Hey there! Got a question about Catholics and praying - I was raised Protestant and when we pray it's just directly to Jesus or God. But do Catholics "go through" the saints first? Is that something that's more dictated or is it personal preference? How do you know which saint is best for your specific issue that you're looking for help/guidance about?
Catholics also pray directly to God! Bear in mind, the popular “Our Father” prayer was prayed by Catholics long before Protestantism even existed. The Act of Contrition, which is said for Reconciliation, is usually formulated as being directly to God. The Prayer of St. Francis (one of my personal favorites) directly invokes God.
The practice of invoking saints in your prayers is called intercessory prayer or intercession of saints. In this case, you’re not so much praying to saints to solve your problem/offer guidance/whatever so much as asking the saints to also pray on your behalf. Because, hey, can’t hurt to have saintly prayers on your side, right? The more prayer the better!
As for knowing which saint would be best to invoke, while there are dozens of books and websites on the topic, my bet is that your average person learns a handful of saints for the big topics (travel, headaches, good grades in school, etc.) and brings them up over and over again, much like how people really only ever watch a handful of channels in their 700-channel cable TV package.
A/N: Here I go experimenting again. I’m thinking of doing a series of each member being in a different supernatural/mythological setting. It will probably be more sporadic than the Bodyguards but I hope you guys like it. <3
Museums had always been a sanctuary for you. They were quiet and filled with beautiful things. A perfect environment in your opinion. You’d never been much of a fan the contemporary movement so most of your time was spent in the classical wing. Some days you’d wander the whole section. Others a certain painting or sculpture would draw you in with its siren call. It wasn’t unheard of for you to spend hours immersed in a single painting, lost in each brushstroke and what it portrayed.
And while the allure of the art pulled at you it also made you feel like you were a step out of time. Anachronistic in your own life. What else were you to feel when the things that spoke to you most were relics, proof of lives that had long since scattered to the wind.
It was sort of like your own life. You did what you were supposed to do as a responsible member of society, whatever that meant. But there was an undeniable absence of passion. Like you were living half a life and waiting for everything to turn to dust along with all the rest. At least being at the museum you felt less lonely, surrounded by echoes of the past. Their only means of surviving the years had been the emotions they invoked in others and something about that resonated with you.
Lately your favorite had been a marble statue. It wasn’t depicting a moment caught in the heat of battle or a lovers’ tryst, merely a man standing in a flowing tunic and sandals. Nonetheless it was glorious. A true masterpiece of craftsmanship with intricate detail and flawless in its execution. From its masculine yet cherubic face to the lines of musculature in the arms. It seemed so real. In the past if you were entranced by a certain piece of art it would fade after a day. But not so with the sculpture. It seemed to have its own gravity that relentlessly tugged at the center of your being.
You’ve pulled a man from the freezing sea all black with ship’s oil fuel
You’ve cleaned him off, and see his wounds and wondered what to do,
You see the whiteness of his ribs where steam has skinned him too.
The guilt you feel when you look at him feeling glad it isn’t you
And all you have to ease his pain is aspirin and ‘goo.’
You fear to look him in the eye for the question you know will be there
The answer you know is certain death, and there’s nothing more you can do.
You light him a fag, and give him your tot as he looks for the rest of his crew.
Then you lay him out on the iron deck knowing that’s his lot
Briefly wondering if you did aright by giving him your tot.
For the rest of the watch, with a sail maker’s palm with needle and with thread
You sew him up in canvas with the rest of that night’s dead.
With a dummy shell between their feet, making certain that they will sink
You sit and sew till the morning’s glow, amid the mess and stink.
By dawn’s grey light you carry them aft, to the ensign and the plank.
And the hands off watch gather round all bleary eyed and dank.
Then the skipper with his bible says a sailor’s prayer
Our father which art in heaven (we hope you’re really there).
One by one the dead are gone slid from the greasy plank
A second’s pause and then a splash, they sink beneath the main.
The hands go forward, feeling chill, thinking of those that were slain
with a certain knowledge in a while we’ll do it all again.
Each one being still alive, breathes a silent prayer of thanks
Wondering, with a cold dark fear, will I be next on the plank?
“The Ensign And The Plank”, by Petty Officer Stanley Kirbey
Hello! I sent in this ask before so if you've answered it but it has yet to post from the queue I apologise. In that case please just delete this ask. I was wondering if you have any information on Skogsrån/Huldra and in particular working with them. I also wondered if you have any sources for working with creatures or spirits from (Scandinavian) folklore or if you knew of any blogs that are run by people who do? Thank you for your time!
Traditions on the skogsrå or huldra depend a bit on where you are talking about. They can have some different appearances: in Norway, the skogsrå appears more often with a tufted cow’s tail, sometimes hidden under layers of clothing, while in Sweden it seems to be reported more often that they have a hollow back. Tufted lynx ears, hooved feet, and other variations have been reported. In Dalarna, huldra have been reported to have green hair. They can also disguise themselves as animals, trees, or bushes, and sometimes the only sign that a skogsfru is nearby is the sound of laughter. (It should also be noted that, in some areas, huldra and related words might not mean the vaettr you are thinking of, but the underjordiske as a group, those who live underground or invisibly around people.)
Skogsrå are associated with hunting in some areas (as guardians of the woods) and, as their cow tails suggest, with herding in others, where people report hearing the bells as they drive their invisible flocks of cattle or hearing their herding calls in the distance. They also have a tendency to seduce humans either for brief flings or even marry them, although this usually ends with heartbreak when the huldra moves on, disappears, or is rejected. Sometimes the relationship drives the human mad or seems to sap all the energy and life out of them over time, leaving them looking haunted and gaunt.
Unlike some other vaettir who are warded off by silver (as seems to be the case with many folk charms against huldrefolk in later folk tradition), Skogsrå seem to really like silver. An offering of a real silver coin or bits of silver jewelry would be beneficial for gaining their favor or starting a friendship with them. German folklore also records people baking little loaves of bread or cakes or plates of food and leaving them out in the woods to garner the favor of the huldra. Leaving them on stumps is a particularly good way to get them to notice the offering. (Just make sure no caraway is in the baked goods you leave out, as many vaettir find caraway repellant and the huldra are not an exception to this rule.) Huldra also appreciate politeness and kindness - there is a story where a man politely tells a huldra maiden that her tail is dragging and getting dirty and visible to others (who would then recognize what she was), she tucked it up out of the way, thanked the man, and thereafter prey animals came out of the woods to the man’s porch where he could easily shoot them for meat without exerting himself hunting.
A piece of steel thrown over a huldra will bind them to you, but I do not recommend this because obviously the vaettr will then resent you for entrapping them so.
Huldra also have been said to be insistent on cleanliness and personal hygiene. There are stories of them stopping hunters and refusing to let them encounter prey until they go and wash themselves up.
If a skogsrå becomes angry with you and causes you to wander around lost and unable to find your way, a common method to get released from the charm is to turn your outer garments inside out (especially your coat) and wear it backwards. Putting one’s shoes on the wrong foot (or, in later folk tradition, reciting the “Our Father” prayer backwards) also works to break lesser curses if you have managed to anger a skogsrå. Woody nightshade (solanum dulcamarae) and orchis (orchis maculata) are both plants that, when combined with tree sap, ward off huldra. It is also sometimes said that mezeron (daphne mezerum), also called tysbast or tibast, will ward them off and protect you from huldra.
What clothing a skogsrå is wearing can also be an omen of what is to come. If the vaettr is wearing all black, it forebodes illness or an accident, while bridal or festival clothing indicates upcoming good luck.
The lichen plants Ramalina dilacerata, Ramalina obtusata, and sometimes Evernia divaricata are referred to as huldreplanter in Norway and may be pleasing to the huldra. In addition, the ghost orchid (Epigogium aphyllum), as it is known in English, is referred to as huldreblom in Norway (also called skogsfru).
Some stories (vandresagn) featuring the skogsrå or huldra:
Our father who art in riggers
Rower be thy name
Thy race come
My medal won
On water as it is on erg
Give us our daily blades
Forgive us our crabs
As we forgive those who get them
Lead us not to temptation
Forgive us from evil
For thy is the rower
Power of the legs
Forever and ever
if i wrote a ficlet for every cluster of words in the prayer “Our Father” for the priest!Laxus demon!Freed AU i’d be about 22 different chapters…i’m not saying i’m going to but we already have one chapter…theoretically, the next one would be “Who Art In Heaven”
Our Yoncé who art from Houston, flawless be thy name. Thy queendom come, thy world be run, by girls as it is intended. Give us this day, a fem'nist way, and love us till the end of time. As we forgive white girls who dance to Formation. And lead us not to texts with fuckboys. But deliver us from scrubs. God damn, God damn, God damn.
Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need (Hebrews 4:16). That’s right. We can just walk into the throne room anytime. The door wide open. We have access to our Father every moment of every day. At no time is it ever inconvenient to go into the heavenly throne room of God and say, “Father, I am confident that You hear me and will answer me, so I am making my requests known to You.” He said in His Word to come boldly, so just go on in there and speak to your Father. He is our Abba Father.
O great Herodotus,
Father of history, guardian of time, Chronicler of man’s stupidity,
Muse of the procrastinator and desperate alike–
Hear the cries of your people!
Deliver us from the misguided, the ignorant, and those that take thy knowledge and dilute it for the uneducated.
Give strength to we that stand as centurions, ready for the final charge, that we may strike them with the knowledge they lack, until the great Library of Alexandria be restored–
Hear our prayer O Father of History.
Our Father who art from Ireland, hallowed be thy blog. Thy book come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in online. Give us this day our daily language hacking tip, and forgive us our grammar mistakes, as we forgive those who lie about their fluency, and lead us not into temptation to learn another new language, but deliver us from monolingualism. Amen.
Rochelle, we are so grieved at the news of the passing of your dear Father .. all our prayers and condolences with you and the family ,.. be brave and strong .. we are with you ..
I rest and sleep in the room that my father slept in here in Sopaan .. I travel through his library and his work desk where he sat for hours and years writing contemplating, thinking and putting all that he worked on into words .. his room remains and is kept the way he left it .. I rummage through some of the books , the hundreds that adorn the shelves, and then pick up his ‘rachnavali’ his autobiography, a volume of it and run through the pages , and realise in enraged fury that I have not spent anytime with him at all .. with his words with his philosophy of life and beyond, with his literature and his writing .. every word every sentence a mammoth learning .. some of it I put out early in the morning on FB and Twitter … some I shall keep to myself … its a sort of selfishness .. sharing with all what belongs to me and my blood .. but share I must .. his genius must be made vocal and available to all .. I am tempted to give up all that I involve myself in, my work my responsibilities and my insecurities, to just exist in the realm of Father’s words and works …
There is rehearsal for the event tomorrow at the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the Presidents House, the ex residence of the Viceroy of Great Britain when India was ruled by the British, the largest private residence in the world, I believe .. its an architectural marvel … and the investiture ceremony shall take place in the historic Ashoka Hall, the hall that resounds with history .. the place where Lord Mountbatten, the last Viceroy handed over the Independent charge to India, the place where the Republic of India was inaugurated and the first Indian President, Dr Rajendra Prasad was appointed …
I have been in this hall on many occasions. The two early Padma Awards for my Father and my Padma Shri were conducted here .. as also my Padma Bhushan.. then we had moved inside to the Grand Hall with its incredible ornate ceiling work, for the other Padma Awards for Jaya and Aishwarya .. this year it is back to the Ashoka Hall ..
So many memories are attached to this residence .. difficult to describe them now, without breaking some personal protocol .. so another day maybe, when it is felt by me to state those moments .. then …
What I have discovered , and to my great relief and joy is that in the pages that I have been through of my Father’s works, there are vast pages devoted to why and where and how each one of his works were written and devised .. the meanings behind the thoughts that kept pouring out ..
Thus is a blessing .. for now I hope to be able to educate myself and in turn others that could be interested in his writings … I am so happy with this .. so happy ..
As I close for the day, it is so heartening to have the family coming together for tomorrow’s investiture .. Abhishek who is shooting in Dubai, shall come in early morning tomorrow … Aishwarya and Aaradhya have just landed from Mumbai .. Navya and Agastya have come home from London school, for their Easter break and all shall be present to witness this moment … and of course NIkhil and Shweta and Jaya .. all shall be with me in that historic hall for the morrow ..
I shall depart .. and be a part of tomorrow with you ..
God’s not a table waiter, or a bus boy to help us escape life. He’s not a genie in a bottle who grants our wishes. He’s our Father. Prayer is not synonymous to abracadabra. And the bible isn’t a book of principles we quote in order to get help for a situation we might be in; it’s an invitation into relationship with Jesus.