I don’t put much stock in the workings of our so-called political system anymore. They’ve stolen elections, imprisoned protestors, driven the empire into the ground, gaslit everyone along the way, and rubbed it in our faces.
For years we were told to vote for this or that candidate because… because… they weren’t the other guy. For a while it seemed to make sense. If one candidate said he was pro-life, I felt compelled to vote for him. Until… I realized that even they were being less than truthful about their convictions. There was a guy who did some good things. He also did some bad things. They ran him out of town on an express train to Mar-a-Lago. As of now I cannot in conscience vote for him again. Support of sodomy is still in his bag as is the whole “warp speed” thing. In truth, the country died years ago. We’re just watching it’s last gasps.
The late Fr. Hesse. My nephew just had this image plastered on a coffee mug for me.
But today I watched the fourth, fifth, and sixth votes for House Speaker. I got a bit of a kick out of watching Kevin McCarthy receive no more votes each time than the previous time.
Yet it was the 20 “Republican holdouts” as the media kept calling them (or hostage takers, I heard both today) that sparked a bit of pride in my myocarditis-free heart. They’ve seemingly had enough of the nonsense. They’re tired of being hoodwinked and lied to. They probably have ulterior motives but I’m rolling with this one for a moment. And I can relate to them.
It’s almost like they’re some kind of remnant of a bygone day when people demanded some accountability. They’re being told their fight is futile and then threatened with nasty names when they don’t cave. I’m surprised they haven’t been called “rigid” yet. Their alternative is a cadre of effeminate men and some women on the edge of dykiness who will mash the throttle on debt and sodomy.
Or the whole thing could just be a total farce. Whatever. My flights back home from the Fatherland have just been delayed and I’m trying to rebook. I guess Jersey just wanted to hold onto this Jersey boy a bit longer.
If one more person interrupts my Fr. Hesse videos, this trad dad is going to blow a gasket.
That aside, I have been enjoying my final days of the 12 days of Christmas. We know, of course, that the Christmas season continues a bit longer. But for now, prayer seems to be the order of the day. And why wouldn’t we pray during these days? Our Lord has been born for us. If nothing else, prayers of thanksgiving are in order.
With that in mind, it is a good time for another St. Rita novena so send me intentions. If you would be so kind, please pray for a special intention of mine. God bless you all and Merry Christmas!
I was in the middle of watching some old Fr. Hesse videos this evening when I got a text about the Bills-Bengals game. If you haven’t heard yet, one of the Bills’ players, Damar Hamlin collapsed on the field. It does not look good.
Say a prayer for him.
No matter the reason for his collapse – and I am sure there will be much speculation in the days to come – this is yet another reminder of something I’ve been saying for a while now. Others have been saying the same thing.
To quote the sheep who gave her fleece to line my jacket, “New year, new ewe.”
The dad jokes only improve with age.
I stayed up well past midnight last night hosting a big bash and then woke up for the Sunday Mass. No anticipatory liturgies for us, thank you. And thanks to the traditional calendar, I got the joy of figuring out how to answer the question “What’s circumcision?” Next year, the kids are getting dictionaries for Christmas.
On a more serious note, I am actually sad about the death of the Holy Father. I remember well the day in April 2008 when my very pregnant wife and I stood along Fifth Avenue and watched the Popemobile roll past in the most impressive motorcade I have ever seen. One week later we had delivered our son. Since we did not know the baby’s sex ahead of birth, and convinced we would be having a girl, we did not have a boy’s name picked out. The night of his birth, we had narrowed it down to two – one of which came to us based on our admiration for the pontiff we had just seen. Leaving the hospital that night, my wife tasked me with selecting the name. I thought this was unfair, that we should both agree to whatever name our son would be saddled with his whole life.
Upper East Side papal parade. Check out the ancient flip phone.
I went home and thought. I tried each of the names in my mind, imagining situations where I’d have to use the lad’s name. “X, give your old man a hand with this project,” or “Y, next time fill the car back up when you take it out,” or “Z, that gin and tonic ain’t gonna make itself. Chop chop, pal.”
I returned to the hospital the next morning. On my way I made a few stops. I picked out a Tiffany charm for my wife’s bracelet to commemorate this most significant event. It was a silver lollipop with a blue enamel swirl. Then I hit up the religious articles store. I walked into the hospital room with both hands behind my back.
“Well,” asked the wife, “what are we going to call him?”
I looked at her and said, “Behind my back are two holy cards. Pick a hand and the card in that hand is going to be his name.”
She protested. “I wanted you to pick it,” etc, but I insisted.
She pointed to my right hand. I drew out a card. The founder of Western monasticism. “Oh good,” she said. “That’s the name I had hoped you’d pick.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said as I flashed the card in the other hand. It was the Vicar of Christ. Seems we were in sync.
Pray for him. Pray for his soul. Do not canonize him. Don’t declare him a Doctor of the Church. Pray for him. I named a son after him and he kind of let us down (just a bit)…
And pray for each other. We know the trad world is small. It doesn’t take much to offer three Ave’s a day for the intentions and good health of fellow trads.
To quote the sheep who gave her fleece to line my jacket, “New year, new ewe.”
The dad jokes only improve with age.
I stayed up well past midnight last night hosting a big bash and then woke up for the Sunday Mass. No anticipatory liturgies for us, thank you. And thanks to the traditional calendar, I got the joy of figuring out how to answer the question “What’s circumcision?” Next year, the kids are getting dictionaries for Christmas.
On a more serious note, I am actually sad about the death of the Holy Father. I remember well the day in April 2008 when my very pregnant wife and I stood along Fifth Avenue and watched the Popemobile roll past in the most impressive motorcade I have ever seen. One week later we had delivered our son. Since we did not know the baby’s sex ahead of birth, and convinced we would be having a girl, we did not have a boy’s name picked out. The night of his birth, we had narrowed it down to two – one of which came to us based on our admiration for the pontiff we had just seen. Leaving the hospital that night, my wife tasked me with selecting the name. I thought this was unfair, that we should both agree to whatever name our son would be saddled with his whole life.
Upper East Side papal parade. Check out the ancient flip phone.
I went home and thought. I tried each of the names in my mind, imagining situations where I’d have to use the lad’s name. “X, give your old man a hand with this project,” or “Y, next time fill the car back up when you take it out,” or “Z, that gin and tonic ain’t gonna make itself. Chop chop, pal.”
I returned to the hospital the next morning. On my way I made a few stops. I picked out a Tiffany charm for my wife’s bracelet to commemorate this most significant event. It was a silver lollipop with a blue enamel swirl. Then I hit up the religious articles store. I walked into the hospital room with both hands behind my back.
“Well,” asked the wife, “what are we going to call him?”
I looked at her and said, “Behind my back are two holy cards. Pick a hand and the card in that hand is going to be his name.”
She protested. “I wanted you to pick it,” etc, but I insisted.
She pointed to my right hand. I drew out a card. The founder of Western monasticism. “Oh good,” she said. “That’s the name I had hoped you’d pick.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said as I flashed the card in the other hand. It was the Vicar of Christ. Seems we were in sync.
Pray for him. Pray for his soul. Do not canonize him. Don’t declare him a Doctor of the Church. Pray for him. And pray for each other. We know the trad world is small. It doesn’t take much to offer three Ave’s a day for the intentions and good health of fellow trads.
To quote the sheep who gave her fleece to line my jacket, “New year, new ewe.”
The dad jokes only improve with age.
I stayed up well past midnight last night hosting a big bash and then woke up for the Sunday Mass. No anticipatory liturgies for us, thank you. And thanks to the traditional calendar, I got the joy of figuring out how to answer the question “What’s circumcision?” Next year, the kids are getting dictionaries for Christmas.
On a more serious note, I am actually sad about the death of the Holy Father. I remember well the day in April 2008 when my very pregnant wife and I stood along Fifth Avenue and watched the Popemobile roll past in the most impressive motorcade I have ever seen. One week later we had delivered our son. Since we did not know the baby’s sex ahead of birth, and convinced we would be having a girl, we did not have a boy’s name picked out. The night of his birth, we had narrowed it down to two – one of which came to us based on our admiration for the pontiff we had just seen. Leaving the hospital that night, my wife tasked me with selecting the name. I thought this was unfair, that we should both agree to whatever name our son would be saddled with his whole life.
Upper East Side papal parade. Check out the ancient flip phone.
I went home and thought. I tried each of the names in my mind, imagining situations where I’d have to use the lad’s name. “X, give your old man a hand with this project,” or “Y, next time fill the car back up when you take it out,” or “Z, that gin and tonic ain’t gonna make itself. Chop chop, pal.”
I returned to the hospital the next morning. On my way I made a few stops. I picked out a Tiffany charm for my wife’s bracelet to commemorate this most significant event. It was a silver lollipop with a blue enamel swirl. Then I hit up the religious articles store. I walked into the hospital room with both hands behind my back.
“Well,” asked the wife, “what are we going to call him?”
I looked at her and said, “Behind my back are two holy cards. Pick a hand and the card in that hand is going to be his name.”
She protested. “I wanted you to pick it,” etc, but I insisted.
She pointed to my right hand. I drew out a card. The founder of Western monasticism. “Oh good,” she said. “That’s the name I had hoped you’d pick.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said as I flashed the card in the other hand. It was the Vicar of Christ. Seems we were in sync.
Pray for him. Pray for his soul. Do not canonize him. Don’t declare him a Doctor of the Church. Pray for him. And pray for each other. We know the trad world is small. It doesn’t take much to offer three Ave’s a day for the intentions and good health of fellow trads.
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 harvey@harveymillican.com.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 