#July 4th Prayer

[catholic-quotes]

Happy 4th of July!

#catholic #inspirational posts #4th of july #quotes #prayer #inspirational

[revjss]

Evening Prayer - 4 Jul 2023

Thank you, God, for the potential of my nation. Thank you for our historic and current resistors of oppression. Thank you for our historic and current radical supporters of freedom. Thank you for the self-evident truth that every person is equal—equally loved by you and equally valuable to the wholeness of the nation. Thank you for the idea of democracy and for all who protect it. Thank you for the annual 4th of July reminder: that questioning the political leaders of today is as equally patriotic as it was in the 1770s. Amen.

#evening prayer #thanksgiving #4th of july

[stanthonywalnuttree]

Independence Day; “Happy Fourth of July!!!”

Prayer for the Nation, written in 1791 by Archbishop John Carroll of Baltimore, Maryland, for the inauguration of President George Washington. We pray, O almighty and eternal God, who through Jesus Christ has revealed thy glory to all nations, to preserve the works of your mercy, that your Church, being spread through the whole world, may continue with unchanging faith in the confession of your…

View On WordPress

#1791 #4th of July #Archbishop John Carroll #Baltimore #Catholic Church #Independence Day #Maryland #prayer #The Fourth

[bishopforeman]

Command Your Week Prayer - July 4, 2022 - Bishop Kevin Foreman

#4th #atlanta #bishop #chicago #church #colorado #command #denver #foreman #georgia #harvest #highland #jesus #july #kevin #park #prayer #summer #week #your

[sukunasrealm]

.

#nothing say happy 4th of July like another fucken shooting #god fucken bless America #my heart goes to everyone involved and their families #hope everyone can be safe apparently the gunman is still on the loose #i hate how the fbi is like we're trying to figure out what type of people would do this #its white men apparently between the ages of 18 to 30 there no more research needed #this is so fucken frustrating #it's heartbreaking and its also exhausting living this way #already people posting prayers and hugs and like at what point do we get tired #its fucken rinse and repeat

[magicmalcolm]

Today's Pokémon is Klink!

#klink #july 4th really grinds my gears #prayer circle for all the animals tonight #pokemon #pokemon a day

[blogarlene]

Prayer for the 4th and Everyday

Prayer for the 4th and Everyday

Divine Spirit arlene s bice 2022.07.04 On this day of rejoicing and celebrating the birth of our nation Please lay you hand of love and light on the shoulders of the growing number Of discontented men and women with minds full of hate and anger Instigated by an evil one. Let them see and feel the blessings of a lightened heart Where love dwells for their neighbors, no matter how far…

View On WordPress

#4th of july prayer

[cherisunn]

1 John 4:21

King James Version

And this commandment have we from him, That he who loveth God love his brother also.

Inspiration

The life we live, as Christians, is not just about focusing on what we have received. It is also about what we give. We are not to selfishly sit on this free gift we have received and only be concerned about our selfish interests. We are commanded to exercise the love we have received, by being loving towards others as well. God expects us to reenact the love he expressed towards us, to the people we come across in our daily lives.

Prayer

Dear God, I desire to express the love you have given me to my fellow brothers and sisters in the Lord. Father, help me to be attentive to their needs and their struggles so I can be a helping hand, ready to assist wherever I can. May I never be influenced or carried away by my selfish desires, Father. This I pray, in Jesus' name. Amen.

#christianity #inspiration #prayer #devotion #holy bible #king james version #kjv #Agape Love #Scripture #Bible Verse #July 4th #commandments #From Application

[bachiles]

A Prayer for July 4th

A Prayer for July 4th

Freedom Prayer for Independence Day  Lord God Almighty, in whose name the founders of this country, won liberty for themselves and for us, and lit the torch of freedom for nations then unborn: Grant that we and all the people of this land may have the grace to maintain our liberties in righteousness and peace; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one…

View On WordPress

#fireworks and patriotic music #freedom prayer for Independence Day #holiday #Independence Day #July 4th

[freetheshit-outofyou]

Q, your loss still hurts. The 4th of July was forever changed that day.

If you are hurting, call someone, reach out reach up someone will answer. They can't take a way the hurt but they can share the weight.

A SOLDIER WITH PTSD FELL IN A HOLE and couldn’t get out.

A Senior NCO went by and the Soldier with PTSD called out for help. The Senior NCO yelled at him, told him to suck it the fuck up, dig deep & drive on, then threw him a shovel. But the Soldier with PTSD could not suck it up and drive on so he dug the hole deeper.

A Senior Officer went by and the Soldier with PTSD called out for help. The Senior Officer told him to use the tools your Senior NCO has given you then threw him a bucket. But the Soldier with PTSD was using the tools his Senior NCO gave him so he dug the hole deeper and filled the bucket.

A psychiatrist walked by. The Soldier with PTSD said, “Help! I can’t get out!” The psychiatrist gave him some drugs and said, “Take this. It will relieve the pain.” The Soldier with PTSD said thanks, but when the pills ran out, he was still in the hole.

A well-known psychologist rode by and heard the Soldier with PTSD cries for help. He stopped and asked, ” How did you get there? Were you born there? Did your parents put you there? Tell me about yourself, it will alleviate your sense of loneliness.” So the Soldier with PTSD talked with him for an hour, then the psychologist had to leave, but he said he’d be back next week. The Soldier with PTSD thanked him, but he was still in the hole.

A priest came by. The Soldier with PTSD called for help. The priest gave him a Bible and said, “I’ll say a prayer for you.” He got down on his knees and prayed for the Soldier with PTSD, then he left. The Soldier with PTSD was very grateful, he read the Bible, but he was still stuck in the hole.

A recovering Soldier with PTSD happened to be passing by. The Soldier with PTSD cried out, “Hey, help me. I’m stuck in this hole!” Right away the recovering Soldier with PTSD jumped down in the hole with him. The Soldier with PTSD said, “What the fuck are you doing? Now we’re both stuck in here!!” But the recovering Soldier with PTSD said, “Calm down, bro. It’s okay. I’ve been here before. I know how to get out.“

~Author Unknown ~ <S>

#the war we bring home #ptsd #buddy check #you are not alone

[anarchistin]

What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July? I answer; a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim.

To him, your celebration is a sham; your boasted liberty, an unholy license; your national greatness, swelling vanity; your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; your denunciation of tyrants, brass-fronted impudence; your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade and solemnity, are, to Him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages.

There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices more shocking and bloody than are the people of the United States, at this very hour.

— Frederick Douglass, What to a Slave is the 4th of July?

#frederick douglass #usa #slavery #racism #independence day #black liberation

[eyrina-avatar]

a little section where I keep track and share my shifting progress after I've made this blog. after my first two links, I will be writing the progress/attempts/success here in detailed (if I don't forget and make a separate post).

FAQ:

Do you listen to anything while shifting. Short answer no, longer answer: this post

How to shift? This post here and this post here (also has info on lucid dreaming methods in order to shift)

🐟shifting progress:

one. link (this one is mixed in with a detailed how to shifting post so it's a long post)

two. link (also similar to the first link but is not the same attempt)

three. Thursday, May 4th (night time)

I laid down in bed getting ready for sleep and I just decided to think about Pandora (like I always do). And so I decided to just calm down and relax my mind for shifting. I then started thinking about Tuktirey and my dream hunt. At the time I shift, Mo'at has just woken me up since I passed out during my dream hunt and so I thought about Tuk's voice telling me "[name] you're awake!" like how she told Kiri🤧💙. I thought about that a few times and imagined her in front of me being happy to see me and this worked so well that I started to feel my surroundings change, my mind started spinning and I felt like I was floating. I started affirming "I'm in my desired reality" over and over again and then my feet started to get SUPER hot. I think my feet were a little too close to the Omaticaya's fire pit but I kept on affirming and the shifitng sensations got stronger until I heard some super loud noise from one of my family members bumping something into the wall😐. Anyways, at least the experience was super motivating for me hehe.

four. Tuesday June 5th (latest attempt-updated on June 13th as I forgot about it)

I laid down in my bed, closed my eyes relaxed for a bit and then just started imagining mo'at waving her hands over me (like when she does the prayers and healings in avatar2009). and she was waving some peppermint over me and I tried visualizing how the inside of home tree and the canopies of leaves looked like while hearing kiri's voice asking "(my name) are you alright)." All of a sudden I felt my body vibrating, my eyelids shaking, a light flashing in front of me and I heard chattering in the background like the omaticaya were all speaking and I felt the warmth again from a nearby fire pit(but not too hot this time) and I felt the ground underneath me start to change and the bed got harder as if I was laying on a rock. Unfortunately I lost focus and welp, that was that shifting attempting.

five. Tuesday, July 4th (late update)

I simply relaxed, did the hypnosis method I mentioned in one of my links and on the final step, I started hearing bird sounds, forest sounds and felt my mind spinning around me. Also, all of the noise from my old reality got drowned out and I heard chattering from what I assumed was the omaticaya clan. I could feel that it was day time as it just felt like it. Unfortunately I got distracted with the pillow under my head as it got uncomfortable to lay on and it interrupted my shifting. I was really close though. Next time I'll completely make it🤞

🐟

as always, do not steal my writing and please don't post it on ao3 or wattpad

© eyrina-avatar

#shifitng #avatar shifitng #shifting to pandora #pandora shifitng #shifitng progress

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Friday the 13th was a bad title for the slasher franchise. They came up with the name before writing it because they liked how it sounded and wanted to take out a full page newspaper ad, but the plot they came up with didn't fit the title. When you hear "Friday the 13th," what do you think of? Bad luck. It's the unluckiest day of the year, in fact! There are any number of superstitions you could use for creative kills, "be careful, or you'll be dead," but no, the movie isn't about that. The fact that it took place on Friday the 13th was incidental!

Jason Voorhees drowned in 1957, but the only Fridays the 13th that year were September and December, both of which occur after summer break, so it doesn't make sense for anyone to still be at a summer camp. Mrs. Voorhees starts her killing spree 22 years later in 1979, presumably Friday, July 13th, which isn't even the anniversary of Jason's death! Why would she associate his drowning with the day of the week instead of the month it happened? Imagine if the Founding Fathers said "on this day July 4th, 1776 we sever our ties to Great Britain. May we celebrate our Independence Day every Thursday the 4th from now on! We have two of them next year, September 4th and December 4th, 1777!"

That's dumb.

And most of the sequels take place the day after the previous one or a couple months later so it's not even Friday the 13th anymore. That's like if they wrote a Halloween sequel that didn't take place on Halloween. "This Easter, say your prayers, because the Boogeyman is back, and he's looking for more than just eggs, he's looking for YOU!"

That's dumb!

If they really wanted to keep the plot about the drowning child and his crazy mom, they should have at least tailored the kills to be more thematic; any time something unlucky happens to a counselor they get killed in an ironic way.

Black cat crosses their path, the killer slashes them with a garden fork like giant cat claws

They break a mirror, they get their throat slit with a shard of glass

They walk under a ladder, it snaps shut and dices them into cubes

They open an umbrella indoors, the killer impales them with it and opens it in their chest, splitting their ribs

They spill salt, they get buried in it and their friends stumble across their mummified remains

Three counselor's light joints off a single match, their cabin burns down with them in it

The kills almost write themselves. Someone loses a game of horseshoes, and later they get their head stoved in with one.

#friday the 13th #bad luck #luck #lucky number 13 #13 #jason voorhees #pamela voorhees #slasher #title #unlucky

[stirringwinds]

Purgatory

Whumptober Day 8: Back from the dead 

Summary: ​​ Vietnam, 1967. Marine Captain Alfred F. Jones, born on July 4th 1942, is killed in action at 0930 hours, twenty klicks from Quang Tri city. This is the aftermath. 

Or: Alfred, through the eyes of one of his men. Because not every human’s experience coming face-to-face with their nation is a good one. 

Notes: CW for violence, death, graphic injuries, war, depictions of PTSD, murder and Cold War-era imperialism. This fic leans hard on the darker side of ‘nations as creepy as hell eldritches and their relationship with war’; citizenship, loyalty and nationhood can cut many ways can’t it? 

“VC” refers to the Viet Cong— the Vietnamese guerrillas who fought against both the US-backed South Vietnamese military and US forces. They were allied with, but distinct from the regular ARVN (aka, the North Vietnamese military). “Charlie” became a slang for the Viet Cong, because the NATO phonetic alphabet reads “V.C” as “Victor Charlie.” [3.2k words]

Read on AO3

One week after Jones dies, a VC sniper nails me twice in the right thigh on a night patrol, with all the suddenness and wrath of a prayer answered by the Almighty. 

Maybe Charlie had been aiming for my balls and had missed, the helo pilot on the medevac chopper had guffawed. He’d seen people in worse shape than me, I’d live, so just sit tight and shut up. 

It enters my leg at a diagonal, it hurts like a bitch, fractures my thigh bone, shreds a whole lot of muscle and nerve tissue, nicks a major artery; I lose buckets of blood. The surgeon at the field hospital in Khe Sanh who ties the artery, fishes out the bullet fragments and sews me back together tells me that at best, I’d walk with a painful limp all my life—if I even recover that much function. Then, I get a raging infection. I burn and I freeze; my temperature shoots to a hundred and four, I’m pumped with antibiotics, I’m told I nearly died—but I don’t give a shit. 

I’m giddy, delirious and incoherent, hopped up on morphine and euphoria. 

My war is over. 

I’m packed off to the 700-bed Naval Support Activity hospital at Da Nang. The hospital’s on the strip of land in between the Han River and the South China Sea—which means unlimited ice-cream, lazing in bed all day, and miles and miles of golden sand and the gorgeous blue of the ocean. After seven months in the red mud, hell and mosquitoes that is Khe Sanh, Quang Tri province, this is heaven, as far as I’m concerned. 

One night, I awake with a start. It’s my ninth day there. 

At first, I think it’s because the air conditioning has broken down. The ward I share with eleven other guys is dark and quiet, the air oppressively still, sticky and humid. The corpsman’s station is empty—which often happened whenever there was a surge in casualties. Everyone else is either passed out or groaning in their sleep—unsurprisingly; I was the milder case in a ward full of grunts convalescing from amputations and head injuries. 

I throw off the blankets. My hospital pajamas are soaked with sweat. I’d been doing well enough that they’d taken me off the IV. So I drag myself out of bed, reach for my newly acquired crutches. Maybe there’d be more of a breeze outside—they’d made a makeshift verandah of sorts. You could see the ocean from there, and they’d begun wheeling me out there in the day, like those photos of TB patients in the old days, to take in the fresh air. 

I stagger outside, a pathetic figure shuffling on my crutches. I’m a long way off from my high school days on the track team. 

Outside, the smell of salt hits my nose. It’s three twenty-five in the morning, according to the glowing hands of my watch. The air is warm, like an oven; back home, it’d be much cooler at this time of the year—but at least there’s a breeze, instead of the hot, still air inside. 

A tall silhouette of a man. The waft of cigarette smoke. Someone else is already out there. My eyes are still adjusting to the dark, so I can’t make out his features. I’m weighing whether to greet this stranger, or to just shut the fuck up—but he takes the lead. 

“You’re finally up, Corporal,” the stranger’s voice is low and nonchalant—and I can’t breathe. “I’ve been waiting.” 

It’s like ice shooting through my veins—the cold, deeply awful dread that instantly surges up at the sound of the not-stranger’s voice, at the recognition that hits me. 

I’m having a heart attack, it feels. It’s like getting shot again—not feeling anything, just numb for a few seconds and then the pain just exploding. There’s a clatter as one of my crutches falls to the ground. My fingers are gripping the wooden railing. It’s rough, unfinished, there are splinters digging into my palms. I’m going nuts. I’d been steadily losing it over the past seven months, but now I’m sure as hell over the edge. 

That’s what it is, seeing a dead man in the flesh. 

“There are only so many reasons for this kind of shit, so I can guess,” Jones strolls over nonchalantly, his distinctive features melting out of the shadows into the light of the moon with vivid, horrifying, mesmerising clarity, looking every bit as he did in life; the unmistakably gold glint of his hair, the intense blue of his eyes, the strong bronze angles of his face. That strikingly handsome, sharp and squared-away look; the exact damned way the Marine Corps liked its officers. 

“But I’d still like to hear it in your own words,” Jones stops, keeping about a meter and a half between us. “So. Tell me. Why’d you do it?”

Dully, I barely register the fact that he’s considerately picked up my crutch, setting it against the railing with a dull thud. 

“Fuck. You’re not real.” You’re dead, is what I really want to say. 

“Come on, man,” Jones raises a well-groomed brow, completely disregarding my weak  protest. “This whole thing wasn’t just your idea, I know—but you did the honours, didn’t you?” His manner is dry, matter-of-fact. He speaks as though he were assigning latrine-cleaning duty or boredly ordering us to set up a night defense perimeter. 

There’s no anger, no vengeful fury from this ghost. Whole thing. Describing his own murder with such nonchalance. Something vaguely unpleasant, but that ultimately had little lasting consequences. 

“I was,” I echo uselessly, when I’m able to form words again. I’ve sunk down into one of the chairs they’d placed out there for us to enjoy the sea views. “It wasn’t personal.” Of course it was personal. 

All those dangerous jungle patrols, deep into Viet Cong territory, the zealous, whole-hearted fanaticism with which Jones pushed us on with, his voice like the very command of God. 

The way he’d held McLean’s hand as he bled out, just one month shy of his nineteenth birthday. McLean, who was just the latest in a long line of dog-tags and body bags. No, what was terrible wasn’t that Jones didn’t care. What was terrible was the sincerity with which he said you did good as McLean died, his unseeing eyes staring up at the remorselessly blue sky, as his blood seeped down into the soil of Vietnam. How he said how his sacrifice would be worth it, that he'd personally make sure of it. 

The careful, sincere letters Jones always composed to the next-of-kin, not dashed off carelessly the way some other shitbags did it. He meant every word he wrote. Their sons and brothers had been brave and special. They had gone too soon. But for a worthy cause at the end of the day, for their nation, for the global cause of freedom and democracy and— And I suddenly saw it. How many other hands had my commanding officer held? An endless procession of poor motherfuckers like myself, led into the abyss to make the deaths of those before worth it. The weight of my M-16 rifle suddenly felt too much. Its strap was cutting into my neck, a noose—

In the present I shrug. I stick my hands into the pockets of my hospital-issued pajamas so he won’t see them shaking. Not that it matters—he’s probably already noticed, of course. I keep my eyes staring straight ahead at the inky darkness of the ocean—anything but the ghost standing beside me. Maybe this is what damnation is.

“You were going to get us all killed, sooner or later. You couldn’t be dissuaded.” I’m defending myself, justifying it, assuaging my conscience—whichever.  

“And you decided to take on the burden, I suppose,” Jones remarks. On the surface, his expression is eerily placid, bereft of any vindictiveness. “A noncom like you, loyal not to his superior officer, but his men? Guess I can admit there’s something admirable about that, Corporal.” 

I can’t tell whether he’s mocking me or not. He probably is. 

“Admirable?” I feel sick. I could, of course, go along with this bullshit. Loftily and righteously say I did it because I owed it to the miserable fucks under my section, to the 14 teenaged Marines who were barely younger than I was, to save them from our commanding officer’s zealotry. But— what principle was there when it came down to it, when I looked the truth in the face? When the overwhelming feeling that had driven me was pure fear? The desperate fear that every next patrol Jones assigned me, further and further into the dangerous, mined jungle paths that the VCs knew like the back of their hand—it was their land after all—would be my last?

“Yes,” Jones drawls. There’s a southern twang in his voice; he’d always said he was born in Virginia. July 4th, 1942, of all dates— but as with all things to do with him, you don’t know when the truths end and the lies begin. 

“Don’t get it fucking twisted up,” I breathe. Close my eyes. I feel the edges of hysteria creeping in—not now. Not fucking now of all times. “I just wanted to go home in one piece. And I sure as hell wasn’t gonna get my ticket punched before I can even get legally piss-drunk, not in that fucking shithole.”

Jones fixes his eyes on me. The gleam of his captain’s bars on his right collar catches the moonlight. He’s in a fresh and clean uniform, instead of the bloodied, shredded mess I’d last seen. My mind is filled with just two thoughts— of my knee hurting like a bitch in this incredibly realistic nightmare, and the way his stare feels like it’s gnawing on my very soul. 

“And you won’t die for this?” Jones’ smile is curious and there’s something disconcertingly piercing in it. Mesmerising. “Not for this cause?” It’s a disarming smile, the same one he always flashed in life—that bullshit Hollywood smile that so easily wooed and won anyone over. A trap. He exhales a stream of smoke,  his blue eyes dark and unblinking, his presence all at once relaxed and disarming, intense and oppressive. “Not even for me?”

Once, I would have followed him, until the end. I’d worshiped him, with the fervour of an idiotic boy fresh from dropping out of community college, beaten and broken down at Parris Island. He was magnetic, that way; always friendly and easy going— not one of those officers who looked at us grunts like we were lower than the shit in the latrines. 

Before all this, I knew nothing of Vietnam, had the luxury of thinking nothing of Vietnam. When my draft notice came, my mother and older sister had begged me not to go, to run away and stay with our relatives in Guadalajara. Or our maternal granduncle, who was still living in Ireland. He’d take me in for sure. Didn’t I see the news? The casualties? This war was a bad one…I’d brushed them off, with all the conceit of an arrogant, stupid boy hungry for adventure—I wasn’t thinking. I’d never lived anywhere but home, I wasn’t about to cut and run forever. How bad could it be? Our late father had proudly won his medals in Europe, on the beaches of Normandy, hadn’t he? And so, I’d have eaten a hundred bullets for Jones, chewed miles of barbed wire, crawled through a fucking VC tunnel if he ordered it. Maybe I still would have, in the darkness of the thick jungle of Quang Tri province, away from the lively cities and towns, away from anything that reminded me that I was more than a warm body with a M-16 and Ka-bar knife. 

It’s like exiting a fog, looking back at those moments and realising how deluded and detached from reality I’d become. 

“No, I fucking wouldn’t,” I exhale, say the things I never dared to in the light of the day. “You’re just a man. A charismatic and delusional asshole, but blood and meat when it comes down to it.” 

Jones takes this all in calmly and silently, with a sort of knowing and watchful patience. It’s like hurling pebbles into a vast lake and seeing no ripples. It’s utterly unsettling, this shade of him, this utter calm. Where is all that dark, vindictive fury our commanding officer had betrayed, in life? All that seething fanaticism that simmered underneath that effortlessly charming exterior of his—that something dark and dangerous, that showed in his eyes, whenever he spoke of the wretched tide of Soviet influence, polluting and fracturing the utopian world order that lay ahead, that was the reason rivers of American blood were being shed so far from home?

Here, in this night, the silence is punctuated only by the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. 

“If that’s the way you see it then I guess I am.” Jones is staring at his own hand, the one free of the cigarette, his palm skywards, flexing his fingers experimentally. “Just a man. Nobody’s said that to me for a long time.” 

“What else would you be?” The hair at the back of my neck stands. I can see the faint sweat beading on Jones’ brow because of the muggy heat, the same way it does on mine.

He’s human, I remind myself. And very much dead, and just a figment of my imagination, a remnant of the guilt that haunted me. 

Jones shrugs. “Many other things.” Then, surreally—with an easy-going and gregarious smile—“Cigarette?” 

“No, thanks.” I only just remember to silence the reflexive sir on the tip of my tongue. “The doc said I couldn’t, not so soon after getting cut up. Risk of infection or something.” 

Jones nods. “You oughta take care, yeah.” He stashes his smokes back in his pocket. I brace myself, but for the next few minutes, he doesn’t say anything. He’s content to smoke and stare out at the inky darkness of the ocean in the distance, his blue eyes contemplative. It’s incredibly vivid, this nightmare, I think. Even the very slope of his shoulders, the way he leans against the verandah, the loose strand of blonde hair falling over his eyes—is true to life. 

“What’s it like, on the other side?” The words slip out. I’m going along with this batshit dream, I guess. Maybe I need the reassurance. Día de Muertos and All Souls’ Day had been in the landscape of my childhood, but I’d never really believed in ghosts. Or the afterlife. At least not the way either of my grandmothers talked about it. “You’re one calm motherfucker for someone who is dead.” 

Jones exhales another stream of smoke. The end of his cigarette is a burning ember in the darkness. Now, he’s not smiling. But his blue-grey eyes are still that unnerving, thoughtful calm. 

“Am I, really?” 

“You are,” I say to the ghost, who takes this news calmly. Maybe this was some screwed up way I sought closure. Some sort of fucked up confessional. The shrinks would have a field day with this, if I could ever talk about it. There was the chillingly routine murder of the enemy in the business of war, and then there was this shit sandwich on top of it. I murdered my commanding officer, and now the bastard shows up in my dream for a casual smoke and chat—

I continue. “You died. On a muddy trail in the middle of the jungle twenty klicks outside of Quang Tri city. It was Thursday, and it was nine-thirty in the morning. I pulled the pin. It was a Soviet-made NVA grenade I stole off a VC prisoner taken into custody. Back at base, I lied. We all lied. Said that we were ambushed by the enemy.”

Jones’ calm expression doesn’t flicker, as he stubs out his cigarette on the railing. He flicks a stray piece of ash off his sleeve, as he strolls over. I’m rooted to my chair, I wouldn’t have the energy to stand up even if I wanted to. 

“Murdered by my own men,” he says ironically, with an almost bizarrely philosophical air. Jones exhales. “Lien would be having a good laugh about this, I suppose. ”

A Vietnamese name—A woman’s name isn’t it? I think vaguely. Nothing he says makes sense. There were more than a few of us who, after leave in Da Nang or Saigon, deluded ourselves into thinking a beautiful bargirl we'd met on a night out was our one true love, not a poor or desperate woman with few choices and trying her best to make ends meet. But Jones’ tone is bereft of such sentimentality, almost businesslike, the way he’d talk about a peer. “Who?”   

“Someone I’ve known for a long time,” Jones says, with cryptic nonchalance. 

His shadow falls across me. For a moment, I’m thinking that this is the moment where he’ll reach for his sidearm and blow my brains out, dream or not. 

“Well, I suppose this is goodbye, Corporal.” The unmistakable, solid feeling of Jones’ fingers casually slapping my shoulder is a shock. “You take care and watch that leg of yours, yeah?” He says it, neither sarcastically nor backhandedly, but with a surreal, friendly sincerity that makes my skin crawl all the same— “And just so you know; I don’t take it personally.” 

Then, he’s disappearing around the corner, and against my will, my eyes are closing, sinking underneath months and months of exhaustion.

I wake up to a nurse shaking me, her hand on my shoulder. There are the faintest pink streaks on the horizon. I ought not to be out there, she said, not unkindly—had I been there all night? The air-conditioning had been fixed. Maybe I ought to have some hot coffee. 

In the bright light of the day, all of it seems unreal. The sky is an endless blue dome, the palm trees on the beach and the bougainvillea bushes lushly green and purple. No ghosts could wander here, in all that light and freshness. 

The next few days, I find my breath catching whenever I catch sight of an officer. Maybe my dream was a premonition. Maybe they’d find out what I did. Maybe I’ll be arrested for murder. Maybe one of the guys still in the hell that is Quang Tri will break, will spill. Maybe I’ll be undone. That’s how it always happens, doesn’t it? Just right when freedom is around the corner. 

But nobody accosts me, nobody asks me any questions, nobody says a single word about Jones.

I spend another two weeks at the Naval Hospital in Da Nang. Then, I’m handed my medical discharge papers. I’m going home

The remaining days pass, easy and languid in the eternal summer of Da Nang, all the way until I board my flight home to America, my citation for a Purple Heart in hand, sick with relief and exhaustion, the bloody wheel of the war grinding on—but behind me, for good. 

Notes: 

1. ‘Fragging’: the attempted or successful murder of (usually higher-ranking) military personnel by fellow troops— occurred amongst US forces during the Vietnam War, due to the war’s unpopularity, usage of young draftees and the breakdown of morale. The term comes from how a fragmentation grenade was the weapon of choice used at times. There were close to an estimated 900 incidents recorded.

2. Parris Island: the Marine Corps recruit depot in South Carolina. A Purple Heart is a decoration awarded to US military personnel wounded or killed in action. 

3. Lien is of course, Vietnam herself. Vietnam was partitioned in 1954; after Vietnamese forces successfully defeated the French attempt to re-establish its colonial presence. US foreign intervention in Vietnam was publicly justified by American politicians on the basis that Northern Vietnamese forces were communist puppets of larger powers like the USSR or China. Many US policymakers subscribed to the “domino theory”: that the “fall” of another country to Communism would lead to it spreading throughout Asia. But a more accurate appreciation of the situation might have recognised the nationalist motivations of the Viet Cong and regular Northern Vietnamese forces, whose end goal was to reunite their country and rid it of what was for them a long line of foreign imperialism; French, Japanese and now American. And therefore, the limits of American hard power, especially in propping up a Southern Vietnamese regime that was unpopular with the population for multiple reasons.

#hetalia #hws america #my writing #alfred f jones #death #blood #violence #depictions of PTSD #injury mention #whumptober #long post #hws vietnam (mentioned) #human pov fic #a day late #pls heed the content warnings #this is def one of the darker fics i've written

[orthodoxydaily]

Saints&Reading: Monday, April 8, 2024

march 26_April 8

Synaxis of the Archangel Gabriel

Troparion

Gabriel, commander of the heavenly hosts, / we who are unworthy beseech you, / by your prayers encompass us beneath the wings of your immaterial glory, / and faithfully preserve us who fall down and cry to you: / “Deliver us from all harm, for you are the commander of the powers on high!”

The Lord chose the Archangel Gabriel to announce to the Virgin Mary the Incarnation of the Son of God from Her to the great rejoicing of all mankind. Therefore, on the day after the Feast of the Annunciation, the day the All-Pure Virgin is glorified, we give thanks to the Lord and venerate His messenger Gabriel, who contributed to the mystery of our salvation.

Gabriel, the holy Archistrategos (Leader of the Heavenly Hosts), is a faithful servant of the Almighty God. He announced the future Incarnation of the Son of God to those of the Old Testament; he inspired the Prophet Moses to write the Pentateuch (first five books of the Old Testament), he announced the coming tribulations of the Chosen People to the Prophet Daniel (Dan. 8:16, 9:21-24); he appeared to Saint Anna (July 25) with the news that she would give birth to the Virgin Mary.

The holy Archangel Gabriel remained with the Holy Virgin Mary when She was a child in the Temple of Jerusalem, and watched over Her throughout Her earthly life. He appeared to the Priest Zachariah, foretelling the birth of the Forerunner of the Lord, Saint John the Baptist.

The Lord sent him to Saint Joseph the Betrothed in a dream, to reveal to him the mystery of the Incarnation of the Son of God from the All-Pure Virgin Mary, and warned him of the wicked intentions of Herod, ordering him to flee into Egypt with the divine Infant and His Mother.

When the Lord prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane before His Passion, the Archangel Gabriel, whose very name signifies “Man of God” (Luke. 22:43), was sent from Heaven to strengthen Him.

The Myrrh-Bearing Women heard from the Archangel the joyous news of Christ’s Resurrection (Mt.28:1-7, Mark 16:1-8).

Mindful of the holy Archangel Gabriel's manifold appearances and his zealous fulfillment of God’s will and confessing his intercession for Christians before the Lord, the Orthodox Church calls upon its children to pray to the great Archangel with faith and love.

The Synaxis of the Holy Archangel Gabriel is also celebrated on July 13. All the angels are commemorated on November 8.

VENERABLE MALCUS OF CHALCIS , MONK IN SYRIA  (4th c.)

The Life of Saint Malchus, the Captive Monk, was written by St. Jerome in his monastery in Bethlehem. The composition is original in that St. Jerome reports the solitary man telling his own life story to him.

I was an only child and tenant of a small farm at Nisibis. When my parents were coercing me to marry because I was the last descendant of the family and their sole heir, I told them that I preferred to be a monk. With what threats my father assailed me, with what coaxing my mother pursued me to betray my chastity, you can judge by the fact that I left both home and my parents.

In Bethlehem, St. Jerome writes the story Malchus told him since I could not go to the East because of the proximity of Persia and the Roman guard, I turned to the West, taking very few provisions, merely enough to keep me alive. To be brief, I finally reached the desert of Chalcis. There, having found a community of monks, I placed myself under their guidance, earning my living by the toil of my hands and curbing the lust of the flesh with fasting.

After many years, the thought occurred to me that I should return to my native land while my mother was still alive (I had heard of my father’s death) to comfort her in her widowhood. After her death, I could sell our possessions, give part of the proceeds to the poor, erect a monastery with another part, and (why should I blush to confess my infidelity) reserve the rest to take care of my own needs.

My Abbot protested that my desire to return home was a temptation from the Devil and that under a virtuous pretext lay concealed the snares of our ancient enemy; in other words, the dog was returning to its vomit.

Many monks, he said, had been deceived in this way, for the Devil never comes without disguises. When persuasion failed, he begged me on his knees not to desert him, not to ruin myself, not to look back having put my hand to the plough.

Alas, miserable creature that I am, I did not relent. He escorted me from the monastery as if he were attending a corpse in a funeral procession. Bidding me a last farewell, he said: “I see, my son, that you are marked by the brand of Satan. I do not seek the causes nor do I accept excuses. The sheep that leaves the sheepfold straightway exposes itself to the teeth of the wolf.”

I decided to travel in company to decrease the danger of surprise attack by nomad Saracens, always wandering back and forth on the road. There were about 70 in my company, men women and children. Suddenly, Ishmaelites, riding upon horses and camels, descended upon us in a startling attack. We were seized, scattered and carried off in different directions. A woman of the company and I fell by lot into the hands of the same master.

The slave Malchus is content tending sheep in solitude and prayerWe were lifted up onto camels and traveled through the vast desert until we arrived at its heart, where the master’s household was. There I was assigned the task of pasturing the sheep and, in contrast to the evils I might have been subjected to, I enjoyed the comfort of rarely seeing my master and fellow slaves.

Alone in the desert, I lived on cheese and milk; I prayed continually; I sang the psalms I had learned in the monastery. In fact, I was delighted with my captivity and I thanked God for his judgment, for the monk whom I had nearly lost in my own country I had found again in the desert.

But nothing is ever safe from the Devil. How multiple and unspeakable are his deceits. My master, seeing his herd increase and finding in me nothing of fraud – for I obeyed the Apostle’s injunction that masters were to be served as faithfully as God himself – desired to reward me to better insure my fidelity. So he offered me in marriage the woman slave who had been taken captive with me.

When I refused and said that I was a Christian and it was not lawful for me to have for wife one whose husband was living (her husband had been captured with us and carried off by another master), my implacable master was seized with fury. Drawing his sword he started to attack me. If I had not made haste to throw my arm about the woman, he would have shed my blood then and there.

All too soon for me, night came on, darker than usual. I led my new bride into a ruined cave nearby. Realizing the full force of my captivity and, throwing myself down on the ground, I began to lament and sob for the monk I was on the point of losing. “Of what avail to have renounced parents, country, property for the Lord, if I now do the very thing that I would not do when I renounced them. What shall I do, my soul, perish or conquer?”

Prepared to turn the blade of my sword against myself rather than suffer the death of the soul, I told the woman, “Farewell, unhappy woman. I am yours to have as a martyr rather than a husband.”

Then to my surprise, the woman threw herself at my feet and beseeched me not shed my blood, for she said, even if her husband would return to her, she would preserve the chastity that captivity had taught her and would rather die than lose it.

“Take me, therefore, as a spouse in chastity,” she said, “and love the bond of the soul rather than that of the body. Let our master believe you a husband; Christ will know the brother.”

I confess that I was amazed and, admiring the virtue of that woman, I loved her more than if she were my spouse. Never, however, did I look upon her nude body; never did I touch her flesh, fearing to lose in peace what I had preserved in conflict.

Many days passed in wedlock of this kind. Our marriage rendered us more pleasing to our master; there was no suspicion of flight. Sometimes I was absent for a whole month, all alone, the trusted shepherd of the flock...to be continued

ISAIAH 14:24-32

24 The Lord of hosts has sworn, saying, “Surely, as I have thought, so it shall come to pass, And as I have purposed, so it shall stand: 25 That I will break the Assyrian in My land, And on My mountains tread him underfoot. Then his yoke shall be removed from them, And his burden removed from their shoulders. 26 This is the purpose that is purposed against the whole earth, And this is the hand that is stretched out over all the nations. 27 For the Lord of hosts has purposed, And who will annul it? His hand is stretched out, And who will turn it back?” 28 This is the burden that came in the year that King Ahaz died. 29 “Do not rejoice, all you of Philistia, Because the rod that struck you is broken; For out of the serpent’s roots will come forth a viper, And its offspring will be a fiery flying serpent. 30 The firstborn of the poor will feed, And the needy will lie down in safety; I will kill your roots with famine, And it will slay your remnant. 31 Wail, O gate! Cry, O city! All you of Philistia are dissolved; For smoke will come from the north, And no one will be alone in his appointed times.” 32 What will they answer the messengers of the nation? That the Lord has founded Zion, And the poor of His people shall take refuge in it.

GENESIS 8:21-9:7

21 And the Lord smelled a soothing aroma. Then the Lord said in His heart, “I will never again curse the ground for man’s sake, although the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; nor will I again destroy every living thing as I have done. 22 “While the earth remains, Seedtime and harvest, Cold and heat, Winter and summer, And day and night Shall not cease.”

1 So God blessed Noah and his sons, and said to them: “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth. 2 “And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be on every beast of the earth, on every bird of the air, on all that move on the earth, and on all the fish of the sea. They are given into your hand. 3 “Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. I have given you all things, even as the green herbs. 4 “But you shall not eat flesh with its life, that is, its blood. 5 “Surely for your lifeblood I will demand a reckoning; from the hand of every beast I will require it, and from the hand of man. From the hand of every man’s brother I will require man's life. 6 “Whoever sheds man’s blood, By man his blood shall be shed; For in the image of God He made man. 7 And as for you, be fruitful and multiply; Bring forth abundantly in the earth And multiply in it.”

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #easternorthodoxchurch #originofchristianity #spirituality #holyscriptures #bible #wisdom #saints

[pvccblog]

MISSION MINDED MONDAY

Work work work work work! The tide has shifted and we were busy all day long and it was great! We set up at the park for tomorrow's 4th of July event at Cottonwood Park. There were several volunteers there to help and everyone was willing to step in wherever and whenever!

We will be manning carnival style game booths, inflatables, and a prize booth where kids can redeem game tickets for various prizes. It is a crazy day but it is so evident that the community appreciates what we're doing here. Parents just continue to thank us over and over again as we're serving their kids. It's a great witness to the town.

We will also be passing out flyers for our events taking place after tomorrow - Sports Camp and BARF Nights! In case you haven't heard - BARF stands for Bring a Real Friend! These two events have been a major hits all of the years we've been here and we plan for it to be the same this time around.

After the setup, we took a few minutes break and then set up for a special volunteer dinner at the Olson's house. We have about 60 volunteers total this year, including our team of 27. It was great to meet people from other areas that came out this week to serve. We also got to reconnect with some from previous years. There are also several volunteers from the church here. We are the only mission team here this year in a large group, but there are a few families here to serve and some small groups coming out tomorrow from a couple churches north of here. We also got to see some guys from a previous team from Orange County, CA that have come for the past few years.

As you read this, I want to encourage you to do something. YES YOU! Please consider coming out here to serve sometime, maybe even next year with us! It has the potential to change your life and it will certainly impact other's lives!! We could always use more hands, and it really is an incredibly rewarding week. God is working mightily in this place!

After dinner, I went with Gary to finish up some odds and ends in preparation for tomorrow. As we drove around town, it was crazy! So many people were out, riding four-wheelers and dirt bikes, other ATVs or just big trucks with American flags. There were guys doing tricks in parking lots, people setting off fireworks all over town, loud music, and I'm sure plenty of other kinds of partying.

It is so strange to think that just ten years ago, this event didn't even occur here and the vast majority of people in the town would never have imagined things would be this way. This radical shift is good and in many ways difficult. It's great to witness the freedom and the fun and everyone getting along. It's also sad to see how extreme on the other side of the spectrum things have become here. It's gone from ultra religious to the ultra party scene. It is a very secular town and it is still in great need of the real Jesus. That is why we come. Tomorrow there will be so much talk of freedom but let us never forget - true freedom only comes through knowing Jesus!

Please say a prayer RIGHT NOW for what's going on here this week. Blessings to all of you and thanks again for reading!!