Pipe organs and Hallmark Inspiration
The 3,250 pipe organ
has played its ethereal
message on Sundays for
forty years here on God's
little green acres and
Sister Pish told everyone
the heavenly music is
what makes the jujube
trees climb the Stairway
To Heaven, offering their
fruit to those who earn
their place in the Big Sky.
Entering the Church of Pish
is an open-door policy,
everyday approach as opposed
to "this is what you do on Sunday."
It keeps no hours, only faith.
Opening the double white doors
and entering the Church of Pish
is like going inside the Christian
line of a Hallmark card; inspirational
and spiritually versed. Those who
go inside are really touched by this
smaller, homegrown church.
It is a great church for simple
purpose, belonging to all who
visit. In the season of fruition,
Eastertide is an especially nice
time to come, the pipe organ
raining down on the jujube
blossoms, filling the air inside with
the wonderful scent and sound of
Written by an aging Mother Superior
"Lord, Thou knowest better than I know
myself that I am growing older and will
someday be old.
"Keep me from getting talkative and particularly from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion.
"Release me from craving to try to straighten out everybody's affairs.
"Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details and give me wings to get to the point.
"I ask for grace enough to listen to the tales of others pains. Help me to endure them with patience.
"But seal my lips on my own aches and pains---they are increasing and my love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by.
"Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally it is possible that I may be mistaken.
"Keep me reasonably sweet. I do not want to be a saint---some of them are so hard to live with---but a sour old woman is one of the crowning works of the devil.
"Make me thoughtful, but not moody; helpful, but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all. But Thou knowest, Lord, that I want a few friends in the end. Amen."
Excerpted from From The Convent To The Rawhide: The Saga of Sadie Cade And Vi Montana.
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, brainchild of Sage Sweetwater Creative Properties, flagship of Stone Creek Woman
Sage Sweetwater Creative Properties
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|Reviewed by Kate Clifford
|Always I am impressed with what you share :-) Thank you for such delightful work.|
|Reviewed by Ed Matlack
|Grew up in the Catholic faith, moms idea, not mine, till I was able to denounce it and take up Buddhism...guess though, per my family, I will always have been baptised in that faith...how so ever one finds his/her church, as long as they are comfortable, more power to them...Ed & Rufuz|
|Reviewed by Andy Turner (Reader)
|Gods golden acres. I spend many hours in such just up road is an old Saxon church of 850, with ancient yew trees and graves you can just make out as 1100+
Nothing beats the feeling of people from days now long gone, the smell of incense, the cold damp wood rot pews, and hands going blue on a cold winters morn... Hoping the choir loft and organ pipes don't come crashing down.
Yup I was a convent lad..But Good boy....
Superbly written Sage
|Reviewed by Kate Burnside
|You speak of a little heaven on earth here, Sage! It would be wonderful if all of God's acres were so edenic... that would be paradise!! "It keeps no hours, only faith" and faith never sleeps... wonderfully penned lines here that paint a whole canvas. Guess pipe organs and Hallmark never date... like God. All we convent girls probably have a few tales to share, eh? Sadly not all as edifying at this one... Neat work, Sage! TY Kate xx|
|Reviewed by Chrissy McVay
|Amen! Especially love the Mother Superior's words of wisdom here...|
|Reviewed by Jerry Bolton (Reader)
|Quite an excerpt, and one that I enjoyed reading. You detailed what churches used to be like. The church I grew up attending was similar, especially in the simple way it went about worshiping. It, like everything else, grew. Sometimes growing is good, many times it is not. It wasn't at the First Baptist Church in Taylor, Arkansas. It became much too judmental, as if God had created it for no other reason than to nose around in people's affairs. And besides, it was hypocritical to the nth. Let me tell you about my Sunday School teacher, Miss . . . Never mind, I put her in my novel, "Homecoming." Different name, of course. This sounds like a good book.|