religious habit

Where The Wild Roses Grow

Summary: When Jughead becomes an active member of the Southside Serpents, him and Betty are starting to grow further and further apart, as the boiling volcano of Riverdale’s Civil War is threatening to erupt in full force. Can a heart to heart with Alice Cooper and an old Serpent jacket give Betty and Jughead the hope they both need?


(This is huge so grab snacks and drinks. The Bughead scene ruined me. I apologize for all of this. Warning: full angst and sin ahead! I’m not describing it as much anymore cause after the Jughead I saw in the finale that’s a given but still, after I post this, I’ll crawl under my covers in blushing embarassment.😂 Here you go, lovelies! I hope you enjoy this! ❤️)


“On the second day he came with a single red rose

He said, "Give me your loss and your sorrow?”

I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed

“If I show you the roses will you follow?”

The snow is slowly melting under the heaps of rain and so is her will to contribute to life these days. The icy scenery that adorns Riverdale gives out under the rays of sun that stubbornly peek through the pine trees and white oaks, ridding their leaves from the coldness of nature, only to become shiny droplets of clear water that hold the whole kaleidoscope of colors, just like tears and their colossal scale of emotions. He is the ice, she is the stubborn sun; that’s what he tells her through the sad darkness of each night that they lay together but further and further apart. He says it as a compliment, in the most sullen John Wheelwright fashion, but she accepts it gladly as her fingers form infinity signs over the crackling ice of his golden heart. Her hair is golden too under the dim moonlight, it’s a match made in heaven, and she vows that tomorrow she will try to burn hotter than the December sun over the patches of snow that are menacingly trying to turn him into a lifeless statue. And she does. But not today.

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Before using your credit card or debit card in ANY machine, make it a HABIT to tug on the card reader with good force. You'll reduce the chances of your card being skimmed...by a lot.

Information Security Engineer at a Bank reporting in. Users don’t realize how easy it is for a credit card to be skimmed while doing day to day activities. I’m currently investigating multiple ATMs getting skimmers installed and looking almost identical to the original reader. ATMs generally are impossible to dismantle with human force. Tug on that reader with all your might. Wiggle it as well. If it moves even slightly, move on. Do not stick your card in it. Call me paranoid but if you see the amount of gas station pumps and atms I’ve seen get hijacked, you’ll understand why tugging is now a religious habit.

Padre Pio always wore the Rosary around his arm at night. A few days before his death, as Padre Pio was getting into bed, he said to the friars who were in his room, “Give me my weapon!” And the friars, surprised and curious, asked him: “Where is the weapon? We cannot see anything!” Padre Pio replied, “It is in my habit, which you have just hung up!” After having gone through the pockets of his religious habit, the friars said to him: “Padre, there is no weapon in your habit! … we can only find your rosary beads there!” Padre Pio immediately said, “And is this not a weapon? … the true weapon?!”

6

From my stay at Carmel :)

The two “white veils” are the community’s novices, Srs Teresa of Jesus and Elizabeth of the Trinity. The Sister (Sister Camille of Jesus) in the kitchen with the black apron is fully professed, but wasn’t wearing her black veil because she was working.

(Their habits are brown, I’m not sure why they appear black in some pictures.)

4

Saint of the Day – 20 April – St Agnes of Montepulciano O.P. (1268-1317) Religious Nun and Abbess “The Miracle Worker” – Attributes – Dominican Nun with a lily and a lamb.   Her Body is incorrupt and her major Shrine is Church of St Agnes, Montepulicano, Siena, Italy.

St Agnes was born in 1268 into the noble Segni family in Gracciano, a frazione of Montepulciano – in Siena, Italy, then part of the Papal States.    At the age of nine, she convinced her parents to allow her to enter a Franciscan monastery of women in the city known as the “Sisters of the Sack”, after the rough religious habit they wore. they live a simple, contemplative life.    She received the permission of the pope to be accepted into this life at such a young age, normally against Church law.

In 1281, the lord of the castle of Proceno, a fief of Orvieto, invited the nuns of Montepulciano to send some of their Sisters to Proceno to found a new monastery. Agnes was among the nuns sent to found this new community.    At the age of fourteen, she was appointed bursar.

In 1288 Agnes, despite her youth at only 20 years of age, was noted for her devotion to the Blessed Sacrament and deep life of prayer and was elected as the abbess of the community.    There she gained a reputation for performing miracles:  people suffering from mental and physical ailments seemed cured by her presence.    She was reported to have “multiplied loaves”, creating many from a few on numerous occasions, recalling the Gospel miracle of the loaves and fishes.    She herself, however, suffered severe bouts of illness which lasted long periods of time.

In 1306 Agnes was recalled to head the monastery in Montepulciano.    Agnes reached a high degree of contemplative prayer and is said to have been favoured with many visions.    After her return, she proceeded to build a church, Santa Maria Novella, to honour the Blessed Mother, as she felt she had been commanded to do in a mystical vision several years earlier.    She also had a vision of St. Dominic Guzman, under the inspiration of which she led the nuns of her monastery to embrace the Rule of St. Augustine as members of the Dominican Order.    She was frequently called upon to bring peace to the warring families of the city.

By 1316, Agnes’ health had declined so greatly that her doctor suggested taking the cure at the thermal springs in the neighboring town of Chianciano Terme.   The nuns of the community prevailed upon her to take his recommendation.    While many of the other bathers reported being cured of their illnesses, Agnes herself received no benefit from the springs.    Her health failed to such a degree that she had to be carried back to the monastery on a stretcher.

Agnes died the following 20 April, at the age of forty-nine.   The Dominican friars attempted to obtain balsam (or myrrh) to embalm her body.    It was found, however, to be producing a sweet odour on its own and her limbs remained supple.   When her body was moved years after her death to the monastery church, it was found to be incorrupt.   Her tomb became the site of pilgrimages.

Some fifty years later, a Dominican friar, the Blessed Raymond of Capua, who served as confessor to St. Catherine of Siena, wrote an account of Agnes’ life.    He described her body as still appearing as if she were alive.    Catherine herself referred to her as “Our mother, the glorious Agnes”.    Catherine made a pilgrimage to Montepulciano while visiting her niece, Eugenie, who was a nun there.

Agnes was canonised by Pope Benedict XIII in 1726.

Some of the Miracles attributed to St Agnes:

• Her birth was announced by flying lights surrounding her family’s house.

• As a child, while walking through a field, she was attacked by a large murder of crows; she announced that they were devils, trying to keep her away from the land;   years later, it was the site of her convent.

• She was known to levitate up to two feet in the air while praying.

• She received Communion from an angel and had visions of the Virgin Mary.

• She held the infant Jesus in one of these visions; when she woke from her trance she found she was holding the small gold crucifix the Christ child had worn.

• On the day she was chosen abbess as a teenager, small white crosses showered softly onto her and the congregation.

• She could feed the convent with a handful of bread, once she’d prayed over it.

• Where she knelt to pray, violets, lilies and roses would suddenly bloom.

• While being treated for her terminal illness, she brought a drowned child back from the dead.

• At the site of her treatment, a spring welled up that did not help her health but healed many other people.

It was not merely the inconveniences of religious life - the possibly uncomfortable clothes, celibacy, obedience to rules - which understandably rankled. It was in fact the whole special character of the religious identity. The religious habit was discarded not simply because it was out of date or unfunctional but because of its symbolism, its marking the wearer as an ambassador of God in the world, a responsibility the wearer no longer wished to discharge. […]
 
Numerous priests and religious announced, during the postconciliar crisis, that they no longer wished to play a special role, that the burdens of living up to what the Church expected of them were now intolerable.
 
Humanly such feelings were quite understandable. Yet unnoticed was an implication of the most profound theological significance - no longer was the religious vocation treated as a call from God that might or might not coincide with the individual’s own wishes. The possibility that God might will certain people to assume tasks they would rather shirk was implictly denied. The entire Judaeo-Christian understanding of the ways in which God deals with man was being silently rejected.
—  James Hitchcock, Catholicism and Modernity (1979)

anonymous asked:

Maybe Blue Diamond's hair is based off of a veil, like one that would be seen in a nuns headdress.

I actually think her original hair concept may have been based on a long veil or even a train, depending on the length (since the 2 primary colored sketches on the page have different lengths).

Although perhaps you aren’t too far off, it doesn’t look too different than the collar area of a nun’s religious habit.

The Nlongo Custom, Zombo

Among the Primitive Bakongo : a record of thirty years’ close intercourse with the Bakongo and other tribes of equatorial Africa, with a description of their habits, customs & religious beliefs    

John H. Weeks
Philadelphia: The J.B. Lippincott Co., 1914.

Why do American Christians:

  • adore and worship Mary for her modesty and virginity,
  • act fascinated by the religious habit of nuns, and seek to sexualize it
  • applaud a resurgence in the fashion and obedience to the word of their God when women wear kerchiefs and chapel veils during mass… 

but, Muslim American women and men observing hijab are anti-American terrorists because of it?

Please, explain. I’ll wait.

anonymous asked:

What would you say to the people who claim that Kataras heritage and culture was stripped from her when she was with Aang

That they’re CLEARLY not paying attention. 

Whenever we see Katara anytime after the finale, she is wearing her WATER TRIBE TRADITIONAL CLOTHING, and that INCLUDES after she married Aang. 

She never gave that up to be an acolyte. She never officially joined the “Air Nation”

And that seems perfectly fine with Aang. 

We Know she fought to outlaw bloodbending in the entire world, which would mean she must have campaned and made her claims and statements and reasoning in ALL the Nations, representing WATER BENDERS AS A WHOLE

We KNOW her children seemed well connected to the Water Tribe and their traditions, especially her daughter whom chose that nation to represent herself in. 

-We know Tenzin, who identified with the Air Nomad half of his heritage, even goes back to celebrate an important holiday for the Water Tribe. 

-We know her children commented on her being a bit over-bearing and always giving lectures, indicated a  not so-passive or washed away mother. 

-We know we heard Tenzin say “i love you, Mom”

we know her brother represented the Water Tribe in Republic City and later as chief of the tribe, and we already know Sokka doesn’t do anything without Katara’s support. 

We know when Aang died, she went to the Water Tribe, rather than stay with the Air Acolytes or the city she founded, indicating a strong pull to culture. 

We know she is universally recognized as a head Master Water Bender and the greatest healer of all time. You don’t get that title without making a name for yourself and you don’t make a name for yourself without proving it–

and we know she proved it, at least, in being a war medic WHILE IN HER 80s. 

We know she is still acting as the voice of reason in the comics, though also the ever hot-headed, head-strong person she always was. The only difference is she’s also lovey-dovey with Aang, which, 

in the show, we have SEEN she was this way, a hopeless, sort of disgusting romantic with the way she acted towards Jet and Aunt Wu’s predictions. 

Sounds to me like her Water Tribe Cultured stayed very well in tact. We have never seen Aang suggest she ever change her religious views, or eating habits, or ask her to join in meditation or prayer or anything like that. 

Aang has always been supportive of the Water Tribe and seems to very much enjoy that part of Katara’s life. It’s what makes her different, what makes her special. I don’t think he would ever ask her to change her culture for him, nor would CANON Katara ever change that for any man. 

Stripping of her culture, my butt. Not like she married Zuko and was then forced to wear fire nation clothing, abandon her ties to her culture so she could be freakin fire Lady or something. now THAT would be stripping. 

Fetishes and charms, Lower Congo

Among the Primitive Bakongo : a record of thirty years’ close intercourse with the Bakongo and other tribes of equatorial Africa, with a description of their habits, customs & religious beliefs    

John H. Weeks
Philadelphia: The J.B. Lippincott Co., 1914.

SW: TCW Fic - Of All Possible Worlds

     The day had come. There was a time when he doubted it ever would. The light of the onrushing evening filled the room, a compratively small flat in one of Coruscant’s more affluent districts. It was more than adequate. In truth, it was more than he felt he deserved, but that sort of talk wouldn’t do from a hero of the Republic, CT-7567. Rex. His friends used to call him that. Now, everyone in the Core knew him by that name.

    They knew the face too, though it was more than just his face. It was a face of countless millions. Once, it had been the face of just one man. One soul in many bodies. The War changed that. It had given them all their own faces. Rex couldn’t stop staring at the one it had given him. The lines were deeper, and there were more of them. They joined the ghosts of scars bacta couldn’t quite disappear. The hair that fought to peek past his regulation grooming was grayer than it once was. Yet he was still fighting trim, still a warrior. So said the mirror. He gave another glance at the tunic resting on his bed.

     It wasn’t a drab duty uniform, nor the battered white armour that had been his second skin for uncounted years, but rather the crisp parade tunic of the Grand Army of the Republic. A dozen medals and a few more garish decorations cluttered the fabric; the Coruscanti Cross, the Star of Onderon, a record of battles waged across four score star systems written in precious metal. Shiny bits of tin. Rex sighed. He hated wearing it, to be honest. It smacked too much of pretension and impracticality. He was just a simple soldier, always had been. But the boys would be expecting it. The civilians…funny, technically, even he was a civilian now, would be expecting it. So would she.

     He shrugged into the tunic, medals clinking against one another. He glanced at the rank bars on his chest; Colonel. They’d wanted to make him a Brigadier. He turned them down. He was a field officer, with mud in his veins. Even the Colonelcy was brevet, an honourary rank he didn’t receive until the fighting was over. Being associated with some of the War’s great names, Tano, Kenobi, Skywalker…it made a man popular. It also gave him a voice. A voice he had put to good use. He glanced at his chrono, and almost swore. It wouldn’t do to be late. One last glance in the mirror, and then cap under his arm, he put the small apartment behind him. A short stroll and a slow lift brought him to the landing platform, and the waiting hover taxi.

     ‘Where to pal?’ the Besalisk gruffed.

     '79′s.’

     'You got it.’

###

     The airspace in front of the bar’s platform was chaos. Dozens of brightly coloured repulsor vehicles jockeyed for a spot to unload, and the taxi’s pilot dove into the fracas with relish. For a moment Rex almost regretted not accepting the Republic’s offered staff car. Yet somehow, with a bit of luck and alot of hoarse profanity, the cabbie barged up to the lip of the platform. Rex stepped onto the steel, happy to be back on something solid. He dug in his pocket for a credstick. The cabbie almost looked insulted.

     'You kidding? This one’s on me pal.’

     Rex almost smiled. He barely finished a smart about face when the voice hit his back.

    'Hey, trooper!’

     Rex glanced behind.

     'Happy Republic Day.’

     The Colonel smiled proper, and nodded. The cabbie pulled a sloppy salute, and with a whine of repulsorlifts, was gone.

  Rex turned back to 79′s and began making his way across the crowded platform. The Clone bar had always been a busy establishment, but every Republic Day, the anniversary of the Separatist surrender, the old soldiers of the GAR mounted a full scale invasion. The Colonel took it in with wide eyes. What immediately struck him was how different they all were. In another life, this would have been an assembly of fighting men, trim, identical, perfect and bland. Now? It was a mess of fathers and grandfathers and uncles, men with whiskered chins and sagging bellies and liquored breath. Little scars, gestures and mannerisms made each and every one of them uncannily different. Whether it was the way they laughed, the way they held a smoke, the number of teeth in their heads, none of them could truly be called perfect. It quivered Rex’s gut, ideal in its imperfection.

     When the War ended and the dust and glittertape had settled, there remained a great many questions. Some, such as the degree of complicity of certain Republic politicians and bureaucrats in the Separatist cause, were handled behind closed doors. Other, more obvious frustrations, were debated loudly in the public eye. None was quite so poignant as The Clone Question. The Republic, so eager for an army to safeguard itself, had never given any serious thought to just what was to be done with a vast corps of manufactured soldiers, trained from birth to thrive on war. The same Clones who had fought so selflessly to secure galactic peace were now left to ponder whether they in fact had a place in it. Some actually proposed rounding the Clones up on 'reservations’, maintaining a respectful distance from polite society and their chattel killers, a temporary embarrassment allowed to wither and be forgotten. A few even whispered of a 'quiet retirement’; a kind word for mass euthanisation. Those whispers threatened to grow loud and hateful. Rex’s hand twitched, half wishing for a weapon. Those days were as uncertain as Umbara…

     The Jedi. They listened, and spoke. The Jedi, who had led his brothers, cared for them, taught them so many lessons, including how to love themselves. The Jedi gave them a voice. They used it. In those precarious hours, duty had called to Rex once more. When the Senate held its hearings on 'Clone Rehabilitation’…he couldn’t just keep silent. It was hard at first. It was hard enough standing up to General Krell, but the Senate? Rex remembered just how small he had felt, floating at the centre of the Senate chamber.

      'Honorable beings of the Galactic Senate - ’ he began. So timid. A good soldier. He almost went mute. But he remembered. Geonosis. Christophis. Ringo Vinda. Then the words wouldn’t stop. His voice grew louder and louder, until his whisper became as thunder. Suddenly, he knew the courage he had felt matching flesh against droid steel. A few formal words became a torrent, and that torrent became a tidal wave that could match any that swept the seas of Kamino. His heart roared in that chamber that day. He felt her smiling behind him. That warmth grew as that steel cavern erupted with applause. That was the beginning. More speeches followed, interviews on the HoloNet news, public appearances and charity dinners with many of the same people who had made a tidy profit off the battles his brothers fought. Discpline helped him bury the snarls at the sickening hypocrisy. Perseverance paid off. In the end, it had led to the creation of the Ministry of Veteran Affairs, and his appointment to their senior committee. There he still remained, though more of an advisor than administrator these days. If you had asked him, all those years ago when he was fresh from the bottle, he would’ve never presumed to guess what his future would have been. That just one Clone could have made such a difference for so many.

     Now, somehow, they were here. Against all the odds of the Universe, against everything they had been taught from their first breath, they were here. Some still wore their old uniforms. Others, clearly would no longer fit. Many more still were anything but uniform. The sea of colour that swirled before him was more than just the neon lights; greasy coveralls mingled with the tailoured finery of diplomats and businessmen, religious habits, and battered flyboy jackets painted with racy Twi'lek girls. Many wore their medals too, dangling jauntily from shirt pockets alongside old unit insignia and baubles collected from dozens of worlds. There had been questions, in the beginning, whether Clones should even be awarded medals. Even many of those same soldiers felt they didn’t warrant them. That too, changed. Those bits of ribbon became another piece of their individuality, another stamp on their passport into the human race. Rex would never learn to love his, but the pride they gave his brothers outweighed his misgivings.

     The door had been left ajar, no obstacle against a flood of patrons, or the tang of the night air. Aside from the crowds, Rex noted as he elbowed his way in, the place really hadn’t changed. The same old bawdy jokes, the old war stories that grew bigger in the telling, creds changing hands over cards and drinking bouts and the races on the holos. One corner thundered with chants and curses as a pair of big fellows arm-wrestled it out, another full of sultry giggles from the girls of every colour that still worked the place. Even if 'their boys’ had gotten a bit softer and greyer, they didn’t seem to mind. Every Clone was a hero at 79’s. He thought he glimpsed a familiar facial tattoo. Was that Fives? It was hard to get a clear look between the two Twi'Leks and the Zelty. Yeah, gotta be Fives. Rex would remember to say hello when he wasn’t so preoccupied.

     Suddenly a voice managed to cut through all the others.

      'Hey, its the Colonel! Colonel Rex!’

     The babble became a roar. Every eye in the room was on him, everyone piling on top of one another for a better look. Alot of good booze was spilled as they jostled and howled, raising toasts and shouting his name. Someone started singing 'O'er the Stars and the Sea’. A few more drunkenly joined in, adding the old Clone hymn to the din. Rex sheepishly waved off the praise as the crowd parted sloppily before him, besieged as he was by an onslaught of handshakes and slaps on the back. He had been respected among the men of his command during the War, as a warrior and a leader. The work that came after, fighting a whole other war - their quiet war - had won him a whole new level of admiration. All his life, he’d just been a simple soldier. Just like them. To them, he had become more than that. He had become the man who had saved them all.

     The moment vanished with the speed it had appeared, and Rex finally reached the bar. Drinks were on the house, the bartender made sure he knew it, and Rex practically had to beg the being to give him a minute to make up his mind. But his past wasn’t done catching up with him.

     'Rex!’

     He knew that voice. He turned toward the crowd, bringing him face to face with a grinning, black gloved giant of a man. Rex wasn’t the only one with a few more lines on his face. The ace pilot wore them well, and that wasn’t down to merely the beard, like that of another old Jedi, that had crept across his face. Rex never claimed to be knowledgeable on the Force, but even he could feel the warmth from the man; the fire in his heart that had at times burned so angrily in youth had changed, tempered…but burned no less brightly.

     'General Skywalker.’ Rex spoke with a nod.

     The Colonel extended a hand. Anakin took it, the other gripping the shoulder of his old friend. Then, with a warmth that only grew with the years, the two embraced. Such a display went against all the decorum of a soldier. Amidst the drunken joy of the bar, no one cared. They weren’t soldiers now, none of them were. Force willing, they never would be again.

      'How are the two attachments?’

     The old joke had become an endearing moniker, a jab at all the things Jedi Master Skywalker wasn’t technically supposed to have. He and Padme had worked hard at creating two more.

     'They miss their uncle.’

     Rex let out a longing sigh.

     'Veteran’s affairs keeps me pretty close to the Core these days.’

     'Well, the Clone settlement program on Naboo could benefit from some senior oversight. I’m sure Padme could arrange an inspection…’

     Rex let out a chuckle. The General hadn’t changed.

     'If the Senator is convinced the situation on Naboo warrants my attention, how can I refuse?’

     Anakin was about to reply when another pair of arms wrapped Rex from behind.

     'I get my turn, right?’

     Rex was half forcibly spun on his heels, and in a flash of saffron and white and a fanged, giddy smile, there she was. He remembered when she barely stood head to his chest. Now her montrals actually gave her centimeters on him.

     'General Tano.’

     'Rex, its been how many years since I told you to cut it out with the rank?’

     'Sorry, Ahsoka.’

     'Leave the old man alone, Snips.’

    ‘Old?’ she shot back 'He’s not the one starting to look like Obi Wan.’

     Even Rex laughed at that. She wasn’t wrong.

     'How is General Kenobi?’

     'Well. He’s been attached to the Republic relief delegation to Mandalore. I’ve heard he’s working quite closely with the Duchess.’

     Somehow their smiles grew all the wider. Of course, Rex reasoned, that was likely more than just the loving jab at their perfectly imperfect old friend. Judging by their breath, he realised he was the only one who hadn’t had a drink. Or four. As if she read his thoughts, Ahsoka suddenly shoved a glass in his hand. As he sniffed at the contents - Coreillian Brandy, eighteen year - he figured she probably did.

     'You’ve been wrapped up in relief work yourself, or so I hear.’ he said with a sip. Frell, that stuff was smooth.

     'We all have. After years of war, for the Order to finally get back to our true purpose of building the peace…its like having a weight taken from our shoulders, for all of us.’

     'From one battle to another, blasters to plowshares…’ Rex swirled his glass.

     'Rex, going political hasn’t made you go all gloomy on me, has it? Well, ya know, more than usual.’

     'I guess I am getting old.’

     'Come Rimward sometime, visit some of the projects the ArgiCorps has put together alongside the Republic’s relief organisations. That’ll make you feel young, if only because of all the younglings running riot. You should see Barriss. She’s like a mother with a hundred kids.’

      'General Offee was a capable commander. I’m sure she manages.’

      'Oh she does more than manage. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so content.’

     She downed another drought. Rex hardly noticed when a few of the bar’s holoscreens switched to an address from the senator of Onderon, one Lux Bonteri. Ahsoka glanced up half-way through her drink, and erupted into a coughing, cackling fit, having unexpectedly snorted half her cocktail. Tears started to stream down her face, from laughter as much as the alcohol burning her nostrils. Rex raised an eyebrow.

     'Is there something I’m missing?’

     She waved him off, struggling to breathe.

     'Remind me to tell you about Carlac sometime…’

     Rex shrugged, and sipped his brandy. Anakin wrapped an arm around each of them.

     'So here we are again, just like old times.’

     'Well, not just like.’ Rex retorted 'For awhile there Ahsoka couldn’t even sit at the bar.’

     She shot him a barbed look, and then erupted in another giggling fit.

     'So what shall we drink to? Victory? Peace? Fat pension checks?’

     Rex mused for a moment, then lifted his glass.

     'To us.’

     'To us.’ They echoed.

     He supposed he was getting introspective in his old age. It was hard to shake how much it all felt like a dream. As a combat soldier, he knew better than most that life wasn’t like the holos. It was the rarest thing in the world to find a Happily Ever After. Yet looking around him now, surrounded by so much warmth, so much courage - with men like this, friends, family like this…He raised his glass for another toast.

     How could it have ever ended any other way?

###

What if there had been no Sith plot, no Order 66? What if the Republic had won the Clone Wars? What if our heroes got the ending they deserved?
I’d been dying to play with this idea. So here you are. In another, kinder Galaxy, what could have been…

Now indexed on FF.net.

Witch-doctor and his assistants.

Among the Primitive Bakongo : a record of thirty years’ close intercourse with the Bakongo and other tribes of equatorial Africa, with a description of their habits, customs & religious beliefs    

John H. Weeks
Philadelphia: The J.B. Lippincott Co., 1914.

Luther’s challenges to Catholicism would result in significant devastation…Convents were forced open and vandalized. Iconoclasts shattered stained glass, painted over artworks, and stole the clappers from chapel bells. Many of the great monasteries of England, Scotland, Ireland, Holland, and Scandinavia disappeared completely.
  
The reformers focused especially on religious habits, ripping them to shreds or burning them, ordering sisters to adopt secular dress…Protestants proclaimed the idea of celibacy as unnatural, declaring marriage to be the most illustrious state and therefore seeking to “liberate” nuns so they could be free to marry…In England, King Henry VIII closed monasteries and obliterated orders in order to gain their lands.
 
Later Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658) and his Puritan Roundheads escalated Catholic persecution with fierce brutality – his army slaughtered over 40 percent of indigenous Irishmen, for example, who clung to their faith. Rather than being an agent of reform, the Protestant movement became a tyrannical repression of religious freedoms of non-Protestants.
—  Elizabeth Kuhns, “The Habit: A History of the Clothing of Catholic Nuns”
What Does the Religious Habit Mean to Me? Sr. Mary Blanche, O.S.B.

Many Years ago, I was blessed to visit some sisters and I was given a paper, “What Does the Religious Habit Mean to Me?”, and I find it as beautiful today as the day I was given it.  Let me share it with you here.

What Does the Religious Habit Mean to Me?  Sr. Mary Blanche, O.S.B.

The Religious Habit is a sign of my consecration, dedication, commitment, and of God’s call for me.

The Religious Habit is a sign of God’s presence to me and a symbol of my faith in God and His promises to His chosen ones who are faithful.  It sustains and strengthens my hope in Christ’s promises to those who leave all and follow Him.

The Religious Habit is a symbol of my love for Christ in choosing me as His bride and my response to His loving call.

The Religious Habit is an immediate sign and symbol of my witness to the People of God whom I serve in Christ.

The Religious Habit is a continual reminder to me to take up my cross daily in following Christ - indicating that I am in the world but not of it.

The Religious Habit daily reminds me of my need for penance and mortification in aspiring for sanctification and the part that prayer and sacrifice should have in my life.

The Religious Habit is a sign and symbol of me dedication in obedience, poverty, and chastity, and a daily reminder of the example my life should be as inspiration for my bretheren and the laity.

The Religious Habit indicates that I do not belong to myself but to God, and continually reminds me of God’s love for me and that my love for Him should be the concern of my every moment of my life.

The Religious Habit is a garment which helps to insure the practice of modesty and strengthens one against temptation and sin.

The Religious Habit is a garment, shield, sign, and symbol that should help foster and develop a great freedom in the life of a religious - a freedom in both the spiritual and temporal world - a freedom from all earthly entanglements - a freedom to be unhampered in one’s flight to God.

The main purpose then of the Religious Habit then is to express and protect the Sacred character of a Religious Woman, to strengthen her in her daily striving for perfection, and to be a continual reminder of Whom she is a Spouse and to Whom she belongs.

The Religious Habit also protects and engenders respect.

The Religious Habit is never out of style.

The Religious Habit also encourages vocations.