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Meridian Defense Volk AK-47 Rifle $4500 VALUE
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"It is not doing the thing we like to do, but liking the thing we have to do, that makes life blessed."- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
California Governor Gavin Newsom, who requires a daily oil tanker for his hair, asked the Meat Puppet Administration to get DeSantis for kidnapping those poor illegals. The Vineyard responded by kidnapping them and shipping them off to Cape Cod.- Mike McDaniel
"Oh, for as much love as would go round about the earth, and over heaven—yea, the heaven of heavens, and ten thousand worlds—that I might let all out upon fair, fair, only fair Christ."- Samuel Rutherford
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Ballistic Advantage BA AR-15 Enhanced Upper Receiver
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“There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man”- Winston S. Churchill
"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory:
And before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats:
And he shall set the sheep on his right hand, but the goats on the left.
Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.
Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink?
When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee?
Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?
And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
Like maybe an illegal immigrant? Martha's Vineyard put Jesus on a bus and sent him out of town as fast as they could!
That's how he dealt with the sheep. What about the goats?
"Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink:
I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.
And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal."
However, there is hope wherever there is still breath. Call upon the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and you will be saved. Thus endeth the lesson.
"Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancoly that I love - that makes life and nature harmonize."- George Eliot
“Some oxygen molecules help fires burn while others help make water, so sometimes it’s brother against brother.”- from a science essay quote, in "The Revenge Of Anguished English"
Some have made the argument, bordering on the frivolous, that only those arms in existence in the 18th century are protected by the Second Amendment. We do not interpret constitutional rights that way. Just as the First Amendment protects modern forms of communications and the Fourth Amendment applies to modern forms of search, the Second Amendment extends, prima facie, to all instruments that constitute bearable arms, even those that were not in existence at the time of the founding.- Justice Anton Scalia
“Here, then, is the real problem of our negligence. We fail in our duty to study God's Word not so much because it is difficult to understand, not so much because it is dull and boring, but because it is work. Our problem is not a lack of intelligence or a lack of passion. Our problem is that we are lazy. ”- R C Sproul
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“An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.”- Benjamin Franklin Six figure student loans notwithstanding!
"The winds and the waves are always on the side of the ablest navigators."- Edward Gibbon
“Almost every male character so far is a coward, a jerk or both. Tolkien is turning in his grave.”- Elon Musk, on "Rings of Power"
"In poverty and other misfortunes of life, true friends are a sure refuge. The young they keep out of mischief; to the old they are a comfort and aid in their weakness, and those in the prime of life they incite to noble deeds."- Aristotle
"Have you seen what's happening? Have you heard?" She asked in a calm voice. "We've been hijacked."
Dwight was a Bronx native, graduated from Fordham Prep, Fordham University, and the Fordham University School of Law. He began his legal career as an Assistant D.A. in the Bronx in 1971, and joined the Port Authority in 1977. While at the Port Authority, Dwight specialized in labor relations, serving for many years as the Head of the Labor Relations Division.
Dwight was very active in charitable works in New York City. He served as president of the Catholic Big Brothers of NY, as well as, the president of the Parish Council of St. Joseph's Church in Bronxville. Dwight was also voted a life member of the Society of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick of NY, and made an affiliate member of the Marist Brothers for his many years of service on the board of Mt. St. Michael Academy in the Bronx.
WHAT WAS DWIGHT LIKE?
"We kind of grew up together at the authority," said his friend and colleague Jeffery Green, the general counsel for the authority's legal team, made of up 75 lawyers. "He was very calm and logical and had a good sense of humor," Green said.
Outside of work, Darcy followed his favorite sports teams: The New York Yankees, the New York Giants and college basketball teams, Green said. "He was a devoted father and sports fan. He was a very big Yankee and Giants football fan. I would see him at the games."
Darcy had a way of winning people over. "Everyone who met him liked him. He took pride in his work and his family. He was a really good individual," Green said.
I received an email from someone who knew Dwight. They had this to say:
I first met Mr. Darcy in 1968. I was a Freshman at Mt. St. Michael Academy, a private Marist (Catholic) High School in the Bronx, NY. Although he had a Law degree, Dwight Darcy started his working life as an English teacher at the “Mount”. I had him for English 1 that year. I was very interested in history, and Mr. Darcy made it a point, during his lectures, to not only teach the fine points of English Grammar and Composition, but also expounded on American and World History, to which he added a large dose of Morals and Ethics. I was always fascinated by the breadth and depth of his knowledge, and made it a point to have discussions with him on these topics, even outside of class hours. He was an excellent role model, and I considered him an inspiration and mentor. He was a dynamic and dedicated teacher, and he had a profound effect on me. He is one of the few teachers I ever had, that I truly remember with fondness.
When I heard that he left teaching to practice law for the Port Authority, I knew that he was really following his true love, which he considered the true arena of human interaction. But I knew that future students would lose the opportunity to meet a truly remarkable person.
On 9-11, I was overwhelmingly heartbroken to learn that he did not survive the attack. It seemed like a horribly cruel injustice. Here was a man who was so kind, so dynamic, so profound, and so cognizant of the needs of others, who was caught up, with so many unfortunate others, in the effects of incredible madness and evil, and the result an overwhelming hatred of all mankind. I really could not believe it had actually happened. But I remember him with honor and respect, and with a deep sense of loss.
I hope this helps in illustrating the truly excellent person that he was.
Michael Cutrera
Our Lord in his infinite wisdom and superabundant love, sets so high a value upon his people's faith that he will not screen them from those trials by which faith is strengthened.- Charles H. Spurgeon
We went from safe streets to record crime. We went from a secure border to no border. We went from $2 gas to $5 gas and we went from stable prices to record inflation.— Rep. Jim Jordan
“Decide whether or not the goal is worth the risks involved. If it is, stop worrying.”- Amelia Earhart
"Literature adds to reality, it does not simply describe it. It enriches the necessary competencies that daily life requires and provides; and in this respect, it irrigates the deserts that our lives have already become."- C S Lewis
They want diversity of appearance but demand conformity of thought- Jack Posobiec, on liberals
Her house was some distance from the city where she worked. Visitors almost never came to call, so she spent most of her time by herself. Writing of any kind helped keep the loneliness and isolation at bay. She wanted to share thoughts and discoveries with someone, though, which is how the letters first began. They filled a deep need. But over the years, the contact developed into more for her than just casual conversing—much more: it became deeply interwoven into her life.
Her writing desk was in front of a large window. She had put the desk there on purpose. The garden she had planted and worked in at least a little every day was one of her great joys; through that particular window she could view it best, all the year round. In spring and summer, the sun’s warmth poured in onto the desk, the chair, and her; in fall and winter, the wind made patterns with the storm clouds, and the sound of falling rain was soothing. In the day she enjoyed the colors of the plants and the sky; at night, moonlight put a silver wash over everything, or darkness made shadowy shapes. All times and seasons fed her imagination.
Between letters, she spent many hours at her desk, writing simple, old-fashioned stories that no one wanted to publish. They were “bland, boring, unexciting”, she was told. In her heart, she didn’t really believe that; nevertheless, it was discouraging. But she could never bring herself to write the sorts of stories that were being accepted for publication. They were trash, in her opinion, and they disturbed her deeply; she felt that they couldn’t possibly be good for anyone to read. If writing things like that was the price to pay for being published, then she would remain unpublished forever. She continued to write the kind of stories she wanted to write; perhaps one day someone would appreciate and enjoy them.
That late afternoon she looked out the window and saw flowers everywhere: yellow sunflowers beginning to open; red geraniums in earthenware pots; pink and purple hydrangea bushes framing the window. Her freesias and daffodils were finished for the year, but daylilies had taken their place. Marigolds, daisies, forget-me-nots, alyssum--wherever there was room for them, flowers grew.
Her garden produced beauty; her letters and stories produced uncertainty. It was an interesting, if disheartening, contrast.
Sophie looked back down at the letter in front of her. In most of them, she included reflections about her days or shared what she hoped would be amusing or distracting anecdotes. She asked questions which would probably never be answered, but she asked them anyway; one never knew, after all. From time to time she wondered why she continued to do this. Why indeed? Maybe this should be the last letter. She’d said that before, too, many times…but she did know why she wrote them and knew that she would probably keep on writing. She was good at making up excuses for his silences; she even found herself believing the excuses after a while. A wry smile crossed her face at that admission while she folded her letter.
She slipped the letter into its envelope, sealed and addressed it, and then put on a stamp. Although the mail truck had almost certainly gone by, she could still put the letter into the mailbox and raise the little red flag. She always enjoyed doing that; it was like one of her old-time stories come to life. Sometimes she wished that real life was more like those stories; sadly, most of it was like the ugly and depressing ones now being published.
She went through the living room to the front door, out onto the porch, and down the steps; it was only a short walk across the front yard to the mailbox by the gate. Everything was peaceful and still in her garden. It had been a beautiful day, with large white clouds moving slowly across a deep blue sky. What a lovely painting that would have made, she thought; she had described it in her letter. The shadows were lengthening now and the sky was turning pale, as the afternoon slowly advanced into evening.
She reached the gate and opened the mailbox, expecting it to be as empty as it usually was, apart from ads and bills. But today it wasn’t empty; today there was something different inside: a padded envelope nearly filling the space. Sophie took it out of the mailbox and then stood still when she saw who it was from. She stared at it, hardly believing what she was seeing. She seldom received anything from him other than a few cherished postcards or brief notes. What could this be?
Sophie turned the envelope over and opened it carefully. Between two pieces of cardboard was a photo folder; slipped into the opening was a small watercolor painting of a handful of flowers. There were daffodils, as brilliant yellow as the sunshine through her window; fragile freesias, in orange and pink, red and purple; and tiny blue forget-me-nots on thin green stems. The colors glowed intensely, as if bright sunlight was shining through each petal. She smiled with surprise and delight while she looked at the beautiful image. The flowers in the painting were as lovely as the real ones scattered throughout her garden--more so to her, considering the source. And these flowers would last forever; these colors would never fade.
She walked slowly back towards the front porch, still looking at the delicate painting. Her own letter couldn’t be mailed yet; she wanted to tell him how much happiness he’d given her with this gift of flowers. She began thinking about how she would say that…
Upon entering the house, Sophie went back to her desk and sat down with the painting in her hand. The writing on the envelope was the same as on the small stack of notes she kept in a desk drawer, but there had never been a gift before, and such a gift. It had been painted for her! From her own descriptions of some of her favorite flowers! It was totally unexpected, and therefore doubly to be treasured.
She knew where it would go--on the desk right in front of her where she could see it always. Somewhere in the house there was a small picture stand, but she would find it later. At the moment all she wanted to do was look at the painting, and think about the work that went into it, the time that went into it, the hands that created it. But why had he sent this? What did it mean? Anything? Or nothing? She wished she knew the answer.
Then she noticed that the painting had become slightly askew in the folder. She took it out to straighten it and discovered that it wasn’t a painting after all—it was a greeting card. She looked blankly at the printed information on the back, and then opened it. There was a hand-written message inside: “This card company accepted some of my work. Good quality materials & reproduction. Looks real, doesn’t it? Could almost fool people.” She read and reread the words, as the joyful happiness faded inside her. She could think of nothing to say in response that wouldn’t show her to be a complete idiot. After putting the card and her letter on the desk, she leaned back in her chair.
She sat for a long time in silence, while the sun went down and twilight shadowed her garden; the bright colors became only memories. Then she took a deep breath and reached over to her old CD player to click it on, pressing the button until she found the track she wanted: “Moonlight Waltz”. In a moment, the solo piano notes floated out into the room, romantic and sweet, but painfully sad.
As she sat, filled with emptiness, she imagined being asked to dance; imagined saying “yes”; imagined standing up and moving into his arms, the strong, artistic hands holding her and guiding her steps as she held onto him, leaning into his warmth. She closed her eyes and fell into the music, lost once again in familiar dreams and fantasies… all the while knowing the answer to her earlier question: that no matter how deeply she cared, it would never really mean anything.
It would always mean nothing.
_______________________________________________________________________________
Copyright 2022, Mary M. Isaacs. From a forthcoming book
"If sinners will be damned, at least let them leap to hell over our bodies. And if they will perish, let them perish with our arms about their knees, imploring them to stay. If hell must be filled, at least let it be in the teeth of our exertions, and let not one go there unwarned and unprayed for."- C H Spurgeon