#she wore them to Mass this week at a different church than our usual

[mademoisellesarcasme]

truly there are few sounds more comical than that of a toddler walking in rain boots

[acadmie]

Immaculate Conception

I think I wanted for a long time to be the kind of woman who could be content as a mother to bathe her children immaculately in a claw-foot tub, but I am not, and I have only recently come to terms with that.

My tub is very nice. I take baths almost every day. Some people think baths are gross, which, fine, within your rights, but I’ll take my bath while you take your shower, and we’ll see who comes out more relaxed. My baths are my own time. I close and lock the door to my bathroom the way I always have done since I was a very small child. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

Admittedly I made the choice to make rooms not all mine. That’s what being a parent does, in effect - it ensures that you will always share your life with someone else, unless you royally fuck up. I don’t think I’ve ever royally fucked up Elliot, because if I did, he would tell me right away with his smart mouth. 

He is the opposite of an immaculate child. He had the opposite of an immaculate conception. He loves to be dirty. He was born dirty, and he will die dirty. Last week he saw the sparrows in the park taking turns bathing in a puddle and flung himself into it. When he stood up, covered in mud and a few comic feathers, he said, “Look, Mom! All clean!” 

Yeah.

Bathtime doesn’t go over well in our house except when it’s mine. When it’s Elliot’s, it is a grand affair. He demands bubbles, which I make myself out of dish soap and sugar on the kitchen counter. He makes tidal waves. If I don’t hold him tightly after he gets out of the bath, he will rip himself and the towel from my hands and cannonball back into the water, soaking the floor and the walls and making me paranoid about the state of our grout.

It surprises me every time that such a dirty child can be so enthusiastic about baths. When I was a child, I hated bathing right up until the moment I got into the water. It felt good to be grimy - it was the product of a day well spent. I hid in my closet, behind the door, holding in laughter and reveling in the dirt under my fingernails. Eventually my father would find me and drag me out by the ankles and stick me in the tub while the water ran, and I accepted my fate and put my ears under the water and felt the thundering of the faucet like an earthquake just for me. 

It was nice there, under the water. The faucet shut off and there was wonderful, floating silence. I shook my head back and forth and felt my hair against my neck. My sweat and the dirt mixed with the water and left me gently. I lay there until the water got cold, until my fingers pruned and my nails became soft, and when I stood up unsteadily I was as pink and as smooth as I had been the first time I opened my eyes to the world. 

I grew up Catholic, which meant one of my first baths was at the altar in a burnished bowl of holy water. I don’t think I liked it. My parents kept the home video footage; I watched it later and could see the moment I was lifted out of the water. I don’t know what it felt like before, so I can’t know the difference from what it felt like after, but I think I must have been perturbed by being so suddenly and rudely stripped of whatever sin I had already managed to commit, because in that moment, the camera focused on my small, grainy face, and I looked into it and gave the first stink eye of my life.

The way I hated church was similar to the way I hated bathing. Waking up on a Sunday was poisoned by it. Everything I wore was too dry and too stiff; I would start to fluff my skirt and my mother would bat my hands away from it. She would only let me eat dry toast for breakfast. “All you can get on you is crumbs,” she declared. I tried to get as many crumbs on me as possible in hopes that perhaps I wouldn’t go to church, but we went anyway, and the next weekend she didn’t let me eat until after Mass. 

I was determined to hate church. I lagged so far behind my parents on our walk around the block that my father tugged me forward by the wrist. I scuffed my shoes on the sidewalk. We approached the big stone steps and I hung back, kicking the dirt by the garden. This was the last frontier, usually, because as soon as I got up the steps the old ladies who always stood at the door would start to make a big stink about how lovely my dress was, and how lovely it was to see me, and what a lovely big girl I was becoming. This was the final frontier not because it was the point at which I could no longer escape, but because quietly, I liked it. It was a lovely dress. I was a lovely girl. And so I slid my head under the water.

Those first steps into church were always the best. It was so full of light. Big windows commanded every bit of sun into the room so that it felt open enough to never be full. My parents made their crosses and bows in front of the pulpit and tugged me into a pew where I would always sit on the outside. My father permitted this only because I made a habit of going to the bathroom several times during the service. I made a habit only because I wanted to sit on the end of the pew, closest to the light. 

This was how I met Soren. One day during the service, I sat quietly at the end of my pew, reveling in the warmth of the sun. A shadow cast itself gently across my lap. I looked up, and there he was - small and dark in the aisle against the window pane, sitting there, hands tucked together, in the white shirt he always wore. I remember looking at him and deciding that we were there for the same reason, even if that reason wasn’t exactly the right kind of worship.

For all the time that I was made to spend in church as I child, I don’t think I really understood what I was supposed to think of God. The congregation would stand, so I stood; they would sing, so I sang. I ate dry communion wafers and drank water pinked with wine. The priest would talk about God, and so would my parents and their friends and the old lady church greeters. God is good! So was I, if it meant Santa was coming. But when we were in church, and I could drag my eyes away from the windows for a minute, looking at them was like looking at a door left wide open. 

Soren was always my best friend. We met in church, but I don’t think either of us really cared about it. It was an understanding that ran between us like water, that we didn’t ever have to talk about. There were things bigger than us, sure. A lot of things. But he and I both preferred the bigger things around us that we could see and touch and smell and taste. At first, the light in church on Sundays. Then the enormous trees that grew in his backyard, then the lake in the summer, then the deafening rhythm of a rainstorm. We were perpetually in awe of the way that life existed carelessly around us, continuing no matter what happened in our lives, the same way that time moved after a clock had stopped, bringing the sun down and up again without the need for an hour hand.

Soren and I liked small things, too. Caterpillars, frogs, water bugs in the stream behind my house. We played cards and read chapter books and built walls out of rocks. I think his hands knew how to do everything since before he was born. He could pick up a moth without hurting its wings, and untie any knot my shoelaces got into, and pack a snowball tight enough that it would explode inside the collar of my winter coat. Mostly we baked bread. His mother was a baker; they had big jars of flour in their house that she used to make cookies and pastries and immense tiered cakes for his birthday. We made whole wheat and sourdough and focaccia and ate it together on the steps of church before the service. He always saved a little for after, too - “I don’t like the way the wine tastes in my mouth,” he explained to me one afternoon after digging a hunk of it out of his small pocket. I didn’t like it then, either, but we were friends for long enough to see each other get a taste for it. 

In some time I was seventeen and I found out that my parents were wonderful Catholics in that when they got divorced, they did their best to hide it from God. They lived in the same house, maybe amicably, if you squinted hard enough; they kept their rings; they went to church. The doors that were once open inside them closed. So much of their energy was spent on this that, to me, the ins and outs of their separation were out in the open. 

Everything in the house became strictly divided property. They would use the kitchen in shifts. They split the couch apart. They blocked out when their shows were on cable and made topical compromises on who would use the DVR each week when Locke and Key came too close to overlapping with The Walking Dead. I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother surrounded by stacks of books in their bedroom, which had now become just hers, sorting out which ones were his and putting them in boxes to go to his room downstairs. It was so definite, so clean cut, that it felt more violent than if they had fought more openly. It was like they had made the decision to be separate people without allowing me a moment to separate them as my parents. 

I had been going to church halfheartedly before they separated, but at some point in the legal and physical and spiritual process I stopped. No Easter service, or Christmas service. No Mass. It was a relief, in some ways - I wouldn’t have to stand between them in the pew anymore, or diffuse conversations with their church friends who they hadn’t told yet. It was an effective resignation from my position as the parent of their divorce. But in other ways, it felt just a little like death. Or not death. Like a door closing. Soren said he missed me during Mass, and I said he should just come over after.

I got used to it quickly. The time that I had used to go to church on Sunday I could now use to sleep in and eat buttered toast and wear sweatpants, three novel things that lost their novelty after the first few weekends and just became what I did with myself. While my parents were gone, the house was all mine. This was a novelty that never wore away. Part of me was ashamed of it. Who got excited about living in their own house?

Another, bigger part of me was more satisfied at home than I ever had been at church. If there was a God, He probably lived in my house. Walking freely through the rooms without being afraid of crossing boundaries or making allegiances or interrupting arguments or staged quiet hours was a new kind of worship that I didn’t know I was capable of. I got excited about opening the drawers in my kitchen, and sitting in the middle of the couch, and pulling up the window shades. I let as much light into every room as I could and lay in patches of sun for hours. When I got bored or listless I could leave, and the house would always be content to wait for me until I came back. For those hours, the divided space I lived in became fully mine. 

I did other things, too, besides take baths and practice living in my own house. I had Soren, and other close friends who I could invite over or go out with; we played board games and planted peppers and drove several cars gently into ditches and made a habit of trespassing in the woods across town. They had other friends who had other friends who invited us to concerts and parties and bought alcohol that I wrapped in a sweatshirt and hid in my closet, only to forget about it and find it later when I was hunting through clothes for my rain boots. It was cheap stuff, the kind of vodka that comes in a plastic jug that, if unmarked, might also be used to transport corrosive acid or washable glue, and near the end of my senior summer, when my parents were thinking of selling the house and I was weeks from departing to college, I thought that it would be a good idea to invite everybody over to drink the rest of it.

It was a Wednesday. My dad was out of town - he had found more and more excuses to spend time a couple states away, “on business”. My mom was staying with her sister while her husband (of a successful Catholic marriage) had surgery in the nearby hospital. She had left earlier in the week, with a kiss on each of my cheeks and a pointed look that probably meant, in a loving way, don’t get drunk on shitty vodka while I’m gone. I gave her a look back that probably meant, in a loving way, you need to practice for when you can’t tell me what to do anymore. 

I think fondly on it. In the months leading up to and the months after Elliot was born, people kept asking me, “Don’t you regret it?” And I didn’t, and I don’t. I liked sitting on the floor of the kitchen, drinking shitty vodka soda with my friends. I liked playing soft music loud enough to feel it in my ankles. I liked going outside with them and closing the door. I liked walking around the block. I liked Soren stopping us in front of the church, and I liked going in through the basement window, and I liked coming up the stairs to see it like an empty swimming pool, so blue, so broad, so full, still, of light, just the way I had left it. 

We scattered ourselves among the pews, in the balcony, at the seat of the big organ and the smaller piano. I wandered through the rooms, in and out of the confessional, climbed the steps to the bell tower and down again. I felt oddly returned to myself. I had done this many, many times. My feet knew how the floors felt under them; my fingers knew how the walls felt under them; my eyes knew where to find the shadows in the dips of the hallway and the cracks in the wood. But I had never seen them like this. Not from this height, or this hour, or without resistance to come in the first place. 

The moon shone through stained glass and illuminated the star above Bethlehem.

I wanted to take a bath. 

The baptism pool was hidden in one of the side rooms behind the altar. Under the water, the lights were on; they swam green and white beneath the surface, a promise of warmth, of cleanliness. I stripped to my underwear and stepped onto the first shallow stair, and the next, and the next, until the water hit my waist and my ribs and my chin, until I closed my eyes and ducked my head under and felt my hair rise up and float around me as if I was suspended in space, and when I rose to take a breath, it felt like the first time.

The baptism chamber, like most of the church, was lined in windows. Plexiglas along the bottom, but as the ceiling arched, stained glass masterpieces of Mother Mary: at the birth of Christ, at his crucifixion, her holding his body, her mourning, her assumption, her coronation. She seemed to have infinite grace. She was innocent. She was pure. She was holy, in every sense. Was it because of the child? Was it because God chose her to have the virgin birth, to bring forth his voice into the human world? Or was it in the way she carried herself, swaying hips, steady eyes, assured of her place in the world with our without Christ or God or the Wise Men coming out of the desert?

Behind me the door creaked. I could tell without looking that it was Soren - I knew the way he breathed from all the nights we had spent sleeping on each others’ floors. 

He said, “How does it feel to be back?”

I said, “I wish you had some bread.”

He laughed softly and came to sit by the edge of the pool and started taking his shoes off with deft hands. I watched him untie his laces and strip off his socks and roll his pants up just above his ankles, and then he dipped his feet into the pool and it was the two of us there together just like it had always been.

Being there with him felt familiar. It felt like knowing him was knowing me inside and out. And so I wasn’t nervous when I pulled myself out of the pool, or when he reached out to touch my wet hair, or when I leaned in to meet his soft mouth. I wasn’t nervous fumbling at his buttons, or lying on the stone floor, feeling the cold on my back but the warmth between us. We laughed together, in gasps, and I could feel his heart beating, and I wasn’t nervous, because this really was something that was bigger than us. I knew it was, lying on my back next to him after, looking up at Mary and thinking that most of the time holy things had nothing to do with God, but just with the knowledge that rightness and goodness existed in places where everyone could find them.

When I had Elliot, my parents freaked out. They told me they were scared for me when they really meant they were scared of me. But I’m not stressed about getting into Heaven, really, because I think I’m probably having little bits of it all the time. When I take a bath. When I sit in the sun. When Elliot and I stay home on Sundays and make bread. Some voice in the back of my head is always saying, when we sit down to dinner with our fresh bakes and with my glass of wine, eat of my body, drink of my blood, and maybe that’s God, but maybe it’s me, instead, content to be dirty and clean at the same time in a world of my own creation.

Elliot is five. That’s old enough now that he likes to take showers, but Monday is bath day for both of us. During the day, Soren takes him to a stream, or up a mountain, or on some other kind of adventure that lets him get absolutely filthy. When they get home at night, I shepherd Elliot into the bath while Soren makes easy dinner. I give him bubbles and soap and the kind of shampoo that won’t sting if it gets in his eyes, and he washes himself and tells me about his day with his dad. When I pull the plug on the drain, he stays until the tub is completely empty, leaving him goosefleshed and giggling until I wrap him in a towel. 

While they’re gone during the day, I sit in the water and look up at the window. It’s a cloudy skylight, covered with years’ worth of dirt and grime, but still clean enough to let a good amount of light in. I like to think that if we didn’t live in an apartment, and if we had a good amount of money, I’d put in some stained glass up there. Something innocuous, like a caterpillar or a loaf of challah, but with just the right amount of color and drama to remind me where I came from, and what worship feels like when you do it for yourself. 

I stay in the bath for a long time. I run the faucet until the tub is full, and then I sit in it, and I wash my hair, and I look around my tiny bathroom and remind myself what a room looks like when it’s all mine.

[xthebirdofhermesx]

Hellsing: Rememberances - Chapter 3

I’m compiling on #Ao3, here, as I go for anyone interested in reading start to finish without having to scroll through Tumblr.

This... started as two little scenes in my head, and now is spiraling out of control in my head. I need to think. Figure out if there’s a small plot I can conjure for a bit since this is all still technically before Ultimate “began”. And where to go from there. Hmmmmmm. Chapter 4 will be part II, and its shaping up to be from Alucard’s perspective, so stay tuned! I have no idea when I’ll get the next part done (This one went really fast, but IRL is a jerk sometimes, and my muse can be a stubborn turd at others) but I will try and have it up as soon as I can figure out what “it” looks like ^_^

Saints and Sinners: Part I Looking in the full length, antique floor mirror that had been her grandmother’s at one time, Integra Hellsing had to admit even she thought she looked a little pale. It wasn’t the dress. The black satin bodice and a-line skirt, strapless frock was lovely and classy. Despite her general aversion to dresses as she’d become far more comfortable in pants over dresses nowadays, she very much liked the 50s style to it. The capelet that covered her shoulders was beaded lace, with a high collar and satin ribbon tie that allow her to affix her crucifix pin to it was well. Hair braided up around her head, she’d decided to go with an up style unlike her normal long, flowing plaits - she felt it made her look more distinguished.

Nor was her pallor a result of the Hellsing operation the evening prior. An operation that had required her to order the execution of approximately fifteen ghoul freaks, one proper vampire and more than two dozen civilians that were on their way to becoming mindless ghouls. No, that was her job. Her duty to Queen and country as was the legacy of her proud family. No, no she’d not even lost a wink of sleep over that.

No, she knew exactly from whence her pallor came. This night there was a party being held in her honor. Downstairs nobility of England, Knights of the Council of Twelve and others, supporters from the Church of England, and what few family friends outside of that left to the Hellsing family were already arriving. There were police officers and royal guard at the gate down the drive and the house proper preventing media and unwanteds from entering. Walter had been bustling about for a week now with preparations, phone calls and deliveries for the food, flowers, decor and his normal duties. Hellsing manor had not seen such a soiree in decades. All for one, momentous evening.

It was Integral Fairbrooks Wingates Hellsing’s eighteenth birthday.

Giving the difficult orders, even at her age, were no longer an issue. Fighting monsters, freaks both with her ultimate weapon, or on the rare occasion she herself had found need or situation to fight, no longer intimidated or threatened her. Nobility and political events, while not her favorite as she detested being unarmed, were also not the issue.

She was going to have to socialize .

Her training as both the head of the Hellsing organization and a knight of the realm was perfection. Overseen by the Queen herself at times, she had never received anything but perfect marks in combat, etiquette, procedure, language or any common core educations. But when it came down to it, she had been raised by a retired vampire slayer as her butler… and Dracula himself. She hadn’t the foggiest idea how she was supposed to maintain idle chit-chat, non work related conversation or casual discourse… with anyone.

Be it from practice, or the fact that he wasn’t trying to be stealthy, Integra saw when the shadows of her room darkened, and Alucard manifested from the wall behind her. She did not see him in the mirror, but the hair at the back of her neck stood up in the presence of his power, as it always did. The human mind, be it unexplained science, or instinct, recognized a predator and their power regardless of trust.

“You should knock,” she said flatly before turning around to face him. She could tell from the wide grin on his face, he was likely entirely informed of her state of mind. Regardless of how many times she’d asked or ordered, when it came to reading her thoughts Alucard could not seem to help himself.

He chuckled, the deep baritone of his voice bringing chill bumps to her exposed arms. “I could not help myself,” he answered as if she’s spoken aloud. “Not tonight. Your trepidation is palpable, and called to me. The fearless Integral Hellsing… chewing her lips over a party.” His head inclined slightly to one side in curiosity. “You had no fear ordering the murder of more than thirty souls not twenty-four hours ago. And yet the living terrify you.”

“The Salvation of those souls is my duty, servant . We released them from a tortured existence. Do not mistake or twist my purpose.”

The large smile returned to the tall man’s face. Integra noticed that he was missing his typical long red coat and dark suit in favor of a different one. So black it seemed to absorb light, the double breasted coat was long, to a few inches above the knees of his matching, pleated pants. Even the red satin cravat he wore was pressed, tied over a new black dress shirt. Though she also noted his unruly mass of back hair was as ever long in the front and shorter in back, curling wildly as if it had a mind all its own.

Red, glowing vampiric eyes narrowed as the ancient vampire observed her, observing him. “Penny for your thoughts,” he rumbled smugly at his own joke.

Integra merely raised one perfectly arched eyebrow over her crystal blue eyes. “You look… nice.”

This clearly amused him as the No Life King’s head fell back with laughter. At the same time he began walking towards her slowly. “Oh my sweet master,” he said, stopping only inches from her, “How you strive for your heart to be carved from the coldest, most unyeilding ice. And yet I know so much differently.”

Now it was her turn to incline her head curiously. “So you believe,” she said, but were she honest, she wasn’t sure what he knew - or thought he knew.

Alucard just smiled. “Tonight, you become the true, legal leader of this organization.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?” he purred. “Or am I acknowledging that the beautiful, bloodthirsty and unflinching granddaughter of my once nemesis stands before me wrapped like a Christmas present in satin and disdain… on the day she becomes legally an adult?”

She frowned before she could school her reaction, replaying his words in her mind as she had no idea what on Earth they were supposed to mean together, until- oh. Oh. Ohhhhh .

He was granted the satisfaction of seeing her blush hotly before she turned away from him and reaching for her black, satin wrist gloves. “You’re disgusting, Alucard. How dare you imply such undertones in my presence. Had I any time for such thoughts, they would certainly not be of a five and a half century-old warlord King turned monster.”

“Liar.”

That one word hung in the air between them along with her hesitation and his shit-eating grin.

“No man or woman is in control of their unconscious mind. How dare you-”

“The unconscious mind merely shows us the truths of what we refuse to acknowledge with our conscious minds.” His voice was closer. Right over her shoulder now. She’d been so lambasted at the subject, she’d not been paying attention peripherally and certain not seen him move in the mirror as he bore no reflection.

Straightening up to turn and give Alucard a rather loud piece of her mind, Integra’s voice caught in her throat when she found herself nose to nose with him. Steel. Her mind had to be steel. Her expression, steel. Heart? Steel. It took such a mantra to not give him the satisfaction of her surprise. “You’re invading my personal space, vampire.”

“Mmm, am I?” He did not move a muscle.

“Stand back, monster. That is an order.”

One dark eyebrow raised slowly towards his hair, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “As you wish, my master - if ,” he said, still right where he had been, “That is what you truly desire.”

God help her she hesitated. He was right, she’d been dreaming about him in very… blush worthy ways. She was well read, she knew all the biology lessons and the chemicals involved with growing up, maturing both mentally, emotionally and sexually. She understood attraction. She understood what romance was. In fact, she had a small stash, in the box under her bed, of lovely little fantasy fiction novels, each with a bit of romance in them that usually made her sigh internally. None of this was unexpected, or abnormal.

Other than the subject of her explicit dreams being the most powerful of all vampires and king of the undead.

“It is what I truly desire,” she snapped at him, but her voice cracked, and he just grinned more wildly.

“Liar.”

“That’s twice you’ve called me a liar tonight and if you do it again, I will shoot you myself with every blessed bullet I can lay my damn hands on!” she prattled off at him as if it were rote. Which, if she were honest, it was becoming that way.

But Alucard didn’t back up. He stopped leaning, standing to his full height and allowing her to stop leaning away from him at an odd angle. However he still stood so very close to her. His ruby eyes never leaving her face, Alucard reached up and ran the back of his gloved fingers over the rise of her cheek. “What would you say, if I asked you to join me in unlife, my master? To rule the night, drink blood, cut down any who would oppose us and be my queen for eternity as an equal?”

Integra either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that she had plenty of room to step away from him now that he wasn’t leaning. His caress of her face burned through her and she was having a hard time parsing in her mind what exactly was happening to her. “I would rather die than become a monster like you.”

“And what would you say after that?” he grinned. “After you gave me the answer your Council and the Queen and England expect of you- what you were raised to say- what you may superficially believe you mean- now that that answer is out of the way… What would your heart answer?”

She blinked at him slowly, wanting with everything she was to affirm that her words were in fact the answer to both. That she would never give in to such a dark, evil temptation and that he would leave her quarters right that instant to his dungeon to miss the party as punishment for his insubordination. That or just unload a clip into him to make herself feel better.

That is not, however, what happened.

If there was one thing that she could say with clarity and certainty, it was that she had never lied to Alucard. She may have omitted information not pertinent to him, or for the protection of herself mostly- especially after her final testing as part of her schooling where she’d had to go to London proper and a facility in which he followed and made a nuisance of himself all damn day. And she would try to conceal her privacy, lying about seeing him in her dreams or other such personal business because he was ever so damnably nosy. But she had never once lied… about anything truly big or important. Oddly… this felt big and important.

“I do not know, Alucard,” she sighed and crossed one arm over her chest, the other pressing a palm to her forehead. “If you asked me now- here and now... not in hypothetical, I would say no. I have too much to do, both in duty and as a person, too much to accomplish and experience as a human being to have any desire to step off this mortal coil and onto the dark, monstrous immortal one you walk.

“But if I were dying, if there was no hope to save my life and I knew the end was near… I cannot say for certain I would turn you down.”

He had been listening with a bemused expression at her internal turmoil and patently Hellsing answer, but with her final words his face alit with a nearly manic smile. “That, my master, is not a no.”

She sighed lifting her head from her palm to roll her eyes and look at him. “How observant of you. I am about to have to go field over one hundred people I barely know, and like even less in some cases, and I do not have the widgets to play your games right now.”

“Then, with your permission, may I give you your birthday gift, and escort you down stairs, my master?” he asked and Integra knew, expected there was a catch. At the very least something he was hiding.

“Fine,” she rumbled and stuffed her hands into her gloves. But then a thought occurred to her. “Wait when would you have left to get me anythin-”

She was cut off when he reached out and placed a hand in the small of her back and pulled her against his chest. He did not pin her, if Integra wanted to squirm away, she could have and they both knew it. She thought about it, and he saw it in her eyes that she thought about it.

And yet, she did not move.

“What are you doing?”

Alucard smiled broadly. “Giving you your birthday gift.”

He leaned down, and the moment his lips brushed hers, Integra had never known such fire to ignite within her. His skin was cool but soft and she found that not only had the old bastard bothered to put on cologne and brush his teeth, but she ached very suddenly, and very painfully for him to finish that physical thought.

Alucard only grinned where she could feel it, hovering but not actually making the final movement that would bring them together. “Oh for Heaven’s sake, you bastard,” she swore and lifting up on tiptoe, pressed her lips to his in a chaste, but heated kiss.

His other arm came around her and cradled the back of her neck, her arms coming to wrap around his neck and hold him there so she could kiss him longer. A soft, but deeply male moan escaped him and Integra knew that if this continued, there was a solid chance she might have a very impressive list of regrets in the morning.

Or merely an impressive list of firsts.

A knock on the door shattered the momentary spell, and Integra found herself suddenly staring at Alucard’s back where he stood between her and the door, and any possible threats. “Madame, the guests have arrived,” Walter’s voice called politely from the other side of the door. “I believe it is time for you to make your entrance. Shall I fetch the Count?”

Tucking a stray strand of hair loosed in their moment behind her ear, Integra cleared her throat and straightened her dress. “I believe he knows, Walter. That won’t be necessary. I will meet you atop the stairs in a few moments.”

“Of course, my lady.”

When Walter’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Integra looked up to Alucard to see his eyes glowing darkly under the shadow of his hair. He’d moved so quickly she’d not only not seen, but it had taken a second for her to register what had happened. Now, she stood staring into the burning eyes of a damned soul and true monster. She had to remember that. She had to remind herself that he was a monster, her servant. A weapon. A tool to we wielded against the darkness…

...And if he had then leaned down to kiss her again, she would not have stopped him.

Hell.

Before her train of thought could go any further, she noticed that same monster was holding his arm out to her like a gentleman. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. A handsome, dark angel of death and destruction. Some might say The Devil Himself.

“Best not to keep your public waiting,” he rumbled, but there was more to his tone than his usual torment in that statement. If Integra had a gun to her head for an answer, she’d have guessed there was a note of longing to his words.

Accepting his arm and letting him lead her to the door, she acknowledged in her mind for the first time that day that she was actually terrified of the living downstairs and completely… well at least mostly, comfortable with the monster on whose arm she walked. As he opened the door, she stopped him, tugging ever so slightly at his elbow. “Alucard,” she whispered, preventing echoes and eavesdropping, “Do not stray far from me this evening.”

His expression melted from poise, to sadistic delight as he smiled. “Is that an order, or a request, my master?”

She thought about it a moment, facing forward once more to resume their pace. Finally she sighed.

“Both.”

[douglashonorscollege]

A Family Outing

short story by Anonymous  ⌂

“WHOEVER STOLE MY WHEELBARROW F*** YOU B**** COME SEE ME.”

Duke stared at the words in front of the orange home in the Box. This was much different than the “Bless This Home” sign in front of his own house. His house--located in the suburbs, many miles away from the Box--was tall and well-groomed. The carpet in the house was soft under his paws, the bright yellow walls were smooth when he brushed his small furry blonde body against them, and food crumbs were plentiful.

Everything about humans fascinated Duke. He watched every movie with his family (even the scary ones), tried every food he was given, and even sang along when Madeline practiced the violin. When the day of the Box trip arrived, he sat in the family’s van and watched them exit the church. All Duke knew about church was that nobody wanted to go and Mom yelled at anyone who dared to wear jeans. Despite their complaints, Duke envied the time they spent in that small mysterious building.

Duke had been anticipating the visit to the Box for months. He was there when Mom had ordered the tickets online and had been attentively eavesdropping on the family’s Box discussions ever since. At dinner, Dad had remarked, “I can’t wait to see one of those Box-freaks in real life.” Dad acted really tough with his yelling and cursing and giving Duke the nickname “Schmuck”. When no one was looking, he cried during movies, sang to love songs on the radio, and cuddled with Duke after work.

Duke intently watched as Madeline, the oldest sibling, wrote a research paper about the Box:

The Box was built in 2067 in a small town formerly known as Finley, WA. After 6,000 different Hanford Nuclear Power Plant employees developed physical and mental mutations from a radioactive material leak, the government decided to intervene. Side effects ranged from psychotic behavior, tentacle growth from the brain, and green tinting to the skin. After the incident, the power plant was shut down; thousands of families were left without any source of income, ill, and angry.

First, they torched the mall, then the bank, then the churches. When they started murdering masses and rearranging the railroads, it became clear that no ordinary jail cell could contain the continually mutating victims. That’s when the Box was built. The Box is a sturdy, well-filtered facility that is 14.5 cubic miles large. All 6,000 employees were forcibly transferred to live in the Box permanently. Upon entering the Box, citizens were encouraged to build houses and begin farming with the artificial resources provided.

Duke recalled the times he had learned about the Box from the magic screen in the living room. When a Box resident attempted to scale the 14.5 mile wall in an effort to escape, he suffocated from lack of oxygen and died. In efforts to boost morale, the government transformed the Box into a freak show/amusement park for the citizens outside the Box. Within weeks, The Box became the most popular tourist attraction in eastern Washington. Duke was confused why such a sad place would bring people excitement, but he just assumed that it was yet another aspect of being human that he would never understand.

The day they went to the Box was a warm Sunday afternoon in October, so Dad decided a trip to the winery would be a good way to kill time before their appointment at the Box. Duke loved wineries. The long stretches of grass to chase his sisters on, the sunshine to bathe in, and the occasional hidden dead bird or rat to munch on. He loved how happy his family looked. Mom and Dad, sipping red wine and playing cards, and his sisters slicing apples with a small kitchen knife from Mom’s purse. Mom was incredibly thoughtful, she was prepared for anything.

Duke’s family approached the gates to the Box in their minivan and parked next to the ticket booth. A teenager wearing an “I SURVIVED THE BOX” T-shirt opened the ticket window. The shiny pimples on his face reminded Duke of the Skittles commercials his sisters thought were so funny.

“Tickets for seven please,” said Dad.

“Is your group interested in purchasing any souvenirs, sir?” the boy grunted.

“Nah, not today.” Eyeroll. Sigh.

“Welcome to the Box. At the Box, we have three rules: no leaving the vehicle, no weapons permitted, and no removing any items from the Box. Pictures are encouraged. If you post a photo, please use #getboxed to get 15% off your next visit. Since you’ve already signed the waiver you’re good to go.”

The family chanted “The Box! The Box! The Box!” as they traded their van for a rented military-grade Hummer. Duke sat in the passenger's seat on Mom’s lap. Mom is a charming woman whose big eyes, big nose, big mouth, big teeth, and big blonde Jennifer Anniston highlights, looked even bigger on her petite body. She wore large beaded earrings, pink lipstick, high heels, and a dress with lots of lines and shapes on it.

As Dad drove the Hummer through the gates and towards the steak fields, Duke recalled the time when mom had snuck him steak, fish, and even cabbage before dinner. She never forgot about Duke. He thought of their morning snuggles, the good books he read over her shoulder, and the time she defended his honor when he chewed up the cord to the vacuum cleaner. His favorite part of the day was sitting by her side and watching her paint. He often followed his family as their feet shuffled throughout the house. Mom’s were his favorite to follow.

There were times when Duke was convinced that despite her adoration for her biological children, he was indeed Mom’s favorite. He was a good boy. Mom made Duke feel as if--despite his small furry body--that he was human. It was Mom who insisted he join the family on long hikes and trips to the beach and demanded his appearance in every Christmas card. It was Mom who chose to bring him on the family’s big trip to see the Box.

Dad was not as enthusiastic to bring Duke. He found it outrageous that he had to buy an adult-priced ticket for a 10-pound chihuahua.

The further they drove into the Box, their amazement grew. Despite it being 2 pm, the sky was pitch black, and torches illuminated the houses built from garbage. Between the houses were fields of colorful produce, and green octopus-looking children eyeing the family closely, licking their lips. The fields felt endless. The air smelled different near the plants, a sweet, sour stench that made Duke feel dizzy.

Madeline shouted, “Mom look! That orange house is made of trash, just like we learned about in the documentary. The garbage man dumps our trash here so that the monsters can make houses.”

Duke watched as Mom’s bright green eyes faded to a watery grey, as they usually do after a few drinks. Her eyes were glued to a garden next to the orange house. Duke scratched her arm to ask for more snuggles, but she did not respond. The garden was filled with bright blue glowing pumpkins. She was entranced. So entranced that she didn’t even notice the threatening sign next to the house.

“Michael stop the car.”

Dad stopped the car; he is more obedient than Duke sometimes. Mom pulled a small kitchen knife from her purse, handed the knife to her two oldest children, and told them to go to the garden and grab a pumpkin for her.

They hesitated at first, confused why they were being encouraged to steal but soon jumped out of the car like it was the grandest adventure of their lives. They too, upon seeing the pumpkins for themselves, fell in love.

They had never looked at Duke the way they looked at those pumpkins. Was he not good enough? What did those pumpkins have that he didn’t? The pumpkins never chewed up their toys. That must be it.

Duke watched through the window. He observed their big cheesy smiles as the two girls tried to cut the pumpkin from the stem, and their terrified faces when the door to the orange house opened, a 300-pound green-skinned witch with scales instead of skin emerged. Her long hair was made of octopus tentacles that rattled as she walked. She wore a long nightgown made of bedsheets. After taking a long puff from her cigar, she asked them to leave.

Duke was ready to attack. He could sense that his sisters were in danger.

Dad opened the door to apologize, but before he could muster the words Mom had summoned her children to the car, put the pumpkin in her purse, and had called Box patrol.

The Box patrol rolled up in another military-grade Hummer with #GetBoxed logos on every door. Two tall brawny women armed with assault rifles exited the vehicle and inspected the scene. Duke noted the way they looked at the woman from the orange house. They grimaced at her scaly feet and overgrown nails. The stench seeping from her tentacles made them gag. The woman took a long puff from her cigar.

“These kids stole one of my pumpkins. The rules say no stealing. I’ve been growing these pumpkins for years. They are the only part of this Box that brings me joy.”

Mom remained calm, and looked the patrol woman in the eyes, “There seems to be a misunderstanding. My dog leaped from the car window and my daughters went to go grab him before he did any damage to this beautiful garden. Then this witch chased my children around the yard and threatened them with violence. I was so scared.” She paused and turned to the woman, “You have a lovely home by the way.”

Duke was in shock. That is not what happened. He was a good boy and stayed in the car.

How could the woman he loved so dearly lie so easily?

The woman became enraged by Mom’s lies and pleaded her innocence. The patrol women ignored her; they had already made up their minds.

“CHECK HER PURSE!” the witch yelled. The veins in her neck glowed through her skin.

The first gunshot fired. Duke whimpered. His sisters unbuckled their seatbelts. Mom locked the doors. Dad didn’t move, his eyes glued to the ground.

“SHE HAS MY PUMPKIN.”

The second shot fired. Duke began to bark. When his sisters cried, they were told to close their eyes. Mom was yelling now, demanding them to shut their eyes. Duke looked at mom, eyes wide open.

“PLEASE, LET ME LIVE!”

The third shot fired. Duke darted through the window to the Box Patrol and started biting their legs. He tore their pants but realized it was too late.

The woman’s body lay in front of her home. The little orange house made of garbage that she built herself. Her blood was a deep blue and bubbled as it pooled around her body. Duke walked to her corpse and stared at her. He licked her fingertips but she didn’t move.

Momo, age six, was crying and tugged at Mom’s shoulder, “Can we say sorry now? We’re really sorry we stole her pumpkins. I want to go home. Is she hurt? We should wake her up now.”

Duke’s other sisters remained silent, they knew better than to comment. They stared at the floor, nauseous with guilt.

The muscular Box Patrol women stood over her corpse, took a photo, and asked Mom and Dad if they would like a free copy of it emailed to them. Dad said no, Mom said yes, which means yes, the picture would be sent to her email address.

As one of the patrol officers bagged the body, another apologized to Mom, “We are sincerely embarrassed for your family’s traumatic experience today and would like to offer a gift to make up for it. We will be sending #GetBoxed T-shirts as well as #IsurvivedtheBoxFreak merchandise to your home as well as a 50% discount on your next visit.”

The blue glowing pumpkin now lives in the family’s beautiful home in Kennewick. It sat first in a glass box next to the easel where Mom paints, in place of where Duke used to sit. The glass seemed to be shrinking. Last week, the glass broke. Every day, Duke patiently waits for his morning snuggles, lunchtime walks, and evening painting, but Mom no longer shows any interest. She prefers to stare at the pumpkin. Her eyes have faded since staring at it, obsessing over it, and refusing to throw it away, even after it starts to decay. She has stopped sneaking Duke treats and inviting him on trips. When Duke chewed up a shoe out of boredom, she called him a monster.

His sisters stay in their rooms with the doors shut, not cracked, so he can’t push them open with his nose. At dinner, there is silence. The pumpkin at first sat on the piano during dinner but is now massive enough to be a table.

Duke often finds himself staring at the yellow walls, which have now begun to fade to green. The walls are no longer smooth, but prickly when he rubs against them. They’re covered in numerous paintings of the blue pumpkin. Duke stares in awe, confusion, and betrayal. The walls have become so shiny that Duke sees himself in the mirror for the first time. He doesn’t look human at all. He looks like a blue pumpkin. ∎

Minerva’s Owl Homepage

[nipashe411]

Dull Easter as churches adjust to new normal

In Summary At St Joseph Milimani Catholic Church Parish, Father Oliver Tambo led the faithful in marking the Easter vigil mass through a live broadcast on Facebook. Unlike yesteryears when multitudes of Catholic faithful would congregate in different parts of the country to celebrate Easter, this year it is all gloom. Christians have resorted to celebrating the festival away from places of worship. The Holy Week in the Roman Catholic Church that leads up to the triduum — a period of three days observance specifically Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday — lined up with solemn activities that include processions, veneration of the cross and a vigil mass culminating in Easter Sunday to mark resurrection of Christ has been oddly silent, a stark difference from yesteryears Faithful have been forced to stay at home during the coronavirus pandemic even as churches strived to observe the holy period through online masses. In Kisumu County, the Easter vigil mass on Saturday was dampened by a power outage following a heavy downpour, which cut off Christians to live streaming of the service. At St. Joseph Milimani Catholic Church Parish, Father Oliver Tambo led the faithful in marking the Easter vigil mass through a live broadcast on Facebook. PRIVATE PRAYERS Easter Sunday service celebrations across many of the denominations were low-key, the new-normal for Kenyans. Many churches remained locked, with the clergy choosing to passing their messages of hope through online platforms. Pastor Pius Buodo in charge of Glorious Covenant Church, in his live broadcast, implored Christians to believe in coming out of the pandemic unscathed just as Christ did from crucifixion. Winning Hope Church Pastor Fredrick Matengo urged faithful to be firm during these trying times. But in Homa Bay, the temporary closure of places of worship as a precautionary measure of preventing the spread of coronavirus has not barred some Christians from going to church. St Pauls Cathedral in Homa Bay Town is among the churches where a handful of Christians go to hold private prayers. The Nation caught up with Arujo MCA Mary Odira: “The closure of churches does not mean that we close prayers. I am here to speak to my God because of some personal issues,” she said. Such prayers take at most five minutes. SOCIAL DISTANCE The priest in charge of the cathedral, Francis Lesso, and his assistant, Romanus Omuto, also held private prayers in the church. Ft Lesso said he held private prayers together with three brothers and six nuns who live within the church. “The government encourages its citizens to pray at home to stop the spread of coronavirus. Since we all live in the church, we have decided to hold our Easter prayers here,” Fr Lesso said. He said the annual consecration and adoration of the cross done during Easter will be conducted in September, where everyone will be allowed to participate. “It is disappointing but we have to bear with the situation. God will prevail and the disease will end. We will then go back to our normal way of life,” Fr Lesso encouraged Christians. The clergy reminded Catholic Christians that the church has temporality closed its doors. Fr Lesso, however, encouraged Christians to open their hearts to God. “Pray at home and stay safe. This is a suffering that all Christians are undergoing,” he said. Fr Omuto told Kenyans to obey government orders to avoid transmission of coronavirus. “Maintain social distance and personal hygiene to beat the virus,” the clergy said. In Vihiga, Christian faithful kept away from churches, breaking the long tradition that has seen them mark the resurrection of Jesus annually. TRANSMARA CLASHES At St Charles Lwanga Catholic Church in Mbale town, Vihiga County, doors were locked. Father Martin Chibole led the service at a separate small chapel within the convent. Only nuns attended the service. He said they observed social distancing and every participant wore a face mask. The priest noted that the pandemic had affected Easter and the usual Christian activities, praying that the crisis comes to an end soon. Elsewhere in his Easter message, Anglican Archbishop Jackson ole Sapit called on the government to investigate the root cause of Transmara interclan clashes. Speaking at Narok ACK Church, the archbishop said the government should organise a dialogue between the warring communities through political and church leaders. Archbishop Sapit said it’s alarming that the clashes between Syria and Uasin Ngishu clans are escalating even as the world battles the virus pandemic. “The warring communities should know that their lives are greater than the land they are fighting for. Nobody will benefit from the contested land when he/she dies. They will leave it behind,” he said and called on leaders to educate residents on priority issues. ALL IS VANITY Speaking after a live sermon and prayer session at a local TV station, he also called for swift investigations to unmask those stoking the conflict. At Holy Family Basilica in Nairobi, the mass was held in an empty church that would usually be packed with thousands of people. The neatly decorated altar that is usually packed with priests was empty as Cardinal John Njue and Archbishop Anthony Muheria led about 10 priests in celebrating holy mass. The service lasted slight over an hour. “The worst virus facing Kenya today is that of greed and pride,” said Archbishop Muheria. He said many Kenyans are killing each other because of land that they inherit from their parents. “Even the rich are amassing wealth by robbing the poor during this time of coronavirus due to greed and politics of lies,” he said. At Christ the King Cathedral Nakuru, Bishop Maurice Muhatia led a mass attended by only about 15 priests and sisters. He said: “There is always light at the end of the tunnel and today Christ has resurrected and given us new light and hope to defeat coronavirus pandemic,” said Bishop Muhatia. Unlike in the past when the faithful were given the holy communion by priests, the attendees served themselves. Reporting by Ondari Ogega, George Odiwuor, Derrick Luvega, Elizabeth Ojina, Gaitano Pessa, George Sayagie and Francis Mureithi Read the full article

[memorylang]

New Me, Stateside for New Year’s | #20 | January 2020

When I landed back in Mongolia, many asked me either, “How was America?” or “How was China?” I saw both, anyway. So in this travel trio finale, I reflect on the changes I’d noticed in and around me during my three weeks on vacation from Mongolia.

During my reverse culture shock in the States, I logged my findings. Some were physical, like my increased tolerances (resilience?). Others were perceptions. Food, friends and family are my themes~

Landing in the States

“Welcome back, sir,” smiled the U.S. immigration officer at SFO, when said I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer. 

That felt different. 

Usually immigration gives me trouble, not credit. 

But I also felt more comfortable on the plane and in the airport, too, not needing to worry whether my shoes’ bottoms faced others. When travelers’ feet rubbed mine, they didn’t need to shake my hand. Those made life easier. Nonetheless, I felt odd seeing Americans nonchalantly have their shoes’ bottoms face people.

The House in Vegas

Returning to my family’s house that December 19 before Christmas, it felt more spacious than I remembered. Even our restrooms just felt larger than I recalled. Having our cooling fall from our ceiling, instead of heating from radiators below the windows surprised me, too. 

Writing of the house, I also sleep way better in the beds at home. Amusingly, I slept in my older brother’s old bed, since, for the past four plus years, he’s slept in my old bed. My younger brother had moved into his old bed while I was away for university. (It’s complicated.) Based on the States, I felt, I could think up ways to make my bed in Mongolia more comfortable…

As I explained to friends in the States, I’d also experienced dreams including friends from both in my Peace Corps service and in my Nevada lives before. I noted, in the past, I would keep in touch with American friends while going abroad. This time, I would keep in touch with Mongolian friends while visiting the States. Those blending communities felt profound, since I loved when life’s separate experiences crossed. I hope I continue such habits beyond my service.

Before my half-brother and his wife left after Christmas, they commended me, I seem more confident and calmer since graduating university. We discussed at length some cross-culture techniques, regarding how I seek and engage motivations when I teach and learn.

On the Advent of Christmas, I’d returned through my closet for childhood things I’ve finally grown willing to part with. I gifted these to them, for their baby. When I returned to Mongolia, they shared with me a photo of him adoring his new toy. Hehe, what a life.

So Much Food

To end my first full day back at the house, I stayed true to my word from Mongolia. I just went to the fridge and freezer, grabbed a bunch of berries and banana, plunked them in a blender with pineapple(?) ice cream and milk, (plus peas,) then downed that awesome shake while I worked on my writings. Ugh, shakes. 

I definitely satisfied my major cravings stateside. While I love Mongolian food, I’d forgotten the States’ food diversity! I enjoyed at least American (including Hawaiian), Chinese, Japanese, Filipino and Thai goodness. Vegas has lots of Asian cuisine. 

I hadn’t realized how much a half-Chinese American like me could miss pizza, burgers and bagels, but heck, I found that out, too. I ate pizza at plenty opportunities, amounting to at least a time or two per week. Freezer pizzas tasted rad. Even those staling discount blueberry bagels from Smith’s were great. 

And, oh dang, microwaves! Not having to heat my food on a pan felt the best, haha. I’m such a tourist in our own house.

Into Our Community

Leading up to my return, I announced to friends I’d be back. Get-togethers arranged. 

Sunday, we left home to see family friends. The constant Christmas music on the radio and Christmas lights on neighborhoods’ homes welcomed me. I even welcomed hearing car radios! I hadn’t heard as many radios in Mongolia, since I avoided taxis my first months. Buses just played downloaded music videos, if anything.

Outdoors in Vegas, I realized I could take the cool way better! I wore one or two layers when locals wear two or three.

At sushi, we enjoyed a welcome back lunch celebrating the returns of a family friend and me. I loved the fraternal bonds and companionship. Curiously, a family friend offered me a beer, which I finished myself. I felt surprised, considering I could hardly do that before leaving America. I guess Mongolian events like Teachers’ Day gave me practice. Later, at my high school Korean friend’s house, he offered me to try his favorite bourbons. Even those, I realized, tasted pretty good. Seems my drink palate’s changed. But I prefer not to invest that route.

Fireside Philosophies

That night with three from our high school alma mater, we lounged around a backyard fire pit with s’mores. Having had freshman classes with these guys, we’ve known each other almost a decade. 

I felt particularly moved in an albeit geeky way, moments earlier, when we first reunited inside. He’s finishing his last semester at West Point. With a hand on my shoulder, he compared me to Ash Ketchum, traveling the world and making so many friends. “Someday, you’re going to be Hokage,” he smiled. 

He’s fun. He reached out during my first autumn in Mongolia, after some four years apart. 

Our party of four discussed our passions, dreams and goals. We’d all traveled afar for our studies and careers. We talked big ideas like cross-cultural evangelization, shared Asian and Christian philosophies and the flooring ethical codes and punishments of West Point. Turns out isolation isn’t just something Peace Corps Volunteers experience!

Vegas Since Christmas

Days later, after Christmas, I reunited with more friends.

First, I saw a game developer, who also graduated my high school, who saw me before I left for Peace Corps. Then I met up with my photographer Korean friend who married before I left for Peace Corps and has done well. He prefers non-K-Pop Korean music. He let me know our high school friend from freshman year who left to study in the Philippines just returned to America. We hadn’t seen him since 2012. I felt so excited, we drove to see him. What an experience. I picked up a huge Thai tea with boba and Hawaiian burger, too. Now that’s Vegas. 

Then I met one of my best friends, a fellow world-traveled one, who’s also preparing his graduate application. We also met a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer, who served in Bangladesh till civil unrest evacuated them. I’ll cover our coffee shop/bookstore conversations in an upcoming story. Another friend, too, a Catholic I met at university, wandered a mall with me before her own first study abroad. I felt so happy for her. 

In there, I noticed what my older brother and his girlfriend meant, about Americans not walking up escalators (lifts), even wide ones. When I got back to Beijing, I saw people did as I remembered, standing on the right side to wait or stepping up the left to go quicker. I felt glad I wasn’t crazy. Though, it made me wish Americans didn’t desire such large personal spaces in public places… We must share.

Last Rides in Reno

Back to Reno! My final day there, morning after the wedding, I donned my Mongolian traditional shirt and reunited with my journalism school and the Honors Program at the University of Nevada, Reno. I reunited, too, that weekend with my fraternity brothers and friends. We talked big ideas, and I imparted notions sculpted by my months in Mongolia. Yet I felt so comfortable seated in the cars, taking walks and lounging between professors’ offices in the city I called home four years. 

Many related my youngest sister’s been doing well in her sophomore year at my alma mater. Church-wise, she’s even going through the Rites of Christian Initiation for Adults and dating her sponsor, who was my Knights of Columbus successor. (There’s a great coincidence from RCIA 2016 I may touch on someday.) The morning choir loves Sister dearly, though, even as they’ve missed my days, months and years among them. They’re family. Curiously, I even heard my dad’s been attending morning Masses there when he takes jobs in Northern Nevada. I’m glad he hears our remarkable pastor. 

My sister and I actually had a falling-out the day I left our college town last May. So I’d written and sent her a formal apology while flying through Kyrgyzstan to Mongolia. Though we made amends over the seven months, I’m glad she’s had the good year I’d hoped for. Though my legacy hasn’t left its halls, I’ve wanted for her her own story. Even our youngest brother means to attend the Honors Program, its new director told me. Ultimately, my sister and I said goodbyes first this time, for she had to leave before my last day in the States.

That noon, still December 31, I also got lunch with my World Youth Day 2019 family. So fitting to end the year where we started it—together. I related the feeling of living the faith in the First Evangelism. They spoke words with such Spirit, I felt touched. They’ve really had my back this year. They kept in touch regularly since I came to Mongolia. I’ve needed that. 

I spent the rest of my day slipping around campus, musing down memory lane and delivering gifts of шагай \shagai\ ankle bones I’d also given many for Christmas. I loved sharing Mongolian culture through my gifts. Mongolians wishing me over Facebook, “Merry Christmas,” on New Year’s Day, reminded me, as a Catholic, Christmas and New Year’s really do overlap.

There are so many more in Reno-Sparks I wish I could have seen again.

Northern Nevada’s New Year’s Eve

As evening neared, Dad picked me up from the University to take me near Lake Tahoe, where we would share dinner with the Catholic Regent and her Mongolian daughter-in-law, who first readied me for Peace Corps mere weeks before I went. Dad’s so social. Maybe someday I could match his way with making himself comfortable in a room of unfamiliar peers. Discussions of mining in Nevada and the Gobi Desert set in stone for me how similar my undergrad and current communities feel sometimes. Seriously. 

Dad drove me back into town so I could ring in the new year with my newlywed friends. We experienced a multi-faith night hosted in the Reno Buddhist Center. Since I couldn’t find them, I sat in back. I spotted the University photographer who took my portraits at my senior year’s beginning and end, for having done well with my University scholarships and later becoming Senior Scholar of my school. She smiled at me with that familiar twinkle in her eyes. 

I enjoyed a joke our kindly cathedral rector made, that evening, about Catholics coming late and leaving early. I hadn’t heard humor like that in Mongolia. He smiled with such affection when he saw me. Later than evening, as the fireworks came up, I approached the front. A woman had me and a classical singing boy join her beating the Taiko drum! What a moment. 

The newlyweds joined me afterward, joyful to have spotted me down there. They introduced me to a Native American, an imam and other religious leaders who attended the wedding. They complimented my cantoring. I felt shocked they remembered. Then we took a big photo. We shared the most loving hugs.

Then, the couple and I went outside. Like our times passed, we exchanged goodbyes before my next big trip around the world. Then I got back in the car with Dad. After returning to Mongolia, I’d place throughout my apartment faith filled keepsakes from that beautiful wedding.

The New Year

New Year’s Day, I rode with Dad to Fallon, from where we left to Vegas after rest and a continental breakfast. Seeing his suitcases and the coolers in the hotel room before we loaded the car, I recollected years of road trips with my father and family. I still felt surprised how selflessly he’d driven me around New Year’s Eve, when I wanted to get places. I’d miss these road trips with my dad. 

As I stared out the window, seeing the faraway mountains and thinking of that Thanksgiving car ride in Mongolia, I felt grateful to still have Dad well and healthy, after Mom. He still listened to dad rock. I liked that. We’d be home soon.

Through car rides like these, I finished one more big thing in the States. Across my weeks, I blazed through “Pokémon Moon.” This achievement was colossal, since I played in Mandarin Chinese and only touched the game once or twice annually for the three years since my sophomore year at university.

But ultimately, I left it behind in the States. I’m in Mongolia, a world of adventure. That’s my 2020 theme: Exploration. A game would surely distract if I brought it.

Leaving America (Again)

The last friend I saw before leaving Vegas and the U.S. again was also my last friend I saw before leaving for Mongolia the first time. 

She seriously helped me pack in May, when I was a mess. This time, we ate out at a restaurant chain I’d seen only during my years in Reno-Sparks. We spoke for hours. Our reunions since college often wind up as these late nights. Though we relate about the voids left since our parents passed, we’ve known each other so long before. I’ve loved we can talk without retelling backstory. She’s one of those friends who’s so real, she knows me better than I do sometimes!

Anyway, seems I grew another way since Mongolia. This time in Vegas, I finished my packing myself.

Before the crack of dawn, I hugged my other siblings bye, before Dad zoomed me across the city for my flight away. That shiny Raiders stadium will probably be done the next time I’m back.

Return to My City

I experienced an amazing time with relatives and friends back in China on my return trip from the States to Mongolia. 

January 8, back in Mongolia, I took an overnight sleeper train for my first time alone. I felt darkness’ void in knowing no one. I felt the waves of the rocking train, its lurches and bumps as it shifted and wheels screeched. I felt pensive during the odd morning hours when my sore back woke me. I thought about my identity and new words said before I left. More on that soon.

Peace Corps Mongolia continues.

You can read more from me here at DanielLang.me :)

[mfmagazine]

Taxidermy Couture

Article by Lauren Weigle

Photo by Rebecca Schmidt

Taxidermy Couture was definitely a must-have for me once I came across it.  Its art mixed with Goth mixed with glamour mixed with vintage mixed with...well, everything!  The point is that the collections are hot and almost entirely made up of one-of-a-kind pieces.  So, if you see something you like you better snatch it up fast as it may be gone tomorrow.  On the other hand, no one else will have the same gorgeous and unique accessory as you will, which makes each piece even more special.

Let’s talk about the Latin phrase “memento mori” and what it means in terms of Taxidermy Couture.

Memento mori means "Remember you must one day die". It names a genre of artistic creations that vary widely from one another, but which all share the same purpose, to remind people of their own mortality and the punishment they will receive if they transgress the rules of their religion. A phrase that has had a tradition in art that dates back to antiquity. I always say my work is "Memento mori inspired" because I personally am not trying to remind people or their punishment when they die. In fact, I'm not one for religion at all. I was raised Catholic and was forced to go to church every Sunday until I left home at 17, but the silver lining was being able to spend an hour every week staring at beautiful art, art that still inspires me to this day… obviously. As far as the connection between memento mori and Taxidermy Couture... well, my use of animal skulls, teeth, and bones would make anyone think about death.

Pretty intense, just like the name of your label.  How did you come up with the brand’s name?

Originally I called my line "Morbid beauty", but it just didn't feel right; it felt very "Goth" to me. Yes, a large amount of my work has a Gothic feel, and I love that. However, I don't want to pigeon-hole myself into a set aesthetic. Some days I'm super vamp, some days I'm a modern hippie, and other days I'm something I don't have a term for. I am, however, extremely into high fashion and art so I felt "Taxidermy Couture" simply described the work much more, and will continue to do so no matter what direction I go in the future.

Tell me about the woman behind the company, Marya.

That's a hard one! As of [December] I am now Marya, the wife. I am happier than I have ever been before in my entire life! We went to Vegas with 10 friends and had the best time! Other than that it changes all the time. I try to dip my toe in anything and everything that interests me.

Speaking of interests, I want to hear all about your musical alter ego!  Spill it!

Valium Valentine, my pop culture alter ego! She was born a year ago and sadly we only got 3 songs done.  You can find them on Myspace. We (my husband and I) LOVE all kinds of music and wanted to just play. However, once it got started I kind of took over and so we decided it was my baby. I want to make a few more songs before she dies... But, we have another secret band we have been working on, so it can be hard to put your mind in two completely different creative places at the same time. My husband and I will always make music, no matter who hears it. Its funny talking about "my music" when I have some close friends in legit bands, they actually make a living making music and touring. If I ever had the chance to go on tour as a performer I'd jump on it.

Do you think your love of music ever inspires some of your pieces for Taxidermy Couture?

How could it not!? I name pieces after songs or bands all the time. I do a series of multi-chain necklaces with my signature mink tooth lockets and other "vampire inspired" charms, no two are the same, but they all share the name "Vampire Weekend". Aside from that, I think the music world has a huge part to play in fashion. I can't help but be influenced by music; it sets a mood. Bands I loved growing up are probably why I started getting tattoos and wore chucks, so yes, music inspires many a Taxidermy Couture piece.

You also style and cut hair.  Is there anything you don’t do?!

Well, when I was really young I want to be a fashion designer. I'd draw pictures of clothes all day. My mom was a super punk rock chic, purple and green hair, made all her clothes, made jewelry out of scrap metal she'd find on the street, etc. Since the age of 11 she'd ask me to cut her hair. I won't lie. I had a natural knack for it. By age 14 I could do a perfect bob. So, when I turned 18 and had been living on my own for almost a year, I decided I needed to figure out what career path to go in. Hair just made the most sense, and I loved it. Not to mention, Cosmetology school was a hell of a lot less money than college, and I grew up really poor so the thought of debt was scary. I've worked in so many salons over the past ten years. My favorite was Ultra Salon in Manhattan, NY.  I worked there for four years before calling it quits and crossing over to freelance. I did the hair for two Rapture music videos a few years back. As of now I turned our dining room into a mini-salon. I really love working for myself from home, I'm not a conventional person.

Conventional is way overrated.  So, Marya, why is it exactly that you are drawn to things like teeth and animal skulls?

I am very drawn to teeth. They are just so cool and creepy. I have a tooth wearing a crown tattooed on my left arm. I use a lot of bone vertebrae from various animals; they have the most amazing shapes! It seems wrong not making jewelry out of them. But my original inspiration really comes from a necklace I own. Long story short, my long lost father who I met when I was 23; we were both living in NYC and this amazing thing happened and suddenly I had the coolest father ever! Well, for my birthday he gave me this to-die-for Pade Vavra Diamond and shark tooth necklace. He knew I loved shark teeth and diamonds so, boom! Two years ago I made my first rabbit foot/shark tooth necklace for my husband. We had just started dating and he flipped out over it. That's really why I started making jewelry to sell to the public. He's an independent buyer for a clothing store in our neighborhood, so he convinced me I was talented enough to sell my work. A few months later, my Etsy store was up and running. But, I suppose I have a soft spot for things not the norm because of my mother and her friends, a bunch of young artists from Boston. I even got to be in a small independent film called "black hearts bleed red" directed by Jeri Cane Rossi. The bazaar and “oh so talented” artist Joe Coleman was also in this movie. If you aren't familiar with his work you really should Google him. I wish I had the talent this man has! All the little "weird" things about my childhood just stuck I suppose.

How are you able to take these things that, to some, can be considered dark or dismal, but create such beautiful jewelry from them?

It's all your frame of mind, to some it’s creepy and they will never be into it, no matter how pretty it is. But, to me there is nothing dark or dismal about letting these animals live on through art. I don't think any part of the animal should be wasted. Animals give us the gift of food and warmth. To me the bones and teeth are just as precious and should be respected and admired. No animals are killed for the sake of my art. All parts are from animals that have died from natural causes, or have been killed for the meat. I do eat meat, so I can't be a hypocrite.  I only use vintage fur (usually from damaged fur coats from the 1980's or older) because once I found out how they actually skin the animals alive, I couldn't morally buy new fur. I have very high standards for the materials I use, which is a HUGE part of the work that goes into these pieces. How do I make them beautiful? I don't really know... I just play with it until it becomes what it should be.

Tell me more about some of your one-of-a-kind pieces.

The majority of what I make is one-of-a-kind. And, even the pieces I can replicate aren't identical. To me, teeth and bones are like snowflakes. Because of my high standards of how the animal has died I can't place an order for X amount of jawbones at a time, so I work with what I have, when I have it. I do however do a series of animal skull necklaces that are all OOAK. No two are identical because if you are going to spend over $100 on a necklace, you don't want your best friend to buy the exact same one, right? These are special pieces to keep forever and cherish. Chains like Forever 21 make me sad, mass-produced crap that everyone has and falls apart. Not to mention, the poor children working over 8 hours a day for next to no money just so we Americans can be cheap and selfish, but that's another topic for another interview at another time.  

Well then let’s stick to things like some of your vintage-inspired pieces.  Can you tell me a little about those as well?

Well, I use a lot of vintage pieces and up-cycle them. That's another reason why most of my work is one-of-a-kind. I use a mix of new and old charms and chains. Because of my background growing up with my mother I have always thrift-shopped and had fun finding little hidden treasures at flea markets and vintage shops. It may even be in my blood. After meeting my father, I found out he originally started his long career of owning retail stores with a vintage store. I must admit that lately I've been VERY focused on my Taxidermy Couture, but now that my wedding is over I have more free time and I am planning on coming out with new vintage-inspired, non-taxidermy work soon. It all depends on my inspiration. I can't force my work or it will show, and not in a good way. Any art I make is an organic experience.

Ooh, I can’t wait for more vintage pieces!  My absolute favorites are the Vintage up-cycled Chanel earrings and the Mortality charm necklace, but it’s out of stock.  Any come-backs on the horizon for those items on your site that have already sold out?

I've had a soft spot for Chanel since I was about 20. I have enjoyed collecting Chanel earrings since then. I hate clip-on earrings so any vintage pair I can up-cycle into posts, I will. It’s funny you mention the Mortality charm necklace because one of my best friends Katy aka Kickball bought it a few months back, so I got to see her wearing it again at our wedding. She fell in love (her words) with it when we did a La Sera for Taxidermy Couture photo shoot. Luckily for me she used them as her press release photos. La Sera is her solo project. She's more known for her band "Vivian Girls". And again, that is a one-of-a-kind. Ninety percent of the materials used for that necklace were vintage parts.

I’m so jealous!  Any new ideas in the works for more killer necklaces or earrings?

I won't know until I make them, sorry. However, I am lucky that a collector in the mid-west (they are retired and go for nature excursions constantly) has decided they want to "clean out there closet" so to speak, so I have a large number of vertebrae, skulls, and wolf teeth coming in any day now!

I noticed you don’t have any bracelets or watches yet.  Ever think about including some pieces along those lines in future collections?

I've actually done a few pocket watch necklaces, all OOAK and all sold before I could even get them up on my site. I do gallery and trade shows and other events where I sell my work. I also sell my jewelry at Shotwell in Union Square, San Francisco (my current home) and at Modern Eden gallery in North Beach, SF. So, not everything makes it in my own online store. As far as bracelets, it’s funny. I've made a few, but I never really think to make more because I'm not much of a bracelet person myself. I have this thin gold wire I wear every day. Come to think of it, I might be on my third year of wearing it without ever taking it off. How funny! I never really thought about it.

So, if you weren’t doing what you’re doing, what do you think you would be?  A taxidermist?

Definitely not. I am actually squeamish. I don't think I could do any of the dirty work. If there is something I want to do, I'll try it out. However, I do love decorating. I could see myself in interior design. My husband and I love doing theme rooms in our house! We can't wait to own our own home one day and go crazy! Right now I'm starting some business classes. We want to move back to NYC and open our own small Brooklyn boutique. I'll continue to make jewelry of course, but we will fill the store up with any awesome artists’ work we can get our hands on. We're hoping this will happen within the next two years. More than half my online sales are from NYC, so that's a good sign.

[windycityparrot]

I need a powder coated bird cage - but I'm not sure why

This question that came in recently is a reminder that we as a company should assume nothing. "I have a dark colored copper cage that is about 25 years old. I am having a new cage bottom made. I would like to paint it with a powder coated paint. Do you have any products that would help me or do you know where I may purchase them"? Regards - Mark editors note - heard on the street: “I want a powder coated cage” “everyone is selling powder coated bird cages” “I don’t know what a powder coated cage is but I think my bird should have one” Hi Mark Having managed a small family run powder coat facility back in the last century I am intimately familiar with Electrostatic Powder Coating. Your question also makes an important point. The majority of people let alone caged bird keepes have an opaque view of powder coating. File under setting the record straight. A bird’s cage is the single most important apparatus he or she has. To that point we'll be assisting you in raising your caged bird keeping knowledge-base and will augment written information found here on our blog with our new “cage cam” videos. That’s right. We going to bring the camera inside the cage to help you see what your bird sees (although they see much better than we do). Going where no smart phone has gone before.  Yes, I know we’re awesome - thank you. Do you have a cage cam video? Send one our way and we'll send you $5 in birdie bucks. Time to hit the on ramp. From Wikipedia - Powder coating is a type of coating that is applied as a free-flowing, dry powder. The main difference between a conventional liquid paint and a powder coating is that the powder coating does not require a solvent to keep the binder and filler parts in a liquid suspension form. The coating is typically applied electrostatically and is then cured under heat to allow it to flow and form a "skin". The powder may be a thermoplastic or a thermoset polymer. It is usually used to create a hard finish that is tougher than conventional paint. Your cage bottom Mark, has to be sandblasted to create a rough surface guaranteeing adhesion by the powder which is applied by special electrostatic "guns" that charge the particles positively causing them to cling to the now grounded negatively charged - your cage bottom held by a frame designed for this purpose. Catch tune - huh? I couldn’t find any bird cage manufacturing videos. If you happen to be bumming around China or Vietnam and pass a cage manufacturing facility we'd be grateful if you were to knock on the door and ask if you take some pictures and a little video for the friends back home. In the meantime I found that video example of mass-produced powder coating facility. Just picture those posts as say, birdcage legs. This also drives home the point that powder coating is everywhere you look. It's seen a lot today in outdoor furniture for consumers and at the commercial level. You'll find it on commercial hand rails, mail boxes and more.  Based upon my experience Mark, I can relate to you that your cage bottom has to be suspended and/or run through an oven at approximately 400°F for eight or 10 minutes (depending on the powder used). If you are truly motivated to DIY, it’s important to note that preparation of the surface is probably 3/4 of the process. It’s best to have a portable sandblaster from a company like Harbor Freight for surface preparation.  This fellow does a very good job of explaining the powder coat process in his video.   Paint on the other hand is readily available in cans: information on selecting the proper paint for birdcages can be found here mitchr This where we take a slice of a holistic view of your captive bird's environment. Editor’s note: we give our birds far less credit than they deserve for their ability to adapt

Bird flocks in the wild tend to reside in the same general area in the same set of trees as long as the area proves to be "safe haven". When birds are on the move looking for food, foraging, meaning they are flying a mile or two and landing somewhere. In most cases it will be on a tree that they never landed on - an arbitrary rock. This is why birds have few nerves in their feet. It makes adjusting “on a dime” to a rough new area - an everyday fact of life for a bird in its natural environment.   We also know that birds have no muscles in their feet. Their legs and feet are controlled by an eloquent pulley system made of two tendons in each leg. Thus when they clamp their feet fully around anything including cage bars, it is with the full force of their legs and feet.

DYK there are feral lovebirds living in Arizona cactus? barbed wire and catus teach us never to under estimate our bird's abilities to adapt This includes climbing up and down their cage. Something we encourage because the more they do it the more exercise they have and it helps maintain overall strength. When birds climb up and down ON their cage (we are leaving the discussion of perches and letters for another time) they are assisting their ascent or descent with their beak which is for razor blades having the potential strength of almost 300 psi. They are also "squeezing" cold hard metal - cage bars which stress your bird's feet out Which brings us to (FINALLY) to why we want our cages to be powder coated. and I really liked this powder coat DIY video because it's a really low cost system using a house hold oven. (You can not cook food in an oven once it has been used for powder coating  When you paint anything, you are coating the "substrate” ie; the cage metal, dry wall, the restored piece of furniture” The “powder” In the term powder coating on the other hand chemically bonds to the metal substrate aka bird cage parts. As noted preparation of the surface is probably 3/4 of the process. While at Shelf-Kote everybody had to spend time in the sandblast booth. This is what we wore. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B1LNJqQiCgo Always hoping that somebody remembered to replace the air filter in the oxygen line before you were racing to meet a deadline. Powder coating done right will withstand a parrots abusive feet and beak due to this unique marriage of particle and metal united in the church heat but all powder coating is not the same. Improper surface preparation Can lead to premature flaking of the coating. We hear on occasion from people who say their bird is chewing the coating off the cage. To which we ask “how many toys are in the cage?” And the reply usually goes something like “he really likes that bell.” sigh btw: A bird cages natural enemy is water. Although the powder coating is impervious to liquid, the square tubular components usually forming the corner of larger right I am bird cages are hollow. When the interior of this metal gets wet it is slow to dry and accelerates rust. This happens a lot when you drag your bird cage out to the driveway the moment the snow has melted. This is your day in the sun to try new new 2580 psi pressure washer on your cockatoos cage that has gotten, well - soiled - over the winter. Kemosabe - Put the wand down and step away from the power washer. There will be a puddle of water inside each of the four corners with the casters that attach to the metal tubes. If it’s a really good fit with the plastic fittings there could be a small puddle of water at the bottom of each of your cage's is feet for weeks. The deck will be there when the snow clears. Keep the cage where it is. Place something like an office chair mat or a scrap piece of vinyl flooring under the bird cage protect your floor and have an easy to clean surface. Get a hand held steam cleaner. If we could find one to sell you that we can make a buck on without ripping you off you would see the CTA (call to action) button here - to buy one now. You’re on your own for finding one grasshopper but it will solve not only the cleaning of the cage but the cleaning of the accessories with in the cage while sanitizing everything without the use of chemicals. Take that, environmentalists. Cagescaping tip: Before installing anything new into the cage, It’s important that you've observed your birds movement throughout the cage and are aware of its "poop trajectories". This will save time in daily cleaning and maintenance and make for a healthier environment. When poop is on accessories like ladders, Your bird later will groom its own feet - nuff said. You are a caged Bird keeper, which is why you are reading this. Your bird is a captive bird. If you took your cage outside with your bird in it and open the door your bird would eventually fly out never to be seen again. With this whole powder coat metal bird feet tendon beak thing in the background, I hope you can begin to see why although a cage is useful for your bird to navigate you can put undue stress on its feet. Your bird's beak attacking it daily certainly is not prolonging the life of said birdcage. Rather than fighting the cage, use the cage as support system for multiple thoroughfares and gateways inside and outside of the cage. Booda soft rope perches are one of the most effective birdcage accessories for this purpose.  I hope you found this brief journey into the mysteries of birdcage manufacturing, interesting. At least more so than knowing what the numbers on the side wall of your car tires mean. The two-digit number after the slash mark in a tire size is the aspect ratio. For example, in a size P215/65 R15 tire, the 65 means that the height is equal to 65% of the tire's width. The bigger the aspect ratio, the bigger the tire's sidewall will be. written by mitch rezman approved by catherine tobsing Your Zygodactyl footnote  I provide foster care for Oasis Sanctuary parrots in need of medical care. I currently have 18 of the nearly 800 Oasis parrots in my care. I ordered your full spectrum light bulbs and they arrived today. I want to thank you for the competitive price for the bulbs. All 6 are now in use. One is over a plucked Vos Eclectus female's cage where it will assist in breaking down bilirubin and aid in vitamin D production and calcium absorption. This parrot has liver disease and chronically low serum calcium despite daily calcium supplements.  The second bulb is in use for a Scarlet Macaw who 21 years ago broke her back. She has many health problems now and the bulb will supply UVA & UVB light rays to help her. The third bulb is in a light to provide general lighting to the area where the macaw & eclectus spend their days with 2 other parrots. The last 3 bulbs are installed in the "Chat Room." This is a bedroom housing sleeping quarters for 13 parrots and it is the daytime play area for 7 of the birds. Their medical needs range from old age to recovery from surgery. I just wanted you to know the use I put the bulbs to in case anyone asks what they are "good for." Ruth Ann La Rue - The Oasis Sanctuary - Business Manager & Foster Care Provider Customer Dear Ruth Ann Thank you for telling us about your use of the bulbs. It sounds like they are doing the best they can for the birds. We are thrilled to hear this. I hope the birds "feel better" for them being there. Thank you very much - Catherine Click to Post

[romancatholicreflections]

11th May >> Daily Reflection on Today's Mass Readings (Acts of the Apostles 13:13-25, Psalms 89:2-3, 21-22, 25 and 27John 13:16-20) for Roman Catholics on Thursday of the Fourth Week of Easter

Lectionary: 282 Acts 13:13-25 Psalms 89:2-3, 21-22, 25 and 27 John 13:16-20 Daily Easter Prayer Celebrating Easter Home Prayers by and for Mothers Weekly Guide for Daily Prayer An Easter Blessing Easter Joy in Everyday Life I once heard a man speak of growing up in a church that regularly practiced foot washing. The congregation met on a Sunday night and everyone took off one shoe and they washed each other’s feet. He said that one Sunday afternoon, as his dad slept, he thought it a great idea to take some of the soot from the fireplace and place it in his dad’s cowboy boots. His dad usually wore white socks. He put on his boots without expecting that anything had been placed within them and, when he took them off at the foot washing service, well – what a surprise. The man recounting this story from his youth said, “I never got a harder whuppin’.” Those of us who attend the Holy Thursday Mass during Holy Week see feet being washed by the priest. Perhaps you have even had your feet washed. Once I was asked to do it and, upon telling my wife of this honor, she recoiled in horror. “You are going to expose your gnarly feet with those black toe nails? For God’s sake, curl your toes underneath just before and after they are washed and get your socks back on as fast as possible. We don’t want to scare the children!” So much for the sublimity of the moment. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. They lived in a time when the roads were dusty and people wore sandals. So, upon entering a house, you needed to wash your feet. Wealthy families gave this job to a slave. Jesus, taking the role of a slave, washed their feet and then said: "Amen, amen, I say to you, no slave is greater than his master nor any messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you understand this, blessed are you if you do it.” Do what? Wash the feet of others. Jesus says that we will be blessed if we do this. Why in the world would I want to do that? Again, Jesus emphasizes that in our relationship to Jesus we are as slaves to their Master or messengers to one who sent us. So, why would I want to wash someone’s feet? Because Jesus did and I am his disciple. Perhaps we have heard this so often that we take all of this for granted but I am not sure that we should. How do I wash someone’s feet? People in Jesus’ day would laugh at that question but, since our roads and shoes are different, it’s a legitimate question. We do not literally do this anymore. But we still do it. My father and mother washed my feet in a thousand different ways. The waiter or waitress at the restaurant who make us comfortable and wait on us wash our feet. Anybody who serves others does the same. So, how do I do it? What do I do to show hospitality to others? Jesus says that I will be blessed if I do this. In my little world there appear to be hundreds of ways to do this every day. I am calling on Jesus to help me to see those ways, to follow him in serving others, and to receive the blessing of service. by George Butterfield Creighton University's Law School Library