Sunday Rituals and Vituals by Kat Magendie

Sunday's are about ritual: Get up; yawn, drink coffee; organize the one paper we have delivered to our cove, the Sunday Asheville Citizen Times, into read piles; mountain walk; turn TV to Sunday Morning; and turn on oven. What a life, what joy, what comfort. Used to be the ritual was church-going. Grouse. Mutter. Mom forced us five kids to crawl out of bed, wash our face and brush our teeth even!, get dressed, and all to attend boring church and worse was when we had to get up earlier to attend boring Sunday School before boring Church. I still think church is boring, sorry Church Folk, sorry Mom, sorry ministers and priests and whatnotall, but, one of my Sunday rituals is I’m no longer afraid I’ll go to some fiery hell if I don’t get my butt to church. I digress. I’m talking about biscuits here. Yep. Hot flakey put some honey butter on mine please biscuits!

Well, today is Tuesday and I could have them, could have had them yesterday, could have them tomorrow. But it wouldn’t feel the same, for I need that ritual on Sunday, to set it apart—larkens back to the old homestead days when dear ole Mom cajoled, “GET YOUR LAZY BUTTS OUT OF BED YOU DIRTY LITTLE HEATHENS! RIGHT NOW NOW NOW BEFORE I WHUP YOUR HIND-ENDS BUT GOOD! EVERY SUNDAY THE SAME THING. I. HAVE. HAD. IT. UP. TO. HERE! YOU HEAR ME?” Ah, yes. I hear it, along with the pitter patter of our dragging feet as we carried our own personal crosses to Jesus so he wouldn’t feel alone with his.

Anyhoo, don’t serve me those canned biscuits, eyew. I will accept Pillsbury Frozen Biscuits, because they are as close to homemade as I have eaten. My granny made cat’s head biscuits. Oh! She’d put the dough in a pan and then cut squares—gawdang those have never been replicated, ever. We’d dip them in chocolate syrup—a sugar-gritty concoction of sugar, water, chocolate sauce, and Granny’s secret that was a pinch of salt or a bit of love or some vanilla or a drop of sweat, or whatnot; who cared, it was sopped up and quick. Sunday morning is biscuit morning. Period. Amen. HERE are some recipes, Bless Your Heart if you don’t have your own. Here’s to Sunday—only five more days away! (What? You thought I'd write about Taxes?)

The Dedicated by Angie Ledbetter

A great man has passed on this week. Fr. Joe was 93 and lived his entire life in service of his church, congregation, and two campuses' worth of students and staff he dearly loved. Daily, no matter the weather, I'd see him shuffling around the large Pre-K through senior high campuses where I work. Even when he felt bad or his old feet were hurting, he never failed to make the journey. He did it every day, he told me, "To pray for all the kids here. Ya know...some of them don't have anyone else praying for them."


Fr. Joe's many kindnesses and selfless actions were admirable and memorable. I asked my fifth and sixth grade students to write a little something about this dear priest yesterday, and was pleasantly surprised by the amount of thought and work they put into their papers. Many mentioned how much Father meant to their lives; his sense of humor; his love of football; but most often, how they just knew he was continuing to pray for them from heaven. What a fine tribute to a man with a servant's heart!


I work with several dedicated teachers and school staff personnel. Among my closest friends are those who give a great deal of time to volunteering, giving to others, and working for causes that move them. My father, President of Istrouma High School's Class of 55, maintains contact with all his classmates and helps organize reunions, get-togethers, and now city-wide 50s functions with other high schools' alums. These, and several more I haven't mentioned, inspire me to watch over the organizations, groups, beliefs, and people I believe in. They role model for me (and others) the importance of being truly dedicated, because none of these people see the fruits of their labors or rewards of their tireless work.


But, like Fr. Joe, their legacies and stories will live on long after their passing. Just ask anyone who had the good fortune of knowing or working with them. I extend my gratitude to these people who stay the course and continue their work long after most people have folded up their tents and gone home. Bravo and amen to you!