There are some who walk between altars.
They remember the scent of frankincense and forest,
the feel of rosary beads and river stones,
the flicker of vigil candles and the fullness of the moon.
They were told once to choose.
But something deeper whispered—why choose at all, when the flame is the same?
Some call Him God.
Some call Her the Mother.
Some feel a presence in silence, or in herbs crushed beneath the mortar, or in the bell that tolls at dusk.
And maybe they don’t call Him God—
and He doesn’t mind.
He is who He is, no matter what He is called.
Because the truth is—
Catholicism remembered the old ways too.
They didn’t come to destroy them, always.
They brought incense to places that already burned herbs.
They named saints where once there were goddesses.
They lit candles on altars that had always held flame.
The Church carried the story of Christ—but often, it borrowed the language of the land.
So is it so strange that your rituals feel familiar?
Maybe the sacred never left you.
Maybe it was always leading you—through ash and honey—back to the flame.
So walk gently, if you walk two paths.
But don’t fear the fire.
It still knows your name