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beshert-bh · 5 years ago

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My journey to/with Judaism

***This is a super long post, it’s the FULL story, not a brief overview, but it would mean the WORLD to me if you read it***

Upbringing: very much Not Jewish™️

I was born into a Catholic family. I have a goyish last name. I was baptized as an infant, and my parents took me to church each week as a kid.

In kindergarten — back when I still went to a secular private school — one of my best friends was Jewish. He told me all about the traditions his family did...told me all about the kippahs they wear, and how they had their own game called dreidel for this holiday they celebrated, called Hanukkah. (Of course this convo was at a basic-kindergarten-level of knowledge.) When I came home from school I was fascinated with Hanukkah, (this is cringey to admit but my 5-year-old self tried to integrate the traditions together and so in order to do this I drew up a “Christmas dreidel” complete with Santa Claus’ face on one side, a present on another side...you get it)

And that is when I was promptly put in “parochial” schools. I went to Catholic school from 1st grade to 12th grade. I went through Holy Communion and Confirmation like all the other kids did. My elementary soccer team’s mascot was an Angel. My high school’s mascot was a Crusader. Our high school was located on Rome Avenue. I went to a Catholic youth conference. I considered becoming a nun because I was single all throughout high school.

Growing up, around Christmastime we would always travel to visit my grandma, and she would always say we’re “German Jewish” — but I would write her off. In my mind, I was like, Yeah ok like 1%? .....It felt like my grandma was acting like one of those white people who takes a DNA test and says, “Look! We’re 1% African!” So I would dismiss her and remind her how we’re Catholics and she would drop the subject.

Falling away from Xtianity: my first 2 years of college

My freshman year I changed — politically — as I was only conservative in high school because of the ‘pro-life’ agenda being shoved down my throat. I really aligned more with liberal and leftist policies and views, though. Once I became open to new political ideology, I began to question my theological beliefs.

I always had a strong connection to God. My whole life. But I struggled with connecting to Jesus, Mary, the saints, and so on. So obviously my freshman year of college I began to fall away from Catholicism.

You see, Catholics are “bad at the Bible” as I like to say. Other Christians do a better job of teaching and analyzing the writings. They actually require school-aged children to memorize Scripture passages. Catholics mostly just teach the same stuff over and over. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, blah blah blah. Catechism, liturgical calendar, blah blah blah. Parts of the mass, fruits of the spirit, blah blah blah.

So since I was already doubting Catholicism, its corrupt leadership, and its mindless traditions.... I thought maaaaybeeee I would find purpose, truth, clarity, etc. in plain-old Christianity. But I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The other Christian churches I went to baptized people (which is a BIG LIFE DECISION) on the spot. For example if a newcomer felt on a whim that they wanted to be baptized, the church would do it right then & there. No learning, no planning or preparing, that was it. They promoted blind faith and circular thinking. I began to realize these were both normal attitudes and cognitive patterns within any and every Christian community that I encountered.

Even the Christians who exhibited curiosity mostly just asked questions in order to be able to understand, and then accept, the doctrine as truth. Questions never ever challenged anything.

Oh and let’s throw in the fact that I’m bisexual. Homophobia, transphobia, biphobia (and more) are rampant in the church. So needless to say, with all my observations about the lack of logical thinking in the church (and considering my sexual orientation) I fell away. I stopped going to church unless my family made me when I was home from college.

Enter stage right: Judaism

In retrospect I happened to have a lot of friends in my sorority and my favorite fraternity on campus who were Jewish (the frat happened to be a traditionally-Jewish one). Thought nothing of it at the time. Fast forward to junior year when I met this cute guy on Tinder. He’s now my boyfriend and we’ve been dating for over a year. He didn’t tell me this on Tinder, but when we went on our first date, he revealed that he’s Jewish and wanted to make sure that’s something I was ok with. Clearly I had no problem with that. I wasn’t too into Christianity anymore but I still identified as one (and I was still surrounded by Christian friends in my sorority) so I told him I was Christian/raised Catholic and asked hypothetically if he would be comfortable with a “both” family. He said yes.

We started dating during an October, so of course Hanukkah came up soon. There was a mega challah bake at our local Chabad, which he took me to, and we had a blast. From then on I decided I wanted to show him how supportive I was of his Jewishness. (The last girl he dated dumped him after 3 months BECAUSE he was Jewish... so I felt that I needed to be supportive)

We started going to shabbat services and dinner every week. We did Hanukkah together (we bought our first menorah together, he taught me how to spin a dreidel, his mom bought me Hanukkah socks...lol). At some point in our relationship I told him I may have Jewish ancestry from my grandma but it’s distant and my whole extended family is Christian so it really wouldn’t even matter. I don’t remember when I had that conversation with him.

Eventually, after another few months of Shabbat services and Shabbat dinners, Pesach came around.

We went to the first seder together. The second seder is what changed everything.

Deciding to convert

At first I wasn’t sure if I belonged at this second seder. My boyfriend had always brought me to every event. I had never attended anything alone at Chabad before. But I went anyway. Throughout the night I felt increasingly comfortable. I had never felt more like I was a *part of something* than I did at this seder.

I sat near a friend who I recognized. (He knows I’m raised Catholic.) Then he & his friends welcomed me. We all took turns reading from the Haggadah, we drank the four cups of wine together, and we laughed together as I had maror for the first time.

Then the familiar faces left to go home, and one of them even went to another table to sit with his other friends whom he hadn’t had a chance to see yet that night. Naturally I thought I was alone again. I almost left, but something tugged at my heart to stay until the very end of the second seder. Something told me to keep going and keep taking in this wonderful experience.

The rest of the night consisted of many songs (most likely prayers, in retrospect) I did not know. Everyone stood to sing and we all clapped to the rhythm. I knew none of the words but I still clapped along, alone at my own table. Then one of the boys — the one who had been sitting with my friends and I earlier — motioned at me to come over and join his other friends. I approached this new table full of people I’d never met, feeling awkward as ever, and they not only hoisted me up to stand on the table with them as they chanted, but they also included me in their dance circle. (no, I don’t think it was the Hora, we just spun around over and over. lol.)

This was the first night I felt at home with Judaism. Going through the Jewish history with the Haggadah, remembering the important occurrences and symbolizing them with various foods, ending the night by being welcomed into the community... it was transformative. After attending shabbat services for months and learning about Jewish values, it changed something in me when I observed Pesach for the first time last year. I knew this path would be right for me. I felt as if my soul had found where it belonged. The Jewish history, traditions, beliefs, and customs resonated with me. It all just... made sense.

I told my boyfriend I wanted to convert. I wrote three pages of reasons. But I sat on the idea of converting and did nothing for a while. I did do some more research on Judaism, though, as I continued to attend services each week.

The exploration stage

I began to actually research on my own time. If converting was something I was genuinely considering, it was high time I began actively learning as much as I could possibly learn. It was time to dive deeper than just attending the weekly services and googling the proper greetings for Jewish holidays.

I started digging deeper into Judaism and Christianity so I could compare and contrast the two. I needed to understand the similarities and differences. And BOY are they different. That was surprising at first, but the more I learned about Judaism, the more I loved how different it was from the Christianity I was indoctrinated into.

Not only are the values and teachings of each religion vastly different, but the Tanakh (which is “The Old Testsment” in Christian Bibles) actually contradicts:

The entire “New Testament”

The gospel books specifically

The Pauline letters specifically

How did I realize this? Some bible study of my own, but mostly through online research. And, of course, I would have gotten nowhere without the help of Rabbi Tovia Singer and his YouTube videos. He debunks everything there is to debunk about Christianity.

Here were some things I came across when researching:

It confused me how the four Gospels didn’t align (like, major parts of the story did not align at all...and supposedly they’re divinely inspired...but they don’t even corroborate one another?)

It confused me how the psalms we sang in church were worded completely different from the true wording in the Bible (essentially the Christian church is taking tehillim and altering it to benefit Christian dogma and Christian rhetoric.)

It confused me how we read in the Bible that Jews are ‘God’s chosen people’ and yet in every Catholic Church, every Sunday, there is a Pauline letter being read which depicts proselytization of Jews, as if Jews are lost and need Christians to save them. As if Jews would go to hell if they fail to accept Jesus.

It confused me why we would pray to Mary and the saints, because praying is worship, and worshipping anyone but God themself is idolatry.

It confused me why Christians make, sell, and use graven images. Idolatry. Again.

It confused me why Christians give absolute power to humans. For example, if you crawl up the same steps (Scala Santa) that Jesus supposedly crawled up before he died, you automatically get “saved” because *some old men who have no divine power* said so (they have a term for this and it’s called “plenary indulgence” lol).

It confused me why Jesus was believed to be the messiah considering he had to have biologically been from the line of Joseph. Wasn’t Jesus supposedly conceived without any help from Joseph? Wouldn’t that render Jesus, uh, not messiah by default? Even if he was from Joseph’s blood, he still did not complete all the tasks moshiach is supposed to fulfill. And even if he DID fulfill all the tasks required of moshiach... we still would not worship a messiah as he is human and not GOD.

These were all new thoughts I developed this past year between Pesach and Yom Kippur. New questions that challenged everything I thought I knew. It was like teaching a child 2+2≠22 but rather 2+2=4.

Hillel

This fall, after the High Holy Days, my boyfriend began attending shabbat dinners at a rabbi’s home. His new rav lives in the community and it’s exclusive to be invited, so I never imposed. We do Shabbos separately now (with some exceptions, we do it together sometimes).

I continued to go to Chabad with one of my friends who knew I wanted to convert. But one month, she couldn’t come at all, and I felt a little judged there anyway.

So I began going to Hillel a few months ago. And I honestly have found a home there.

From Hillel’s Springboard Fellow reaching out to me and taking me out for coffee to get to know me... to running into my sorority & fraternity friends at every Hillel event (shabbat or otherwise)... From getting included in various clubs like the women empowerment group and the mental health inclusivity group... to being the only college student to participate in Mitzvah Day (hosted by Hillel) with the elderly and the local Girl Scout troop... I feel truly welcome. I’ve started to attend every week. I even talked briefly with the rabbi about having Jewish lineage and wanting to convert.

Discovering new information

I went home to be with family during Thanksgiving break. My grandma flew in so she was there when I got home. She stayed with us from then until New Years (and she’s actually moving in with us next year.)

Of course, now I have a Jewish boyfriend, Jewish friends, and I’ve done extensive research on Judaism. So this time I had background knowledge when she inevitably said... “You know, we’re German Jewish!”

I inquired a little. I asked her what she meant. How is she Jewish? I know my uncle took a DNA test this year and came back part Ashkenazi. But I needed a deeper explanation than DNA.

She revealed to me that her mom’s mom was Jewish. We believe she married a Christian man. Together they had my great-grandmother, who I believe was Christian. She had my grandma, who had my dad, who had me.

And I immediately felt like that changed things. At first I was (internally) like, Now I definitely need to convert! But then I was like, Wait, does this make me Jewish? Am I Jewish-ish? ...Can you be considered Jewish if you’re only ethnically Jewish but not raised Jewishly? ...Can you be Jewish if your dad is your only Jewish parent? ...Can you be Jewish if your dad never had a bris or a bar mitzvah?

I joined a bunch of Jewbook groups, began learning the Hebrew calendar & holiday schedule, and found some folks who assist with Jewish genealogy. They did some digging for me and apparently I descend from the Rothschild family. THE Rothschild family.

Who is a Jew? Who “counts”?

This is something I’ve been muddling over.

At Hillel, at my school at least, most people are pretty Reform. They’re very liberal with their definitions of Judaism (they believe in patrilineal descent and not only matrilineal descent).

They accept me and see me as actually Jewish ...and the ones who don’t... they at least see me as Jewish-adjacent, an “honorary Jew” or an “ally to the Jewish people”.

My boyfriend, however, still sees me as Not Jewish.™️ (For context he’s Reform but he’s trying to become as observant as possible) I know he only thinks this was because of how we began our relationship and because of how I was raised. But I’m very confused here.

Do I count?

Do I not?

Do I count *enough* but still need to go through a formal conversion process?

So...now what?

I don’t know how to navigate this odd journey but I have felt for a while that I have a Jewish neshama and I feel a strong need to affirm it. I just don’t know how or what is appropriate. Do I learn Hebrew? Sign up for a trip to Israel/Germany/Poland? Put up a mezuzah? Or go toward the other end of the scale, and head down a path of a formal conversion/reaffirmation process?

Thank you in advance for your responses and thanks for reading. 🤎

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ecosystem-administrator · 4 years ago

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Shuffle

Post 5.0, no particular spoilers

Mayhem is interested in card divination.

It was a fine evening at the Crystarium, and Urianger was enjoying the hum of activity through the market square, from the vantage point of a cafe table a little bit out of the main push of traffic. He saw Mayhem coming before they spotted him, and nodded wisely at the bard's approach.

"Good evening, my friend," he greeted them with a smile, gesturing to another chair. "If thou hast come to speak, wilt thou not take thine ease? I hope naught else of urgency hath raised its head to break the evening's grace."

Mayhem smiled and shook their head, happily settling into the offered chair. "Nah, everything's quiet for now. I was looking for you, though. I've been meaning to ask - I know about the cards you use in battle, but the whole deck can be used for divination too, can't it?"

Urianger nodded. "It can indeed. The major arcana, aligned to the heavens, art considered the most powerful and recognizable; most divination is performed using them alone, particularly in the heat of battle where fates may turn with such speed. Yet if one doth desire a more nuanced interpretation of fate, 'tis quite possible to read with the entirety of the same deck of sixty employed in games of chance." Smiling, he pulled out his cards, first the major arcana he normally used in battle, and then from a side pouch the remainder of the deck. "Wouldst thou care for a demonstration? Combining them will take but a moment."

"If you wouldn't mind!" Mayhem's tail lashed eagerly behind them, and their ears wiggled with excitement. "I admit I've never been the most devout person, but it's such an interesting practice."

"I should be delighted." The cards were already flitting through Urianger's hands with practiced ease. Once he deemed them sufficiently reordered, he set the deck down and began to draw. "For simplicity's sake, our demonstration shall be the Trinity," he explained as he laid out three cards face down. "One card to illuminate thy past, one to indicate thy present condition, and one to divine thy future." He flipped the first. "The fourth of irons." The card showed a woman in manacles, running from a whip that lashed at her feet toward an open doorway, which showed an empty cell behind it. "Here thou canst see, she doth flee from torment into solace, though solace be a cage. Indeed, unless I recall incorrectly, thou hadst few companions before joining the ranks of the Scions." He shook his head, noting the way Mayhem's ears lowered as well. "Betimes solitude may be easier to endure than lashes."

The next card revealed a far more pleasant scene, a well-attended Bonding ceremony. The young lovers held one cup between them, ready to drink from it; four more were scattered about the table for the guests who cheered them onward. "Ahh, the fifth of cups. A joyful communion of souls, finding one another and affirming the bonds betwixt them. Yet 'tis not the completion of the suit, just as the binding shown is not the end some might suppose it, but a vow of perseverance. This joy and community will persist so long as all continue to maintain it in unison."

And finally the last was turned, to reveal the Ewer, the familiar sight of Thaliak pouring out a river from his mighty jug. "And the Ewer, upright. A fine omen indeed: a flowing bounty of life and of knowledge, springing forth by the will of Thaliak, guided and shaped by Nymeia. Doubtless thou wilt continue to be blessed with the knowledge and power thou dost need most; as the Ewer ruleth over the element of water, thou shouldst trust to thine intuition to access them."

He tapped the first card with a long finger, and then the second. "Indeed, this spread indicateth a thawing like unto springtide: for irons are ruled by ice, yet the other two cards are of water. Thou art freed now from the stifling of the past, and coming fully into thy strength and grace."

"That's certainly heartening," Mayhem agreed, eyes wide and ears perked with wonderment and sincere interest. "And fascinating! I think I see how it works - you have to take into account the images, elements, numerology, and the deities among the Twelve that rule over the suit, and how all those interact with each other, so each card has a lot of versatility, while still keeping a consistent meaning."

"Just so! Thou wert ever a quick study," Urianger smiled back. "Yet pray tell, what hath caught thine interest so regarding the lesser arcana?"

"Ah, well. It was just a convenient time to ask, since we have a little time off," Mayhem admitted. "Before I knew any of you, before the Calamity, I traveled as a mercenary for a bit, right? We played card games a lot, and on one trip, one of the others I was with had a deck like that - not just suits and pips, but full artwork on every card, each one seeming to carry a bit of a story with it. It stuck with me, so I remembered other bits and pieces I picked up as I kept traveling, how that kind of deck was used for fortunetelling and all. Wasn't sure I'd ever actually have the chance to stop and talk to an expert about it, but," a lighthearted shrug and flick of the tail, "here we are."

"Here we are, indeed." Urianger swept up the cards, and began sorting through the deck again to retrieve the rest of the major arcana. "If thou hast further need of lessons in the future, I am ever at thy service."

#ffxivwrite2020 #urianger augurelt #how mayhem picked up AST #yes I'm showing off #tarot is fascinating though #Mayhem

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fairfieldthinkspace · 5 years ago

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Can the Trauma of War Lead to Growth, Despite the Scars?

By Phil Klay

When we speak of trauma, it is usually as something to be avoided at all costs. But the suffering that war brings can be a strange and terrible blessing.

This article is part of a series on resilience in troubled times — what we can learn about it from history and personal experiences.

The French weapon deployed against Spanish troops in 1521 was, contemporaries said, “more diabolical than human.” The rapid-firing light bronze cannon shot iron balls that crushed battlements, careened wildly and sprayed shards of stone in all directions. At the Battle of Pamplona, one cannonball twice injured the leader of a small Spanish garrison defying calls for surrender, nearly killing him, first by striking one leg with stone shrapnel, then in the other leg by the cannonball itself. His name was Íñigo López de Loyola. The effect on Loyola was not only physical, but also spiritual: Today, he is better known as St. Ignatius.

Back then, he was no saint. One biography describes him as “a rough punkish swordsman who used his privileged status to escape prosecution for violent crimes committed with his priest brother at carnival time.” But this near-fatal injury changed him, along with a few religious books he read during his exceptionally painful convalescence, in which his bones had to be broken again and reset, and where he came so close to death he was given last rites. He went on to found the Jesuits and send disciples all over the globe, in what the British historian Dom David Knowles suggested was Christianity’s “greatest single religious impulse since the preaching of the apostles.”

When we speak of trauma, it is usually as something to be avoided at all costs. “Interest in avoiding pain,” wrote the utilitarian philosopher Peter Singer, is among “the most important human interests.” And yet soldiers like St. Ignatius, who found in their suffering a strange and terrible blessing, are not rare. Senator John McCain, brutally tortured at the Hanoi Hilton, famously declared himself “grateful to Vietnam” for giving him “a seriousness of purpose that observers of my early life had found difficult to detect.”

His might be an extreme case, but the expectation of exposure to some trauma has long been part of the draw of war. “The law is this: no wisdom without pain,” wrote the ancient Greek playwright and military veteran Aeschylus. “Wanted or not by us, such wisdom’s gained; its score, its etch, its scar in us goes deep.” Perhaps that’s true, but it leaves us with an ugly and, to some, offensive question: Can suffering be a gift?

In the early 20th century, the German writer Ernst Jünger, who had proudly served four years in brutal front-line fighting in World War I, declared the answer was a resounding yes. “Tell me your relation to pain,” he claimed, “and I will tell you who you are!” Civilization before the war had slid into bourgeoise decadence, he thought, fleeing from self-sacrifice and prioritizing safety. But the war heralded a new sort of man.

“Hardened as scarcely another generation ever was in fire and flame,” he wrote of himself and his fellow soldiers, “we could go into life as though from the anvil; into friendship, love, politics, professions, into all that destiny had in store. It is not every generation that is so favored.” Postwar Germany convinced him that the industrialized world these men returned to, which happily destroyed workers’ bodies for the construction of railways or mines, was ruled by the same cruel logic as the trenches. Men would have to rise to the challenge by accepting pain, and accepting the cruelty of the age. This is toughness and callousness elevated to a first principle. Unsurprisingly, many of Jünger’s admirers became Nazis.

One of their victims was an Austrian of Jewish descent named Jean Améry, who after the war forcefully rejected, in the starkest terms, any notions of suffering as a gift. Likewise, notions of stoic detachment born of the trenches were absurd to a man who had been tortured by the Gestapo before being sent to Auschwitz. Améry experienced pain beyond description; he was hung by his arms until they ripped from their sockets, and then horsewhipped. For the tortured man, he wrote, “his flesh becomes total reality.”

More lasting than the pain, though, the experience destroyed his ability to ever feel at home in the world, which requires faith in fellow men. Humans are a social animal, our inner self in constant outward search for communion. Torture inverts that expansive, capacious self into a collapsing star. Whatever you thought you were — a mind, a consciousness, a soul — torture reveals how simply, and casually, that can be destroyed. “A slight pressure by the tool-wielding hand is enough,” Améry wrote, to turn a cultured man into “a shrilly squealing piglet at slaughter.” There is wisdom here, though of a dark sort. “Whoever was tortured, stays tortured.” Améry committed suicide in 1978.

Where does that leave those who suffer? For the medical community, the safest option is addressing symptoms, not metaphysics. The writer and former Marine infantry officer David J. Morris has described his own therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder from his time in Iraq, during which he was urged to retell the stories of his trauma, practice breathing exercises, and reframe his cognitive responses to his environment and his traumatic memories.

But he was not encouraged to grow in response to what he had gone through; when he would try to speculate on how his experience might be converted to wisdom, psychologists would admonish him, he reported, “for straying from the strictures of the therapeutic regime.” One senior psychologist at the Department of Veterans Affairs told him that notions of post-traumatic growth were an insult to those who have suffered. For a medical community grounded in science rather than spirituality, and rightfully leery of telling the Amérys of the world to look on the bright side, suffering is no gift.

But another current can be found in theories developed during the Vietnam War. The study of psychological trauma suffers from what the psychiatrist Judith Herman has called “episodic amnesia,” in which periods of active interest, frequently following wars, are followed by “periods of oblivion.” But the generation of soldiers disaffected from war during Vietnam organized and demanded the first systematic, large-scale investigations of war trauma’s long-term effects. In addition to a medical diagnosis — PTSD was added to the American Psychiatric Association’s official manual in 1980 — many of these same veterans and their allies argued for the spiritual and moral significance of their condition.

Psychiatrists like Robert Jay Lifton and writers like Peter Marin argued that the suffering of Vietnam veterans was not simply neurosis, but appropriate moral response to horror. “All men, like all nations, are tested twice in the moral realm,” Mr. Marin wrote. “First by what they do, then by what they make of what they do.” Rather than numbing themselves to pain, they needed to sensitize themselves, to become alive to the “animating” guilt they supposedly lived with. Guilt forces the suffering consciousness outside of itself, the theory goes, sparking empathy and a drive to make reparation.

Whether guilt results in healing, though, is debatable. Some of the most fascinating research on growth after war trauma emerges out of a four decade-long study initiated by Zahava Solomon, which followed the PTSD trajectories of veterans of the 1982 war in Lebanon and the Arab-Israeli war of 1973, also known as the Yom Kippur War. A 2016 analysis of Israeli P.O.W.s from the 1973 war, who faced systematic torture, deprivation and social stigma, did find that those who reported the most guilt about their experience also reported the most growth. However, those veterans also had greater reports of PTSD symptoms as well. As Aeschylus warned, the wisdom they felt they had gained came with deep scars.

None of this would likely have surprised Ignatius of Loyola. In his tradition, suffering was at best a mystery: God never really answers Job, and Christ’s prayer to “let this cup pass me by” goes ungranted. As a Jesuit friend recently told me, suffering is never a gift, never truly willed by God; suffering is real, and awful, and not to be forgotten. “Consider how the Divinity hides Itself,” Ignatius’ followers have been directed to ask for hundreds of years, “how It could destroy Its enemies and does not do it, and how It leaves the most sacred Humanity to suffer so very cruelly.” But of course, that doesn’t mean that we cannot respond to such suffering with grace.

Phil Klay is a U.S. Marine Corps veteran, a visiting professor at Fairfield University and the author of “Redeployment,” winner of the 2014 National Book Award for Fiction, and the forthcoming novel “Missionaries.”

#St. Ignatius of Loyola #Phil Klay #Fairfield University #The New York Times

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emospritelet · 5 years ago

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Confession

The first of the three Monsterfuckers’ Ball fics I have planned. I made it Father MacAvoy instead. Hope you don’t mind.

Have some wholesome demon-on-priest smut *dodges lightning bolt*

AO3 link

Father Joseph MacAvoy was aware of three things. One, the church was cold: a bitter, bone-deep cold that had seeped into him and which would take substantially more than a hot cup of tea to drive away. The second was that he had not been paying full attention to the penitent in the confession booth for at least two minutes. The third, and this was by far the dominant thought in his mind, clamouring for his attention like the insistent ringing of the church bell, was that he needed a drink.

There was a bottle of whisky in the rectory behind the church, standing on the desk in his study, waiting for him. He imagined how it would look, the light from the lamps shining through it with a tawny-gold gleam, calling to him with a soothing, calming voice. He could almost smell it, rich and spicy with hints of smoke and peat, and his mouth watered at the thought of that first taste. It would burn on his tongue and in his throat, the heat mellowing with sweetness and a touch of salt, the aroma filling his nose before he swallowed. It would chase away the numbing cold and let his body relax as he drank his way down the bottle until sweet oblivion claimed him for another night. Perhaps it would even drive away the dreams.

“Father?” came a tentative voice from behind the screen, and Joseph started.

“Uh - yes,” he said quickly. “Five Hail Marys and an Act of Contrition.”

“Oh, thank you, Father!”

He listened to the prayers, the penitent speaking fervently. It was old Miss Ginger, he could see that, and while she had confessed to taking the Lord’s name in vain, and to envy over Mrs Lucas’s baking skills, he was well aware that she had other sins she had chosen not to unburden herself of. Perhaps she didn’t see malicious gossip as a sin, or perhaps she didn’t care. He found it hard to feel too strongly either way; the days of his youth, when he had been full of desire to do good, to spread the word of God and help comfort those in need of guidance, were far behind him. He was in his forties now, tired and disillusioned, a short, thin figure with brown hair falling around his face and catching on the stubble on his cheeks where he had neglected to shave that morning. It had been his intention to do so, but he had taken one look at his reflection, hollow-eyed and sweating as his body tried to rid itself of alcohol, and realised that he couldn’t stand to look at himself.

It wouldn’t be the first time he had taken confession while suffering the after-effects of the previous night’s drinking, and desperately awaiting the next hit of alcohol. Mother Superior often cast disapproving glances at him if she called at the rectory too early. It was something that she did at least twice a week, on the pretext of discussing some minor church matter which could easily have waited for a more civilised hour. He was almost sure she did it on purpose, just so she could give him one of those insincere smiles and make some snide comment about the communion wine, but he found it hard to summon much indignation, going through his days on autopilot until he could pour himself that first glass. The small congregation of Storybrooke deserved better.

He tried to pinpoint when it was that he had lost his way, and found that he couldn’t, only that it was after he had started crawling into the whisky bottle each night, and before the move to Storybrooke. Emigrating to small-town America from Glasgow five years ago had been something of a shock to the system, but the townsfolk were friendly and welcoming. All except for Mother Superior, of course, and the pawnbroker, who had never entered the church and who always seemed to eye him with an air of contempt. Joseph had hoped that a new start would inspire him, would rekindle his religious zeal, but with the passing of each year he seemed to grow more disenchanted with the world, and with himself.

He was relieved when Miss Ginger finally left, and shifted in his seat, hoping she was the last. Cold was sinking into his bones, not helped by either the black cassock or his thin frame, and he wanted to stand up, stretch, and head over to the rectory. He could light a fire and change into something that didn’t make him feel as though his balls were about to turn to icicles and drop off. The assigned time for confession was almost over, and the whisky was calling to him, an insistent prodding deep in his belly.

The sound of soft footsteps in the booth made him want to groan, and he looked through the lattice of carved wood, seeing dark hair and smooth, pale cheeks. The penitent had her head bowed, but he immediately knew who she was. Sister Belle, who had joined the Storybrooke convent less than a week ago. He had seen her the day she arrived, brought to the church by Mother Superior to make the introductions. They had entered with a bitter gust of wind, a flurry of dead leaves cartwheeling by their feet, and Joseph had felt himself shiver. He had told himself it was the cold. October had started out unseasonably chilly, and was getting worse as the month drew to a close.

Sister Belle was beautiful, with large blue eyes and full, pink lips, shining chestnut hair swept neatly into a knot at the back of her head. She had looked him over with surprising directness when they were introduced, the light of curiosity in her eyes, and it had made him nervous. There had been a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, but when Mother Superior looked back at her it had disappeared, her hands clasped at her waist and her head bowed, the perfect picture of demure humility. That tiny reaction had made him think that she held Mother Superior in a certain amount of contempt, which was as fascinating as it was shocking. He himself had always thought that the head of the Sisters of Saint Meissa was too inclined to be judgemental rather than to practice forgiveness, but he had never imagined any of the nuns would agree with him. Especially a newcomer.

He had seen Sister Belle in the church every day since then. Her slim figure was covered from neck to knees in the plain, dark blue dress that all the nuns wore, with thick tights and stout shoes beneath. The nuns always worked in the church, taking charge of the dusting and flower-arranging, but Sister Belle seemed to be there more than most. Joseph often found her alone after her sisters had gone, her eyes meeting his as she knelt to pray, that tiny smile quirking her lips as she passed him with arms full of flowers.

A scent hung around her, warm and oddly sharp like the smouldering wicks of snuffed-out candles, but he thought it suited her. There was an air of mischief about her too, in the twinkle in her eye and the quirk of her lips, as though she was always thinking of a joke that no one else knew. He couldn’t imagine what it was that amused her so about being in the church each day, but perhaps simply being away from the watchful eye of Mother Superior was enough to make her happy. She greeted him with warm tones, her voice soft, her eyes gleaming. It had made him nervous all over again, and he found himself stammering as he responded to her. He called himself an idiot for doing so, but there it was. The charms of a pretty young woman weren’t completely thwarted by the white collar around his neck, it seemed.

It had been many years since he had been distracted by thoughts of pleasures of the flesh, and he certainly had no intention of ever letting them take shape in his mind, even if she hadn’t been a nun. Yet if he was totally honest with himself, her beauty wasn’t what caused the nerves. It was more a sense of knowing, as though she could see to the heart of him. As though he was naked before her, all his secret shame displayed for her to study. As though she had seen every one of his faults. His weaknesses.

The thought of her knowing all his frailties was disturbing, but given that she had come to him to make her confession, he tried to push away his own feelings and concentrate on whatever she had to tell him. Some petty jealousies towards her new sisters, perhaps. Some uncharitable thoughts towards the less pious citizens of Storybrooke, or towards Mother Superior. Nothing more serious than that, he was sure. He watched as she made the sign of the Cross, and waited.

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” she said, her voice clear and melodious. “It has been seven days since my last confession.”

Just before she came here, then. I wonder where she lived before Storybrooke. Why did she leave? Why come here, of all places?

“God is merciful,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Tell me your sins, child.”

There was a pause.

“I - I have not been chaste, Father,” she said. “I have had - impure thoughts.”

Right. Not impatience or lack of charity. Well, she’s young. Celibacy can be a hard path, for some. Joseph licked his lips nervously, his heart thumping.

“Ah - well - impure thoughts are not uncommon,” he managed. “The Lord understands that it can be hard to overrule your body’s - urges. The important thing is not to act on them.”

She was silent for a moment, and Joseph frowned.

“I take it no one in this town has been bothering you?” he said. “I know that some of the young men here can find it hard to take no for an answer at times, even from the nuns. If you’ve had any difficulties in that respect, the Sheriff takes that sort of thing very seriously. If - if you wanted someone to speak to him on your behalf—”

“Oh no, Father,” she said hastily. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

He sensed that she wanted to speak, but was holding back, no doubt out of some sense of shame.

“Go on,” he said gently.

She sucked in a breath, and he waited patiently for her to gather her courage. Poor girl. Probably mooning over some young pop star. One of those boy bands, or whatever they call themselves now. I doubt Mother Superior would approve, but it’s hardly the crime of the century.

“I’ve had the most terrible dreams, Father,” she said breathlessly. “I think the Devil must send them to me.”

“The Devil is always testing those that God loves,” said Joseph gravely.

“How can God love me, when the Devil has made me his!” she breathed.

Joseph’s head jerked upwards at her words, hissed out through her teeth. His heart began to thump hard, his skin tingling. There was a cold sensation flowing up the back of his neck, a creeping sense that something was very wrong, and he swallowed, his throat dry.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“He comes to me,” she whispered. “At night, when I sleep. He comes to me, Father. I can feel his eyes on me, watching me from the dark.”

A nightmare. Joseph felt himself breathe a little easier. She’s having nightmares. A new town, new sisters around her - hardly surprising.

“The Devil is cunning,” he said. “But these are only dreams.”

“But it’s so real!”

“He will try to reach you in whatever way he can, to tempt you,” said Joseph, hoping his tone sounded calmer than he felt. “He can take a pleasing form to lure you in.”

“I doubt you would call his form pleasing,” she said. “He has golden eyes and sharp claws, Father, and his skin is covered in scales. Horns grow from his head, and he has a long tail and leathery wings. He wraps them around me, and pulls me to him so I can’t escape.”

“That sounds like a terrifying dream,” said Joseph soothingly. “Rest assured that God is with you, protecting you while you sleep. Say your prayers each night, hold Him in your heart, and you will be safe.”

“I’m afraid, Father,” she said, her voice unsteady. “I’m afraid of the things the Devil does, and - and how they make me feel.”

Joseph cleared his throat nervously.

“Wh-what things?”

She turned towards him, and he heard the soft thump as she pressed her hands against the wooden panel between the booths. The scent of snuffed-out candles was there again, drifting into his nose, and he felt his heart thump hard.

“He tears my nightdress from me,” she said, her voice somewhat breathless and almost eager. “He strips me bare and binds me to the bed by my wrists and ankles. My legs are open, ready for him. Ready to let him inside.”

Joseph swallowed hard, a vision of her leaping into his mind, naked and bound, those blue eyes gazing up at him and that tiny secretive smile curving her lips. He shoved the image away hurriedly, furious with himself, but the image lingered, insistent, inviting. She reached up, fingers sliding slowly over the latticework grill between the booths, slipping over the holes with small, rhythmic thumps of her fingertips against the screen.

“He - he puts his head between my legs, Father, and - and tastes me,” she went on. “He licks me all over, this long, hot tongue sliding all over my flesh as he growls in pleasure. I can feel his tongue inside me. Pushing deep inside me.”

He watched as the tip of her index finger pushed into one of the holes, pink flesh bulging outwards. A shard of arousal pierced him, shooting down his body to his groin, and he could feel his cock start to swell. His mouth fell open in horror.

“I - I understand this must be distressing to recount—” he began.

“Yes, Father, but you haven’t heard the worst part!” she said insistently.

Joseph closed his eyes. There’s worse?

“He - he takes me,” she breathed, her voice low and throaty. “I can feel him between my legs, grown long and hard and thick, and he takes me. So many times. Pushing into me over and over until I scream. I can feel him thrusting inside me, pulsing inside me, filling me with his hot seed, and - and it feels good.”

His erection was causing Joseph a serious problem, and he pressed a hand down on it, willing it to go away. That just seemed to make the situation worse, so he closed his eyes and tried to ignore it, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

“The - ah - the Devil wants to tempt you,” he said thickly, the words seeming to stick on his tongue. “Pleasure is a common temptation, and lust a sin, but God’s grace will protect against the Devil’s wiles. Contrition is what is important.”

Sister Belle let out a low, hollow laugh.

“But that’s the thing,” she said insistently. “When I wake, I don’t feel contrite. I feel as though I want more.”

She moved, the silhouette of her body shifting behind the wooden screen, the gentle scrape of her nails against the wood. He could sense her staring at him, could feel the warm gust of her breath through the lattice work. She was breathing too heavily, and he felt his own breath quicken in response, his cock twitching.

“I put my hand between my legs and I’m so wet, Father,” she breathed. “So wet and hot and ready.”

Joseph squeezed his eyes shut, wishing that this whole encounter was a bad, whisky-fuelled dream and he would wake drooling on his desk with a thumping headache, as he so often did.

“So - so I touch myself,” she whispered. “I slide my fingers deep inside. I rub at that little place where it feels so good, until the pleasure takes me and I cry out with it!”

Joseph cleared his throat, trying to push away the images her words created. What was wrong with him? She had come to him for help, for absolution, not his own forbidden lust unexpectedly rearing its head.

“Do you want to atone?” he asked, his voice unsteady, and she exhaled, long and low, as though she had been waiting for him to ask.

“Oh yes, Father!” she said eagerly. “I know how bad I’ve been! I want to be punished!”

Joseph shook his head tiredly.

“Have you more sins that you want to confess?” he asked. Please God, let her say no. I’m getting too bloody old for this.

“Not today, Father.”

“Very well,” he said, his voice still shaking a little. “Three Our Fathers, three Hail Marys.”

He listened to her go through the prayers, running a shaking hand over his face and feeling the rasp of stubble against his fingers. Once she had finished speaking, he went through the prayer of absolution, and Sister Belle said ‘Amen’ in a soft voice as she pulled back from the wooden screen.

“Thank you, Father,” she whispered.

Footsteps faded as she walked out, and he heard a low, heavy thump as the church door closed. Joseph sat back with a sigh, feeling drained. At least his cock appeared to be going back to sleep. He was sweating, and he was unsure if it was his newly-awakened lust or his sudden, overwhelming need for whisky. The latter would surely drown out the former; he just needed to get to it. He realised that listening to her recount her lurid nightmares had probably been the longest he had gone in years without thinking about how much he needed a drink. Quite what that said about the state of his soul was something he was trying not to contemplate.

Joseph sat at the desk in his office, listening to the slow tick of the clock and tapping his pen against the paper as he tried to get through the first draft of his sermon. It felt as though he had been at it for hours, but the words wouldn’t come, and whenever he glanced down at the notebook in front of him, it was as though the lines he was certain he had written had disappeared, and he needed to start afresh. At least his study was warmer than the church; a fire crackled in the hearth, and he had changed out of his cassock and into plain black pants beneath his black shirt and white collar, his silver crucifix around his neck. He rubbed at the space between his eyes, sitting back and reaching for his whisky, and a knock at the door startled him.

Pushing back his chair, he glanced at the clock, which showed that it was almost midnight. Unease made his skin prickle, and he cast an eye towards the hallway. Who would be calling so late? The knock came again, a heavy, insistent pounding that seemed to echo through him, and his heart thumped hard, his breath catching in his throat. It must be something urgent. Someone hurt or dying.

He stood, grasping at the edge of the desk as he staggered a little, and turned as he heard the front door open on its own and slow, rhythmic footsteps echoing in the hallway. Fear bloomed in the back of his mind, scrabbling with tiny claws, whispering that darkness was coming for him. He tried to speak, but the words seemed to swell in his throat, cleaving his tongue to the roof of his mouth and rendering him mute. Warmth flooded over him, wrapping around him, as though a fire was raging in the next room, and he couldn’t move, his body frozen in place with fear. Helplessly, he watched the study door swing open, and Sister Belle entered with a smooth, graceful stride.

Joseph felt himself relax, relieved at the sight of her, even as he wondered at her being there, and how she had got past what he was sure had been a locked door. His eyes widened in alarm when he saw what she was wearing: a tight black dress that clung to her curves and left her legs bare and pale. She must have been freezing on the walk over from the convent, and his first instinct was to grab a coat to put around her, but then she stepped closer, her lips parting, her chest heaving. He felt his pulse beat in his throat, tracing a throbbing thread of fire down to his groin, and he licked his lips nervously. She looked a little strange, her eyes sparkling with blue light. For a moment that light rippled over her skin, picking out tiny scales, and he told himself the whisky was making him see things. His throat felt dry as dust, but to his surprise, he didn’t want a drink.

“Sister Belle,” he managed. “Wh-what are you doing here so late?”

He still couldn’t move. It was strange, but that warmth was seeping into him, making his muscles relax and his body grow loose, even as his brain called strident warnings at him. She stepped closer, until she was almost touching him, her full lips open and glistening, and he remembered the things she had told him. Her nightmares. Her desires. Long, pale fingers ran over his chest, and he tried to move, tried to step away from her. He needed to tell her to leave, but he didn’t want to. He wanted her to stay.

“I had to come, Father,” she whispered, letting her hands slip down his chest to his waist. “I have a need. There was a choice to be made, and I chose you.”

She tugged at the belt of his pants, and his mouth fell open, his eyes wide and his body frozen in place. His brain was screaming at him to push her away, but he couldn’t move, and she pushed black pants over his hips with his boxers, sinking to her knees as she lifted the hem of his black shirt. Her hand was hot as it wrapped around his cock, and she looked up at him, eyes blazing with blue fire as she took him slowly into her mouth.

Joseph jerked awake, his heart thumping, breath coming hard as he lay in the darkness of his bedroom, the pillows cool against his hot skin. Moonlight was shining through the curtains, a dim blue colour outlining the dresser and chair and the wardrobe that contained his clothes. He let out a shuddering sigh, running his hands over his face and relaxing into the sheets as he realised he was alone. The dream had been very real, so real he could remember how she felt. The warmth of her, the wetness of her mouth around him. His cock was hard, pushing against the cotton pants he wore, and he closed his eyes, trying to think of anything but her. Trying to distract himself with his plans for the day ahead, no matter that it was still the middle of the night. An early start would be good for him.

His head was aching from too much whisky, so firstly he would need tea, or perhaps some coffee. He would sit in his study and drink coffee and he would finish writing his sermon for next Sunday’s Mass. He could also go through the preparations for the Christmas fundraiser; he had the preliminary enquiries from potential stallholders to look through, after all. That should be enough to distract him from thoughts of Sister Belle and her blue eyes and tiny smile.

“You’re very restless.”

Her voice made him start, and he pushed up on his elbows with a sharp intake of breath as she seemed to flow out of the darkness, a slender shadow-creature. Her limbs were as pale as milk, her body wrapped in a tight black dress that he was sure no nun in Storybrooke would ever consider wearing. The same dress she had worn in his dream. She crawled onto the bed at his feet, moonlight licking over her skin and shining in her hair as she watched him.

“No need to hide from me, Father,” she said. “I can see into your soul. I can see what you want.”

She grasped the sheets, slowly pulling them down his body, uncovering his naked chest and his thin legs in their loose pants. Her eyes lingered on his groin, where his erection pushed up against the cotton pants, and she smirked as she looked up at him. She walked up the bed a little way on her hands and knees, sitting back on her heels when she reached his knees and reaching for the strings at the waistband of his pants. Joseph shook his head, and realised with sudden, complete clarity that his headache had disappeared, and that he was stone-cold sober, as though his soul had been cleansed. It was oddly exhilarating.

“I’m dreaming again,” he whispered. “This can’t be real. You can’t be real.”

“Oh, I’m very real,” she said softly, and stroked a finger down the hard length of his cock, sending a jolt of pleasure through him. “As real as this. As filled with need as this. You want me, don’t you?”

Joseph closed his eyes, trying to summon a lie from deep inside him. That smouldering scent was all around her again, drifting into his nose and catching in his throat. Not candles, he realised. More like embers, like coal. She was watching him with those knowing eyes, one finger gently stroking him. It curled under his balls, circling them one by one before drawing up the length of his cock to the head and making him twitch.

“You want me, don’t you?” she repeated.

“Yes!” he gasped. “But I - I shouldn’t. I can’t. It - it wouldn’t be right.”

“But you want to,” she said knowingly, and he swallowed hard, nodding wordlessly.

Pushing up on her knees, she grasped the hem of her tight little dress and tugged it upwards, peeling it over her head and tossing it aside. She was naked beneath except for a thin gold chain around her neck with a dark, round stone like a pool of pure shadow, a hole in the air that seemed to eat the light, hanging between her breasts. His eyes widened at the sight of her, at the pure beauty of her form, pert breasts with small, dark buds at their centres above a tiny waist and long, pale thighs. Silver moonlight shone on the curves of her breasts and hips, streaks of dark blue shadow painting the lines of her ribs and the hollow of her navel. The dark cleft between her thighs glistened with promise, and he felt his mouth water as he shook his head.

“No, no,” he said weakly. “You’re a - a dream. This is a dream.”

She tilted her head to the side, dark hair falling in a shining wave over one pale shoulder, and her eyes gleamed with that blue fire again.

“Would you prefer that?” she asked softly. “Dreams can be powerful. Do you want this to be a dream? A fantasy?”

He shook his head again, abandoning propriety in favour of honesty.

“No,” he whispered. “No, I don’t want that. I want it to be real.”

“Then let it be real,” she breathed, and she leaned forward, hands sliding up his chest as she brushed her nose with his. “Let yourself feel for once, Father.”

The stone between her breasts was resting on his chest, and he was surprised at how heavy and warm it was. As though it burned with its own fire. His eyes flicked up to hers, and she pushed up on her hands, gazing down at him. He tried to find the will to tell her to leave.

“If - if Mother Superior knew you were here—”

“That self-righteous gnat could find fault in the purest heart,” she said sharply. “I don’t give a damn what she thinks of me.”

“Well, neither do I,” he said impatiently. “But if she catches you, the whole town would turn its back on you. And on me.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said. “So unless she’s hiding in the bloody wardrobe, I think we’re safe.”

“But - but your vows!” he said. “Your soul! You can’t be here, you should - you should go.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“No.”

He bit down on his tongue, but the word had left his mouth almost immediately, and she smiled.

“I thought not,” she said, and bent to kiss his chest. “You’re an honest man. A good man.”

“Apparently bloody not,” he muttered, and she chuckled richly.

“Yes you are,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of churchmen cross my path, Father. Some I sought out, and some sought me, but I do believe you are one of the few I’ve met who is genuinely good. A little - lost - maybe. But good, at your core.”

“I’m not!” he said desperately. “I’m bloody hopeless! I’m - I’m an alcoholic priest who can’t even concentrate in confession because I’m thinking about the next bloody drink!”

“You were listening to my confession,” she said, and the tip of her tongue circled a spot on his neck, making him shiver. “You were listening very intently.”

He closed his eyes, not wanting to remember the shameful way he had responded to her words. It seemed ridiculous to be embarrassed over that when she was naked in his bedroom, but he had never claimed to be logical. She straightened up, that smile back on her face again.

“I don’t believe you even thought about whisky when I was telling you about my dreams, did you?”

Her voice was lilting, soothing, and he shook his head. Her smile grew, and she shifted on her knees, bending to let her lips graze his chest as she slipped back down the bed a little way.

“You shouldn’t worry about my soul, Father,” she said. “It’s in very, very good hands. And I want this, believe me. As much as you do.”

She grasped the waistband of the pants, tugging them down over his hips and exposing him to the cool night air. His cock bounced upwards, freed of its cotton prison, and she let out a low growl, taking him in hand and bending her head until her lips brushed against him. Joseph let out a cry, throwing his head back as she sucked him in between her lips. Her mouth was almost too hot to bear, and she let out a low moan as she let him sink deep into her, soft flesh yielding. It felt as though her tongue was wrapping around him, twisting and squeezing, and he pushed his hips upwards in response, letting out a deep groan.

He had never believed that something could feel so good, and he let his hands drop to her hair, stroking through it as she slipped him in and out of her mouth, her lips tugging at him as she sucked. Heat was rising up through his body, a heavy swell of pressure from the base of his spine, and he wanted it to spill over, to burst. He wanted to let the pleasure take him, to have her swallow down everything that he had to give. His back arched as he groaned, and she drew back, letting him slip from her mouth with a low hiss.

He raised his head to stare at her, and she held his gaze as her tongue swirled over the head of his cock. A ripple of light seemed to pass over her pale skin, as though a pattern of scales came and went, and for a moment it looked as though her tongue had grown long and tapered, winding around him, squeezing him. He told himself it was the moonlight playing tricks, and then she took him deep once more, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he cried out in pleasure. The air seemed cold when she let him slip out, and she kissed down his length, her tongue swirling over his balls and sending bursts of sensation through him.

“Oh, God!” he whispered desperately, and heard her chuckle again, hot breath bathing the head of his cock.

“Not even close,” she murmured.

She moved up his body, straddling him, her legs sliding against his thin hips, and he jerked at the feel of her skin against his as he reached for her, trembling fingers sliding up her pale thighs. Her skin was soft and smooth, hot despite the cold room, and she hissed in approval as his hands grasped her hips, her fingers stroking up over his belly to his thin chest. Shifting position a little, she pressed her core against the hard ridge of his cock, heat and wetness pulling a shuddering gasp from him.

“There’s no sin in sharing pleasure,” she said, and her hips rocked slowly back and forth, rubbing her wet flesh along his length and making him groan. “Bodies are made to give pleasure. To take pleasure. It reinforces human bonds. It creates life. Where is the sin in letting yourself enjoy it, Father?”

Joseph closed his eyes, trying to think of something that would actually convince himself as well as her. He found it an impossible task, but something told him to make one last empty gesture of protest.

“I took a vow of celibacy…” he said lamely, and she shrugged, a brief rise and fall of one smooth shoulder.

“You told me yourself that your God is merciful,” she said. “That contrition is what’s important.”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, that’s true.”

“So in the morning, you can tell Him how sorry you are that you fucked me until I screamed, can’t you?”

Joseph’s eyes flew wide open.

“Sister Belle!” he gasped, and she shook her head.

“I’m not Sister Belle,” she said. “Not anymore. I’m leaving the convent, leaving Storybrooke, and you’ll never see me again.”

Joseph felt a pang, a stab of pain at the thought of her leaving forever, but she smiled at him. For a moment it looked as though her eyes were filled with a strange blue fire, but then she blinked, and it was gone.

“Call me Lacey,” she said softly. “That’s who I truly am, Joseph MacAvoy. I’m Lacey.”

“Lacey,” he whispered, and it seemed to release something deep within his chest. Perhaps the last shred of his self-restraint. Her smile grew, her eyes gleaming.

“Yes!” she said, and took him in hand, raising up on her knees and sinking down onto him in one smooth motion.

Joseph arched upwards with a cry as he entered her. She was burning, scalding like soft, liquid fire. Her hips moved, gently rocking back and forth, letting him slide in and out as her wet flesh tugged at him, The sensation was incredible, making his skin tingle and his body throb with a deep, pulsing need to thrust. He pushed his hips upwards, getting deep inside her, wanting to feel her all around him. She made a noise of approval, hands sliding over his taut belly, and he felt tiny points of pain as her nails dug into his skin.

He raised his head a little, eyes flicking open, and she was undulating against him, breasts rising and falling with every thrusting roll of her hips. It felt incredible, but there was a dull, low-down ache there too, as though sharp hooks had lodged in his soul and were trying to pull it from him. As though there was something deep inside her, calling to him, trying to drag him with her into the dark of the night.

Lacey was moaning, a low purring sound as she circled her hips, and he could feel his cock stirring inside her, rubbing against her. The feel of it was sending ripples of sensation through him, and he could sense his balls drawing up, full and aching. She let out a growl of pleasure, shaking back her hair before fixing him with those strange eyes of hers, and it was as though scales bloomed on her skin, glistening blue in the moonlight before disappearing with a blink of his eyes.

“Touch me!” she gasped.

He reached up with trembling hands, cupping her firm breasts. They fitted perfectly in his palms, her skin soft as silk, the nipples taut peaks beneath his stroking thumbs. Lacey yowled, pushing into his hands as he squeezed, rocking her hips as she rubbed against him. Dimly, he was aware of something brushing his legs behind her, something thin and hot and smooth stroking back and forth over them with a rhythmic heavy slap. Tail! It’s a tail! a shrill, terrified voice gibbered at the back of his mind, but that was impossible, so he ignored it. He silenced that voice, that tiny wail of terror, and focused on Lacey, concentrating on the feel of her against him, the way she clenched around him and the sounds she made as she circled and slipped and fucked.

It was hot where their bodies joined, scalding hot and slippery-wet, and he could feel her body tugging at him, pulling on his soul. He could feel her hunger, her desire, her need. Smooth hands slid up over his chest, sharp nails scraping against his skin as she quickened her pace, and he could feel the bliss rising up inside him like a wave, wanting to crash over him, wanting to pummel him and drown him and spit out his battered body on the shore. Lacey grinned, white teeth shining in the moonlight.

“That’s it!” she whispered. “Come for me! Fill me with it! All of it!”

Joseph groaned as he pushed upwards inside her, ready to burst, and she bucked her hips, rubbing against him with rapid, shallow thrusts, her hands braced on his belly and her head thrown back. A whimper began deep in her throat, growing in pitch until she let out a harsh cry, and he came hard, shouting wordlessly, his cock pulsing and squirting. Lacey let out a shriek of pleasure, her flesh clenching around him, pumping against his cock, milking every drop from him as he jerked and moaned. It was intense and almost terrifying, as though something inside him was tearing at the edges, as though his soul was leaving his body and being pulled into hers, but then it stopped with a sudden, sharp snap as her eyes caught his.

For a moment all he could do was try to pull air into his lungs as Lacey worked her hips, drawing the last of his seed deep inside her with a low growl of pleasure. He eyed her through half-closed lids, her full lips glistening and a satisfied smile on her face. There were no scales on her skin, no heavy thump of a tail stroking over his legs. Of course she doesn’t have a tail! Of course she’s not covered in scales, what the fuck is wrong with you? He let out a shuddering breath, running his hands over his face and listening to the heavy pounding of his pulse. The fell of her rising up off him made him drop his hands to the sides, and Lacey smirked at him, that dark pendant swinging in the air as she leaned on the palms of her hands.

“Thank you, Father,” she said softly. “You’ve given me exactly what I needed.”

She pushed up off the bed, bending to grab her dress, and he missed the heat of her, the night air cold against his skin and his softening cock, still glistening with her fluids. His body was tingling, his heart thumping as he came down from his high, but as she pulled the dress over her head a crawling sense of disappointment began creeping over his skin. She was leaving.

“Wait!” he said hoarsely.

“What is it?” she asked dismissively, as she tugged the dress straight.

“Are you going?” he asked. “Right now?”

“Perfect time, wouldn’t you say?” she said, slipping into her shoes.

Joseph shook his head, even more confused than when he had woken to find her half-naked in his room.

“But - but where will you go?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night. Please, I - I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.”

Lacey smiled, stroking a hand across her belly.

“See?” she said. “A good man. Really not my usual type. I must be getting old.”

“But it’s not safe for you out there,” he insisted. “It’s bloody freezing, for a start, and - and the Rabbit Hole has some unsavoury types.”

She chuckled at that, her grin widening.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me, Father,” she said. “I have somewhere to go. And something very important to do.”

Joseph closed his eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Look,” he began, and opened his eyes before he cut off, blinking in shock.

The bedroom was empty, the only sign that she had ever been there a drying sheen of fluid on his lower belly and the lingering sense of pleasure still licking at his skin. Lacey was gone, perhaps forever, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret what they had done. How did one go about atoning when one felt no guilt? He ran his hands over his face before throwing back the sheets. Perhaps he could start by writing that sermon. Coffee, prayer, and preparation. That might do it.

It was four days later, when he was settling down by his fire with a book, that he realised he hadn’t drunk a drop of whisky since the night Lacey left.

#fic: confession #fic: original sin verse #rumbelle monster's ball #macacey fic #my fic #macacey #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #rumbelle smut #lemon fic

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riseofmoonxchild · 6 years ago

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b i t t e r ⬴ ʇ ǝ ǝ ʍ s // chapter three

➴pairing – jimin x reader – taehyung x reader – [ft. namjoon]

➴genre – fluff // angst

➴theme – college!au // jimin!barista // taehyung!artist

You developed a little crush on the barista at your local coffee shop, Jimin. While you start going to the cafe regularly, thinking it as harmless and innocent, you don’t realize that your interest in him will catch the attention of Taehyung, the most-liked boy in school. As the two of them stir up an almost espresso-and-milk-kind-of element to your school life and study load, you find yourself involved in a more complicated situation than you were prepared for.

»listen to the bittersweet playlist titled “coffee shop boy” here.

« b a c k g r o u n d »

✰

It wasn’t that Taehyung considered “people in the background” as nothing other than the side characters, or nobodies. People were art. It was more like they were the people that never came into focus. If you talked to him, he truly enjoyed your company, and was invested in you. He would take in your presence, appreciating your value, the story you carried with you everywhere. In that moment he would be almost completely attentive towards you. If he wasn’t, it was only to get lost inside his own trailing thought—which could happen quite often, actually.

But if you weren’t one of the few precious people to him, the supporting characters to his life, then he wasn’t going to write a song about you, or paint you in his picture. They were people that got edited out of scenes, because they weren’t central to the movie.

But when Taehyung saw her, saw you, for the second time in the same day, his curiosity peaked, wondering what intentions the writer of his story could possibly have had for you. Up until today, you had been nothing more than a background somebody. You could call it coincidence. But Taehyung didn’t really believe in just coincidences.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

“Woah, Y/N hold up,” Namjoon tried to soothe, realizing you were some kind of distressed. “What’s wrong?”

Hyper-focused on getting to the fastest escape route, you ran to the curb, trying to flag down a cab. Your thoughts were as scattered as your sense of direction, your senses as fuzzy as the world of whirring cars and bright street lights.

“Yah, Y/N.” Namjoon tried more firmly.

He gently whipped you around, grabbing your left shoulder, “Wae gurae? Why are you being like this?”

You just stared him in the eyes, feeling caught in a secret. You bit your bottom lip, guiltily. “Just trust me on this, I can’t be here right now.”

“Just tell me why,” he responded a bit dejectedly, feeling the hopelessness of not being able to take any pieces of a larger burden he knew you had been holding on to. Joon had been there to back you up when you needed it, patiently, but you had been holding back details from him. You didn’t know why. You didn’t want to see him hurt or angry or anything over such things. But at the same time you knew he would feel those emotions in place of you, no matter how much he knew, or in this case, didn’t know. All he had to know was how it affected you.

Make you were just scared of getting him involved in the situation. Even though it was already over.

“Joon, I can’t do this right now-” You stopped, distractedly. Namjoon looked over his shoulder, following your gaze.

A giggling boy was lazily coming out of the entrance, hanging on a boy—arm slung over his shoulder—somewhat taller than him, who was laughing at the other and his clinginess. The shorter one’s face was bright, in expression and complexion. Suddenly, he hopped on the other’s back.

“Wooahh,” the other responded, continuing to make amused noises.

As the scene played out before you, it took you a moment, but you knew both of the boys—Kim Taehyung and.. Jimin? Both shock and curiosity mingling and mixing inside your mind, it created a dangerous concoction of emotions you couldn’t quite figure out, leaving you to just stand there. You had a hard time accepting the connecting dots.

Namjoon, watching them, squinted his eyes and furrowed his brows in slight confusion, not being able to recognize either boys. He just turned back to you, mouth open about to question you, until he noticed your expression. This time, he grabbed your hand, walking you around the block as you mindlessly followed.

After you both had turned the corner, he turned to look back at you again, arms crossed in determination to solve the puzzle of whatever was rustling around in your mind. After a moment of having to blankly stare at him and his I-am-trying-to-figure-out-the-issue-here-but-I-might-have-to-surrender-because-it’s-not-within-my-power look, he bluntly asked you, “7/11?”

You looked up to meet him with doe-like eyes, then stared at the ground and just shook your head up and down.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You sat at the window, slurping your ramen noodles. Your eyes never once left the inside of the ramen cup.

Namjoon sat next to you, staring disinterestedly at his ramen. After a while of his inconspicuous glances at you, dumbfounded and frequent, he ripped the lid off, broke his chopsticks, sighed, and then started eating with you in silence, as you both usually did when you came here.

You were wrestling with how to tell Joon. You wanted to tell him everything. But somehow, someone or something wouldn’t let the words come out. You were afraid and exhausted. But you weren’t sure why exactly. You just wanted to figure that part out first.

This was a time of communion. It was a time to let silence and noodle-slurping speak for the both of you. It was a time that was supposed to be healing enough, that at least after you finished eating ramen, for the rest of the night, you could both leave your worries at the 7/11.

When you both finished this time, Namjoon grabbed your empty cup and left to throw it away. When he came back, he briskly, yet sensitively announced: “Kaja. Let’s go.”

You followed Namjoon out the door, past the store front, onto the sidewalk, walking in the space next to him, but about a foot staggered behind. He walked slowly, hands in his pockets, not looking behind him and not expecting you to catch up to his side. A few minutes later, not breaking his demeanor, he said, “You know you can tell me anything.. right? I won’t judge you or anything..”

“Joon-ah, it’s not that.. I know,” and the quiet break of desperation in your voice for him to believe that said enough.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

When you walked into the coffee shop the next morning, you felt a heaviness from last night clinging to your body, your clothes. Perhaps even the dark circles under your eyes. No matter how much makeup you put on to conceal it, or the three different outfits you changed out of, you could still feel it lingering. Somehow, you hoped the bitterness of coffee, mixed with the sweetness of a little sugar, would be able to wash away the tiredness aching in your bones.

You walked in, some distance from the front of the counter, scanning the menu for some sort of inspiration. Today you wanted to do something different, you wanted a change.

While you just stared indecisively, scowling in deep concentration, a soothing, cheerful voice interrupted you: “Would you like some help?”

Summoned from your inner bubble of thought, you just looked at the barista, slightly startled. Not that you should have been, he was just doing his job.

Before you could even register that it was Jimin, something in your chest filled with warmth, a comforting kind—but it was better than coffee. “I just mean-” he started to explain himself, smiling in a quiet amusement, both for your reaction and his sudden investment in the interaction, “You always get the same thing, ya know?”

He knew you? Even if it was just as a familiar face, it wasn’t something you would ever expect enough to hope for.

You walked up to the register. And for some strange reason, you didn’t feel sick to your stomach in nervousness. There was just something about his aura that made you feel—comfortable, yes— but also.. natural. Like he was and had been your friend from ever since you could remember.

You laughed, genuine enough you could feel it in your eyes. “Yeah, but today-” You looked up as you contemplated, “I want today to be a new day for me.”

Jimin shook his head, pursing his lips as he took in what you said, in a mock yet genuine seriousness. “Ahhh..” He held his chin, elbow propped up by his other hand, as if he were thinking, mimicking how you looked up for a moment. And then, as if he had made a discovery, a solution to your dilemma, he raised his index finger, “Aha! Alright, I got it.”

You did your best to hold in your laugh, trying to play along. Your face a blank slate, fascinated to know the answer, you asked, “Well, what is it?”

He gave you a playful, secretive look. He pressed the same index finger to his lips, motioning for you to keep his plans a secret. “I have just the thing for you, but you can’t tell anyone. If someone finds out, they’d try to steal it from me.”

You nodded obediently. Though your lips may have been relaxed in seriousness, your eyes still smiled.

Seriously, eyes slightly wide, Jimin added “That also means I can’t keep any kind of records.” His soft smile reappeared, and you got his hint. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready,” and then he tended to the task he assigned to himself, happily, and you swore there was a little bounce in his step.

☾——————————————————————————————————☽

A/N: thank you for reading up until this point, i’m always excited to post these so i can share them with whoever is out there reading♥ ��moonie☾✧

☽

→ preview // prev. // chapter three // next

→ “coffee shop boy” playlist

⋆

taglist: @monvieesdaebak @karissassirak 💕

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chestshot · 4 years ago

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Creature in the dark love to scare the little children. The grownups say a prayer, and the demons are forced to return to the shadow realm. Never get caught in a blackout. Some never find their way home. Come in as soon as the streetlights illuminate the path of the righteous. The beetles and moths have gathered in a procession, to welcome the night. “Where were you?” “I don’t know” was never the right answer. It is never going to be the right answer. “Stop crying. I’ll give you something to cry about.”

In this house, the belt and extension cords keep the disobedient in line. Sticks leave bruises. No Bueno. Back straight. “This is going to hurt me more than you.” I never understood that logic. “So why can’t I do it to you, like you did it to me?” “Porque yo soy la puta que te pario (because I am the bitch that birthed you). I’m doing this because I love you. Your soul is in danger.” We used to kneel on the bare floor covered in rice. We were made to carry these bags above our head for twenty minute and think about how we were not supposed to fight. She went easy on us this time. “Now kiss your sister and tell her you love her and you’re sorry.”

What is obedience, and what happens when it is forced? Believe in unity. Value brotherhood. Seize any opportunity to join hands. Even as the big hands crush the small hands, like a fist full of lavender flowers. Don’t think so hard. The guardians have done all the thinking for us. Some things do not need an explanation. Guardians discourage the children from scrutinizing every detail. All we need is to believe. Can’t we all just come together as one? If I wanted to find everlasting life, why did I have to lay it down to begin with?

The Knights of Columbus hosted Sunday breakfast every month. It was a fundraiser. As if the crusades did not provide enough funding. As if the parish had not given enough during the second collection. My mother would always hand me a folded dollar bill when the collection basket came by. It was a little secret between our Father and I (Mathew 6:1-4). I was planting a seed for his kingdom, and if we did not fork over the dough, let’s just say there was hell to pay.

I went to Sunday school. I had to. Otherwise I could not get baptized or have my first communion. The instructor told us that Jesus loved us, so he died on the cross for us. If we loved Jesus, too, we had to love each other. We colored the nativity scene and learned a few prayers. We were taught a theology approved by the Roman Catholic Church, and classes were $25 per child. At the baptism, donations were formally encouraged. Those must have been some expensive ass crayons. I was a good boy, but never good enough to be an altar boy.

I had refused to help in the family garden in the front yard one time. The bathroom floor was cold on my cheek. The sweat and tears running down my neck fell on the yellow linoleum. Now a grip on the arm, bent around my back. Too tight on the wrists. Cheeks got so hot that the salt water started to dry up and irritate my skin. Was it worth it? I know it was fucking hot outside, but couldn’t I have just done a shitty job or at least bullshit? Close the door. The neighbors can hear. Plus, the ac is on. I’ve been getting ass beatings since I was alive. If not from the guardians, then from bad decisions. I want to make them happen, but I always keep getting in my own way. Sometimes the floor can become comfortable. Just waiting for the blackouts to swallow me whole.

God helps those that help themselves…. Wait.. That’s not in the bible!

The Sunday breakfast consisted of yellow “just add water” scrambled eggs. I was too young to get hooked on coffee. Pass me the milk. I ate next to a church girl with an intellectual disability. Did God make her like that? I did not know. All I knew was that we were all equally as hungry after service. I felt like all the dark holes in the floor were so much smaller back then. If I stepped on a crack, I could always find my balance, or the guardian would help me till I recuperated.

“Hey guys. Where’s Jesus’s cloths. This is not funny. Oh… you guys hung him like this? Why? He was giving everyone free healthcare and food and shit. He doesn’t deserve this shit! Bring him down! Now!”

Societies fascination for making atonement. Drink and drive? Dui. Tax evasion? Prison time (unless its some shit like a white collar crime). $50 dollar fines for parking in front of a fire hydrant, that one time I moved out of my parents’ house and rented a room from some asshole named Evander. I was not a child anymore. I was learning from experience. If I only learned to come home on time. They say “Nothing good happens after 2 a.m.” I could have only imagined why, but the dark holes were still manageable. No claws yet. No transformation. The delinquencies of adolescence were not yet ripe. There was not enough blood.

I helped myself to a glass of orange juice. High pulp. Tart. Almost as refreshing as the forgiveness of sins. Dixie paper cups. An old couple. They must have both been in their eighties. With not much time to live, they both enjoyed the pancakes with light butter. No syrup though. Diabetes, you know. He pulled the chair out for her. He took off her sweater and placed it behind the chair. He wiped his head with a towel, then his mouth. He regained his balance. and shuffled to his own seat. He led the prayer and they both sat down to share (maybe their last) Breakfast. Listened to your guardians and maybe you can live as long as them.

One time, Father Manuel unofficially sponsored Mission Tortillas. “Como Dios Manda” literally means “How God Orders” or more precisely “What God Demands of us”. He was calling out the young women who decided club wear for a Sunday mass was appropriate. Father Manuel roasted them. “Esta bien que sea Qinceniera. (it would be cool if this was a Quincenera) Pero esta es la casa de Dios (but this is the house of God).” We were all sinners, but some of us did a better job at hiding it. We were all trying to avoid the transformation. We all needed to love. We just needed time to patch things up.

Mother Theresa believed that suffering was how you got closer to God. She refused to let some children receive treatment, so naturally, they would die. Their souls belonged with the Lord. For a while, I started to believe that I was suffering, and therefore, there was no God. I think we suffer because we think we must, like it’s all part of the greater picture. I also think we suffer because we all have things we conveniently forget about. We should know better.

It’s not normal to stay up all night. It’s not normal to operate a vehicle under the influence of anything. It’s not normal to lie to the person you are with. It’s not normal to wake up at 3 pm every fucking day. It’s not normal to put things up your nose. It’s not normal to get in the car with a complete stranger. It’s not normal to think that you can live with people for free. It’s not normal to pass out at the bar. It’s not normal to constantly burn bridges. It’s not normal to forget what you did the night before. The blackouts swallowed me alive, over and over and over. I couldn’t see the streetlights. There was no one left to pay for my sins.

August 15thth, 2020, 2:30 A.M.-ish

I said I was going to work on it las week, and then the week before. I had checked into the catacomb of wasted ambitions. The creatures of the dark had left. I looked in the mirror and could not accept what I had become. What big claws and teeth.

I had a dream I was filling up one cup with another cup, like an endless water mill. I’m not sure why I always felt this way. An endless repetition that never ends, like new ideas filling old ones, but never quite arriving at a solution, or like fish eating fish eating fish… Like a two gallon hourglass, constantly being flipped on it’s other end, ass up, face down, full of itself. The air bubbles, trying to escape. The lump in the throat of my life, always sinking into my stomach. The transformation was complete. I was living in a blackout.

The beta, or Siamese fighting fish, is native to Thailand and Cambodia. You can pick them up at your local swap meet. I used to love going to the Broadacre swap meet after Sunday mass. I got my hands on everything an eight-year-old should never get their hands on: laser pointers, chained wallets, pocket knifes, fart bombs, shock pens, pet’s I wasn’t able to take care of. I’m not sure what the fish were so angry about. Probably from being confined to a tiny ass sandwich bag.

I got my ass kicked in a bar fight once, in 2018. Three against one. I do not remember. I was asking for something that was not on the menu. I was being annoying. Swings broke out like a Florida coastline and faster than you can say Tallahassee’s televised turnout tremendously terrified pterodactyls. Too small. Smack. Too slow. Smack. I fell to the floor, head between my knees. My jeans ripped. All I could see was stars at that point. I raised a barstool over my head and threw it against the bar, not sure if it landed on anyone. Always bust out the bar stool when you know you are going to get rocked. I ran out through the front entrance and I called 911. I left my bicycle behind. The cops were nice enough to drive it down to me. They told me that the security guard told them I was trying to buy drugs. I told them it was a hate crime. They told me to go home. I told them I would never go back to that bar again.

Pigs in a blanket. I think there was bacon. Bacon or sausage. No. I think there were both. I woke up at 6am to eat this at 10am. 10:15 if you consider waiting in line. Why couldn’t everyone break bread the way we did? People always have to start a fight during a meal, or beer, if you’re a man of culture who would prefer to drink their meals. The indigestion was the worst. I could not eat breakfast too early because my stomach lining was still sensitive from the binge the night before. This did not stop me from killing a whole order of carne asada fries at night. I felt the weight of a bowling ball in my diaphragm when I woke up the next morning. Drinking water felt like swallowing marbles. This wasn’t normal. I’m not going to lie.

Well that’s great news, kind sir, because I can not condone dishonesty. Now please leave the patrons alone or get out of the bar.

My older sister became an usher at church. She showed everyone to their seats. She wore a sash that said “Orden” or literally “Order”. She asked people if they could scoot over. She made room where people were resting their purses or when someone decided that they needed to sit with their legs wide open. Me and my younger sister always got pinches during service if we were joking around or being distracting. How did the people really bring their kids to church like that? We were so rambunctious!

The endless cycle of Life: that our guardians had to beat the shit out of us. So that maybe we could learn. Or so we would avoid the transformation. In the end, we resent their efforts and only make it worse for ourselves. I try to push myself up, but my left arm is too mangled to lift any weight. The dark holes just seem like the better option sometimes. If the blackout won’t take me now, then maybe tomorrow.

The holes are patched up today. I found my way through the dark. My guardians were there all along. I just needed some space. My mind is clear. I can focus again. I can have breakfast again. The nights can be long and dark, but I know the demons have left. My house is in order. My mind is clear. I finally have a clean conscience. I want to go back to the time when I was a child. Back to a time of trusting that the streetlights were guiding me all along. When I could hear my mother’s voice and know in my heart that the night was near, but only to visit.

Drink some water. Jesus fishes. Say a prayer. Missing pieces. Dying wish is - God’s my witness – you just know** * the nighttime* ** only** came to** visit**.

#author #beat #person of color #litterature #publishing #violence #recovery

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wallpapernifty · 5 years ago

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24 Various Ways To Do Flower Girl Veil | Flower Girl Veil

When Hana Mayeda, a model, headed to a yoga retreat in Ojai, California, in 2017, she never accepted she’d accommodated her approaching husband, James Gerard Murray IV, an author, and interventionist. “I went to the retreat for accuracy and to reconnect with myself,” Hana says. “When I absolved in the advanced aperture I anon bent eyes with James.”

In beneath than one year, James popped the catechism while the brace abounding the Sundance Film Festival, but they didn’t blitz to the altar. Instead, they enjoyed a diffuse 16-month assurance afore throwing a floral-filled anniversary at Cielo Farms in Malibu, California, not far from their home in Los Angeles.

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newstfionline · 7 years ago

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Sailing the world as a chaplain on a cruise ship

By Jana Riess, Religion News Service, January 10, 2018

When you pass the peace in a church service on a cruise ship, you don’t shake hands or hug each other. You bump elbows, so that you don’t transmit the Norwalk virus along with your warm welcome.

And when you celebrate a Sunday in Advent on a cruise ship, you note the fact of how many candles should be lit, but you don’t actually light them, because you can’t have an open flame on a cruise ship.

Those are things I learned on a two-week Holland America cruise to the Panama Canal. Since the cruise was over the Christmas holidays, we had a dedicated chaplain on board the whole time--the Rev. Donald B. Green of Pittsburgh, Pa. I got to sit down with him and find out more about his life.

My first question, of course, was “how does a person get this fantastic gig of being a chaplain on a cruise ship?”

There’s some stiff competition. Not surprisingly, a whole lot of people would like to serve as ministers, priests, and rabbis on cruise ships. They don’t get a salary, but they also don’t pay the full fare of the typical passenger, so it’s like a working vacation. Chaplains are charged a nominal fee for the privilege of being on board for the duration--perhaps $50 a day, though it varies--and they can bring a spouse or partner with them.

By the time of our interview on Christmas morning, Rev. Green had already conducted a regular Sunday service, a midnight Christmas Eve service, and a short worship on Christmas Day. That may sound like a tiring schedule for a retired pastor, but he loves every minute of it.

“I just love doing cruise chaplaincy, being around people and talking one-on-one,” Green told me. He has a strong ecumenical bent and spent some of his career doing interfaith work in Pennsylvania, which is good practice for a cruise ship. Part of his job is to cater to the whole spectrum of Protestants--from Lutherans like himself to Episcopalians to evangelical Baptists.

He also participates in Jewish sabbath celebrations, and lends a hand if there isn’t a rabbi on board.

“One thing I’ve always made it a practice to do is to join the Jewish community on Friday night,” he says. He is just there to facilitate, not to lead; he also helps Jewish passengers balance their own religious diversity. “On a cruise like this you will have representatives from all four Jewish communities in America, and you also have Jews from different continents.”

Our cruise through the Panama Canal was Rev. Green’s eighth voyage as a cruise chaplain, and he’s visited a number of favorite ports that he might never have gotten to see otherwise. He was especially fascinated by China--the clouds of pollution, the freshly caught fish, the traffic. And he loved the Baltics and northern Europe, especially Estonia. The longest cruise he’s been on was 35 days, and he’s game for the adventure of even longer ones--perhaps one day circumnavigating South America (56 days) or the entire globe (113 days).

But it’s the people that he remembers most, and he goes out of his way to meet them. Whenever he comes on board a ship, he stops in the medical center to give the staff his cabin number and contact information so he can always be reached in case of an emergency. (On our cruise, sadly, someone passed away.)

He also wears his clerical collar frequently to signal his availability, which was also true at times for the Catholic priest on board our ship.

“Early on in the cruise I’ll wear my clerics quite a bit when I’m going to dinner, just so people will begin to recognize there’s a minister on board,” he says. “I’m here to do a job, and I want people to know that if they need me I’m here.”

He’s never performed a wedding at sea, but he has done some memorials. On one cruise, a World War II veteran who had lost comrades in the Sea of Japan asked if Rev. Green could officiate at a small memorial service when they were passing through that body of water. The ship provided a wreath, and they went to the top of the ship, said prayers, sang the navy hymn, and threw the wreath into the sea in honor of those who had died there. It was a very moving experience, he says.

He is also available to crew members. One memorable Easter, he officiated at a joyous midnight service for them--crew members on cruise ships often work until 11 p.m.-- and served communion in the tiny plastic cups that are used for condiments at the buffet.

Rev. Green has found cruise chaplaincy work to be exceptionally satisfying and meaningful. “It gives me a chance to read, to meditate, and try to mirror the gospel of God’s mercy and acceptance to all sorts of people,” he says.

Next time, he might try to bring his grandson along too. Anchors aweigh.

#cruise ship chaplain

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barbecuedphoenix · 7 years ago

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Hello! I just need to say I LOVE your writing, omg I read and re-read your stuff AT LEAST once a week, seriously, you're a genius *kisses your face*. This is not really a request, just an IDEA for you to think about, but have you thought of how would be the first time Nevra drank Guardienne's blood? Maybe during sex, or before their first time...? I'm just curious to know what you think of his drinking habits if he were in a relationship with her.

*She reaches forward togently cup your cheek, her thumb tracing feather-light crescents around thepoint of your cheekbone that sends sparks dancing, waves of fire rolling across your skin withevery sly, knowing stroke*

You flatter me too much,my dear. ;)

Ahem. To answer your question, Anon., I do have a few ideas on what blood-feedingentails for Nevra. Because it’s a pretty fascinating subject for an aspiringbiologist. And you can never skip out on blood-feeding with a vampire beau. ;)

But first, I’ll have toseparate what’s implied in canon with, well, my headcanon. Brace yourself for adouble-serving of analysis and imagination. Plus science. Because there’salways science involved when talking about vampires. ^_^

Warning: Not NSFW… but it still has a lot of innuendo. Don’t try reading thisout-loud if you’re babysitting. Not even if the kid in question likes Twilight.

What does blood-drinking mean to him? (CanonAnalysis)

Seeing that Nevra is quick to offer a bite (as a joke or agenuine pick-up line) in several episodes, and given that he does drink fromladies he isn’t dating (i.e. that awkward moment in Episode 10), my impressionis that blood-drinking is more a casual activity for Nevra than a seriouscommunion.

The impetus also seems to be more sexual than nutritive: hedefinitely seems to prefer drinking from young ladies, instead of—shall wesay—more robust sources of blood plasma. Like young men of Valkyon’s size. (Sorry,fans. But that’s why we have headcanons.) Furthermore, Nevra has alreadymentioned in Episode 8 that it’s ‘fun’, which lends more credence to him seeingblood-drinking as a form of foreplay.

He’s clearly unabashed about his appetite for blood, from theblasé way he shrugs off criticism, jokes, and put-downs in Episodes 10, 4, and 8 respectively. This can be due to his supreme confidence in himself… and/or his knowledge of how vampires are walkingsexual fantasies in human literature (see episode 6). But from the number ofdinner/pantry jokes he makes, I’m willing believe that– on some level– Nevrabelieves blood-drinking increases his mystique among non-vampires. Sorry,buddy… but vampires are still a niche fad in this world

It’s unknown how necessary blood-drinking is to his survival,or what benefits it gives him. But it definitely isn’t the sole component ofhis diet: Nevra can consume regularfood (see episode 8), and is partial towards certain treats like red wine andthe oh-so-appropriate blue steaks (i.e. extremely raw steaks). Personally, Isupport the idea of him having a varied, omnivorous diet (sacrilege for vampirefans, I know) because blood in itself—per volume—is not nutritious at all:mainly composed of water, protein, and salt, with some iron and trace lipidsfrom red blood cells, and a very light sprinkling of sugars and importantminerals dissolved throughout. In fact, all full-time sanguivores—i.e.blood-drinkers—in nature are on the tiny side by necessity, and still need toconsume huge quantities of blood relative to their body weight just to avoidstarvation; vampire bats, for instance, need to drink half their body weight inblood per meal. So biologically-speaking, it’s just more feasible for Nevra toeat solid meat and other concentrated sources of carbohydrates, fats, vitamins,etc. (Besides… can you imagine how many people each day have to ‘donate’ forhis most basic rations if blood is all he consumes? Between him and Karenn,they’ll drain El dry. That won’t look good for the Guard. >_>)

Consent is necessary in Nevra’s book (see Episode 10), and heaccepts refusals (and borderline insults) with aplomb. So my guess is thatblood-drinking is still considered an intimate act, despite Nevra’s ‘swinger’approach to it. And that he’s aware it isn’t the most mainstream/popular/politesexual kink in El (check Ezarel’s ire in Episode 10 on him ‘chewing on’ one ofhis alchemists). That doesn’t mean he won’t stop trying though…

Blood doesn’t turn him on every single time. In fact, Nevra compartmentalizeshis reactions to it depending on the situation. For instance, if blood isspilled as a field injury, he jumps straight into Shadow Dad! Mode (see episode6), and all sexy/food-related thoughts are forgotten. This ability to switchmindsets on a dime indicates excellent self-control… and could be an adaptationto working with non-vampires who may get uneasy at spilling blood in front ofhim. Nevra even makes a joke in episode 8 (if you take him to the kitchen) thathe’s offended that the MC thinks of him as a ‘bloodthirsty beast’.

The effects of blood-drinking? (Canon Analysis)

According to one discussion in Episode 10, you can ‘turn’ into a vampire, but having avampire feed from you isn’t what causes it (at least, not on its own). So untilmore information comes to light, blood-drinking mostly seems like a funindulgence for Nevra, with no real long term consequences.

Nevra is implied to have the capacity to drink quite a bit of blood day after day, ifValkyon’s deadpan remark in Episode 4 is anything to go by. So anemia and even shock would be the most common health risks involved inblood-drinking besides infection (unsurprisingly). How much Nevra can drink ina single sitting is still up to debate, but he does have his principles andisn’t likely to drain partners to the point of shock. How else did he gainsuch a wide net of… voluntary donors?

His vampiric skills involved withblood-drinking? (Headcanon)

Like allvampires, he’s gifted with an extremely nimble tongue… which he uses to drink andpurr like a cat, never wasting a drop of blood and being finicky in lickinghis lips and fingers clean. And his partner’s skin, of course. Wheneverpossible, Nevra also avoids staining the bedsheets and his or his partner’sclothes; only amateurs are thatsloppy.

His nose isn’tjust good for sniffing out blood and fear from a quarter-mile away: theskin on the underside of his nose is highly thermosensitive (just like avampire bat), which allows him track rich arteries under the skin forprecision-bites, even in pitch darkness. His lips and fingertips too are packedwith biological thermo-sensors (not quite like a vampire bat). You cancompletely blindfold him, and he stillwon’t miss your carotid artery.

Good news: his bites don’t hurt. This is because the razor-sharppoints of his fangs are the envy of swordsmiths and surgeons. Not to mentionthat they’re coated in a natural anesthetic compound found in his saliva. (Likevampire bats; how else do they sneak up on their prey and dine on them for half-an-hourwithout waking them up?) At most, if he’s really eager and/or careless thatnight, you’ll feel two tiny pricks where his mouth meets your skin. Rightbefore he distracts you with all the other things he’s doing.

The bad news: there are also natural anticoagulants in hissaliva that prevent blood from clotting easily. (How else can his people get a long drink?) So the only way to staunch thebleeding from his bite is to clean and bandage the wound, maybe tie atourniquet if it’s a deep one, then wait it out. Fortunately, he also offers thisservice as a courtesy.

Nevra has an uncanny way of estimating his partner’s bodyweight, and then approximating how much blood he can afford to drink from them withoutrisking shock. Sans instruments. Just try lying about your weight to him. Hehas an excellent eye for volumetric amounts and measurements, honed byexperience.

His sense oftaste is actually very poor—an adaptation among vampires to cope with theirpeculiar drink of choice–, so the bracing iron taste of fresh blood doesn’tmake a difference to him. As do many foods, though he won’t admit this toothers. (So if there’s any poison in his food or drink, he has to do his bestto sniff them out instead. And bet on his robust immune system to buy him enoughtime to reach his cache of antidotes.)

He has abody built for the bedroom, uh, I mean blood consumption: his liver cancope with very high concentrations of iron, and the lining of his stomachabsorbs excess water rapidly. His immune system also lends some credence to thelegends of ‘immortal’ vampires: allowing him to resist most common diseases,and rally quickly from pathogens in infected blood.

How does he generally treat his partners whendrinking from them? (Headcanon)

I see blood-drinking as a fringe kink, fetish, and longtime socialpractice that Nevra’s people have. It combines food-play with sex, formalizesan intimate bond between individuals, and is even used as a form oftreatment in traditional medicine. (Why pointed fangs and an appetite for bloodbecame hereditary traits suggests some strong evolutionary benefits…but that’s for another day.) But Nevra, being a modern young vampire, prefersto apply blood-drinking as a form of tasty foreplay, to be carried outinside or outside the bedroom, with casual or serious partners. Drinking during sex though is what automatically flipshis high-voltage switch and unleashes the fireworks. From that point, it’s aone-way ticket to a wild night. Expect soreness and a tactical scarf the nextmorning.

The mood to drink is never far from his mind once he startsgetting cozy with his partner, and Nevra is never shy about suggesting itthrough heavy innuendo, slow kisses that nibble lightly at their inner wrist orneck, or merely smiling and posing a two-word question that leaves no doubt onwhat he wants. Still, winning consent is a matter of honor for him, and henever tries to surprise partners with a bite, even if he has fed from them before.If they’re not keen on the idea at the moment, he may pout and try to cajolethem, but will ultimately accept their refusal.

Location is key: some arteries are in patently sexier placesthan others. Drinking from the wrist is the most chaste by far, whereasdrinking from the neck is getting pretty heavy (but still possible to dooutside the bedroom). And drinking from the inside of the thigh is savedstrictly for behind closed doors. Depending on Nevra’s mood, the state ofhis partner’s skin at that location (some places might still be healing fromprior bites), and/or the need to look halfway decent in public, he’ll switchbetween different areas.

No matter his partner’s species, Nevra aims to keepblood-drinking safe, health-wise, as a point of pride and courtesy. (He of allpeople knows the risks involved with infection, blood-transmitted diseases,tissue scarring, anemia, and shock from blood loss.) So he’ll limit himself ifhis partner is on the petite side, and always spaces out feedings until they’rein optimal health again. And he’ll never so much as nip at his partner if they’rerecovering from an injury, are sick, or are susceptible to the health risksinvolved in opening a vein. Hearing that his partner consulted a doctor right aftertheir bedroom shenanigans will embarrass Nevra to no end. He is looking after them, he swears!

He never goes anywhere without keeping one black silkhandkerchief in his pocket, just large enough to wrap around a neck or sveltethigh that’s been offered to him. Staunching the bleeding and covering up themarks of his teeth is what he considers his obligation, and he’ll be happy tolet partners keep the handkerchief afterwards; he’s a gentleman, after all.As a result, Nevra is on first-name basis with city tailors, mercers, andlaunderers from all the silk handkerchiefs he orders and washes—in bulk– everyfew months. Which he then keeps folded in one drawer of his bedside table. Forconvenient access.

Contrary to expectations, Nevra is automatically turned-offif partners tease him by flaunting fresh papercuts and knife-nicks, evenaccidental. In his book, it’s a crass way to snag his attention (not to mentionidiotic, from the infections they’re risking), so he’ll at most lecture themand bandage those cuts straightaway. Part of the allure in blood lies in itsmystery after all, flowing secret under the skin until he makes the firstpierce. He’s a bloodthirsty beast only some nights in the bedroom, thank you.

How does he behave if drinking from theGuardian for the first time? (Headcanon)

For all hisjokes, Nevra is very aware that this is a gesture of trust, especiallyfrom a non-vampire and a novice who isn’t fully familiar with the practice. Sohe makes a point to be reassuring, aiming to keep the experience comfortable,sensual, and enjoyable for both parties (even if he’s the only one who’ll befeeding). Because if he likes them enough… he’ll want them to return to offerhim a ‘second serving’.

A privatelocation is really all he needs because this is the closest thing to aquickie that he can offer. But if there’s someone he’s looking to impress,he’ll take them straight to his room (prepped beforehand) where they can both befully comfortable, and he’ll be able to wash clean the bites. And where they’ll be free to indulge themselves a little more, if there’s time…

As with allpartners, he is very sensual whenfeeding, clasping the Guardian full against him and letting his hands wander. Teasingtheir skin first with kisses that grow increasingly less chaste, warming up hispartner in his arms while he tests out the best places to make an ideal bite. Fora first-timer, he’ll double this ‘warm up’ period until he’s absolutely surethat his partner is comfortable. And as turned-on as he is.

Just like anydentist, surgeon, or physician armed with a needle, Nevra never warns partnerswhen it’s actually time for him to make that bite: anticipation will only makethem anxious (and kill the mood). So the Guardian will still be lolling aroundin his arms and under the prints of his mouth, oblivious to what’s happening, until they suddenly feel that warm welling of their blood right where his mouthis fused determinedly against their skin. And when they freeze up, he’ll workto reassure them with his hands, his embrace, the pressure of his lips, and oneor two tactical noises of satisfaction, encouraging them (wordlessly) to relaxand enjoy the feel of his body against theirs. And not think too hard aboutthis moment.

For thisoccasion, he’ll keep the feeding light and neat, drinking from wrist or neckonly. After he staunches the bleeding with his ever-ready handkerchief, he’llpress a teasing kiss against the fabric right where his bite is, determined tomake the Guardian blush. And he’ll insist that they ‘hold onto thehandkerchief’, to not worry about returning it to him; it’s a standard gestureof magnanimity on his part, but for a first-timer, it’s also a way to give thema memento of this moment. To let them mull over what they did enjoy, andhopefully, return to him for a reprise…

If theGuardian is particularly concerned, he’ll oblige to answer what questions they have about health and sanitary concerns… as well as rumors they mighthave heard about vampires. But frankly, only the last part is fun for Nevra;giving medical explanations is always a tedious chore for him, so what answershe does offer are kept simple and reassuring. All they really need to know isthat he knows what he’s doing; they can trust him. He’s been doing this fora long while.

How does he treat longtime partners whom hedrinks from? (Headcanon)

Although infamousknown for biting casually, Nevra will restrict himself to drinking only fromhis partner if seriously involved with them. Feeding from others at this pointis akin to getting frisky with them, and thus putting one foot on the line ofinfidelity. For all his bad jokes and playboy reputation, Nevra’spartner is his very first preference for sharing such an intimate moment. Andif they’re really not in the mood to be nibbled at, he feels put-out.

They’ll start receiving naughty gifts… and not the expected type either. He’ll buythem scarves. Ascots. Satin opera gloves. Plus a healthy supply of dark silkhandkerchiefs for them to keep in their room, chokers and thigh garters made ofsatin or black lace, and velvet wrist corsages each pinned with a singleblood-red rose. All to cover up the bite-marks he left on their skin as theyheal… and remind him pleasantly of ‘what he did’ at their last encounterwhenever he sees them. When they’re alone, Nevra likes to slip these tacticalgifts an inch or two lower just to peek at, stroke, or kiss the marks he left behindthe other night. What a horny bastard.

He’ll be more open to gentle, affectionate blood-feedings.And if he’s having a rotten day, and his partner is the one who offers him a drink,his mood is guaranteed to shoot up by several notches. For once, he won’t dropsly suggestions to continue to the bedroom immediately, instead being perfectlyhappy to cuddle or spoon them in silence wherever they are. A blood-feeding maybe a sexually-charged gesture, but it can become an act of solace and caring ifoffered by a partner he trusts. One he won’t forget for a while.

He certainly won’t say no to his partner bitinghim back, even if their teeth are flatter and can’t (or won’t) pierce his skin; it’s the sensation that counts. And he himself is very sensitive around the crook of his neck. Still, Nevra prefersto do most of the biting—to draw blood or simply to tease. He has the right teeth, and knows how to be the boss use them for maximal mutual pleasure.

For a darker take on how Nevra might react to blood spilled on the battlefield, check out this pure headcanon.

#reader response #character analysis #headcanon #Eldarya #Nevra

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superqualitydeerbouquetworl-blog · 8 years ago

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I never used to think more or less re-incarnation extremely much, even though as child and pubertal boy, i had experiences that superior on i believed were windows, memories into supplementary lives. To me this proves this presence, this wisdom of myself, had lived before. It must be that the Soul continues, how come i was here upon Earth and not in some permit of the after life? Why would i have memories or familiarities of additional mature and places? It had to be that the Soul was upon its own passageway to answer something and that it had a purpose, otherwise why would i be coming back? I started to have more and more what you might call Soul-awareness. I resign yourself to every people can have this Soul-awareness. The more we develop antipathy to this Soul-awareness more or less life, the more the soul reveals its knowledge to us. The Soul even if gets help. 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drjacquescoulardeau · 8 years ago

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BACH – TELEMANN – PHILIPPE JAROUSSKY – SACRED CANTATAS – 2016

One voice, two composers so different yet so much alike. Bach the totally one-pointed Protestant who believes life has only one end, I mean objective, and that life has to be lived so that the end is reached in the best possible conditions for our soul, if we want to have any honorable Christian future beyond this passage to death, to eternal life, a passage that has no right of passage: just submit to your lot and try to be as good a Christian as you can and hence as successful in this life at what you are doing as possible. Telemann is a man of fire who sees in the world nothing but hatred and vengeance, ugly crimes and horrible sins. Life is fundamentally bad. It is hell on earth and as the good Christian Telemann wants to be he has to wait for the end, for death, that very death that will put all that ugliness beyond reach, that will make us, enable us to escape from that ugliness. Of course you have to wait for it to come by, but Telemann prays and begs Jesus to permit him to share his death, his lot, his resurrection in his father’s realm. But as long as he will live he will be confronted to that ugliness.

Bach’s “Vergnügte Ruh” is a complaint to death and life, to the soul that saves the believer from the world that tries to drag him down. The soul is all-powerful in salvation, but the heart is all-perverted in sinful life and perdition. There is no hope but to concentrate on your soul and to isolate, refrain your heart that is so easily tempted by Satan. Luckily Jesus can help the soul to go on living as good as possible in this world of temptation. Philippe Jaroussky reaches in this tortured situation, in this ripped open mind and personality of this individual Christian that is torn apart between his soul and his heart. He reaches some luminous summits in serene pain and in exquisite belief that when the end comes his life will speak for his soul and not his heart. There is some absolute certainty in this deep pain. Suffering becomes beauty, death becomes a promise in tone and in vocal color. And it can end in an aria that is so light, gay, dynamic like a funfair merry-go-round that makes the repentant sinner beg for the end to be able to capitalize on his soul during his life to reach what he calls Himmelszion, the promised land of heavens that can only be reached at the end of the long ordeal of this life.

Telemann’s “Die stille Nacht” is the dirge of a suffering sinner, because any Christian in this life is a sinner and they must suffer for their sins though they cannot prevent them. When Bach had a choice in this life, Telemann sees no choice at all. He uses in the first aria a sentence that- expresses this lot, this curse. “’Ich bin betrübt bis in den Tod.” There is no hope, no escape and this sadness that brings his soul to despair, this suffering that crushes his bones, this agony he suffers in soul and body, resounds from the very first notes, repetitive violin chords that punctuate the fall into that abyss of torment. And the sentence I have just given is sung in such a way that we are fascinated by the mesmerizing hypnosis this sinner contemplates.

“Ich bin betrübt / bis in den Tod / bis in den Tod

“Ich bin betrübt / bis in den Tod / bis in den Tod”

The line is thus cut up into three segments and repeated three times, NINE the number of the beast. No escape from this beast and this beast will come back after the soul and its despair, after the bones being crushed and after the terrible agony that is suffered, this beast will come back a second time in its thrice ternary structure. NINE again, the beast to start with, the beast to end up with and in between just plain pain and suffering, alive of course.

And the second aria starts with the request of Jesus to his father to take the cup of his future suffering on the cross away. Philippe Jaroussky sings it as if it were love, love with no restraint- from a little child to his father, as if it w<ere Isaac speaking to Abraham. And yet at once the rebellion of this son in front of the suffering yields into submission in suffering. The tone of Philippe Jaroussky is all we need to believe that double nature and to come back to the childish request of Jesus a second time. And in this second request after the rebellious moment, Jesus sounds nearly of age to make up his own mind, to lie down on the wood of the sacrifice and to ask his father to please let him turn his head away not to look at the knife.

And that leads to the third aria, an aria of hope, maybe, of witnessing for sure of Jesus’ mission and achievement. Telermann calls all human children and all sinners to see Jesus in his saving ordeal of a crucifixion. And the spectacle is one of sadness in hope, or hope in sadness, of some kind of erring in the vocalises as if the soul was stammering in front of the agony, the long hours of pain leading to death and yet to salvation.

Bach’s “Ich habe genug” is surprising in just some sort of homesickness of the soul that is longing to go back to the home it has come from, the divine essence it has descended from. That is so well expressed by Philippe Jaroussky in the first aria. The title which is also the first line has two meanings. “Genug” like in “OK! That will do! That’s enough!” but also “genug” like in “I have enough of Jesus in me to bear all that perverted life and to climb back up to my divine origin.” And the conclusion is that the sinner is ready to go, ready to leave this life behind, happy in the Jesus he has integrated in his soul, in his being, in his Christian mind.

This aria and the next one reveal a repetitive music that has a very strong effect on the congregation that listens to it and that even takes part in it as if it were impossible not to sing along this long lamentation. We are hypnotized and mesmerized into entering the song, the psalm, the arias, the total submission to this moment of light and conviction that we are one step away from rejoining Jesus in his eternal life. Rebellion has in any possible way been excluded and rejected by Bach and the second aria “Schlummert ein” is like a lullaby sung by ourselves to ourselves to put ourselves to sleep, both meaning intended since we are ready for the big departure. The contemplation of one’s own death is pathetic but also empathetic. That’s Bach’s peaceful vision of the mortal lot of human beings. And this first sentence is repeated three times as the opening of the aria, between the two stanzas and the closing of the aria. A trinity that is divine of course and that expresses the perfect equilibrium of the soul in its communion with god. Not one human child can resist this engulfing music, voice and discourse. Let’s go to sleep in this absolutely certainty.

That leads us to the last aria “Ich freue mich auf meinen Tod.” The circle has been run over and over and we have come back again and again to this moment that is an end of the trajectory and a beginning of the enlightenment that comes at this rare and unique moment when our soul is flying up, escaping from down here and reuniting itself with Jesus. This cantata is a miracle in vocal expressivity and depth. And this last aria is joy because death is joy and we have to dance with death around the maypole of the resurrection of our soul finally freed of this life and our bones, our hearts, our bodies, “all the affliction that confined me here on earth.”

Telemann’s “Jesus liegt in letzten Zügen” goes back to the reality of Jesus’ crucifixion and long suffering of the torture and the death penalty, but not death for death, rather death for the show of it, for the pleasure of an audience, a death that has to be long and progressive. And Telemann in front of the reality of life can only rebel against our lot that is a real curse in a way: the curse that does not bring death that turns our life in the year long ordeal and torture that has to make us age and die so slowly that we cannot even count the minutes of pain because they are millions and each one is worse and harsher than the previous one and yet nothing to compare with the next one. Jesus’ crucifixion becomes a short vision of our own pain since it is concentrated in something like nine hours whereas our slow execution takes a whole life to finally reach its proper end. Philippe Jaroussky makes his voice weep and cry for mercy in so sad tones that we understand how this cry for mercy is the last thing a human child can really long for, death, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

We could think at this moment Telemann sees Jesus dying on his cross through the eyes of the young teen named John who is at the foot of the cross and who is going to be entrusted to Mary, and Mary to John. John is a child and in these days, children could see real ugliness across the street or in front of any temple, real killing of people, slicing of bodies, slow dying for the pleasure of the death provider. Nothing to compare with today’s Internet provider’s pictures of all that human monstrosity. It was not a screen in those days. It was a real war, real legionaries killing and violating anything that still had some life in their flesh.

The second aria, “Mein Liebster Heiland,” is a love song to Jesus because of the salvation he gave us. And I do say a love song because love it is, absolute and without any restraint. The cantata can then end on a phenomenal dance that brings together joy because death is coming and anger because death has not yet come and done its work. Jesus’ salvation of human children is turned into a promise for us to die as soon as we can hope for it. “Darauf freuet sich mein Geist.” And this “Geist” is the little part of Holy Spirit we have in us, in our soul, a little piece of Holy Spirit that can rejoice since death is finally coming and will liberate it.

We can wonder why Philippe Jaroussky brought together these four cantatas that are so deadly to the point of death and death again? It sure is the celebration of death and we have to go through such a moment when death is so close, so next to us, for us to be able to feel that morbidly joyful, that sadly hopeful call to depart this life. This CD is mourning the death of someone and we can recognize ourselves in such a deep and emotional celebration of the high road to the celestial mountains lost in heavenly clouds.

Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU

#cantata #death #Jesus #ordeal #suffering #salvation

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