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#st bartholomew's church
newyorkthegoldenage · 1 month
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St. Bartholomew's Episcopal Church on Park Avenue between 50th and 51st Streets, early 1920s. It is the burial site of, among others, Lillian and Dorothy Gish.
Photo: NY Historical Society/Getty Images/NY Daily News
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ringneckedpheasant · 1 month
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think i’m going to name my fish st valentine
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bluesman56 · 1 year
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Sir Henry Vernon with Lady Anne Talbot by Tony Via Flickr: Sir Henry Vernon KB (1441–1515) became governor and treasurer to Arthur, Prince of Wales, married Anne Talbot daughter of the Earl of Shrewsbury and rebuilt Haddon Hall. Their tomb here is in Tong Parish church
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I saw this scene, and I was immediately transported to 1981.
The glass building on the left is 345 Park Ave (St Bart’s is 325 Park). My very first secretarial job was in that building on the 35th floor in the typing pool. I got assigned to a specific partner within a month. His office was on the 15th floor, overlooking the church. I have great memories of going into his office just to look at St Bart’s. Such a beautiful church.
I had some good times in that building and the surrounding neighborhood. 💜
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Hi! Can Saint Lawrence and Bartholomew the Apostle be added? Thanks!
St Lawrence has plenty of submissions so yes, he's on the list! I've also added all twelve apostles because they've gotten nominations too!
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insidecroydon · 4 days
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Refugee family thrived in Croydon after fleeing savage attacks
Place of worship: the French church in Threadneedle Street in the City of London was where the Huguenot Galhie family regularly returned, even after they retired to Croydon SUNDAY SUPPLEMENT: Thousands of refugees, fleeing torture and execution in their home country, were once welcomed in England, where they enjoyed religious freedoms and worked hard all their lives. DAVID MORGAN, pictured left,…
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seekingtheosis · 7 months
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Remembering St. Jude Thaddaeus, the Apostle (19th August)
St. Jude, also known as Thaddeus, was a dedicated apostle of Jesus Christ, spreading His teachings across distant lands. Learn about his life, contributions, and enduring legacy in this comprehensive blog.
In the name of God the Father, Christ Jesus His Son and the Holy Spirit, One True God. Amen. IntroductionIdentityNew TestamentJude – Brother of Jesus?Tradition & LegendLetter of St. JudeMartyrdom & RemainsIconographic RepresentationPatronage & Pilgrimage CentresConclusion Introduction On August 19th, we remember one of the 12 Apostles of Jesus and considered as the founding father and first…
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fotochurch · 11 months
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St Bartholomew, Aldbrough, East Yorkshire
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tenth-sentence · 1 year
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At the same festival, another work, 'Broken Glass' by Moogahlin Performing Arts, gave voice to the unmarked grave of Maria Lock, an Aboriginal landowner in Sydney's west, at St Bartholomew's Anglican Church and Cemetery, founded in 1841.
"Design: Building on Country" - Alison Page and Paul Memmott
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colgreen31 · 1 year
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streetsofdublin · 1 year
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SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S CHURCH
All that I can find out about this church is that it may have been built in 1931 or 1932 and that it is Church Of Ireland
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cryptotheism · 2 years
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I love being the first person one to tell my Jewish/Muslim/Protestant friends them about shit like the statues of St. Bartholomew where he's depicted holding his own flayed skin like a blanket bc the response is always like "Unfortunately, I must commend the Catholic church on doing (1) extremely baller thing."
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Verner Panton customised chair, St. Bartholomew’s Church,  Qubus Studio, Czech Republic, 2007
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giantcypress · 10 hours
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I teach the OCIA class at St. Bartholomew, our church. For this year's group, I made some pens as gifts. The pen blanks are all some sort of unidentified Brazilian hardwood.
The first step in making these pens is to cut the pen blanks into two pieces, and I used my dozuki for that. I forgot that you can't use Japanese saws on hardwoods, much less tropical species.
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scotianostra · 3 months
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January 2nd 2010 saw the sudden death of David R Ross.
David R Ross became known as “the biker historian” after writing a string of highly acclaimed books on Scottish history, notably about William Wallace. For his research, he travelled his native land in full black leathers on his black Kawasaki motorcycle. At 6ft 5in tall, and in the kilt when not in leathers, he was often told he’d have made a far better Wallace in Braveheart than “that wee Aussie”. Nevertheless, Ross respected Mel Gibson’s 1995 movie and believed it “raised the profile of Wallace and pricked the Scottish psyche to a great extent. There had been nothing like this in Scotland since 1978 when we were going to win the World Cup in Argentina with Ally’s Army,” he said. In 2005, the 700th anniversary of Wallace’s judicial murder.
Ross gained domestic and international prominence when he set off on a Walk for Wallace, retracing his hero’s final trip from Robroyston, Glasgow, where he had been betrayed and captured, to Smithfield in London, where he was hanged, drawn and quartered. Along the 450-mile way, “Big Davy” was cheered by Scots and hundreds joined him for the final six-mile hike into London. There, he presided over a symbolic funeral service for Wallace at the St Bartholomew the Great church in Smithfield, close to the spot where he died. Ross’s dream, was to bring the Scottish patriot “home” for a symbolic funeral he had been denied 700 years earlier when his body was cut into pieces to be displayed throughout the land as a warning to other would-be independence fighters. Ross and his supporters carried a coffin they said was carrying Wallace’s spirit, packed with letters, poems and good wishes from Scots.
On their return to Scotland, they held a torchlit parade in Lanark and buried the coffin there, at St Kentigern’s church.
Ross was serving convener of the Society of William Wallace, set up to preserve the memory of the Scottish patriot, which meets in Elderslie, Renfrewshire, where Wallace is thought to have been born.
David R. Ross died on 2 January 2010 in his home in East Kilbride due to a heart attack.
Sadly I never got to meet David as I only started taking an active part in the memorials and such of Scottish Battles since around 2012, but I have heard many people talk about him, and know just like another convener of the Society of William Wallace, Duncan Fenton, who I did know, David was a very well respected man.
You can read David’s own biography on his blog here http://davidrross.scot/biog.htm?fbclid=IwAR2oNwNhYr8jLltv3w6S7R7wSWXaLYWimPTGASE03NG8vi4Sq0r1UZ5Kvi8
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cdyssey · 1 year
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Different World
Prompt: i re-read your gardening fic recently where mel's staring at barb and is heart-eyes at her and it's just. so nice. so anything along those lines, would be lovely.
A/N: 
Happy belated birthday, Scottie (@gatalentan)!!
I can't believe you have me over here writing fluff, smh.
But on a sincere note, I'm extremely glad that I've gotten to know you over the last few months. You are so kind, so talented, so funny, and so wonderful, and I'm incredibly lucky that I get to be a witness to all your brilliance firsthand. 
Thank you for all that you do for the Abbott fandom, and thank you for just being a lovely person all around. I'm honored to be someone that you call friend.
CW: Alcohol Mention, Discussions of Coming Out, Suggestiveness
AO3 Link
That night, as Barbara ices her coconut cake with passive aggressive gusto, Melissa wraps her arms around her partner’s curving waist in apology, nestling her chin against her shoulder. She has to prop herself up on her tiptoes to do so, which is one of the occupational hazards of being naturally short and loving someone whose favorite kind of shoe is a sensible heel. 
She likes that, though.
Their height difference.
She’s spent all these years looking up to Barbara Howard in so many more ways than one.
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry before you talk to me again?” She pouts, poking her lower lip out a little. Barbara pauses her emotionally charged cake decorating to audibly sigh, the gesture filtering thinly through her nostrils.
“I’m talking to you right now, Melissa,” she says in a measured voice, her Sister-Howard-who-goes-to-church-three-times-a-week tone. It’s guarded and three octaves too formal, somewhat sanctimonious even. “And I assure you—I’m not mad either. It isn’t exactly your fault that you’re irresistible.”
Yep, there it is.
Both the problem and the succinct answer to what has gotten under the older woman’s skin.
Melissa works hard to suppress a smile.
They’d only recently come back from dinner at Ricci’s, where the waitress had spent the entire meal alternating between blushing and stammering every time that Melissa had so much as looked her way. She had found it vaguely amusing, such puppy dog love from a clumsy kitten, chuckling when she opened the tab and saw that the young thing had shakily scrawled her number in pink pen on the receipt. It reminded her of her long past youth, when she’d often found herself wondering if her ma’s cousin with suspiciously cropped hair, or her eleventh grade English teacher who carefully referred to her significant other as her partner, or her favorite foul-mouthed nun at St. Bartholomew’s were like her. 
Did they like women too?
It was harder to talk about back then, of course, and so she didn’t. She kissed girls beneath bleachers and in shadowy, secluded corners all around Philly. She’d been terrified to tell Joe that she swung both ways, afraid that he’d leave her, unaccustomed to people in her life ever staying—but to his enduring credit, that was one of the few things that the old gabbadost never gave her shit about.
It’s a different world nowadays, though, and she loves that for the generations below her. She loves that a squirrelly, little waitress can feel comfortable enough to write down her number and hope for a call that’ll unfortunately never come.
Barbara, on the other hand, had decidedly not been so endeared by the discovery, nearly silent the entire drive back to her house, almost immediately drowning out their ability to talk by turning the volume up on her spectacularly horrible Pandora playlist.
(It's just seventy percent Otis Redding and thirty percent instrumental jazz that isn’t sound mixed properly.)
“Sure feels like you’re something at me,” Melissa shrugs. “Mad, disappointed…”
She trails off, a slow and easy grin lifting one side of her mouth.
“Jealous,” she whispers against the column of Barbara’s exposed neck, pleased when she feels the other woman shiver beneath her.
That will never get old. 
They’ve only been officially dating for a little less than half-a-year now, sure, but every time that Melissa is reminded anew that Barbara is forever hers to cherish, to worship, to love, and reverently respect, she gets chills running laps down her spine all over again.
She’d never thought that she would get to be with her best friend without at least one of them—or, hell, sometimes even both of them—having a foot out the door.
“What? I’m not… jealous,” Barbara huffs, resuming her pastry ministrations again, attacking the cake like it's personally offended her. “You’re being facetious—distracting me while I’m trying to ice this cake. I'm making this for you, you know!"
“Touching, but the cake can wait,” she says firmly, reaching over to pluck the spatula out of Barbara’s hand. 
“Hey!” She protests, but Melissa pays her no mind.
“I wanna know what’s up your craw,” she continues, undeterred, and takes a step back, brandishing the spatula like a wand. She’s tempted to lick the vanilla icing off of it, but she’s well-aware that she’d get an ass chewing faster than she could say Dave-n-Busters if she did.
Barbara finally pivots around herself, arms crossed over her chest, a gesture that Melissa recognizes to be protective. And yet, she equally knows that getting the other woman to admit to feeling caged is half of the battle. Even that’s an admission of vulnerability too far for her sometimes.
“I’m not jealous,” she repeats herself, looking somewhere about an inch to the left of Melissa’s face. “I’m not.”
Melissa instantly softens, noting the consternation in Barbara’s dark eyes, how the emotion swells in them like a bruise. 
“Okay,” she says gently, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “You’re not. I believe you.”
And she does.
That’s the mutual kindness that they’ve extended to each other after all these years of having known and loved each other so intimately: as colleagues, as friends, as lovers. 
Honesty.
It’s a truth made even more striking by the fact that neither of them are particularly honest people, lying to other people and themselves all the time as their most reliable defense mechanisms.
With each other, though, they’ve never held anything back, except maybe for the crucial fact that they loved each other.
But even that had to eventually be named, confessed, and appropriately acted upon—wordlessly communicated by way of mouth and tongue.
“So spill,” she goes on, with all the fondness and exquisite tenderness in the world. “I’ve got time."
Indeed, she has nowhere else to be except for present with Barbara in this delicately fraught moment. She looks at her, this goddess in the flesh, elegant in a silky blue blouse and her shining pearls, and feels a rush of holy adoration.
“Melissa…” The kindergarten teacher starts and then just as abruptly stops, briefly worrying her plum-colored lips together, looking uncomfortable. “I know I said otherwise, I know I said that I wasn’t quite ready for us to be… transparent with the world just yet, but I was—Lord, this sounds so silly saying it out loud—"
She visibly winces and Melissa takes pity on her.
"It's not silly at all," she says quickly. "I'm listenin'."
Barbara smiles gratefully at this intrusion, taking a deep, steadying breath to clearly orient herself.
"... I was, well, annoyed that the waitress didn’t realize that we were together.”
Melissa isn't exactly sure what she was expecting to hear, but it certainly wasn't that. She knows that she doesn’t discipline her expression well-enough either, painfully aware that her visceral reaction is the one that Barbara receives; her entire face stretches in utter and cartoonish shock.
“You’re mine,” Barbara says hurriedly, taking advantage of her rare speechlessness, “but that poor waitress didn’t know, and she flirted with you, and I realized how foolish it was—entirely ridiculous even!—to have at least six articulated boundaries preventing me from reaching out and grabbing your hand.”
And to Melissa’s increasing wonder, astonishment, and unadulterated surprise, Barbara reaches out then and does it—she grabs her free hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing.
“What are you sayin', Barb?” She asks, not daring to hope, hoping anyway. She hasn’t begrudged the older woman for insisting that they wait at all, knowing that she’s just wanted to approach the situation delicately with her girls and to spare Gerald's feelings for just a little while longer following their divorce a little over a year ago now. And even though they’ve never quite talked about it, she has a sneaking suspicion that fear is a powerful inhibitory element too. 
It always is.
It’s terrifying to be in the closet, to not know what's waiting on the other side.
Melissa has been out of it for a pretty long damn time now, but she had no trouble sliding back in just to patiently hold Barbara’s hand.
“I’m saying that we’re absolutely not taking separate cars to school anymore,” comes an astoundingly decisive answer as Barbara rolls her thumb across the side of Melissa's own. “And when you stay over, I want you to bring more than a night’s worth of clothes and a toothbrush. I’ll even make you a drawer.”
“Just a drawer?” Melissa laughs, but there are tears standing in her eyes, and she’s smiling so damn hard that it almost hurts. Barbara takes the opportunity to steal the spatula back, prying it from her fist and tossing it on the kitchen counter behind her. 
“Two,” she amends teasingly, her own eyes over bright, briefly swinging their hands in the gap between them. “And maybe some space in your closet for your frankly ludicrous collection of leather jackets.”
“Hey! I’ve only got seven.”
“That’s at least five too many.”
“Screw your calculus,” Melissa snorts, and now it’s her turn in the tango of their affection to make a bold move. She leverages their clasped hands to reel Barbara in, pulling their bodies close, aligning their chests, their tummies, their warm thighs.
“Vulgar,” Barbara smiles down at her, anchoring her fingers on her hips.
“Feisty,” Melissa corrects before gathering the collar of her partner’s blouse in her fingertips. It’s a wordless request that she should lean forward; they have plenty of things to say to each other without ever needing to speak. 
Their lips meet at a crooked angle, soft and luscious, a little bitter from the champagne that Melissa had at dinner and simultaneously sweet from Barbara’s honeyed wine. And Melissa’s toes splay on the cold tiles, fireworks bursting in the column of her throat as she reaches up to gingerly cradles the nape of Barbara’s neck. And Barbara is so gentle, so kind, and yet characteristically exact as she spreads her kisses from Melissa’s mouth to her jaw to her neck to the slightly freckled skin just above her collarbone—a practiced connoisseur by now in knowing all the little places that make her sing.
She thinks that if they could ever just get these damn clothes off, she’d reciprocate the favor, starting with the space between her lovely breasts and loving her all the way down.
“Would you hold it against me if I confess to having been the tiniest bit jealous?” Barbara finally admits when Melissa’s lips ghost the side of her head. The overhead lighting rings her hair in a golden halo.
Melissa laughs loudly—enchanted, so perfectly in love.
“I think I’d hold it against you if you weren’t,” she clucks, gratified when she feels Barbara hitch against her. The kindergarten teacher begins to work her fingers beneath the edge of Melissa’s shirt, rolling it upwards, baring her skin.
“You’re so unserious, girlfriend.”
“Tell me that again after we’re done,” she smirks before doing her part and helping out.
When all is said and done, there’s a pile of clothes on the kitchen floor, a half-iced coconut cake on the marbled counter, and two women who can’t quite take their hands off each other, stumbling and dancing all the way down the dimly-lit hall.
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