. It is interesting how the Holy Spirit places within us the very thing He wants us to do and then waits for us to respond to His call.

Many of the articles I’ve written are directed toward people who have or are experiencing spiritual attacks or dryness. The content provided in them applies to anyone who is seeking to expand their relationship with God. All Christians can benefit from spiritual direction no matter what their situation. I’m focusing on my experiences because it is the only way I know how to communicate these things to others. When I was under a spiritual attack, I was severely oppressed and isolated myself from most people. I lived in fear, anxiety, and confusion, and struggled with feelings of doubt, discouragement, and despair. I believed the Lord had deserted me, and I didn’t know how to change my life. I was afraid and questioned my sanity every day. Because of that, I didn’t tell anyone what was happening to me. I kept every spiritual assault and temptation from the devil a secret, and that’s exactly the way he wanted it.

What I needed to do was take everything that I hid in darkness and expose it to the Light, which meant I had to give it all to Jesus. We need to participate in our own healing and spiritual growth. There are ways to accomplish this. Regular confession is necessary and extremely important, but time is limited there. I am in no way downplaying the sacrament of confession, just pointing out that it takes a great deal of in-depth work to break free from evil and the effects it can have on one’s life. A few minutes in the confessional doesn’t take the place of that work but gives a person the grace to embark on it. There are more extensive ways a person can do this, like journaling and spiritual direction. Journaling is writing down your deepest thoughts and concerns to God. It is telling Him everything that comes to mind, keeping nothing from Him. This builds intimacy and trust between you and God and defeats the devil’s plan to keep you bound. I journaled for a long time because I wasn’t ready to talk about the things that had happened to me with anyone else, and that was okay. My trust was damaged, and the Lord needed to restore that in me before I could take the next step.

Once I started journaling and writing down my story, the Lord began to heal me. But it took a long time. Years actually, but I finally started to feel more confident, and that is when the Holy Spirit placed the thought of spiritual direction in me. Over time, God drew my attention to a particular priest and showed me how we had a similar spirituality. I was still unsure and very apprehensive, but when our paths crossed on some very difficult life events, my trust in him increased. I had requirements for a spiritual director after what had happened to me. The person had to be a priest because a priest gives the Holy Spirit. He had to believe in the existence of the devil because I needed him to understand the things I was going to have to tell him. I wanted a priest who was versed in spiritual warfare and firmly believed in his priestly power to cast out demons. I also needed someone who could pray a minor exorcism over me. A layperson can’t do that. Only a Catholic priest has that kind of power. This is why for me, going to a layperson wasn’t going to happen. A minor exorcism is different from an exorcism in that the priest casts out demons that influence or harass people. An exorcism is done only by priests appointed by the bishop and is for people who are possessed. Meaning a demon or demons have taken over the whole person.

Now, I want to share something that happened to my husband and me a few years ago that will help show how important a spiritual director can be. One day out of the blue, I became very anxious and couldn’t calm down. I felt like I did when I was being attacked by witchcraft. I prayed my rosary and deliverance prayers as usual, but it didn’t help at all. Things just got worse. I started hearing footsteps upstairs when no one was there. I prayed and used holy water, but they didn’t go away. At the same time, my husband suddenly became very short-tempered and snapped at everything. Our lives and our relationship changed overnight. All this went on for about a month before I connected it to a spiritual attack. Once I figured it out, I called my spiritual director and told him what was going on. We already had a spiritual direction appointment set up, but he decided it would be best if he came to the house instead of me going to his office. We talked for a long time, and I explained everything that was happening. He could see I was frantic and sensed the evil. After our talk, he prayed a minor exorcism over me and blessed the house with an exorcism blessing. The whole atmosphere changed, and by the next day, everything was normal again. My husband was fine, I was no longer anxious, and the footsteps went away. This was a disturbance that I couldn’t solve on my own. I needed the help of my priest and spiritual director.

It doesn’t matter whether a person starts with private journaling or spiritual direction. It only matters that they begin. Every person and every situation will be different. If you need time to heal from whatever it may be, journal everything. You may not notice any changes in your life at first, but over time you will gain strength and find courage. Try to go to confession often. It is a safe place to express your spiritual sufferings and receive forgiveness for your sins. And that includes anything the devil uses to pull you away from Christ and into despair. A priest will sometimes give counsel in the confessional but not always. If that is something you’re looking for, go to different priests until you find one who offers some spiritual guidance in the confessional. You can get a good indication of a priest’s spirituality in confession, and it may end up being where you find your future spiritual director. When the idea of spiritual direction starts flooding your mind, the Holy Spirit may be calling you to it. Pray a lot, and wait longer than you think you need to before making a decision. Journal about it, listen to what the Lord is communicating to you, and wait for confirmation. All that means is that the Lord will reaffirm what He has been showing you more concretely. Maybe through scripture or a sermon. But He will make it clear, and then you will know. Once you find a spiritual director and they agree to see you, pray for them. It will greatly benefit him and you.

To read more articles go to: https://www.conquerthedevil.com/

[hillbillyoracle]

Rebooting My Practice

This is going to be pretty rambly, but I always get a lot out of these posts when other people make them so I wanted to make one too.

I hit a point earlier this year, as I started to really see what all astrology could be, when I knew I was going to need to overhaul pretty much my entire practice. For the last decade, I've focused on divination; on doing activities that sharpen my intuition, following up and checking predictions, tracking cards and results to better understand the connection, etc. I did this primarily in the service of my main deity, the Morrigan.

I still work with her, but I'm in a lurch as to how to continue my work with her. I have yet to quite figure out how to balance her general distaste for shrines (with me at least) and deepening my relationship with her in the absence of local folks to read for as I've relied on for years (thanks COVID). I've been praying the Catholic Rosary lately as a way to deepen my relationship with the Virgin Mary and the Saint I'm petitioning lately and I feel her kind of peering in when I do that so I might have to design one for her. I have a feeling whatever I come up with will likely be in a free zine rather than a blog post at some point.

But where that left me was in this weird abyss, where the only really solid things in my practice were like 3 deities (The Morrigan, Hermes, Yinepu/Anubis) I worked with regularly and tarot cards. I think for plenty of people that's fine but I wanted something deeper and more effective. It was around the time that I was rethinking everything that I stumbled on to this post about a magical routine that absolutely enthralled me. It took me another month and ultimately moving house altogether to even begin to piece something together that would set me on the road to something like this. I knew I was not ready but I finally had a picture in my mind something to work towards. Like rehabilitating after an injury, sometimes you've got to do half as much as you think you can before you really take off.

So I wanted to take some time and talk about the way my practice is changing and what the new pillars are slowly emerging to be.

Planetary Petitions

While I don't have the Orphic Hymns for each of the 7 classical planets memorized yet as per the post, I started by doing planetary prayers more days than I do not do them. Thanks to my truly godawful downstairs neighbor at the new place, who's floor shaking door slams throughout the whole night have netted me an average of 3 hours a night, I'm usually up for the first planetary hour of a given day. Hey maybe it's a sign, a big universal push to show the fuck up.

I'm also incredibly lucky I loaded up on some planetary incenses right before COVID when a local store had a huge sale. It's proved well worth it as above all I try to get the planetary incense right, though I did have to default to a Frankincense one when we were first moving in.  I slowly feel like I'm beginning to understand the planetary spirits better but only slightly. I completely see why memorizing the prayer is recommended and I do feel that's standing in the way of me being closer with them.

I have not noticed a huge difference when I petition them truthfully. I get the vibe that it takes time to build up that relationship. Though I'm open to input here - for those who do planetary petitions, what made them click for you?

Saint Veneration + Christian Magic

One thing I put off for many years, though I knew it was coming, was working with more Saints. I knew it'd likely involve having to dip back into Christianity to make it work and I was completely right.

As my partner began revisiting her Catholic roots earlier this year, it got me curious about things like the Rosary, the Chaplet, and Novenas. I was raised charismatic fundamentalist Christian as a child and such things were explicitly forbidden. I remember getting a long talking to when I'd taken to reading about Sainte Jeanne d'Arc. So they aren't loaded for me the way they are for others, but they’re situated in this fundamentally familiar context that makes them feel like meeting a cool branch of the family you didn't realize existed.

I'm finishing a Novena to a Saint I've been praying to in the next few weeks. I am admittedly not as close with her as I'd like to be. I'm trying to figure out how to move forward with her as I'd really like to have her in my life. I will probably reach back out to Sainte Jeanne d'Arc as she's always felt familiar and been good to me. I also keep her prayer card and medallion in my wallet and have for many years so maybe there's more to build from there. It is my goal to have about 3 saints/Christian figures I can call on when I need help. I'm thinking of approaching Mary Undoer of Knots next but I'm worried it'll follow the same path as this current saint.

My partner and I bought Rosaries back in May and I absolutely love it. I've been saying at least a 5 decade rosary for most days but I'm regularly getting in a 15 decade rosary. I really love it and am totally convinced of the beauty and effectiveness of the system. I've come to understand Christianity in a totally different light through praying it regularly.

So that is on going and evolving and I'd love to hear from people who've cultivated close relationships with a Saint or Angel.

Ancestors

One thing that working with Christianity again has made easier is praying to ancestors. I've often felt a bit at odds with my own ancestors as they were not the most supportive of trans and queer people (and I am both of those) but in coming back to Christianity has given me and my ancestors a common language almost. As long as my disagreement with them over my attraction and gender identity is rooted in the Bible, it's been easier to work with them.

It's very early days with ancestor work. I'm slowly working my way through Ancestral Healing by Daniel Foor. But I'm feeling very heartened by it. I saw a post on twitter somewhere, if I can find it again I'll link it, where someone said that the way they started working with their ancestors was just thanking them everyday. And thanking my ancestors is complicated for me, my family like most have their own issues that also go passed on, but thanking them for what I am glad they gave me has been really beneficial.

My partner requested some divination from me when some of her medical issues were starting to get worse and part of the reading involved a strong push for her to investigate her father's side of the family. She got really into genealogy in the process and she's been teaching me a lot. Through that I actually learned my great grandfather's name for the first time - yes that's how out of touch I am with my own family history. But I was thankful to find out.

Through her own research, my partner found out that that branch of her family likely isn't German but actually German speaking Hungarians which was a revelation. She's in the process of confirming but it got us talking about foods and identity and language and how to honor our ancestors more regularly. We're going to try making a nice dinner on Full Moons with dishes that are tied to branches of our family as a way to trying to cultivate a closer relationship with them. I'll definitely update on that as it evolves.

Conclusion + Some Thoughts on Disability

I'm definitely still in the early days of all of this. It's not become quite the foundation I hope it will be yet. I still need to figure out how to continue and deepen my deity relationships. I still need to attempt some different types of spellwork I've been meaning to. And while I didn't talk about it much here, astrology has been playing a huge role in my practice but mostly in a passive way. More of that divination process I talked about in the beginning where I make predictions based on the charts I'm seeing and then double check my work.

I’ve been doing all this while in the thick of a bad flare. Moving plus lack of sleep as meant my disability has been weighing so much harder on me lately. Normally when I’m feeling well enough, I kind of roll my eyes at a lot of the “spoonie witchcraft” posts I see, but for some reason with this flare they just started making me angry and I’m still trying to parse why. I think I just feel like so many are rooted in this performative idea of “feeling” witchy rather than actually helping me with my disability. They aren’t usually focused on practices that either actually treat the pain I’m in or bring my spirit real comfort. 

I’m really hoping to put together a post or possibly a zine that does provide what I always wanted those posts to be. Honestly these pillars here have proven accessible even as I’ve been in some of the worst pain I’ve been in in years. So for any fellow disabled folks who just aren’t getting much out of those posts, I really recommend starting with these. Recite the Orphic Hymn for the day in the corresponding hour. Pray the Rosary or an adapted set of prayers for Pagan prayer beads. Don’t have much money for those? Look up how to make knotted rosaries and adapt the method. Pray to your ancestors and give them some water and a bit to eat. These are doable for a lot of folks even when they’re in bad shape, especially if you take your time with it. Might not make you “feel witchy” but they do some fucking work, that’s for sure. But idk, those are just my thoughts on it. 

So it hasn't all fallen into place yet but I wanted to share what developing a practice looks like in medias res. It's messy, somethings work better than others, but all and all I'm just glad to finally be making meaningful progress again.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober No.15

“No. Yer not doin’ that.”

Porthos steps protectively between Lemay and the bed Aramis is occupying. D’Artagnan joins him, hand on his sword. Getting up from his stool beside the bed, Athos completes the line of defense,

“He’s right,” Athos says icily. “You’re not touching him unless you put that down.”

He points at the scalpel and at the bowl Lemay is holding. The doctor looks at the three musketeers, intimidated, but not willing to yield.

“Captain, you have to see reason,” he addresses Athos. “He needs to be bled! It may be his only chance!”

Athos doesn’t blink as he slowly shakes his head.

“No.”

Behind him, he hears Aramis moan softly, and he wishes the marksman was awake to argue with Lemay over the course of his treatment. But two days after getting shot, a fever is burning through him, and Aramis hasn’t been lucid for hours.

“Captain,” Lemay tries again. “He has an infection. We need to drain it out of his blood. The vile juices have to leave his body. It’s a proven method, and the only option we have left.”

“Aramis says it’s rubbish,” Porthos throws in, squaring his shoulders. “If ‘e was able to, ‘e’d explain to ya that-”

“But he’s not,” Lemay cuts him off. Athos can tell that the doctor means well and that he thinks he is fighting for his patient and not against him, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s wrong.

“He’s not able to, and even if he were, he’s not a doctor. He’s a gifted man with rudimentary medical knowledge, but he isn’t a physician. I am!”

Beside Athos, d’Artagnan fidgets with indignation, and on his other side Porthos huffs.

“‘E’s treated more wounds than you ever will. ‘E’s treated soldiers with real injuries while you’ve been ‘andin’ out smellin’ salts to the ladies at court an’ cough juice to the King.” Although they all know Lemay is capable of much more, Athos thinks that Porthos has a point. And it’s why they’re standing here, protecting their brother from a practice they’ve never seen Aramis apply in the field. A practice which Aramis, in fact, condemns with conviction. And more than once, he’s explained to them why.

“He’s lost enough blood already,” Athos says cooly. “Taking more will only weaken him further.”

Lemay raises a pleading hand.

“But I am convinced it will help him. Please, Captain, do you want to be responsible for your friend’s death?”

Porthos growls and, fists balled, takes a step forward. Athos holds him back with an arm across his chest.

“We’ll take that chance,” he says, and Lemay flinches underneath his withering glare. “And unless there’s any other and sensible form of treatment you can offer, we’re asking you to leave.”

Lemay hesitates. Metal hisses when, as a warning, d’Artagnan begins to slide his sword out of its scabbard. Then Lemay exhales in resignation.

“No,” he admits. “There’s nothing else I can do. Keep his wounds clean. Change the bandages regularly. Make him drink. Pray. Summon me if you change your mind, but it may be too late by then.”

The doctor drops the scalpel into the unused bowl, throws a last, frustrated glance at Aramis’ still form, turns on his heel and leaves.

Athos feels himself deflate, and, returning to Aramis’ side, his heart races with the same feelings of doubt he can see on Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s faces. He looks at their injured friend, his arm and leg heavily bandaged, his dark curls plastered to his face, so pale in spite of the fever. Aramis had lost so much blood by the time they’d got him here, and when Lemay had finally sewn up the hole in his arm and the deep slash in his thigh he’d looked like death.

“Did we do the right thing?” D’Artagnan voices the question they’re all thinking.

“Yeah.” Porthos sits down by Aramis’ uninjured side, looking ridiculously big on that small stool. He dunks a cloth into a bowl of water and gently wipes Aramis’ face. “Yeah, we did. ‘e told us that bleedin’ a wounded man only kill’s ‘em faster. ‘E told us many times.”

“But the infection?” D’Artagnan rakes his hand through his grown-out hair. “It needs to be drained, doesn’t it?”

Athos, one hand settled on Aramis’ good shoulder, shakes his head.

“An infected wound needs to be drained. Yes. Not the whole body. We’ve kept his wounds clean. We’ve done everything he would have done.”

As if to reassure himself, Athos checks the bandage around Aramis’ arm. There’s no oozing, no foul smell. The same, he knows, goes for his leg. He’s been checking it diligently.

“We’ve done the right thing,” he reassures his brothers, reassures himself. “Lemay is wrong. Now let’s make sure Aramis stays alive so he can tell him that himself.”

D’Artagnan nods. “I’ll go fetch more water.”

Porthos continues to wet compresses and places them where Aramis taught him to, tirelessly explaining why. The marksman gives a little whimper of distress and rolls his head in Porthos’ direction, his eyes fluttering, but not opening.

“I know,” Porthos grumbles compassionately. “‘Feels bloody cold. I hate compresses too.”

Athos reaches for Aramis’ rosary on the bedside table. He runs it through his fingers, searching his memory for the old prayers. He doesn’t believe in a merciful God, but Aramis does, and they need all the help they can get.

(One week later)

“It’s astounding,” Lemay says, rewrapping Aramis’ leg. “You’re healing remarkably well! I think you’re even ready to start walking on it.”

Aramis smiles. He’s sitting upright in his bed, his natural colour returned to his face, and with clear eyes. His arm is still in a sling, but the fever is gone, and an empty plate on his bedside table proof to the return of his appetite.

“Excellent,” he says cheerfully. “As fun as it’s all been with you, gentlemen” - he looks at his three brothers lounging around him in their usual spots - “entertainment in this facility has been lacking, and I have... matters to attend.”

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes, and Porthos rumbles a laugh. Athos’ mouth twitches.

“Before you do,” Lemay says seriously. “I have to admit that this has been an interesting lesson.”

“Yer admitting that bleedin’ people is wrong then?” Porthos’ face grows stern again.

“I’m not.” The doctor looks pensive. “We don’t know if blood-letting would have changed the outcome. But the fact that you’ve recovered so quickly, much quicker than I would have thought possible - I’ll give it some thought.”

Aramis gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Bleeding makes no sense in a patient who’s already lost a lot of blood. It only drains them of their strength.”

“...and I told ‘im so!”

“And I am very glad you did.” Aramis gives his best friend a warm and genuine smile.

“In that case,” Lemay continues. “I will consider it the next time the occasion arises.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence ensues. They all know that there will be a next time. They are soldiers. They will get wounded, and they will lose blood. It’s only a question of who’s turn it is next.

“Until then, will you please excuse me?” Aramis breaks the uneasiness, mischief in his voice and a sly glint in his dark eyes. “I need to get dressed, and if someone could fashion me with a cane? There is a lady who is desperate to assure herself of my well-being, and I would like to receive her fully clothed and on my feet.”

“I bet she’s desperate to assure herself of something else as well,” d’Artagnan comments wryly, but the tension is broken.

“I will leave you to it, then.”

Lemay takes his medical bag and leaves. Athos leaves as well, after a last warning in Aramis’ direction to take it easy. As he pulls the door to the infirmary closed, he hears the voices of his brothers behind him - banter, teasing, laughter. A weight drops from Athos chest. Straightening his spine, he strides back to his captain’s office. He, too, has matters to attend.

(Read all of my Whumptober fics on AO3, here)

[martelldoran]

Ave Maria

Title: Ave Maria

Fandom: MCU

Ship: Steve/Bucky

NSFW: No

Summary: 

And Bucky loved him.

It was clear to him now as he sat, head bowed, at his bedside. He had almost lost him, could lose him still, and if that were to happen, he knew that he would lose the very best part of himself.

“How am I supposed to live without you?” he whispers, daring to take Steve’s hand in his own.

Steve has only gone and got himself hurt. Again. So, Bucky keeps a watchful vigil over his friend and struggles with newly realised feelings.

Written as part of @hogwartsonline‘s Dialogue OWLs from the prompt, “How am I supposed to live without you?”. Thank you to @stevenroguers for beta-ing. <3

Read on AO3 or Keep Reading here

Steve’s face is ashen and he looks like death is courting him. Bucky should be at school but he can’t face it. Not when Steve almost died.

He’s kneeling on the floor, the bare wooden boards digging into his knees.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena ,” he mutters, tracing unwilling fingers over his pa’s old rosary.

He doesn’t think it’ll do much good. When has God ever listened to him? But he considers, maybe he’d listen to him today. Or if not him, then maybe his Holy Mother in all her mercy. If only they’d save Steve. Steve, who is good, Steve, who doesn’t deserve to die because he was trying to do the right thing.

“Please, please don’t die on me now. I’ll do anything, give anything .”

The woman who found him bleeding on the sidewalk said he’d sliced himself open trying to vault a fence after running from some asshole with a shiv. She didn’t know why he was being chased, but Bucky could hazard a guess. The guy woulda been ragging on some dame or a skinny, knock-kneed kid and Steve woulda seen and thought, “Not on my watch.”

Bucky didn’t need to know the details because there have been plenty of other assholes Steve has insisted on putting in their place over the years. It didn’t matter that he was barely scraping 5’4” or that he weighed about as much as a Raggedy Ann doll, the boy loved a cause.

And Bucky loved him.

It was clear to him now as he sat, head bowed, at his bedside. He had almost lost him, could lose him still, and if that were to happen, he knew that he would lose the very best part of himself.

“How am I supposed to live without you?” he whispers, daring to take Steve’s hand in his own.

It feels much too small and his skin is cold and clammy. Bucky’s afraid he might break him if he grips too tight. He strokes his thumb across Steve’s knuckles and imagines what it might be like to walk down the street holding this hand. But, as quick as the thought surfaces, he pushes it away, pushes it far down, where no-one, not even he, can see it.

Bucky swallows with a shudder and grips his rosary once more.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena ,” he prays, a tremor running through the familiar words. “Holy Mother, don’t let him die. Have mercy on his soul. Take mine instead even if it’s only worth half as much. The world needs more people like him.”

Steve is meant for more than this, Bucky knows it, has known it for years. All he has to do is make it a few years further, until he's grown, and can take the entire world by storm. And Bucky will stand by his side through it all if Steve will  have him.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena . You’re not so cruel to take him just yet. I pray thee intercede on his behalf, it is not yet his time.

“ Pater noster, qui es in caelis . Will talking directly to you work better? If you damn me, will you save him? Do you hear me, Father? It’s a fair exchange, isn’t it? Take me because I tell you this, I’d let you do it - a thousand times over.”

“James, darlin’? Won’t your ma be wonderin’ where you’re at?” Sarah Rogers’ voice reaches him from the door. Bucky starts. He hadn’t heard her approach. She is silhouetted against the light from the hall but Bucky can see how her worried eyes flicker over her son’s prone body.

Bucky scrambles to his feet, knees protesting after too many hours spent kneeling.

“No, she knows I’m here. I phoned her from the hospital before we left,” he says fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Please, I’d like to stay. If I can?”

“Of course. Stay as long you like,” she says and enters the room fully.

Sarah looks tired, Bucky notes. Her face is drawn and she won’t stop wringing her hands. She approaches the bed and perches at Steve’s side, pushing back his fringe from his sweat soaked forehead. He moans in his sleep and tries to lean into a touch that was barely there. Bucky averts his eyes, it feels like a private moment.

“Are you hungry?” she asks him after a moment, voice tight and tired.

He shakes his head, not wanting to be even more of a burden than he already is even though it has been hours since he’s eaten anything. He hopes that the yawning hole in his stomach won’t give him away. With a heavy sigh, she raises her eyes towards him. It seems as though she might cry.

“I have to work . . .”

“I won’t leave.”

She nods, placated. At least there would be someone with him if the worst was to happen. Bucky shoves the thought away.

Steve’s breathing is shallow and ragged, rattling around his chest like a marble in a beaker. Sure, it rattles at the best of times but this feels different. Death is wet on his breath and her pale fingers are on his cheek.

Bucky resumes his vigil.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena .”

Bucky wakes, hours later bent over the side of the bed with a crick in his neck and strain up his left side. Blinking, confused and with aching knees, he struggles up. Darkness has enveloped the room in a cool embrace and it’s deathly silent.

A horrible thrill of panic shoots through him and he’s climbing across the bed, holding a hand over Steve’s face.

“No, no, no,” he moans, holding very still. “Please be breathing.”

He is. It’s faint but it tickles across his palm like a welcome breeze on a hot day. Bucky sags, his head coming to rest on Steve’s thin chest as he offers up another prayer.

Oh, if only Sister Catherine could see him now. She’d probably piss herself with joy. Finally, the Lord’s good teaching had come home to roost. She’d think he was a proper good Catholic boy in this state, reciting all his prayers nice and proper. But none of this is for her benefit, the Lord’s benefit or even Bucky’s benefit. No. It’s all for Steve. Steve who’s too doped up to pray for his own immortal soul.

So, it’s Bucky’s responsibility to offer up the right words and make sure whoever is listening knows exactly who Steve Rogers is. He couldn’t care one jot about himself. As far as he's concerned, there is nothing waiting for him on the other side but he won’t condemn his friend on his own misgivings.

He settles next to him on the narrow bed, trying not to jostle his still healing body lest he bust open all those neat stitches. There’s a murmur and Steve scoots closer, a frown pulling at his already pinched features. It just about breaks his goddamn heart. With gentle fingers, he pushes Steves’s hair away from his forehead and lets out a low, long breath.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena .” And so the cycle begins again.

With every new repetition, he tries to put as much feeling, as much concentration as he possibly can into it but his mind keeps wandering. He’d never been much good at praying. His ma would scold him for fidgeting during Mass and Becca would get all prissy because she knew the prayers better than he did. It wasn’t his fault. His mind couldn’t stay still, so it always wandered off someplace nicer than the badly lit, stuffy chapel they found themselves in every Sunday.

Usually, it was only bearable because Steve was there too. Half the time his ma was working so they took him, crammed him onto their pew shoulder to shoulder with Bucky who would try his darndest to distract him. Of course, ever the good, god fearing and pious child, he’d swat him away with a reserved smile even when Bucky would pinch the backs of his legs just to get a rise. It never worked but he liked it, relished it, even, because it made him feel important. It made him feel seen.

Well, it’s a damn good thing no-one can see him now with his rumpled shirt, bleary eyes, and hedgerow hair. He is a mess and he’ll be a mess for days to come. He doesn’t plan on going home until he knows Steve will recover. He will. He has to. Bucky will make him. He can do that, right? Because if he can’t, then he’s not sure if he can face what his life will be otherwise either.

He works his way through the rosary again, rubbing each bead with renewed fervour, as if the pressure he exerts correlates directly to how much holy power he can divine. Steve snuffles in his sleep, hooking an arm around Bucky’s leg.

“ Salve Regina, mater misericordiae, vita, dulcedo, et spes nostra, salve. Ad te clamamus exult- exsus - ex- No? Shit.” He could never remember this one.

Fuck the Salve Regina. It was his least favourite prayer.

“ Exsules filii Hevae ,” rasped a thin voice by his side.

“Stevie,” Bucky breathes, dropping the rosary into his lap as if electrified. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They flutter for a moment before one settles on Steve’s back. His pajamas are soaked through and he’s shivering, hands trembling something terrible as he tries to push himself into a seated position. “No, no. Don’t try and sit, you’ll bust your stitches, you goon. Lay back.”

With a groan he does as he’s told. He only ever seems to do that when he’s at death’s door but Bucky takes the victory, small though it may be.

“Water,” croaks Steve. His lids hang heavy, obscuring the blue of his eyes and he can’t seem to focus on anything but he gropes for Bucky’s hand, giving it a squeeze before Bucky pushes off the bed to fulfill the gasped request.

“Here, you go.”

Bucky holds the glass in one hand, supporting Steve’s head with the other as he takes tiny kitten-like sips.

“Sister Catherine would beat your ass for not knowing the Salve,” he tells him when he’s finished, voice breathy as he leans back against the pillows, eyes closed. The faintest hint of a smile curling across his lips.

“Well, it’s a good thing Sister Catherine isn’t here then, isn’t it,” Bucky retorts, rising easily to the bait.

Steve sniggers which turns into a cough which turns into a wince that has him clutching at his belly. Bucky frowns, hands hovering above his friend’s stomach, unsure. Closing his eyes, he takes a breath and chews on his bottom lip, considering his options. He needs to check his stitches and, really, he should get him something clean to wear. If he keeps on shivering like this then it won’t just be the threat of infection they’ll be fighting. Another bout of pneumonia and then the writing really would be on the wall.

That settles it.

With quick, deft fingers, head now feeling blissfully clear, Bucky strips off Steve’s pajama top. The stitches are holding, thank God, so he redresses the wound and then redresses his friend. His chattering teeth still but now, he's keening. The pain meds have worn off and the full, fiery pain down the length of his belly has returned.

Bucky attends to him as best he can. He gives him water and what little food he can bear eating but mostly he sits by his side, serving as an easy distraction. At Steve’s insistence, he squashes into the bed alongside him, letting him rest against his side while he talks. He doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time– he’s rambling ceaselessly to take Steve’s mind off the pain. He tells him about Dorothy, the redhead in his class who’s been making eyes at him, the neighbour’s dog who keeps yapping at all hours of the night, and that he thinks Becca will make a great nurse one day.

“Just like your ma, Stevie,” he says in hushed tones. “Maybe they’ll work in the same hospital. Wouldn’t that be grand? She might be her mentor.”

Sometimes, Steve grunts in response, but mostly he stays silent, breathing still shallow but looking a bit more peaceful.

As he speaks, Bucky’s voice quivers, straining under the pressure of remaining calm and in control for his friend. It wouldn’t help anybody to have him falling to pieces - at least on the outside. Inside, he feels like he’s breaking, like he’s being torn apart piece by grizzly piece. The shock of almost losing him is wearing off now; it’s still rocked him to the bone, but Steve’s ribbed him, tried to make jokes, he’ll be fine. Of course, he’ll be fine. He has to be fine. No, it’s the realisation that the very axis of Bucky’s world now revolves around the boy curled into his side that keeps his mind occupied throughout the night’s steady march towards daybreak.

People out there would have some helluva strong opinions if they found out. He knows what happens to boys like him. Pressing his lips together, Bucky stares up at the ceiling and blinks back the tears that have gathered at the corners of his eyes.

No, he won’t cry. Not about this. Love is supposed to be a glorious, wonderful thing. Didn't Jesus die out of love? Wasn’t God supposed to be all loving and forgiving of all sins?

Except this didn’t feel like a sin.

It felt like salvation.

“ Ave Maria, gratia plena . Have mercy on my soul.”

[angeltreasure]

I am the one who sent ''I feel so hopeless my mind keeps telling me to go back to my sinful ways.'' I almost felt like crying when I read everything and read about you praying the Rosary. I just realized that that I haven't been praying the Holy Rosary. Thank you sincerely, everything is just so hard

You’re welcome. Give it time, and don’t be too hard on yourself we are here for you.

When we pray certain prayers, like the Rosary, we take the focus off our minds and instead focus on the life of Jesus and His mother, Mary. Even if you find it difficult to pray an entire rosary, you can say one prayer of it to the best of your ability and it will still count. Jesus understands. Sometimes when I find it too difficult to focus praying it alone, I will go to YouTube and find a video to help me pray through it.

Another one, the Divine Mercy Chaplet, we can pray for ourself, or we can focus on praying for others we love or know people we know that really need help. It can be really good to pray for others, even our enemies. Every soul needs mercy. In caring for others, near or far, I think it can help heal us a little.