Scratching the Surface


On Monday, I stopped by the St. Joseph Altar at St. Dominic’s.  My friend, along with several other ladies of the church, has been baking cookies for over a month now.  This alone was reason to go.

I arrived at the same time as a knot of women from Baton Rouge, in town to visit as many altars as possible.  This was number ten, and they left on the trail of another, beautiful one set up in a private home, with food.  The altar was gorgeous, with a story behind each item.  This one was baked by a widow, and that by her now-deceased husband.  This one symbolizes a fish.  This one an eye.  All vegetables, no meat.

Even with slight misgivings about conducting business in the sanctuary (items were available for specified “offering” amounts), my friend and her cohorts had sold out of the Italian cookies and collected a sizable sum for those in need, as is customary.  As it ever was in this world, the slightly-better-off are still holding bake sales for the poor.  Scratching the surface.

Votive candles flickered mildly.  I scrawled a hasty request on a scrap of paper provided, somewhat hopeful that someone might actually unfold it and repeat my intention.  Firings, shootings, porn stars and chaos.  Lord, hear our prayer.



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