I has them.

It would’ve gone alright with the rest as a middle name for real: Relax Qualm McGillicuddy, though it works better as a statement — a comma after Relax would’ve been perfect.

I had qualms about everything. If I didn’t, I imported them. I was my mother’s daughter, which is to say not half Irish just yet, which is to say French Canadian. My neighborhoods in a historic seaport were incredibly diverse, so I was surrounded by Italian qualms, many French Canadian ones, and the rarer Irish qualm (who had qualms about having qualms but had them anyway, only slightly moreso than did the Greeks).

The problem was, we were mostly of the Catholic working class persuasion, and that was rife with qualms. The only Jewish girl I knew didn’t seem to suffer them. She was joyful, animated, sure of herself. I desperately wanted to be Jewish for a while, back when I didn’t realize one could be Jewish and yet not religiously so.

I continue qualmward. Not because it’s mandatory for the conscience — that’s only how it got a foothold. I need qualms, the awkward 50-lb butterflies of doubt, to warn me off of what I think I want to go for — or at least make me think longer, consider more.

Or, angelqualms.


Whoomp there it is!

It’s Lent — the best time, clip-clops the cloven hoof, to go after the Church and her Pope (or Christ’s Vicar, as he is known to the true faithful).

The images are vivid, though the headlines lead in to fake news (or, hate crimes for real, as they have long been known to the true faithful).

There they are in Tuam, appearing to dig up the allegedly nearly 800 remains from the grounds of a care home for unwed mothers and their babies that operated between 1925 and 1961, based on some “suspicion.”  Well, yes, it’s rather inconclusive just yet due to it also being the site of a workhouse’s mass grave for its starving famine-ers, and there was indeed a high mortality rate especially for children in Ireland due to 6 or 7 major infectious diseases raging (especially in close quarters) during those years, and yes, every child there had an official death certificate as well as noted baptism..


THERE WAS ONLY ONE GRAVE! And the good people of the World Church of Catholic Suspicion can NOW have some justice against those derrrrty filthy nuns who may’ve experimented upon fetuses/infants, who may’ve sold children to U.S. adopters, who may’ve purposely starved them to death while pocketing the 1 pound yearly that came to the home for the care of mothers, who may’ve dug out with a nail the gold teeth of every child.. well, who KNOWS what those evil women may’ve done!!  (Or, anyone from any rag especially in England but anywhere, really, was and still IS allowed to weigh in as an authority against, not for!, Catholics/Catholicism.)

So, when our Religious weren’t overworking/killing them, our clergy were intimidating/raping them, just as the commenters would have it, yes?  NO.

As for Francis, the imposter!!! (or, the Pope, as Pope emeritus Benedict knows him, and as the true faithful and Jesus and Mary know him, and as the Holy Spirit desired him), apparently has allowed a Lenten display of “bad” Crucifixion art in Rome.  I’m not sure that anyone approached him on it, I’m pretty sure it’s the Curia’s or some prelature’s baby so that it’s not his to yes or no (least of all from THE chair), but that doesn’t matter!!  It’s on HIS WATCH.  So, it’s that damnable liberal Bergoglio’s fault.  (Acid rain, too.  It’s his fault, you’ll see.  Also, his socks don’t always match — wait until the ultraconservatives get a hold of that!  I am guessing at that, but it’s okay for you to believe it, because I, too, am allowed to weigh in.)

I’m not sure it’s bad art (I’ve seen it.)  Even Isaiah whom we have quoted for 2000 years says the despised Man of Sorrows was unrecognizable as a human being on His cross, so badly was His entire body trashed.. after being abandoned by those who had Hosanna’d Him the week before. CRUCIFY HIM!  CRUCIFY HIM!  It’s no wonder we can still hear it..

Worse, though, far worse — and, ahem, *journalists* have supplied a photo of a grim Francis solemnly ambulating in the midst of prelates (during some somber church-related gathering, I’d guess) — he has butted heads with the covered wagons of Rome who’d keep the Church closed to all sinners and pagans. Invitation, schminvitation! They, the ungodly faithless, want God on the chair of Peter and they will accept only a cold dead Pope in lieu of that. “There shall be NO warmth in the Church!  You (other) libtards, did you think Jesus was about the warmth of God??  He was most wrathfully about YOU and YOUR sin KILLING Him in YOUR place– and don’t you forget it!!  NoNoNo, the office of the Pontiff has nothing to do with people. Ugh!!  Pastoral, schmashtoral!! We don’t need no stinkin’ pastor.  We have jots and tittles to tote up, and we shall cling unto them and spit at this imposter!!”

And really, they don’t know.  They know not what they do.  And that’s the only way I can look at enemies of the church, be they without or within.  They are blinded by the earthly prince of all unholy blinding, because it’s not just Jesus Who is his sworn enemy — it is us as well; everyone who consumes Christ’s Body and Blood especially, but so, too, all who bear the indelible Triune Cross on the forehead. Hell is sworn to undoing us, and, like a certain Twitterer, Hell doesn’t sleep.

But I do.  The one-lunged but doubly-loving Fisherman has the helm of the Barque firmly in his grip, with the prayer of the living Pope Emeritus sighting the stars in the storms for him, as he and they and we all await the return of our Captain.

Aye, batten down the holy hatches; some wolves can swim.


In Eggshell Time

O, the thoughts from this disunuion’s dangerous new republic, perhaps especially on Sundays when politics is finally weighed against the sacred.

Already, there are watchlists (and public outings) of perceived leftists, and already are supremacy germinations growing their fruit. Were these people just waiting for the opportunity, for the terrible day when real hate crimes could be winked at by the State?

Already, one who has read Solzhenitsyn’s descriptions of even familial betrayal unto the almighty republic is seeing chilling similarities. Informers. Snitches. Don’t ever congratulate yourselves near me, Judases.

Already, states are intimidated into not acquiescing to vote recount requests. So American of them… not. A lack of courage and valor.

Already, granddaughter is scared in her college life and dorm that her peers will de-peer her and worse if they ever find out for whom she voted (if she voted). However she voted, she faces flak for which she is not ready.

Already, my return to Facebook for primarily family’s communication sake is hairier than ever. I don’t give opinions there based on either secular facts or God; I link to those, now, from the respected and credentialed. It was already sad enough that I had to unsubscribe to everyone, lest I clearly see budding Aryanists even in my own once traditional children, let alone friends there.

I like receiving posts from pages I’ve liked — Bishop Barron, Daughters of St. Paul, American Lighthouse Foundation, Driving Miss Norma — but every day I’m aware that my children’s posts and their in-laws’ posts (and my granddaughter’s posts) are missing from my feed. It hurts to be able to look in on only one family member (and on only two friends) regularly.

The already-disposable bully posse got what they wanted — why can’t they shut up about it already? And those friends who were truly, truly leftists, I can’t look in on them regularly, either. Some are as angry as Lucifer could write them, the others are suddenly feeling as vulnerable as black Jews in 40s Germany.

I can no longer risk encountering especially some family’s credence in “Christians for Trump.” Get thee behind me, all Christians who somehow missed the Gospels, the Beatitudes, and even the Decalogue! You are “Deluded White Citizens For Trump.” Trump has nothing to do with Jesus. The Democratic platform comes closer (and always did) via its social justice for all.

A profane sword, this millionaired *election.* (That says it all, except for the soviet parts, but the post would’ve been rather short.)

In calls, I skirt around the orange (and red) elephant in the room, and not even on Sundays dare I look in for long on my little social media circle.  It’s likely mutual; we’ve all tasted the blade and are avoiding the myrrh. Perhaps we are even in the time when one will be taken, and one left. Some do seem raptured. The locked and loaded raptured.