Last week, the degenerate actress Anne Heche was involved in a serious car accident in Southern California. The video of the aftermath is horrific to watch as Heche, seemingly somewhat conscious, bolts upright off of the gurney she had been placed on by paramedics. I cannot begin to imagine what was in whatever was left of her mind during that moment. The EMT’s clearly believed she was either dead or completely and utterly moribund. They were just as shocked as the helicopter reporter hovering over the scene.
The simple fact is, as the Fathers have told us and anyone who’s ever witnessed death can attest, the final moments of human life are not pretty, to put it mildly. How much more torturous, then, must our exit interview be if we hadn’t even attempted a pious life, let alone lived as though God does not exist? I do not know Anne Heche, never met her. What I do know is the image of herself she perpetrated in the media. I pray that her final moments were illuminated with a desire for contrition as I pray the same for myself every day.
Yet it is what we read now, some days later, about her “condition” that truly troubles me. From The Daily Mail we read the following.
I’m not going to get into the sciency, medical stuff here. I’ll link to that instead. Do check it out. The author of this piece, Jay Boyd, does a fantastic job of summing up what’s really been going on in the past 50 years. Funny, but the medical community seems to have gone completely haywire since about the time of Vatican II. Odd, isn’t it? But please check not only that page but the accompanying links. A pullquote below might entice you if you haven’t already clicked above.
So now I will tell you why this is so personal to me, why the box on my license is marked in dark Sharpie “NOT AN ORGAN DONOR“. I see the ridiculous bumper stickers (usually on Priuses alongside Kucinich for President tags). “Don’t take your organs to heaven. Heaven knows we need them right here!” Indeed, I need them right here. In my corpse. In a box in the ground awaiting the moment when my soul comes back to chastise the whole of my body for years of sin.
I was four years-old when my family’s house caught fire in the middle of a cold February night. The memory of that night is, in fact, my first conscious memory. Terrible things are seared into my head. Mostly I remember the sense of urgency and the darkness. People think that fires are bright and flames are everywhere. That isn’t true. Thick, acrid, black smoke is everywhere. One of my older sisters who was twenty-one years-old at the time raced through a set of adjoining bedrooms trying to gather as many of us as she could. Our parents’ bedroom was at the opposite end of the hall and the fire had raced up the stairs and cut off access. My mother tells me she got on her knees and started to pray that her children wouldn’t suffer. She says she literally felt the Holy Ghost on her, consoling her until the moment my dad told her they had to go and pointed to the window.
Meanwhile down the hall I remember crawling past a bed in one of the two bedrooms and stumbling on my older brother. He was six. And what I remember was his paralysis. He would not move from the terrible fear of what was going on around him. In the commotion, I lost sight of him. Next thing I know, I was on a second-floor porch overlooking the snow covered ground. Fire engines below frightened me to the point that I still cannot get near one forty years later. I watched as my sister picked up and then tossed several of our siblings. Then it was my turn. I remember pleading with her not to throw me overboard. My sister – my hero – did what she had to do and I am alive today, albeit with a double-fused spine. Not to worry, though, the back problems didn’t manifest until I was an adult. Other than a dead twin sister and two dead brothers, I had a beautiful childhood. True, our lives were never the same but who am I to question God’s Will? Fulton Sheen once wrote that (and I paraphrase): “Sometimes God takes the littlest lambs from the flock and carries them to higher ground so that the other sheep will follow.”
I recount these events here because in the days that followed, my father was asked to donate the organs of my brother (he who had been too scared to move). The third sibling to die, ten years-old, succumbed to smoke inhalation later that week, though I understand his organs were too damaged to harvest. One of my siblings will correct me if I am wrong. But not the six year-old. And my father, thinking this was a noble deed, consented. And he truly learned the savagery of the organ harvesting industry. As I have had it told to me, Dad went into the room after the transplant team emerged carrying an Igloo ice chest. They hadn’t even cleaned him up. They took his corneas. I always remember hearing that. Not sure what if anything else they took. To them, my brother was a commodity. But he was “brain dead” so there’s that. But, you see, they kept him alive to take what they needed.
The whole topic disgusts me to this day.
And that’s all I really wanted to say on this beautiful Saturday morning. Also, don’t ever touch my organs. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for the Angelus. Bong bong bong…
She’s definitely after me, folks. Today I was on a Zoom call with a contractor who casually mentioned he had rescheduled our meeting because of “St. Rita”. Puzzled, I asked what he meant. Turns out his kids go to St. Rita’s School and he got stuck in carpool hell. She’s a clever one, that Rita. Look, I don’t have to have a house drop on me to know she’s up to something. I’m hoping it’s something big. Tomorrow is day 9 for my novena. If you read this post and you think about it, consider joining in one prayer to this saint for my intentions. Thank you.
You Don’t Say
I had a conversation with a young man I had just met at my sister’s house a few nights ago. I may have had a gin in my hand. The lad had recently graduated from college, a fairly good one at that, solid faith, etc. At the right moment I pounced on him with the antipapacy thesis. “But you can’t say Francis is an antipope!” he said breathlessly. “I just did,” said I. “Now fetch me another drink and we’ll continue your education.” A few moments later the Legionaries of Christ came up. “You mean that money laundering rape cult?” I asked. Again my young friend jumped in, “You can’t call them that!!” Again I replied, “I just did. Open your ears, pal, you’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
Old Queers and How We Should Call them
Mr. Walker had a wonderful headline up this week. Beneath a picture of a clearly decrepit Ted McCarrick were the words “Uncle Ted Not Looking Well”.
Look, Teddy has made many deals with Satan. I’m sure we’ll have his nonsense to deal with for a while. Either way he’s an old faggot and there’s nothing worse than an old faggot, as a priest once told me. And to those who still question why I call him and his ilk by this moniker? It’s simple. Noel Coward was gay. These guys? Soul-stealing sodomite faggots to the core.
Having just returned home yet still wishing to keep to my daily posting commitment, I offer tonight a break for sacred art.
The reader who emailed me the other day was the man who runs St. Luke’s Gallery – known to many of my own readers because, hey, Traddyland is like that. He wrote again and gave his permission to share his link which I happily do below.
Readers of these pages know by now of my great devotion to St. Rita of Cascia, the saint of impossible causes.
She’s been stalking me lately.
This morning I received an email from a gentleman who’s work I greatly admire. I would include a link to his site but I haven’t cleared it with him. Can’t be too careful. I write under a pseudonym to protect the people I care about. So sharing links is something I have to be cautious about. Perhaps he’ll read this and give me the go-ahead.
In any event, in his email this man suggested that I, while on my tour of the northeast, visit the National Shrine of St. Rita in Philadelphia. I wrote back thanking him for reading my blog – which by the way means the world to me – and for the suggestion. And I told him that I was, in fact, married at that very church. The Shrine is a very special place to me.
St. Rita has been part of my life since I first read her story in 8th grade. She helped me find my wife. I honored her by naming my only daughter after her. And I will tell everyone I meet about this great saint because of my devotion to her.
So tonight, I went to a high mass for the feast of St. Lawrence. I was surprised to see the priest was the young man mentioned a few months ago in a Barnhardt post. This is where he was assigned.
And then I went up to the rail for Communion, glanced up at the windows surrounding the apse, and there she was. My saint!
Friends, whatever your impossible cause is, please bring it to Rita. If you don’t know her story, read it here. Start your novenas. I believe God wants us to remember these great friends of His and to ask of Him through their intercession. And St. Rita will not disappoint.
Someone once remarked to me, “St. Rita? Why do you like her?! I’ve heard she delivers but also requires a lot from you in terms of suffering…” And if she does? over the years of my association with her, I have come to learn that desiring suffering is a sign of advancement in holiness. Yes, Lord, give me the thorn! I want to suffer with You!
My northeastern “retreat” continues as I swing through a few states visiting family and Latin Masses.
Today and tomorrow are special days for me as Holy Mother commemorates one of the greats – St. Lawrence the Deacon – in both his vigil and his feast.
You no doubt know the story of his martyrdom. How in the year 258, the Roman emperor called Lawrence forth and demanded that he turn over the “treasures of the Church”. Lawrence spent the next 24 hours distributing the precious items (chalices, patens, etc.) to the poor for safekeeping. When he appeared again before the emperor empty-handed, the now irate ruler ordered him to be slow roasted to death. Lawrence, in the midst of his death agony, quipped, “You may turn me over now. I’m done on this side.”
This is simply one of the greatest lines ever uttered by any man. Ever.
This line has survived 17 centuries and served as an inspiring backbone of the spirit of the Catholic faith. If the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church, the words of the dying martyrs have been like a fertilizer. And this one line is almost unmatched.
Lawrence was so overjoyed to go to God that he jabbed one last zinger in the eye of his executioners.
It was said by Augustine that at the death of Lawrence all of Rome became Christian. So powerful was his witness because it was the gift of one man’s body to the Lord Who had given His own body. It was the heart of a man already ascending to union with the Heart of his Beloved. And it was the joy of that man, mindful of the glorious crown being bestowed on him, bursting forth on his lips that we remember today.
This got me thinking. I am sure we are all going to meet a similar fate.
Take it in stride and be joyful. You were chosen for this time. Will the words He places on your lips inspire others? Perhaps. If you let Him lead you where He wants to. It might be the gridiron. Will you laugh?
Keep your wits about you. It’s only going to get rougher.
Friends, I recently began another novena to “my” saint – St. Rita of Cascia, saint of the impossible. I began these nine days of prayer for several close intentions of mine but also because of a new friend who told me that he had started this novena after reading about St. Rita on my blog.
Let me tell you, with God all things are possible. His beloved servant Rita is held aloft by the Church as a patroness of the things we think impossible. I attest that she will intercede and she will deliver. Of my several intentions, one was already delivered today. And these are no small petitions.
So I invite you, whether your prayer is to be able to continue going to the TLM daily in these dark times or it is to conceive a child when even doctors have told you that you cannot or to reconcile a wayward spouse; I know that Our Lord wants you to make your impossible intentions known to Him. He already knows the secrets of your heart before your heart was formed. But He asks you to give these things to Him to demonstrate your faith in and love for Him.
Folks, I got off all that social media nonsense a while ago. Sorry but I'm not on Twitbook, Facepalm, YouHu, WingWang or any of the others. Maybe an event will happen to make me change my mind like Peter and Paul coming down with flaming swords and commanding it be so. Until then, read the blog and if you feel a comment is in order or you feel like sharing a tip or suggestion for a topic, email me at email@example.com.
Harvey is a funny, witty and interesting read. Want to know what's going on in the world of Harvey? Then make a point to subscribe to his blog! You just never know when those pesky Weebles will show up. Hmmm, speaking of Weebles - haven't heard from them in a while (wink). Seriously, you just never know what to expect and whatever you find, it never disappoints! -- Debbi Robertson @ Photos and Facets