Someone asked me recently why Catholics pray to dead people. (I have odd conversations sometimes).
Firstly, the saints aren’t dead, they are alive in Christ. They are the great cloud of witnesses who, having fought the good fight, and finished the race, and won for themselves the crown of victory, are now crowded round the finish line, yelling their encouragement to us, the Church Militant here on earth.
They want us to cross the finish line and join them in the Church Triumphant, so they want to help us bear the burdens that are causing us to stumble on the way.
And so, just as we ask other members of the Church here on earth to pray for us, we ask the members of the Church in heaven to pray for us.
Now, I’m rubbish at praying for people. I’ll say I will, but I get wrapped up in my own concerns and, whilst I don’t forget any more since I bought a notebook to start writing things down in, I am not always as thorough as I’d like to be. My own, personal road to Hell with be paved with all the times I brightly said “of course I’ll pray for you,” and then got distracted by the gas bill or my exam revision or “oooooh, lookit the shiny thing!” and so all you got was “God, um Bob, amen.” (Sorry, Bob, whoever you are).
The Church in heaven are not constrained by the things of this world such as the tedium of working for a living, or paying the gas bill, or having a memory like a sieve, and so have all the time in the world to carry your concerns as golden bowls full of incense, offered to God.
Secondly, “pray” is a word that has many meanings. From dictionary.com:
pray
1. to offer devout petition, praise, thanks, etc., to (God or an object of worship).
2. to offer (a prayer).
3. to bring, put, etc., by praying: to pray a soul into heaven.
4. to make earnest petition to (a person).
5. to make petition or entreaty for; crave: She prayed his forgiveness.
6. to offer devout petition, praise, thanks, etc., to God or to an object of worship.
7. to enter into spiritual communion with God or an object of worship through prayer.
When we are praying to the Saints, we are using “pray” in the sense of 4 and 5, “make earnest petition to” and “to make petition or entreaty for; crave: She prayed his forgiveness.” We are asking the saints to take our concerns to God, just as asking another member of the Church on earth to pray for us doesn’t mean that we are worshipping them, either (and see above for why it’s sometimes better to go to the Church Triumphant rather than the Church Militant for prayer, especially when the only handy member of the Church Militant is one who has to say “just let me write that down in my prayer note book.”)
Asking a particular saint to intercede for us is usually related to an event from their life here on earth. For instance, Saint Agatha is the patroness of breast cancer sufferers because part of her tortures as she was martyred was having her breasts cut off, likewise St Lucy is patron of eye diseases because she was blinded during her martyrdom (look, nobody ever said being a Christian was nice. We were promised burdens that would not be heavy to bear, not no burdens at all.)
There is a patron saint for everything you could possibly think to pray about.
Mice? St Gertrude, who covers all bases by also being the patron of cats.
Young people? Aloysius Gonzaga, unless they’re Mexican (Don Bosco).
Alternatively, some people don't have the brains God saw fit to give to lettuce.
Catastrophic out of coffee error, and I spent so much time today trapped in The World's Dullest Meeting™ that I didn't manage to get to the coffee shop to buy more, so I had to stop in $tarbucks* on the way home.
Picked up a bag of beans, went to the counter to pay.
"How do you want these ground?"
"No, thanks, just as beans," I said.
"No, how do you want them ground?"
"I don't want them ground, I want them as beans so I can grind them as and when," I explained, as patiently as I could manage (not very).
"We've got to grind them, cos of 'elf'n'safety, innit?"
"What? Can I see your risk assessment, please?"
"Errrrrrr, what?"
"Well, if Health and Safety say that you can't do something, then you must have done a risk assessment to decide it's dangerous. I would like to see that risk assessment, please." [Now sell me my damn coffee lest I come round to your house and inflict my decaffeinated, first-thing-in-the-morning happy smiley morning face on you, with added snarling].
New person appeared, saving me from leaping over the counter and strangling the first one with his apron.
"I'm sorry, miss, he's New**, was it just this you wanted? That will be three ninety, please."
Hah. Never come between a girl and her coffee with some rubbish about health and safety when her mum's an 'elf'n'safety officer (innit).
*Yes, I know, but it was an emergency and I did buy the Fair Trade.
I've been spending far too much time on a couple of American Independent Fundamentalist Baptist blogs recently. I'm sure it's not good for me or my blood pressure, but there you go - it's a bit like watching a horrible car crash in a "what is going to happen next?" way.
Anyway, I admit it, I'm dead jealous. It must be so nice to know that you're right all the time and be able to ignore people who try and tell you different.
I wish I could do that, instead of just doing the best I can, and when I mess up, as I do, frequently, sighing deeply, apologising to God ("Hello God, it's me again. I messed up again. I'm sorry, can I start again?" and God sighs and says "yes,") and the people I've hurt, and starting over back at the beginning.
I went to the supermarket last night to pick up the ingredients for dinner for the next few days. "I've got chicken thighs in the freezer, I've always got chicken thighs in the freezer, I'll do chicken cacciatore in the slow cooker for Saturday, and Baked Penne with Beef for Sunday."
Got home, went to the freezer to get out the chicken thighs to defrost.
Ah.
What I thought was chicken thighs were actually sausages.
Sausage cacciatore might work. I hope it does, because that's what I'm eating!
If I die, horribly, I shall be sure to let you all know.
Exams
Windows XP
Exams
Bill Gates
Exams
Stupid drivers for stupid hardware
Exams
Bill Gates*
Exams
"Installing update 45 of 93"
Poxy trial balances that wouldn't, no matter how much you swore, rubbed things out, tried again and swore a bit more.**
Catastrophic out of gin error: [A]bort [R]etry [G]ive up in a huff and go down the pub.
*we hate him, and the horse he rode in on.
**the magic phrase here is "Difference to be investigated: £X"
Having sat down and worked it out, because I’m sad like that, I’m actually over a month ahead of myself in my “read the Bible in a year,” plan. Although it definitely needs more dragons. Numbers, particularly, would be made immeasurably more exciting by the addition of a dragon or two, because, my word, but it’s dull.
"And so-and-so did that which was displeasing to the LORD, and a great big dragon flew down and ate him all up, even the bones, yeah, verily, even unto that funny little bone in the ear. And the LORD said 'Hah! Let that be a lesson unto thee.' And all the people said 'Amen.' And 'help! Mummy! It's a dragon!'"
I appear, possibly under the influence of strong psychotropic drugs, to have walked into the hairdresser's, pointed to a picture of Victoria Beckham with a bob and said "I want to look like that."
I am an awful neighbour, apparently. No, scratch that, I am a [deleted] awful neighbour.
Picture the scene. A peaceful Sunday evening at Rosamundi Towers, I'm here on my own, planning dinner and pottering, when hark! there is a knock at the door.
Up I get and answer it - there is a man who I have never seen in my life before, and a small boy.
"Hello, I'm your neighbour right on the ground floor, we've locked ourselves out and my son's trapped his hand in the door. Can we come in and run his hand under the cold tap?"
"I've lived here ten years, and I've never set eyes on you in my life," thinks me. "And why, of all the apartments in this block, have you knocked on my door?"
"I'm sorry, I'm here on my own, I can't let you in," I say, as Awful Warnings from the police start hurtling through my mind, about lone women who are robbed or Vilely Set Upon when they heed a stranger's tale of woe and let them into their house.
"Well, what a [deleted] awful neighbour you are! [Deleted] [deleted], really [deleted] neighbourly."
"I'm sorry, I'm here on my own, I can't let you in," I repeat, as they storm off downstairs, the boy choosing this moment to start wailing.
It's only just occurred to me that I could have said "wait there," shut the door and come back with a tea-towel run under the cold tap.
Sigh.
[Edit: I have just done that. I have no idea why I have never seen this man or this boy before, since they are giving every appearance of actually living there - someone has let them in, and boy has cold compress on finger. I apologised profusely, brandishing soggy teatowel* and the woman said "don't worry, you hear such awful stories, especially after what's just happened down the street."
OK, it's more of a scalping than a proper mowing, and they've left the cuttings in swathes where they fell, but the children on the estate are no longer in danger from leopards lurking in the long grass.
I am baffled by my council, I really am. This is a rough text of the phone conversation I had with someone in the Estates Department this morning.
"Can you send someone round to cut the grass on the estate, please? It's not been touched for months and it's long enough to hide small children in."
"Can't you do it?"
"Apart from anything else, I live on the second floor. Why would I own a lawn mower? Secondly, they're public and communal areas. And your roses have got blackspot."
For lo! it took me an hour and twenty minutes to do what is allegedly a 45 minute journey, door to door.
Got to the station, hopped on the Central Line.
“All trains being held in platform due to an object on the track at Marble Arch.”
“No worries,” thinks me, “I shall wend my merry way to the Jubilee Line, there to take my repose on a lovely comfy seat and terrorise my fellow passengers by reading the Bible.*”
So far, so fine. As we pulled into Bond Street, the driver came over the intercom.
“Nice of the control centre to let me know, but Bond Street has been closed and evacuated, this train will be non-stopping at Bond Street.”
Bond Street was the station I needed to get off at.
Off at the next Stop, Baker St, changed onto the Bakerloo, down to Oxford Circus.
Walked into the office at 0905, instead of, if everything had gone to plan, about half past eight.
I’m spotting a theme, with regard to public transport companies, namely how much I loathe them. Clearly I should travel everywhere by dog sled.
*currently four days ahead of schedule on my “read the Bible in a year” plan.
Hey ho, a change from ranting about the BNP, George Galloway and Boris Johnson (incidentally, Mr Mayor, if you’re paying £600 per tree for your tree-planting programme, you, and by extension the London taxpayers, are being robbed blind).
Easter was massively early this year - Candlemass, marking the end of the Christmas season, was on 2nd February, and Ash Wednesday, marking the start of Lent, was on the 6th. This means that the long swing down through the year to Christ the King, the feast which marks the last Sunday of the Church’s year, is going to be a rather long stretch of green.
Green is the colour the Church uses for Ordinary Time, to signify the Holy Spirit, and growth and new life. I didn’t use to like ordinary Time, seeing it as boring, compared to the feasts and festivals - I came to the Catholic Church via a church which did feasts and festivals rather well, and I’ve always been a drama queen at heart, and a well done Corpus Christi procession is a thing to gladden the eyes and lift the heart and mind to God.
Growth is an interesting thing. Whether it is plants or people, it happens on an incremental basis, with occasional spurts, slowly and gradually and step by step, and then one day you turn round and the orchids are taking over the bathroom.
Feasts and festivals are good and necessary things, the leaven that raises the daily rhythm of life, but it’s not in the feasts and festivals where the majority of a Christian’s growth happens. Most of your walk with Christ takes place in the green spaces, the ordinary days that mark the rhythm of most people’s lives, and the slow unfolding of the Church’s year is a necessary support for the great high feasts.
Take an orchid as an example.
The drama of the flowers couldn’t happen without the support of the roots, stems and leaves. The slow growth of the green parts is required for the flowers, and you can’t have one without the other. The gradual unfolding of the stems leads surely to the glory of the flowers, and the gradual unfolding of the church’s year, the growth of the Christian as they walk with Christ, leads just as surely to the glory of Heaven.
Plants need food to grow, and so do Christians. The Eucharist, Scripture , the writings of the Saints, works of mercy, all nourish the soul in different ways, as a plant is fed by water and soil. You may think that nothing is happening, but keep on keeping on, and then suddenly you will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away! And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!
Oh, and the people asking about Respect (George Galloway)? Yes, it really did say that. Respect (George Galloway) is the bit of the Respect: Unity Collision Coalition that stayed with Gorgeous George and his lycra catsuit. Left List is the bit that broke away under Lyndsey German.
The National Front got over 2,500 votes, and the BNP got one of the top-up seats. I despair. Still, I guess they and their ilk are the price we pay for democracy.
And 45% may be record turnout, but it's still a disgrace. If you could have voted and didn't, don't come crying to me when LOLBoris provokes Portsmouth to a war footing.
I voted. I'm allowed to moan. And doubtless I will, frequently, at some length and volume.
I'm going to be on a train when the London election results are announced (I don't know, whatever happened to counting through the night, flippin' fancy electronic wizardry that apparently can't start work until 8:30am, mumble mumble mumble), so can someone text me the result, please?
In today's case, I learned that the members of the National Front are not all in jail, but one of them is standing for election for the London Assembly.
When I made my "X" on the slip, I had this muddle of loony left and barking right to choose from:
Respect (George Galloway)
British National Party
The Labour Party
Conservative Party
Christian Peoples Alliance and Christian Party
Independent
Green Party
Left List
English Democrats
Liberal Democrats
National Front
UK Independence Party
Still, voting at the crack of dawn meant that I could sail past the last minute "please vote for me, pleasepleaseplease," campaigners with a cheery "already voted, sorry," much to their startlement and dismay.
Settle down, children. Are we sitting comfortably? Good. Then I’ll begin.
[Insert wiggly lines and woo-woo noises here, to signify the passage of time].
It was my first General Election in this ‘ere London, and the Labour party could put up a donkey in a red rosette in this constituency and it would get elected.
But that didn’t stop the other parties trying, even though the Conservatives would routinely lose their deposit. The BNP tend to do better than they have any right to do in a decent civilised society, but I guess that’s one of the perils of democracy.
One evening, a few days before the election, there was a ring on the doorbell. I’d just gone rummaging in the depths of the freezer to pull out the basics of the next evening’s meal so it could defrost, and I was about to start cooking this evening’s dinner, so I had a frozen trout in one hand, a sharp knife in the other, Billy Bragg on the stereo, glass of wine poured and waiting, and all’s well with the world.
Off I trot to open the door, neglecting to put down either the frozen trout or the knife (no, I don’t know why, put it down to the promptings of the Holy Spirit).
He’s very smartly dressed, this man on my doorstep, wearing a suit and a spiffy red, white and blue rosette. Unfortunately the rosette has the BNP logo in the middle of it.
I look him up and down in my best “git orf may laynd, before I set the dogs on you,” manner and bark “yes? Can I help you?” as his eyes take in the frozen trout, the pointy knife and the apron, and gradually widen in alarm.
Just at that exact moment, Billy Bragg (bless him), suddenly belts out with “All you fascists are bound to lose,” and the BNP man sensibly takes this as his cue to get the hell away from this loon who opens the door brandishing fish at people.
“I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?” he stammers.
“Yes. Yes you are. Get off my doorstep, you horrible little man. Go away.”
Rosamundi\\\'s ramblings 
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