[stylist] believing the unbelievable

Mon Aug 3 17:35:26 UTC 2015

Debby,

My mom grew up Southern Babtist and converted to Catholicism a few years
ago. My dad grew up Missouri Syndod Lutheran and now is a youth director and
worship pastor at a Babtist church, so go figure. My mom, wanting to "stand
by her man," smile, attends two services on Sunday's so she can go to
Catholic mass but also "worship" with my dad on Sunday morning's too. That's
a lot of church-going in one day, LOL!

Thanks for sharing this short piece. Beautiful language and very sensory. I
could see, feel and even smell all your describe.

Bridgit

-----Original Message-----
From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Debby
Phillips via stylist
Sent: Monday, August 03, 2015 7:29 AM
To: Writers' Division Mailing List <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Debby Phillips <semisweetdebby at gmail.com>
Subject: Re: [stylist] believing the unbelievable

Hey Bill! I need my saints, too.  I have an imaginary "conference room"
where I go sometimes to have conferences with the Lord, Mother Mary, and my
favorite saints.  Sometimes it's a very formal room, with tablecloths,
flowers on the tables, candles, you know.  Other times it's a very informal
room, easy chairs and side tables for putting the proverbial cup of coffee.
(This was a big stretch for me, because I didn't grow up Catholic, but was
an Evangelical Christian).  So much happier as a Catholic.  
(Smile).

I tried sending something that I wrote and got it back, so I'm 
going to send it below my signature.  Hope that's okay.    Debby

The warmth of summer beating down, the birds singing their evening song.  We
walk the hill, our voices bright and young, hopeful.  We sit on a bench, our
bodies resting, muscles relaxing.  The fountain plays its gentle song, and I
relax, feeling the weariness ease away.

The bell rings, and from everywhere footsteps move toward the church.  We
hurry to join those who have come to pray.  The cool interior of the church
surrounds me, the smell of previous incense coating the air.

I sit, the silence begins to envelop me.  Footsteps, rustling robes, the
monks in their black and white processing in as they have done for so many
years.  A path seems to be worn into the floor from those footsteps, old
monks who have prayed there for years, down to the youngest monk who came
the day before.  Maybe he too will someday walk that path in the floor, an
old monk, hunched with time and work.

The knock sounds, and the prayer begins, soft, suffused with purity and
holiness.  A joy flows through me-i am here for this night, and this night
can last as long as I wish it to.  The joy is only half joy, because I would
like to be there in the here and now, but that is not possible.  So I let
the memory flow around me.  The prayer flows in and through me.  I sing the
words softly in my head and heart.

The prayer ends, and in silence, the monks leave.  I softly go to my room,
and sit before the open window.  The fountain lulls me, the remembered
prayer surrounds me.  I know at this moment that I am fully, and forever
loved.

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