A man, if he is going to be a man, will come to a crossroads in his life. At that time he will hear the din of philosophical speculation which will appeal to his pride. And he will also hear the sound of the harp which will appeal to his blood. If he follows the music of the speculators, the music of the harp will fade and become, in the mind of the man, a fantasy, a dream, something that has no basis in reality. But if the man answers the call of the blood, he will gradually become so imbued with the sound of the harp that he will be immune to any other claim upon him. He will, like Hamlet, (“It is I, Hamlet the Dane”) finally know who he is and to whom he belongs. ~ CWNY

I’m thankful I was made to hear the faint sound of the harp and also made to follow it.

Here’s to those who answer the call of the blood…

Go on, Get!

It’s dark out; raining slightly.

A car pulls into a deserted lot on the edge of town.

It rolls up to a dented old Goodwill bin.

A man gets out. He’s holding something.

As he turns to face the light, we see it’s an old pair of jeans, neatly folded.

He stands there awhile, looking at his bundle.

After some time, he places it onto the edge of the bin.

The wind gusts, blowing rain drops sideways.

It lifts one of the jean pant legs,

makes it look as if the leg is waving goodbye to its master.

The man looks back.

“Go on! Get!” he yells.

“You’re free now!”

The pant leg frowns and whines.

“Go!” he yells again, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I don’t want you anymore! Now GET!”

Maybe it’s the wind but it seems the jeans retreat a space.

“Go on! Don’t you understand?! Run free!!!!”

The man throws a rock at the bin, adding another dent to the metal.

The jeans, unphased, remain rooted in place, trustworthy as ever.

The man looks around,

He runs to the bin,

Snags them up,

Turns with them in hand,

hops back in his car,

drives off, presumably to return home where the two will live together until they part naturally, as God intended.

(This is a true story based on the life of Shotgun)

Note to my readers:

As I grow in my faith I’m ever maturing in the sort of content I feel is appropriate for publication here at SBS. Re-reading many of my old posts, I’m often disappointed in myself for having covered some of the foul topics I’ve covered or given voice to thoughts better left unsaid. Add to this my ever-present regret at having published a number of screeds, in which I pop off on the keyboard without first feeling through the depths of my heart on the issue and you’ll understand my long-time desire to revamp this site; a project sure to begin this week and carry on throughout the rest of November.

I want to avoid trying to copy Cambria Will Not Yield. His every post was a sort of State-of-the-Union update on Christendom, where we are, where we’re headed, and what we need to do about it. I’ve tried – behind the scenes – to write a few posts in this style just to see what I could produce. That none of you have seen these efforts is all you need to know about my lack of success there.

Recall the old song from Sunday School, “I’m in the Lord’s Army”? Mr. Cambria was, at least in my eyes, one of the few (perhaps the only) living Christian general in the world today. Me? I’ll grant that, at this point in my growth as a Christian, I might be more than a mere bar-room brawler for Christ; maybe a PFC? A grunt. A white pawn on Christ’s chess-board, diagonally attacking the devil’s pawns when and where I can. I’ve always considered myself a spiritual page, maybe barely fit to carry around someone like CWNY’s horse-blanket and lances, but a long way from donning armor myself. But now he’s gone and many others of our loved ones, good Christian men and women, have been taken from the world. We’ve got to go on without them as they watch from afar…

It is a terribly lonely path. The atheists might wonder why it is that Christ has been far removed from us for thousands of years. In George MacDonald’s novel Mary Marston, we see Mary (a beautiful Christian woman) gently approach this topic with one such:

“But how am I to believe it?  How can it be true?  It’s ages since he was here, if ever he was at all, and there hasn’t been a sign of him ever since, all the time!”

“There you may be quite wrong” said Mary. “I think I could find you some who believe him just as near them now as ever he was to his own brothers ­believe that he hears them when they speak to him, and heeds what they say.”

To some, Christ is just as near to us now as He ever was to people in the Gospels. I’m not as strong a Christian as Mary Marston. I don’t always feel that Christ is near to me. We have His promise, though. He will never leave us nor forsake…

In Dostoyevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov, the Grand Inquisitor hurls a number of accusations at Christ. Among those accusations is the charge of desertion: “You said you would come back to earth, but you didn’t.” That is a serious charge. When a father deserts his children, he is not a good father. To his credit, Alyosha does not give a rational defense of God. He points to Christ and lets Ivan win the debate.”

The Sign of Our Salvation ~ CWNY


I apologize to those of my readers who subscribe to this blog. While updating my off-line archive today I somehow managed to publish a few hundred of my old, unpublished, materials. This is the only new post for today, those others well deserve their comfy retirement…

~ Farewell to the Sweet Hours ~

~ This robe of flesh, I’ll drop then rise
To meet the ever-lasting skies
And shout while passing through the air,
Farewell! Farewell! Sweet hour of prayer ~

After 18 days, I’ve broken my water fast.

I’m disappointed I didn’t make it the entire 40 but then again, I’m not a spiritual giant like we read about in Scripture. Thus, my record stands at 18 days. Hopefully God will appreciate the effort, if not the success of my plan.

Autumn in the Blue Ridge is beautiful but unfortunately, was probably the worst place I could have chosen for solitude. Many white people are attracted to the mountain beauty. Thousands of them, to be exact. I’ll have to re-think my venue for next time.

I put so much hope into a water fast – hope that I’ll get closer to God or mend my relationship with Him. That never happens. I’m stating that here, clearly, for all of you but mostly for future me. If you’re carrying around anger towards Him, get through it before you try fasting.

I’m still not entirely clear why fasting sharpens the spiritual senses or what the thought-process is that motivates it. I suspect it stems from a Greek gnostic idea that the physical world, including one’s own body, is evil and the mind must be made ultimate master over it through strict denial of pleasures. That, however, makes no sense in light of the Incarnation. Christ is a man so how can a man’s body be inherently evil?

I’m afraid the real answer is: when you water fast for long periods you’re attempting to draw as near to the Father as possible on this Earth and are to be sustained by His glory and presence – if only symbolically – while you commune with Him in rapture. I’m convinced that’s it, but if that’s the goal of a good Christian fast, I sadly admit, I’m far from a good Christian.

In fact, that’s one of the major things I gained some clarity on these past 18 days. I said (in a recent blog post) I was afraid I had never actually loved God. I know now that’s wrong. I have (and do) love Jesus Christ – my problem is, I’m just not one of the righteous. That is: I don’t often translate this love into action. A fatal flaw for a Christian knight attempting to wage war against the modern world. Everything we do needs to be done with our whole hearts.

I’ve discovered I need forgiveness, just like everyone else.

Review: Into the Twilight

Joe Putnam has published the third in a trilogy of political works. The best of the three, in my opinion, “Into the Twilight” is surprisingly more defensive than the other two. Not as if Putnam is trying to make himself palatable to the frothing-at-the-mouth lunatic liberals, of course. Rather, he’s still talking to the on-the-fence white grazers who’ve been befuddled by agitprop and all the devious alchemies of the modern world. He wants them to wake up and see we’re headed into the twilight.

Is this an ironic reversal from his last book? Is this really the Twilight of our People? Putnam ended on an optimistic note in that book, (one I greatly appreciated), yet in his sequel, we’re heading into the twilight after all? What gives?! A clue to the answer is found in the last chapter where he gives us a tantalizing hint of eschatology; more than enough end-time theology for some us, for others (who obsess about such things) nowhere near enough. History, says Putnam, comes in cycles. Ups and downs, ins and outs, until the final judgement. As such, America’s entering into the twilight is, presumably, only a temporary twilight, one we must undergo until we emerge into a new dawn. (How I look forward to the day Putnam writes a new trilogy, prominently featuring the word “dawn” in the titles).

Perhaps the defining theme of this new work is a more in-depth attack on the Industrial Revolution. Recently, in various European celebrations, large animatronic bulls are pneumatically pumped and shewshed onto the stage, after which, they’re “tamed” by frolicking dancers and flag wavers. All this just to represent the so-called “taming” of the Industrial Revolution by enlightened moderns. Looks more like Ba’al worship to me. I can imagine the largest of these robot bulls, emerging into a soccer stadium, red-eyed and steamy-mouthed, letting out a mechanical roar terrifying the hapless crowd.

…but just then…what’s that?

The bull stops!

It looks on in confusion.

The crowd murmurs uncomfortably. Something’s happening that isn’t part of the script…

One man, alone, comes striding confidently across the stadium, heading straight to the bull, locking eyes with the beast, holding nothing in his hand but a Bible. Can it be?! It is! It’s Joe Putnam, facing down the giant bull of the industrial revolution, and refusing to blink!

…refusing to yield!

He clocks it once across the muzzle using holy writ like a metaphorical sword (as St. Paul intended), knocking the bull onto its haunches, dazed, with nothing in its eyes but Alabama’s “southern star”…

…and there we might leave our hero, as he saunters off stage, for now, heading back to his Southern workshop to begin preparing for, what we can only hope, will be his next writing project.

See my reviews of his other two here:

“Rethinking the Propositions”

“The Twilight of Our People?”

Preparing to Meet Our Lord

The time is fast approaching (…see what I did there?)

My last water fast lasted for 18 days. This time, I’m aiming for the Biblical 40. I’ve set aside enough funds to quit work for the foreseeable future. I’ll go into the mountains for complete solitude.

I’ve had some scoffing at my dedication to water fasting. Maybe I’m not enough of a man to face the modern world? My scoffers say I’m not tough enough to hack it and need to stop crying.

Maybe they’re right or maybe they’re wrong but wanting to escape and be with our Father can never be a bad thing, far as I’m concerned.

While I got into water fasting because of the (alleged?) health benefits, I’ve become religiously devoted to it as one of the only ways I know of to recharge my soul. It’s like going to the gym but for the spirit. Although, I also think reading old European literature is like going to the gym for the spirit, so this might be more like a spa for the soul? I apologize for the flippant metaphors…

I’m going to be praying, meditating (not the weird, Eastern mysticism stuff, but a sort of imaging of the cross, aimed at calming the mind and perishing demonic whispers), reading Christian literature (especially CWNY, of which I’ll be reading multiple posts a day), and engaging in fasting health supplementals (like saunas, long soaks, and even some oxygen therapy). But mostly prayer. Prayer as I gaze out at the beautiful Blue Ridge scenery.

What will I talk to God about?

The world is in an awful state at the moment. The liberal attack against the remnant has reached unprecedented levels. I don’t know what to do about it other than bring it to Him in prayer.

I need to talk to Him about the people in my life, their health, their comforts, and their safety.

…and yes, I might even talk to Him about a good Christian woman.

I’ve decided not to blog during this time as my previous attempts to blog through the fast didn’t turn out well. It’s better if it stays between God and I. I only make this post as a way to inform all of you, my friends and readers, not to expect any activity here for many weeks.

(It’ll take a few weeks for me to go through pre-fast preparation which includes a liver flush, general cleanse, and conversion to a keto-style pre-fast diet. After the fast, I’ll need a few weeks of re-feeding and recovery, although after that first bite of – probably cantaloupe – I’ll likely be rushing to post any fasting revelations I’ve had).

God bless all of you.

Until then…

~ Light in August ~

Soon after writing this post, Shotgun encounters a random murphy…

“He wasn’t old enough to talk and say nothing at the same time.” ~ Faulkner

My augusts were a highlight. Sir Walter Scott was born in august. My grandmother, my best friend, and even my own birthday – all august. I tease my sister about forgetting her birthday – the joke being, we’re twins. Another august.

Now my augusts are marred by the death of a great man and friend: the author of CWNY.

It’s been a year ago now and I still have nothing of worth to say. I’m still at a loss. (That’s a phrase loaded with tragic irony).

This time, a year ago, I lost my mother and CWNY, at almost the same time, both gone suddenly and unexpectedly. To say I wasn’t in my right mind may not be accurate. I was coldly rational, dealing with the petty details and arrangements with a mechanistic focus that kept out the deep feelings. It took time for them to bubble up and out; an ongoing process. Better to say: I wasn’t in my right heart…

I never met CWNY in this life but I feel like I knew him.

In my inadequate video, I said I’d been reading him for 20 years, which was obviously wrong (I knew it was a long time but it couldn’t have been 20 years). Since then, I’ve been afraid people might take me as having been trying to establish some sort of unwarranted authority for myself: “I’ve been reading him thiiiiiis long!” … that certainly wasn’t what I was trying to convey. I’m no CWNY expert. My only claim of expertise regarding CWNY is two-fold: 1, I know when I’ve presented some idea or blog post that CWNY wouldn’t have liked or agreed with, and 2, I usually figure this out well after I’ve presented or posted it, then work to amend or remove it accordingly. In this struggling way, I eventually get to something close to what I hope CWNY would have been proud of.

He had such an intuitive grasp of Old Europe, its norms, habits, and attitudes. I’m afraid I’m too permanently marred by Satania to ever have the same intuitive grasp. Maybe one day? I hope, one day.

His death seems to have purged the old Presbyterian rationalism from my soul, once and for all. It took time for me to realize this. Time for that cold, mechanistic, rationalism (which was a defense against feeling) to wear off enough for me to realize my new state of mind. When faced with death of loved ones – especially when its unexpected – we might set aside the petty intellectual chess games or the false trophies of pride, and earnestly long for a Christian reality of grace and mercy.

I don’t want to be the lens through which people view CWNY. I don’t want to be how people discover his material. I want them to find it on their own, as I did. I want fellow adventurers. Yet, I can’t bring myself to stop talking about him, citing him, or setting forth his work, either.

His family has continued his legacy and done us all the tremendous service of completing the project, tidying it all up and organizing it, and making it all available for easy download (for whenever wordpress decides to remove it again). I encourage everyone to go there and get a copy.

Where we’re headed, we’ll be needing CWNY…

Like Thomas Hughes loved Arnold of Rugby, I loved CWNY (I wouldn’t have known of the comparison without CWNY!).

While I’ve seen the movie “Tom Brown’s School Days” many times, I’ve always been too afraid to read the novel. I’ve wanted to pace myself in reading the old “Cambria novels” (as I think of them) since there’ll be a tragic day when there are no more of them. Reading them is like a religious ritual for me, one laden with deep experiences, joys, sorrows, and the great delight that comes after the clouds of tragedy.

I think now is the right time for it.

…CWNY, taking me on yet another adventure…

~ Atlantis Down ~

With my mother’s death all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis. ~ C.S. Lewis

A year ago my mother was murdered by lab-coat-wearing psychopaths who enforce political agendas under the guise of “medical care”.

I will not forget what they’ve done.

Lewis’ famous quote was a beautifully-written passage to me, but little more. Not until this past year has it grown in importance. I, too, have lost the great continent of my life.

Feminists, as they laud the virtues of the fairer sex, never hit on the real value of a good woman. They can’t pinpoint any divine virtue in the word “homemaker” and see it only as a material description of a disrespectful job. They never know it’s meant literally; the woman really does make the home.

Without her, I’m truly homeless.

I will not forget what they’ve done.

Shotgun and the Old Sea Captain

My friends and I, in a foreign land, were piped ashore to amuse ourselves. Pea coat clad we hit the town, bundled against strange winds. Finding nothing of warmth at our late hour, we ambled to the south. There we saw the merry glow of an inn with people about.

It was small but strong against the night with a fire in the hearth. The barmaid saw us straggle in and brought over the best of the house. As we sat and warmed ourselves, we noticed a quiet buzz. It came from the corner where an old man sat, his pipe-smoke circling above.

He looked us over with a haughty eye and nodded his approval. “You look like sailors lads” he said, with a trace of an English accent. “I was too, when I was young, and was again thereafter. Be wise and buy my next round; I’ll tell you about my … disaster … ”

Nothing better in mind and curious about the man, we pulled up our chairs and gave him our ears, to see what he was after. He wore an old captain’s hat and coat from better days. His beard was white but trimmed, his eyes blue as the ocean waves.

“Disaster?” I asked…”was that the name of your ship?”

“Ha!” he scoffed, “…if only that were it…”

He leaned back in his chair and pulled on his pipe, the tobacco glowing red, then leaned forward again with an ominous look, and this is what he said:


We had rounded the horn of Africa, crossed the Adan gulf.

Sailed up through the Red Sea lads, like Moses long ago.

We headed up to Cairo, through the Suez Canal,

It was somewhere near Ismailia – hard to remember now.

We watched the Arabs from our bow, as they went along their way,

The women wore flowing gowns that covered their whole face.

And, ah! But lads, yes, there was one. Caught my eye with grace.

No! She didn’t bow, nor stoop, as was the common, Arab, way.


“A woman!” I cried, and my shipmates laughed.

“We’re familiar with your disaster…”

“Familiar, and want no more of it,” said one.

“A woman! That’s right” he said, as he took another drag of pipe.

“I thought like you in a former life, before my Suez adventure. And if you’ll hear me well and take my advice, you’ll see you’re all the ones in danger…”

“Carry on!” we all cried, amused by our captain’s earnest…


This angel, for so she was, lads, held my eyes with her own.

On we inched, to the north, while she walked beside alone.

We continued on like this until the sun was set,

When finally she spoke; and that, lads, was how we met.

Her story, it was a sad one, it brought a tear to my eye…

She’d been a Christian woman, brought to the east to die.

“And why were you brought to die?” I asked,

“Why sir, you musn’t ask.”

“And if I’m not to ask, then why should I care? What friends are you and I?”

“Aren’t you a Christian?” she asked “From a land of chivalry?”

“Me?” asked I “I hate the word. I know only of business and the sea.”

“Then you’re a coward,” she said, as we drifted along, and her words stung me deep.

I had thought of myself as a man of the world and all that was in it to see.

“Listen, ma’am, you’re pretty – I can’t deny you that – but you followed your vanity to the east, you’ve sought your own disaster. I’m in my ship, safe from harm, while you’re on the shore, despite your charm. You’ve followed your happily-ever-after. Am I to bow, to bend to charm, when you’ve given it all for baubles and bluster? A man to whom you owe your danger? And now you’ve seen your own life’s fault, you seek refuge from a stranger?!”

“Not a stranger,” she said.

“Here where all the faces are black, to see a one like mine…to hear a friendly voice from home? Oh sir, I dream of going back! But I can’t deny what you’ve said is true. I am here by choice and folly of youth. So, if you decide to abandon me, I’ll still pray for you to have a safe journey. God, at least, may hear the prayers of one such as I. He, at least, may help a sinner – help one who is about to die…”


“Well?” we all asked…

“Well, I left her,” he said. “And she’s haunted me ever since.”

We all looked into our drinks at this somber turn of events. How could a man of our own profession, one of the sea, have such cold-hearted confessions?

We pushed back our chairs and gave him a nod, wanting no more of his stories. He’d told us all we’d wanted to hear, we were ready to get back to our berthing. We threw on our coats and wrapped up our scarves, laid down some money onto the bar, then headed for the door. But before we could leave, we heard the old man once more, a final word in parting:

“Remember the sea and what it costs
to be a man who’s free.
To see the waves and endless sky,
To be unbound from all that ties,
To land, to life, to lovers lost,
Remember the cost of the sea.”

As we walked away, I thought to myself, about the sad old captain’s words. Maybe all I need is a pair of big blue eyes to tie me to the world?


“A true man of Europe, a man with a sentimental attachment to his people and our common hope, must fight his way out of the belly of the leviathan and then turn and attack the leviathan.” ~ CWNY

I’m deeply ashamed of how much time and money I’ve put into building a philosophical system falsely called (by some) “Christianity.” Worse, when the moon was full, I’d return to my old ways, despite all the warnings of CWNY. I told myself, for awhile, I wasn’t taking it seriously. It was more of an intellectual chess match with atheists. A game. Not a serious contest of faiths. The antique-European may very well ask, in reply, why ought anyone engage in games that aren’t serious contests of faith?

In the wake of the Roe repeal, debate between the pro-lifers and pro-choicers flamed up to levels I’ve never seen in my lifetime. I’d see, one after the other, of these swaggering “big-brained” Christian intellects, dispassionately entertaining the idea of child sacrifice while they engaged in heartless tit-for-tats with unbelievers. How? How can a man with Christian sensibilities dispassionately entertain such things?

Abortion advocates don’t need argument, they need execution. I couldn’t bring myself to think of it as a “game” when the stakes were this miserable. I saw it as deeply unmanly to parry limp-wristed conversational tactics with all that passes for wit on the internet. When the spiritual tension reached its pique with me, I slammed my computer closed, rushed outside, and began doing pushups. Then I pounded out pullups until I got dizzy in the summer heat. I needed bodily pain to snap me out of this delusion.

I’m going to clean out my storage unit this week – get rid of all my tomes of philosophy. I don’t need them or want them anymore. My only advantage in having studied the depths of philosophical speculation is now having a very clear view of how useless it all is. The most advanced philosophy gets so specialized and nuanced, no layman can keep up with it anyway and, at the end of the day, at best, it all amounts of an intellectual draw between the atheists and Christians. God can’t be rationally proven, certainly not to people with a petulant and vengeful desire not to see Him in the first place.

It’s here C.S. Lewis can be the channel back to genuine Christian sentiment. He’s earned a respected place among all the would-be apologist philosophers in Christendom. They all claim Lewis as an influence and honored mentor – yet they all, without fail, reject his philosophy (especially the Calvinists). “Lewis was a great writer, but he made many theological errors…”

I think they intuitively like him because Lewis, unlike all the other rationalist philosophers, was spiritually connected to old Europe and the hero Christ at its center. His greatest apologetics weren’t his philosophical arguments, it was his appeal to the heart; his championing of the true Faith. In this, Mr. Cambria far surpassed Lewis.

Owing to my study of philosophy, I’m often asked about the best way to teach these complex apologetic arguments to children. This question used to flatter my ego and spark my creativity – now I’m appalled by it. The best way to teach children Christianity (and its subsequent defense?)

Turn off the television and read to them! Read the old stories. Out loud, as a family. Allow them to live in old Europe – to breathe its air and walk its country lanes. Let them see the land of evening lingerings. It’s our home and where we belong and once familiar with it, they’ll never want to leave.

Once there – and it’s a difficult journey through an extremely narrow gate – our job (as CWNY says) is to turn and attack the leviathan.

I’m not a great writer, poet, artist, or musician. I’m not sure how to do what CWNY or C.S. Lewis did. But I have to find a way…

The Lost Patrol

“The restoration of the misplaced Europeans of the 21st century, the ‘Lost Patrol,’ will take place when the European people once again side with the human personality, joined with His divine humanity, over and against the scientized committee men in church and state.” ~ CWNY

I am, like many of you, excited by the recent repeal of that Satanic “Roe v. Wade” supreme court decision. Moreover, in a just world, this would be a victory for President Trump’s second-term and may have lessened some of the yelling in his direction from what passes for the American far-right. In a bid to win favor from the liberals, the far-right talking-heads have been heaping scorn onto Trump by the bucket-loads. I wont restate their insulting pet-names or insults.

Doesn’t it seem the least bit traitorous to insult and criticize him in this way? In addition to the petty names, these dissident-right talking heads take up and repeat every liberal talking point against the man, adding their own twisted “twists”…

I’ll tell you why: it’s because they’re spiritually severed from the pulse of Christendom. Mr. Cambria always appreciated Trump, even while acknowledging that he was, at best, one of the white pagans who retained suppressed, though healthy, intuitions. He was fighting a “rear-guard” political action. Trump’s campaign played to whatever is left of the white folk spirit in our people and gave us all a focus point. That alone is praiseworthy – but he managed to do good things for us politically, as well. CWNY was deeply sensitive to the Spirit and could feel it in Trump. That the dissident right talking-heads fail to “feel” the import of this is proof of their being spiritually disconnected.

The liberals are foaming at the mouth and threatening violence. They are threatening to move from any state that outlaws abortion (as many states have done – please God more of them will…) The phrase “civil-war” is being tossed around in mainstream news. How I wish to God that would happen. The moment Texas secedes, I’m moving and will give my life (if such is called for) in her defense.

Secession on a state-scale is vastly superior than the sort of micro-secessions I’ve been advocating, yet if it can be done, it’s a cause worth dying for. Otherwise, a man in my position – seceding on an individual scale – is apt to get lonely and lose all community focus. Take it from me – I desperately read old European literature to make up for the lack, in my actual life, of genuine and strong community relations. We’re not meant to live as nomads on a Satanic plantation.

I’ve thought a lot about how my attitude has differed from CWNY’s over the years. Unlike our dissident-right talking-heads, I’ve never hated Trump, and I’ve always been aware of his appeal to the folk-spirit of our people, but I’ve always been apathetic or cynical about him. I preferred to look to my own affairs and disconnect from the world. While this strategy insulated me from much of the evil out there, it also eats away at a man. Mr. Cambria, however, was connected to a people and place. He spoke often of having a big family. A wife and children change the playing field for a man – they make all the evils of the world vastly more close and serious.

I don’t care about black communities because I just avoid them; but what if they move into your neighborhood where you have a wife and children and are heavily invested in a home? I hate public school (with a deep passion), but never cared much about PTAs or school policies because I have no children; but what if homeschooling is outlawed and the CPS begins stealing away all those children who refuse to attend?

As it is now, my instincts are to avoid trouble, keep my assets liquid, look for places to hide (economically and maybe physically). If I had a family, I’d have to fight. I would fight, and not indiscriminately, without planning, but seriously, and with all the passion of a Christian knight.

Some nights I wonder if I’m a coward deep down and have avoided the fairer sex for this very reason. Look at the cost…

I don’t see the repeal of “Roe…” as an awakening of the Holy Spirit in our people but God’s ways are mysterious. I’m convinced He will not let us, His beloved people, slip away into a dark, Satanic, oblivion. He will call us to rise and ride and maybe this is the first trumpet blast?

The liberals want a war?

By God, they can have it…