If the magisterium ever gets bored, I hope they amuse themselves with jump-scare videos and reports of what The Rock eats on his cheat day. Whatever it is they do when their robes are rolled up to the elbows and their feet are far from the nearest flammable bush, I hope they don’t find my blog.
I realize the risk of this is as low as the final round of limbo. On a standout week, my blog is read by tens of persons. My audience clips coupons for Savory Shreds and has a downy coating of calico hair on their seats. I write for a cat shelter, although it is only 51% about cats.
Unlike the magisterium, I am rarely 100% focused. I have tried, but all my atoms start to argue. Someone brings up factory farming or Psalm 137:9, that heartwarming one about smashing heads on rocks. Before things go nuclear, I have to distract everybody with buttered toast and grape popsicles. So, I write about cats when I am really talking about the Holy Ghost, and I write about angels when I am really talking about ferals.
The cat shelter is a non-sectarian public charity recognized under IRS code 501(c)3. There are no altar calls. There are spontaneous acts of ecstasy and everyone gets fed. Some smug cherub on the first day of his celestial MFA thought it would be a good idea to call the place a “sanctuary.” I try not to be so heavy handed, but I can’t always control my opposable thumbs.
If the magisterium ever reads my blog, it had better not be on All Saints Day. They have a vested interest in that cube of the calendar. A fallible girl in New Jersey is breaking off pieces of a loaf for which she did not pay. Marshmallows have been toasted for lesser crimes. I am a jam-faced Jezebel on the hinge of every November. I am calling souls saints and calling strangers souls.
All Saints is for folks who are definitely in, nothing but net. All Souls is for the ones who have left our campsite but not yet sent letters from home. I am impatient in my braids and overalls. I don’t trust anyone who tells me that not all souls are saints. I don’t believe anyone who tells everyone that not all strays are souls.
I write about saints who begat kittens who raised the dead. St. Tigger weighed six pounds and convinced a woman she was still necessary. St. Pumpkin required subcutaneous fluids and led centering prayer retreats. St. Dorito expected meat and was not disappointed. St. Oreo, the fifth such Oreo, lived to twenty-one, because his assignment was complex. St. Spanky forgave without being asked. St. Pippa read souls like Padre Pio, and if you blink at me slowly enough, I will show you proof that she bilocated.
I am religious and disorganized. I might find a back pew outside the city. There are mavericks in the magisterium who would install a low flap in the gates. They billow their robes so no one sees the small conga line getting in. They are too busy asking, “Who’s my good girl?” to administer anathemas. The question answers itself.
Sometimes I wonder what my ancestors would say about all this. I sit on sparrow shoulders labeled “Mamma” in family albums stranger than Revelation. They came to a borough where no one wanted to smell their basil. They hailed mercy’s Mother from their hands and knees, scrubbing floors until the ground was solid. They expected great-great-grands. They never heard of a cat sanctuary. They never heard prayers in the vernacular. They never missed a Holy Day of Obligation.
What would they think if they should descend our double helix, letting angels pass on the left? Their blood and salt water flowed wild, to a girl with a broken dam. I do not see the end from the beginning. My banks are muddy. I have borne no children but I am not the end of the line. I work at a cat sanctuary. I ask the aid of the Great Mercy, the Mammas, and St. Pippa the white cat. I am greedy. I expect bread and have yet to be disappointed. I will have many reasons to ask forgiveness when I get to dinner. But I won’t regret spilling the secret that everyone will be there.