Sunday Mass

 

You pull up to Mission #2, not far at all from Belle Starr's onetime ranch/hideout, and what do you see? Nothing fancy, just a couple of lines of pick ups, a horse trailer and a lowish church built in the 1980s in an act of faith on the part of people who retired from the Metrosprawl to live by the lake. They're mostly gone now, bless 'em. But what do you find inside?

The few readers of this unassuming mind-blog would be shocked. No guitar playing nuns, no wymxn priestesses, no rainbow flags, no felt applique banners, not even any liturgical dance. What you do get is an oriented sung Mass, Rite I (think Ordinariate style, all you RC trads), with traditional hymns. And here's the thing, the singing was led by a couple of ex-Baptist women.

I tell you, it was good, and I don't say that lightly. Imagine, if you can, Amazing Grace at the Offertory on a Loretta Lynn tip. Here's Miss Lynn:

High on a mountain top? You bet. In related news, I called our Senior Warden after Mass, "Hey, J, I haven't ridden for four years and feel it's time to get back on. Can you recommend someone to give me remedial lessons? You know, leads, asking for gaits the right way and all of that." She thought about it for a second or two, "Sure! Come out this week and ride with us, we'll find you a horse."

Now, pundits, mark me well. This is equivalent to, say, a pub guitarist calling up Jimmy Page and saying, "Hey man, is it OK if I jam with you and Eric Clapton?" You know, to get better on the guitar, and he replies, "You bet, swing by the studio sometime this week, Roy Harper's gonna be there too. He needs help."

J in the Zone and then some

Wow, what good people we have in this little country church, where the Word of God is preached and taught and the Sacraments confected. There's hope and no inconsiderable uplift in that and I feel privileged to serve here. Stay tuned for equestrian adventure.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Out And About

 

One of the things people like to do after Mass at Mission #2 is go out for lunch and I joined in today. We went to Shooky's, which is a congenial little setup overlooking Lake Whitney at Parson's Marina. I hadn't there been before, strangely, and liked it a lot.

The food was good, I can recommend their pepperoni pizza, the view over the lake tranquil and I liked the fishing lodge, marina ambiance of the place. Just a really pleasant way to spend an hour or so after church and with great company to boot.

What good people! Representing several walks of life, law enforcement, banking, engineering, ranching, and all united in the Faith. Were there any libs at the table? No, there were not. Was anyone armed? Woe betide the fool who attempted to rob Shooky's on a Sunday afternoon.

Seriously, I feel blessed by such a good hearted congregation and am amazed at its range. It's easily the most intellectual church I've served but at the same time totally down to earth. From people who write books like I'd like to shoot dove to rodeo stars and all else in between, and right there in Bosque County, Texas.

Who'd have thought it, yet there it is. Go to Shooky's if you get the chance, I think you'll have fun.

God bless,

LSP

On The Road

 

On the road to Dallas, and that's not a bad thing except they drive like maniacs on I35 and, right at the run-in to 'sprawl central there was a cataclysmic deluge of rain. Adventure, and surely a harbinger of apocalypse to come.

That in mind, a couple of people came up after Mass yesterday and said, "LSP, we went to get money out of the ATM in Whitney and not a single one was working, not one, and we tried all the banks." Huh, imagine that, you go to your bank to withdraw some cash and sorry buddy, you can't. What then.

you shoot an exotic goat with a 30-06

Nothing good and it reminds me of a prepper who said, wisely, "When you see lines around the block for the ATM it's time to get out." Good call and you don't have to be a druidic seer to picture the impossibility of getting out of our doomed cities when the SHTF. Kyrie, they're bad enough as is.

In related news, two violent extremist white supremacists, who identify as Mexican, killed some people in Allen and Brownsville, as all the world knows. But question, what's the issue? Were they Mexican Nazis, Cartel gang people, rando crazies or all of the above.

if you're not scared you should be

Terrifying any witch way, eh?

#2A,

LSP

What A Beautiful Day

 

What a beautiful day, birds sing, dogs sleep, flags wave and the sun shines down from a clear blue sky as a drug dealing ice cream van rounds the corner. It's like Spring, and I've got the front door open to air out the Manse.

Blow out those cobwebs, LSP, and take full advantage of our ancient enemy, the Weather, being in some kind of armistice mode. Enjoy every second of this fresh, clean, country day before our old adversary the Climate decides to Change and go full superheated blast furnace eschaton on the tenacious citizens of North Central Texas.

You know what it's like, it gets so hot you think the air itself is going to ignite, one careless spark and all that dust goes thermobaric. Terrifying, but for now all is good, the sacrifice of the Mass was offered at the Missions, a pot of improv Thai curry's on the stove and all is well with this part of the world.

Who knows, maybe a shoot's in order for Monday, but let's see what tomorrow brings.

Your Old Pal,

LSP

Fog of War

You can imagine, Sunday Mass at Mission #1 said and there you are, relaxing on the back porch with a cup of coffee and reading war reports out of Bakhmut. All well and good until a beating and pounding against your fence breaks the stillness.

What?!? Lo and behold, a loose dog was going hard against one of Eduardo's exotic ducks. Now, I'm not a betting man but odds on the dog and devil take the hindmost, eh? Not so fast, punters. Three minutes into the contest and the duck had not only driven off the dog but flown back into the safety of its compound.

Typical Duck/Dog Fight

There it was, wings splayed in fight-mode, strutting amongst its fellow ducks while the dog sat in the front yard of Elrond's Elf Lodge, aka The Florist's, ignominious defeat seemingly forgotten. I couldn't help but think Blue would've made a better show, but he's old now and didn't notice, being deaf and blind.

Excitement over, it was time to drive through mystical fog to the lake for Mass #2, and there you have it. Draw the moral as you will, not least, don't put all your money on the dogs.

Your Friend,

LSP

A Good Sunday

 

After spirited, uplifting Sunday worship we ended up at Fort Hood's training grounds. Well, one of the entrances to the thing, and there it was, big Texas under a big sky and enough space for big Army III Corps to do its not inconsiderable thing, and then some.

The kid's proud to be part of that and fair play to him, I would be too, "Look, dad, this is where we ruck, and check out the 15 yard sight-in ranges, dead on at 300." Several motor pool drive-bys and a pit stop for food later we landed at the home of 57th Expeditionary Signals BN  (Enhanced) and that was that, "Train hard, think positive, fight easy," I offered by way of UKLF inspirational cozy farewell, and was met with a grin.

What a good result and what a good Sunday. The Sacred Mysteries offered, ite missa est, a son fast becoming a man under the watchful and doubtless patient eyes of good Command, thank you NCOs and Officers, and Fort Hood itself. Great result.

Next time I'll visit some of the post's museums, stay tuned.

God bless,

LSP

Global Warming And Other Things

 

Yesterday was freezing, as in doomed retreats from Moscow. Today was hot, T shirt hot. Such is our fickle enemy, the WEATHER. Global Warming aside, or is it Climate Change?, we pulled into an ersatz burger franchise after Mass #2. The Specialist was hungry, "Dad, I'm really hungry, I have to eat!" 

I didn't say "bill it to the Army" and dutifully drove in to a drive through, where the attendants were indecipherable because they were wearing NKVD 95 masks. It was like one of my kid's dystopian computer games, mumble... mumble. "Say again," and so they did, "$5.67, four cheeseburgers."

Fortified by fake hamburgers and wondering why $4.67 has miraculously turned into $5.67, have these facsimile burgers somehow gained in value?, we drove back to the Compound where everything was well.

Shotgun by the door, check (older 870 Wingmaster). Aged Blue Heeler asleep on a Moslem rug, check. Sun shining, yes please and thank you God, decent red wine? Obvs. All good and time for a nap I thought, after all, a workman deserves his wages.

No sooner done than a knock on the door, "Can I come in, are you decent?" Resisting the urge to bellow damn your insolence! I replied "sure." The boy wanted me to look at his laptop, which I did. What the Devil is this?

A pass grade on his CS degree practice semester test. Well done, young man. Now take the real deal and ace it.

Point being, gentlemen and gentlewomen, life is made up of small victories. As in, "Crush the Marxist snake underheel."

Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam,

LSP

Eastertide in Plague Year 2020

You may or may not be surprised to hear this, but Church of England clergy aren't allowed to livestream their bizarre worship rituals from their churches, much less say Mass in them. So they do it instead from stripped pine kitchens and walk-in closets. Here in Texas it's different. We set up outside.

Healthy and, for small missions, good for morale. Brings people together in time of adversity against our common enemy, China the Devil. Some of the young women tailgated, and fair play to 'em.

I suggested that, thanks to a rancher, we put hay bales between the rigs for next Sunday's Mass but he didn't like the idea. Can't imagine why not, Cowboy Church meets the Sacrament of the Altar sort of thing. 

Regardless, there it was, we worshiped God on a Sunday and the Sacrament was confected and all without staring at some kind of dam screen.

If you haven't given to Linda's cause you'd better do so, and sharpish. Sayn.

God bless and keep you all,

LSP

Mass in Dallas

Unlike our adversary, the Devil, I'm taking a couple of Sundays off but that doesn't mean you don't go to Mass, far from it. So I roused the slumbering team, ironed a shirt and headed out to the local RC church in Dallas. Why there? Because it was around the corner and I wanted to check it out.

St. Cecilia's was set-up as a Swedish congregation back in the day and was an interesting church, with an attractively painted Sanctuary and Stations of the Cross. I know this because I went to Mass there years ago and was surprised at the European aspect of the place. Then it burned down and they built a new church, modern basilica style, sort of thing.

As it Was

It's an airy space, all tones of white with beige brick and an arresting brass tabernacle up against the east wall behind the small freestanding altar. But what was the Mass like? Just what you'd expect. A high-pitched woman cantorite banged away on an amplified piano and led the congregation in song. Not that anyone sang, because the setting was unsingable. You know the tune, you hear it burbling away in the background at retreat center bookshops.

Wrecking Crew

The liturgy was standard too. The Priest sat off to the side of the tabernacle in an outsize chair, or "throne," accompanied by an elderly Deacon and a youth in a cassock alb who held the Missal for the Celebrant. He moved to the altar at the Offertory and took it from there. All well and good and, like the music, exactly what you'd expect. Reverent enough, no clowns, no dancing, but not really liturgical either. Move from the Chair to the Altar, and there you have the stunning simplicity of liturgical reform. Well done, experts of the 1970s, for doing your part to destroy over a thousand years of worshiping tradition. 

A Catholic Mass

Still, I shouldn't complain, the Mass was said, the church was full, the people were faithful and the team left St. Cecilia's edified and uplifted by Word and Sacrament at this onetime outpost of Sweden in Dallas.

God bless,

LSP