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).

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.

**And will presumably be getting a smack later.

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.

It must be nice to know you're Right.™

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.

Also, I have a new blog, to go with my new camera.

Since this blog is supposed to be about my vocation journey as a Lay Dominican*, I thought it wise to keep the two separate.

*no, honest it is!

Via fluffykittens and wordle.

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"

"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!'"

It's only hair. It. Will. Grow. Hair does that.

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."

*It makes a change from frozen fish, I suppose].

Dunno about the roses, though.