blessed-mother

emeraldboreas  asked:

Hi Maria! Could you please pray for me? I’m having a health problem (probably a complication of the birth) that could turn serious if it doesn’t clear up soon.

Hello!

Thank you for reaching out to me. I’m praying for you and your family.

Remember that God is always with you.

May God bless you and Mother Mary keep you under her mantle.

Ad Jesum per Mariam,

María de Fátima

waltermeadows  asked:

Hi Allie, you recently reblogged a post in which criticisms of Catholicism are rebutted by someone - would you mind if I, a protestant, could ask you some questions? I've never asked any of my irl Catholic/Orthodox friends for fear of treading on toes - I don't find the pro-praying to saints argument convincing or reassuring at all: it hugely bothers me that Catholics pray to other people than God, perhaps bc I can't separate worship and prayer (this is going to have to have a part 2, haha)

and I can’t understand veneration of Mary (or any non-Jesus person, but particularly Mary, because Jesus himself said “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” He himself said that! When told his family were there to see him! And in Timothy 2:5 it says that there is one God and one mediator between God and men: Jesus Christ? I’m sorry if this is coming across as aggressive, I’m just very confused and have been for ages!

Hi Waltermeadows, I want you to know that you’re not coming off as aggressive in the least bit. This is a very good question, a very understandable question (I often am in awe of my Protestant followers for continuing to give me the time of day, believing what they do of Catholic worship—thank you all so much for hearing me out), and one I’m happy to answer to the best of my ability. 

When discussing the Catholic view of saints, it is highly important to consider them, not as ghosts, not as abstractions, but as living members of the Body of Christ. Every saint in Heaven once walked the Earth, as you and I do now. The only difference between you and a saint is that the saint is more advanced in the service of Christ; the saint has gained what we on Earth can merely strive for. The saint, who lives in Christ, is more alive than you and I are.

I have yet to encounter a Protestant who finds any difficulty in the idea of praying for others, whether family members, friends or complete strangers. In such prayer, which is fundamental to the life of the Church, we intercede with God on behalf of these others, effectively saying, as Mary and Martha said of Lazarus, “Lord, the one whom you love is ill.” Not only do all Christians make such prayers for others, the Christian frequently asks them of others, on his behalf; “pray for me” is a common refrain among the suffering. And when we feel our own prayers to be insufficient, do we not also seek out others—older than us, wiser than us, having more faith than us—in particular, sensing somehow that their intercession will strengthen something which is lacking in us and that, knowing God better than we do, they will access His heart in some way that may be lost to us? This can hardly be strange, for many stories of divine healing in the Gospels tell not only of the cure but of the faith of the messenger. How much faith did the servant of the Centurion have? I do not know; I am prepared to guess that he, being a gentile, had none at all. The faith of the Centurion, a greater faith than any in Israel, is sufficient to touch the very heart of God on behalf of the servant. 

It is easy for us to accept this story, and to understand that the Centurion is not a mediator in competition with Christ, but a man who has recourse to the Mediator on behalf of another. Of the saints in Heaven, Cardinal Henry Edward Manning asked, “Shall they love us less because they have now power to love us more?” If we do not fear to ask those on Earth to intercede for us with God, we should fear still less to speak to those who have been united with Christ for eternity, who live in the light and the love of the God to whom we pray. Heaven is not a state of retirement or of inactivity, but of incredible motion: St. Therese of Lisieux, with faith enough for dozens of Centurions, declared that her greatest mission would begin after her death: “I will spend my heaven doing good on earth. I will let fall a shower of roses.”

And this is where I get to Mary. 

The Gospel of Luke gives us a brief and beautiful story which is too frequently misunderstood. As Jesus speaks, a woman from the crowd cries out, “Blessed is the womb that bore you, and the breasts at which you nursed!” Jesus replies, in most English translations, with the word “rather”: “Rather, blessed are those who hear the word of God and keep it.” (Luke 11:27-8) Read in this way, the scripture is a stumbling block for many who wish to understand the significance of Mary: does it not seem as though Jesus is saying that Mary is not blessed? But she is blessed, according to the angel, who called her “full of grace,” and told her “the Lord is with you”; according to her cousin Elizabeth, who said, “Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb”; according to Mary herself, who asserted that “all generations will call me blessed”; according, I would argue, to anyone with a grain of sense, for if any mother may fairly be called blessed, how much more blessed is the mother of Jesus, the savior of the nations? 

A knowledge of the Greek word “menoun,” which is commonly translated as “rather,” is extremely helpful here; it is not a contradiction, but an addition, one which appears elsewhere in Scripture and is translated in Philippians 3:8 as “indeed,” “yes,” or “what is more”: “But whatever were gains to me I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.” Jesus does not deny that Mary is blessed, but, by expanding the definition of those who are blessed, gives us important insight into why Mary was blessed in such a way: “Blessed is the womb that bore you,” the woman says, and Jesus says, “Yes, blessed are those who hear the word of God and keep it.” Compare Elizabeth’s statement in Luke 1:45: “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord.” Mary is upheld by scripture for her obedience to God and for her willing participation in the Divine Plan: no one heard the word of God and kept it with a more generous spirit than Mary, who said, “Behold, the handmaid of the Lord; may it be done to me according to your word.” If Jesus’s statement carries the air of a contradiction, it is because Jesus does not want this woman, or anyone else, to miss the mark; to believe that Mary alone is blessed by God, or, conversely, that her carrying of Christ is a thing removed entirely from her obedience, a mere bit of good luck for her. Mary consented to carry Jesus in her womb; everything Mary has, she has because she heard the word of God and kept it. Mary is not an abstraction, a mere nice thing to look at“What a lucky girl,” a statement which must inevitably carry an afterthought of “and how far removed from my lowly self” (it is deeply significant that it is another woman who has made this statement, and to whom Jesus speaks)—but a living example for Christians, one who shows us how we must react to Jesus’s commandments: “His mother said to the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’” (John 2:5) 

This is what we must understand when we read of Jesus asking, “Who are my mother and my brothers?” and answering His question by indicating his disciples, saying “Here are my mother and my brothers. For whoever does the will of My father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother” (Matthew 12:48-50)or, as Luke phrases it, “My mother and brothers are those who hear God’s word and put it into practice.” This statement would only exclude Mary if she were not included in the above group, though it may exclude certain relatives of his who had come to suppress His speech. It is primarily a statement of inclusion, a statement of adoption. 

And speaking of adoption, if this isn’t enough, and you need further proof that Jesus does not disown his mother, look no further than John 19: 

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, “Woman, behold, your son!” Then he said to the disciple, “Behold, your mother!” And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home. (John 19:26-7)

Jesus commends the beloved disciple to His mother, uniting them as a family—and the beloved disciple takes Him at His word, bringing Mary into his own home “from that hour.” This is not a terribly strange action for a man who believes he will never return from death, but it is a very strange action for a man who fully intends to come back in three days; we must see its deeper significance. This is not a mere business arrangement; this is the beloved disciple, and Jesus entrusts the beloved to the care of a woman to whom He has shown the greatest love imaginable, living and growing within her body, becoming her child. The word “son” cannot be spoken lightly between these two.

As one who believes that the saints can and do intercede for us, I think—I hope—that even without this scriptural prompting, I might be inclined to ask for the intercession of Mary, who knew Jesus better than anyone who lived on earth, who obeyed God as no one else has obeyed him, who carried Him and gave birth to Him, who lived with Him as a mother and who watched Him die and rise again. 

But this scripture does exist, and because it does, I cannot help but feel, as a beloved disciple, that I am not merely invited to honor Mary as a mother, but ordered. 

“howdy…im mccree. im..37 years old. 38 in a moons turn. im..gay. i like…guns. i really like….my spurs. they jingle fine. i like horses. they ninny ‘n they neigh. guns are cool too. my belts shiny. pardon my french but it stands fer B, Bad, A, fer Ass, M, fer Mother, bless her heart, n F, fer…..Fucker. ‘n i pride myself on bakin’ a real mean huckleberry cobbler, jus’ like my meemaw taught me”

“everyone, say howdy back to mccree”

“howdy mccree”

dancing-thru-clouds  asked:

I would like for you to tell stupid tourist stories? Your story-telling style is very engaging.

First of all, thank you very much!

Since flattery will get you pretty much anywhere, allow me to tell you The Tale Of Jar-Jar.

The First year my family moved to Colorado, my family decided to take the annual summer camping trip to Yellowstone, now that we were on the right side of the rockies for it.  So we pile into the car with all my mom’s immortal camping gear from the 70′s (srsly, I still have the Colemann stove and cooler.  They work perfect)  and Cody,The Gentleman Shepherd.  

Due to Wyoming looking mostly like the ugly parts of Mad Max, we got onto the wrong highway and arrived after dark.  Cody waited patiently in the backseat rather than set up in the rain.  Gentlemanly.

The next morning, Mom is doing something miraculous with the Colemann and there is a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and bacon.  The sun is shining.  The birds are singing.  All is serene and beautiful. 

Then the people in the next site pull up.   They arrive in a Brand-spanking new Ford Pickup towing a trailer that looks like it was salvaged of a 50′s atomic test field.  The Husband emerges first and…

I don’t like judging people based on appearance but Man, when a dude walks out of a pickup wearing a confederate flag hat, and half of a mullet one tends to make assumptions.  

The eldest child came out next, a boy of about 12, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 10, with a rat-tail
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 8, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 6, with a rat-tail.
Followed by his brother, a boy of about 4, with a rat-tail.

The wife finally emerges, looking like death warmed over and carrying a boy of about two, with a rat-tail.  It is unclear if she has poor posture or if she is pregnant again.  The Boys capable of standing all immediately do so at the border of our site, staring covetously at my bacon.

Finally, with a loud plop and wheezing noise, comes thier dog, for a given value of dog.  Pugs are not terribly healthy-looking creatures at the best of times, but this poor thing looked like the canine equivalent of a Hapsburg.  One eye was so bulged as to be permanently wall-eyed, and his jaw jutted out in front of him at a distressingly kapakahi angle. 

“C’mere Jar-Jar!” hollers the Husband.

“Good God.” muttered my father.

The adults proved over the course of the next hour to be loathsome creatures- Husband was constant’y screaming at the boys the “fuckin’ get me the thing, you little-”  then getting mad when asked for clarification on ‘which thing?’.  The Wife was a non-stop stream of complaint- the sun is too hot, the shade is too cold, the tent is too far, the birds are too loud, and everything is awful, I’m going to complain to the ranger.  Eventually they got their camp set up, and Husband cracked his first beer of the day as we finished locking the bear box and leaving to hike.  It was about 10 AM.

We return some hours later to a very animated discussion between Wife and the Camp Supervisor about “I have rights you know!” vs. “Ma’am, we are under an extreme fire danger warning, and Fireworks have been banned in the park for ages.”  Jar-Jar, eager to avoid any outbursts, has scuttled under our bear box, wheezing in agitation.  Cody, ever gallant, positions himself between Jar-Jar and his mistress, doing his best impression of a Real Shepherd Who Isn’t Scared of Mice and Snowflakes.  Husband is unseen, but there are several beer cans in the fire grate.

That evening’s campfire, normally a time to listen to nocturnal wildlife and the Quiet noises of wild places, is instead a time to listen to drunken racist jokes, a sobbing toddler and Husband screeching “SAY AI WANNIT” whilst dangling scraps in front of jar-jar, until the dog stood on his legs and danced, garbling “Ai-Wa-War”  in a voice that sounded less like a bark and more like late-stage emphysema, before collapsing on what looked like sore joints.

Late that night, my parents discuss packing up and looking for a site in Teton down the road over the sounds of half-assed drunken sex.

The boys, in spite of their parents, are well mannered, intelligent and engaging to talk to, and seem content to frolic in the woods around the site, examining rocks and plants and the occasional insect.  Dad has a nice time telling them about the Yellowstone supervolcano whilst their parents have vanished to parts unknown.  Jar-jar remains off-lead and un-collared the entire time, huffing and puffing as he tries to keep up.  Still, five boys is perhaps too much attention for an elderly pug, and the too-hard petting and pulling of ears and tail and suchlike is tolerated with an exasperated whine and vacations under our bear-box. 

The second night, Husband was furious about something, cursing up a storm and throwing things and generally having a tantrum.  The eldest boy said something to him and he bore down on him, hand raised and screaming something about ‘useless pieces of shit.”
-When they were interrupted by my mother stepping into their site, all four feet eleven inches of ill-contained fury, staring him down.

“I was wondering.”  She said, eyes not moving from him. “If I could borrow some matches.”
“Ours got wet.” Dad added, immediately behind her, less as support than restraint.

I remember how ghastly quiet the woods got for a moment there, watching the scene unfold from behind Cody, the only sounds the campfire and crickets.

“Uh, yeah.  Matches.”  The Wife muttered, and it was enough to get Husband to back down.

“You have lovely children.”  Dad continued.  “Very smart, very polite.”
“You must be so blessed.” My mother adds, only slightly spitting the word.

My parents take the matches and talk a bit longer but I couldn’t hear.  Husband gave up, flopping down in his chair, but not before giving Jar-Jar a kick.

The next morning, as my family was packing up to head down to Teton instead, The Eldest boy approached us, concerned.

“Sir?”  he asked dad.  “Have you seen jar-jar?”

We hadn’t actually, his gravely groveling notably absent that morning at breakfast.  My sister and I went on a search with the boys through the camp, but to no avail.  We did find Wife, complaining to the campground host that there were too many wild animals around.  In the National Park.  Saddened and trying to give the boys some hope that perhaps jar-Jar had not been eaten by the coyotes, we left.

On the way out the main gate, we ended up behind a Buick with Florida plates, driven by a couple well into their octogenarian period, at about seven miles per hour.  As they stopped at the checkout gate, clearly asking for directions, a dog climbed up to sit in the back window.  A fat, lop-sided, wall-eyed little Pug, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

And that’s the story of how Jar-jar escaped the Hell family to Florida.

Our Lady of Good Help
Last Day of the Novena
Day of the Peshtigo Fire in 1871.

In 1859; The Blessed Virgin appeared to Adele Brise and instructed her to “Teach them their catechism, how to sign themselves with the sign of the Cross, and how to approach the sacraments; that is what I wish you to do. Go and fear nothing. I will help you.”
In 1871, The Sisters, the children, area farmers and their families fled to the Shrine’s chapel for protection from the unprecedented fire. In defiance of the inferno, they lifted the statue of Mary and carried it around the sanctuary. When wind and fire threatened suffocation in one direction, they turned in another direction to pray.
Hours later, a downpour began to extinguish the raging fire. The area surrounding the Shrine’s grounds was destroyed and desolate. Though the fire charred the chapel fence, it had not harmed the chapel grounds. The only livestock to survive the fire were the cattle farmers led to the chapel. Though the chapel well was only a few feet deep, it gave the cattle outside all the water they needed to survive the fire, while many deeper wells in the area went dry.
Adele asked those assembled at the chapel to retire to the convent. There, they were made as comfortable as possible for the rest of the night. The Belgian pioneers needed no more proof that Mary’s promise to Adele was genuine.


This is the only approved apparition of the Blessed Mother in the U.S.A.

fifth harmony in fanfiction (stereotypes)
  • camila: smol bean, clumsy af, loves bananas, innocent af (but great in bed), good with words, 1 ex-boyfriend, gay af
  • lauren: badass mf, green eyes that pierce through ur soul, whipped af, has a soft spot for "camz", even gayer
  • dinah: funny as shit, sometimes dumb, polybeatdown, captain, camila's best friend, always shouts inappropriate stuff
  • normani: sassy as hell, motherly, lauren's best friend, chicken wings, straightforward, usually messing with dinah
  • ally: jesus, bible, troy, did i mention jesus? bless you, mother, sweet sweet sunshine, allysin sometimes
  • BONUS
  • sofie: the most intelligent sweet camren shipper kid ever
  • sinu: is always watching
  • alejandro: idk but he's always an asshole
  • ariana: i love camila
  • austin: asshole, fuckboy, dorito
  • shawn: sometimes camila's gay best friend, sometimes another ex-boyfriend
  • clara: best mom ever
  • mike: best dad ever
  • chris: horny teenager but a good brother when he has to be
  • taylor: grumpy teenager or most supportive lil sis
  • keana: usually a mean bitch, but hot as fuck
  • lucy: good friend wtf, or you know, part of the love triangle
  • vero: flirts with camila, very funny and a good friend
  • alexa: gives good advice
  • luis: fuckboy
  • keaton: fuckboy
  • brad: no lips, bread, fuckboy, dumb as shit
  • dinah's siblings: omg that's a lot
  • siope: gtfo norminah is real
  • troy: sweet sweet boy
  • ANOTHER BONUS
  • car: runs over camila
6

“What’s that little candle for?” Willie asked. “Grannie says only stinking Papists burn candles in front of heathen images.“
“Well, I am a stinking Papist,” Jamie said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s no a heathen image, though; it’s a statue of the Blessed Mother.”
“You are?” Clearly this revelation only added to the boy’s fascination. “Why do Papists burn candles before statues, then?”
Jamie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Aye, well. It’s…maybe a way of praying—and remembering. Ye light the candle, and say a prayer and think of people ye care for. And while it burns, the flame remembers them for ye.”
“Who do you remember?” Willie glanced up at him. His hair was standing on end, rumpled by his earlier distress, but his blue eyes were clear with interest.
“Oh, a good many people. My family in the Highlands—my sister and her family. Friends. My wife.” And sometimes the candle burned in memory of a young and reckless girl named Geneva, but he did not say that.