From the Fall of Man until Jesus Christ, Satan kept the whole world in bondage, by the power of death.

The devil scourging the Church 

Hebrews 2:14-15  Therefore because the children are partakers of flesh and blood, he (Jesus) also himself in like manner hath been partaker of the same: that, through death, he might destroy him who had the empire of death, that is to say, the devil: And might deliver them, who through the fear of death were all their lifetime subject to servitude.

It would seem as though
the Power of Death
(which Jesus called “The Gates of Hell”)

has very powerfully, returned.

The only solution: Matthew 16:18  And I say to thee: That thou art Peter; and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Yet, the whole world cowers in the face of a virus. Cardinals and Governors publicly insult God and denigrate our faith. We see idolatrous worship in the high places and rampant heresies from the Pope. The doors of the Universal (Catholic) Church are locked and the Sacraments have been made unavailable; all of this on top of decades of priestly abuse and deadly scandals; not to mention the grievous sins of all the laity.

It’s as if our very access to the Tree of Life has been deliberately, cut off.

Part of Saint Faustina’s message of Divine Mercy is that there would come a day when God would find it expedient to turn back from mercy, to wrath.

Let’s all hope and pray we’re not yet that far along!

Male maturity and the need to overcome the fear of rejection

For a boy to become a man, he needs to get over his fear of being rejected. And he needs to recognize that part of being a man is experiencing rejection and growing from it and through it. Heck, even Jesus was rejected, so should we expect anything less for ourselves?

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A close encounter with death and hellfire – and the importance of little “small-minded” rules





– All for want of a little, small-minded rule

by Doug Lawrence

I had successfully reached the ripe old age of eighteen years and I had a private pilot license, several long-distance over water flights , and well over one hundred hours of flying time dutifully recorded in my pilot log book. I was at the peak of my physical powers, had excellent hand-eye coordination and was well on my way to obtaining a commercial pilot license and certified flight instructor rating. There was however, one realm of flight that I had yet to master – aerobatics – “stunt flying” – and that would soon be remedied.

A spiffy new aerobatic trainer had recently arrived at our local field (Midway Airport, in Chicago) and is was a thing of beauty. With it, along with an as yet undetermined amount of expert instruction, I was reasonably certain that I would soon master the art of looping, rolling – and all the other major departures from straight and level flying.

A cool fall morning soon presented itself, so I arranged to take a day off from work, rendezvoused with my favorite aerobatics instructor, “strapped on” the hot little Cessna 150 Aerobat and was shortly winging my way westward – and upward – to the local practice area.  Four hours later I had been quite properly introduced to all the basic aerobatic maneuvers, including a totally optional – but very impressive – “short” landing technique that used only a couple of hundred feet of runway – instead of the usual six hundred feet or more, typically required.

All this was, I thought,  a bit like flying a “magic carpet” – and really not all that difficult to do!

I dropped my instructor off, filled up with gas and headed back out, to practice. The weather was changing and the wind speeds near the ground were kicking up, but conditions at altitude still looked pretty good. Only now, I no longer had the calm voice of experience sitting next to me. I would instead, have to rely on known,  tried and true, well established procedures and techniques in order to safely execute all the various maneuvers, I even brought along a “cheat sheet” with  both text and handy diagrams.

Two and a half hours later, fully “wrung out” – dog tired – and more than a bit “queasy” – I was ready to head back home. Besides, a nasty cold front was pushing through, dropping the temperature by twelve to fifteen degrees, generating some low clouds and a bit of rain, along with strong, gusty northwest winds. It was high time to get back on the ground!

The late afternoon air traffic at Midway was already pretty heavy, landing on runways 31 left and 31 right, which was almost directly aligned with the prevailing wind direction – providing me with a solid ten knot headwind component – something which would certainly enhance that “short landing” technique I had earlier practiced. I figured I would give that another  try – and see how quickly I could get the airplane down – and stopped.

Now well into my final approach – engine power reduced and wing flaps deployed – it appeared as though I was making almost no forward progress – which was weird, as well as a bit scary. I don’t think I had ever flown so slowly in my entire flying career. But things were otherwise, looking very good – right up until I ran into some unexpected and fairly severe low level turbulence.

Correcting for the wind and the gusts with engine power was my only remaining option. I was almost there – about one hundred feet off the ground and right over the big, white numbers, painted on the runway. Then, it felt like “the bottom suddenly dropped out”. One moment, I was happily flying along. The next, the airplane was plunging, like the proverbial  stone.

I quickly added full power. The plane’s nose pitched sharply down. I could see those big, white runway numbers now – getting even bigger – filling up the windscreen.  My vision narrowed. I sensed a strong, metallic taste in the back of my throat. Time seemed compressed. There was nothing else I could do. Then everything went “black”.

Some time later, I regained consciousness, still securely strapped into the cockpit, still looking straight down – the plane’s nose vertically stuck into the ground like a big lawn dart – smack-dab in the middle of runway 31- and right on the numbers.

Aerobatic seat belts are stoutly constructed and designed to keep the pilot securely in place, even when upside down. This belt system had done its job. The airplane had one other useful feature – a handy little grab ring/ripcord – with a steel cable, leading to a pull-pin that allowed the pilot to quickly jettison the entire entry door, in case of urgent necessity.

Things were also starting to get a bit toasty as flames began to penetrate the cockpit and quickly climb up both sides of the doomed aircraft. There should have been at least eight or ten gallons of fuel remaining in the plane’s wing tanks, and I didn’t want to still be sitting there when that went up. It was definitely time to go, so I yanked on the rip cord. The pilot’s side door fell away and I scrambled out and down and off to the side of the runway. A few seconds later, with a big “whoosh” and a “bang” – the fuel tanks exploded and the little plane was instantly and totally engulfed. The fire department arrived a bit later and swept up what was left of the flaming debris – a bit of the tail, along with the pretzeled propeller, still attached to the now very well-done engine.

It wasn’t pretty. I lost a few personal items to the flames and would have a whopping insurance deductible to pay, but I had no reason to complain. Except for a few minor bruises, I was physically unharmed – praise God!

After a short but very pertinent discussion with a local FAA official, my flight instructor appeared, asking me what had happened. I told him I did the landing just as we had practiced, earlier in the day – only this time, something went wrong – at the very last minute. Exactly what – I did not know.

Then we got a similar airplane – one that I hadn’t crashed and burned, as yet – and went back up to do some more flying – even attempting the exact same landing – this time, with much better results. Everything went flawlessly. We figured out exactly what went wrong, too. It had something to do with a “little rule” that my instructor had somehow forgotten to mention – probably because the morning’s weather conditions were so calm and so clear.

The “small-minded little rule” that might have saved me and my airplane:

“When landing in turbulent conditions, add half the steady-state wind speed plus half the gust velocity to the standard approach speed. Minimize the use of wing flaps – and don’t try anything fancy!”

Now he tells me!

Pope Francis on “small-minded rules” and the Catholic Church

True story. Photos simulated.

“Change” has come to the Vatican

The Argentine-born pontiff offered the encouragement for renewal in a homily during Mass Saturday at the Vatican City hotel where he lives. Francis told Catholics ”not to be afraid of renewing some structures” to accord with ”the places, the times” and the people, but he didn’t specify what needed to be changed.

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Editor’s note: Here we have the new Pontiff channeling Barack Obama, instead of the Holy Spirit. Evidently, liberals and Jesuits think alike. 

No justice for the babies … no peace for the abortionists?

Dr. Warren Hern, an abortion provider from Boulder, Colo., wrote:

“As my life is now, the windows cannot be uncovered at night. Sometimes I look into the homes of my neighbors and see them moving about and relaxing with their families. My office is a fortress of steel fences and bulletproof windows, and my home has become a hiding place from which I emerge and hope that I will not be the next assassin’s target.”

Everyone who associates with an abortion clinic, from doctors and nurses to volunteers, patients, and police officers, risks their lives every day to provide a necessary medical service. The very real threat of violence does not deter them, however: every day, employees at the hundreds of clinics across the country go to work.


Editor’s note: This article is so full of exaggerations and falsehoods, it might well have been personally written by “the Father of Lies”. Abortion is not a necessary medical service, and these dedicated baby killers are nothing more than perverted, murdering fetishists. Nowhere does it mention the grievous harm perpetrated on the women … or the bloody, gruesome, merciless terror routinely perpetrated on the babies … babies whose right to life these wanton killers refuse to recognize.

We fully appreciate what abortion workers do: They kill babies for the sake of money, convenience and political ideology  They commit thousands of real, personal acts of violence … not mere threats … on women and babies … all around the world … every single day.

True confessions: Why I never should have had eight children.

When I was a happy mother of four, seriously considering and deeply desiring another child, an odd feeling overcame me. Over several days, my excitement at the idea of a new little soul became mixed with feelings of discouragement and fear. It began to dawn on me that I was barely good enough “mommy material” for the four treasures I already had, and that any further parenting would be irresponsible. It came to a head one evening: I remember standing in my kitchen, full of fear and anxiety, telling myself that I had no business — no business! — having another baby. Not now, not ever.

All my shortcomings and sins came to the forefront of my mind, and I stood there reeling from the truth of it…

List of shortcomings and conclusion

Thanks to my parents and family … I know man and I know God. I know love, and I know wrath. I know justice, and I know peace … and I know that I have nothing to fear from any of them.

by Doug Lawrence

I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s, in a (fairly) conventional family consisting of dad, mom, two brothers and a sister.

Dad took the car to work each day. Mom stayed home and took care of the house and kids. No surprises there.

We all went to Catholic school … but that’s not the point. The point is how mom ran the household … and particularly … the way she personally maintained family standards.

Even though we rarely had any serious discussions, there was no doubt that we were unconditionally loved and cared for … mainly because that’s pretty much all that mom did … 24/7 and 365. Of course, dad’s job (and his personal commitment to the family) made possible that extraordinary level of “intensive care”.

The house was always spotless. Meals were prepared on time and with abundance. Our clothing, grooming, and personal behavior were always closely and very effectively monitored … sometimes through “mysterious” means. Family outings were modest affairs, but frequent. Holidays were indeed feasts, with Christmas and Easter being number one and number two (but not necessarily in that order). Sundays were reserved for Mass and for family.

That’s just the way things were. We never questioned why.

Nothing went unnoticed, and anything important to mom could never be considered (by us) as irrelevant or insignificant, since we knew with certainty that a fate worse than death awaited all those who might transgress.

The means of our execution was the dreaded “whipstrap”!

Reputed to be a family heirloom of indeterminate age, the whip strap had been fashioned from a stout piece of leather, roughly three inches wide and twenty-four inches long. The first part served as a handle. The last was cut into a classic “cat o’ nine tails” … and it was truly awesome to behold!

The “instrument” typically need not even be displayed, since the mere mention of it was usually sufficient to restore order. But when partial measures were unsuccessful … deploying the strap … and applying a stroke or two, usually did the trick.

Mom was in pretty good physical shape (probably from all that walking … since she didn’t drive … and there was no outrunning her. She was even known to leap fences (and reportedly, tall buildings) in s single bound. And should we have been fortunate enough to discover a hiding place that was (as yet) unknown or inaccessible to her, dad would always be home, by six.

There was no escape!

The carnage of the strap was immense … and the suffering impossible to imagine … at least for a moment or two … in our young minds. Yet we all survived … and thrived … mainly because we were able to develop a good, clear sense of what was right and what was wrong. We also learned that actions brought sure and certain consequences … and sometimes, those consequences could be unpleasant.

The “whipstrap” effectively symbolized all of that potential unpleasantness. In this, a vision of Hell itself could not have been any more effective.

Years later … studying the Old Testament of the Bible … I suddenly realized that all the carnage and strife recorded therein really wasn’t much different than what went on back home … albeit on a much grander scale.

God lovingly cared for his children. God had particular standards and preferences, and when the “kids” got out of hand, God did what was necessary … for their own good … to reign them in.

Evil, in the person of Satan, made the problems in the Bible much more intractable, and the consequences much more severe, but the “model” still works, since God remains the master of life and death, and he is most certainly able to transcend any and all human sufferings and failings … either in this world … or the next.

Back home, should there have ever been any doubt about the fairness of our punishment, a hug from mom or dad was typically all that was necessary to fix things. No harm. No foul. Life went on.

My Catholic faith informs me that a “hug” from the Almighty would undoubtedly have the same effect.

So, you see … thanks to my parents and my family … I know man and I know God. I know love, and I know wrath. I know justice, and I know peace … and I know that I have nothing to fear from any of them.

My mom and dad told me so and my God confirmed it … in his Word … and through his one, holy, apostolic and Catholic Church.

It doesn’t get much simpler than that!

Real Catholic TV tells it like it is: Must-see video explains a lot!

Watch the video

Submitted by Doria2

Why are Non Catholic Christians so afraid of Catholics?

Q: Why are Non Catholic Christians so afraid of Catholics?

A: Typical protestant theology is so superficial and so ill formed that many Bible believing protestants are simply afraid to look past their own preacher’s very limited understanding of things.

And if they ever do, they run smack-dab into our awesome God, and his one, holy, apostolic and universal Church … smells, bells, liturgy, sacraments, devotions … and everything else that goes with it.

Not knowing what to make of things Catholic, they protest and recoil, missing out on the best that God has to give, settling instead for the spiritual equivalent of the “crumbs” that Jesus offered to the Samaritans.

In short, they fear and often hate what they fail to understand, and not understanding, they miss out.

The exceptions to this are certainly worth noting, since their ranks include former protestants from every age.