Christian fantasy literature, and commentary on assorted subjects
Our sister and colleague Linda Sorci has asked for our prayers for her husband, Michael, who had a cancer removed from his ear and then suffered from unexpectedly severe pain and bleeding.
O Lord our God, have mercy on your servants, Michael and Linda, and in Jesus’ name, please, Father, heal this man. We believe in you, O Lord; we put our trust in you. In Jesus’ name, please heal him swiftly. Amen.
I’m only asking because here at my end, the text of my blog posts is so small as to make it difficult to read. Patty and I have to take our glasses off to read it.
If you’re having the same problem at your end, please let me know–so I can steel myself for another marathon session with the WordPress engineers. *Sigh*
I don’t want to rehash any of the rubbish floating around the nooze media today, but something ought to be said.
I have interviewed Judge Roy Moore twice. He grew up in poverty whose like I have never seen, and rose to become chief justice of the Alabama Supreme Court. He lost that position, and was nationally pilloried, because he stood up for the Ten Commandments. Now he’s running for the Senate, and has been bombarded with allegations of sexual misconduct dating back to the 1970s.
The American people want the Swamp, Washington D.C., drained. The Swamp does not want to be drained and is fighting desperately, and fighting dirty, to defend itself. To that end, the whole Swamp power structure has piled onto Roy Moore–even threatening to deny him his seat if he wins the election.
Question: What has happened to all the defenses used so successfully by Democrats when it was one of their own, Bill Clinton, credibly accused of a multitude of sexual offenses? “It’s only sex, it doesn’t affect how he does his job.” “Everybody does it.” “It wasn’t really sex.” “It’s in the past, let’s just move on.” Why do none of these apply to Judge Moore?
They say the man known as “the Ten Commandments Judge” will lower the moral tone of that tower of virtue, the U.S. Senate. Well, if Ted Kennedy couldn’t do that, it can’t be done. The hypocrisy is deafening.
Question: What are they afraid of? What do they think Roy Moore, one man, with the whole Washington power elite arrayed against him, will do to them if he makes it to the Senate? Because they are afraid. I’ve never seen them running so scared. It borders on hysteria.
As to the charges made against him, I have yet to find any reason to believe them. Nor have I any reason at all to believe any charges made against anyone by such a collection of reprobates, thieves, liars, simpletons, bribe-takers, and left-wing zealots.
Think Ted Kennedy and Chris Dodd doing the waitress sandwich. Think of the whole crowd extolling Ted Kennedy as “the Lion of the Senate.” I wouldn’t believe those people if they told me it was Wednesday.
One thing is sure. It’s Roy Moore versus the Swamp; and if the Swamp wins, we, the American people, lose. We lose big.
I pray for the redemption of my country.
Don’t you love it when liberals fall back on “What you say counts for nothing because you’re old”? But it’s no worse than any other argument they have.
I need all the assurance that My Lord can give me, all the time. And sometimes we can find it in a hymn. This is the Harpeth Gospel Quartet, with no musical instruments but their voices, singing Fanny Crosby’s Blessed Assurance. And the beautiful scenery on the background testifies that God is nigh.
Sometimes you just can’t please a dog or cat. Doesn’t this video make you glad you don’t have huskies? Anyway, who knows what these critters want? They’ve got a mood on, and there’s no getting it off.
Just so you know I’m not just fatzing around today (as they say in Ninneburky), let me tell ya. Blog posts, edit huge Chalcedon article about economics (requiring duct tape around head), Newswithviews column, recycling center, a trip to the store, type up another chapter of The Temptation (which is hard to read because of cold days when the ink wouldn’t flow smoothly from the pen)–do you wonder why I never got around to another installment of Oy, Rodney? Now I’m a bit too tuckered out to try.
I’ve just got to get this book finished. Somehow! I had hoped to get it done this week.
I’ll try to deliver a cat video this evening. Signing off for now…
The grin of pure idiocy
I’m beginning to think the transgender push may be the worst thing that’s happened in my lifetime. The pace is alarmingly fast–almost too fast to keep track of.
Latest: a Pew Research poll finds that 77% of Democrats with four years or more of college believe “sex is not determined at birth” (http://www.breitbart.com/big-government/2017/11/12/pew-77-percent-white-democratic-graduates-cannot-determine-person-sex/).
Well, what do you expect from Democrats? And what do you expect from college? But still, that’s millions of people, millions of deluded idiots spouting this abominable twaddle.
And note the language creep within the poll, the repetition of the formula, “the sex they were assigned at birth.” What do they mean, assigned? Assigned by whom? An assignment necessarily implies an assigner. Uh, that would be God, wouldn’t it? So here are all these grinning moral imbeciles saying God’s assignments are wrong, He just can’t get it right. In fact, by insisting that reality is whatever we say it is, we assert that we are God.
I don’t know where this is taking us, but I’ll bet you anything it ends very badly. Very badly indeed, and with either a loud crash or a sickening soft plop.
I always found former New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg to be the scariest liberal in America, because he knew how to get things done. That’s what made him scary. Happily, his fellow liberals held his ability against him and never supported his aspirations for a higher office.
Here he is getting credit for something that he didn’t do.
https://leeduigon.com/2012/06/19/what-makes-new-yorkers-live-longer/
This is a beautiful rendition by Alan Jackson: brings a tear to my eye. Sweet Hour of Prayer was one of the hymns my mother used to play on the record player as she did her housework. I’d hear it at Grandma’s house, too, from time to time. These loving memories stir my soul; and just at this moment I don’t think it’d be wise to try to talk about them out loud. Thank you, Mr. Jackson.