It’s exactly 10:55 pm. And EXACTLY 15 years ago, I was wrapping up my first and only blind date with an extraordinary young woman who had agreed to dine with me at The Red Tomato in downtown Toronto.

It was a four hour dinner, that seemingly lasted 40 minutes. Within that space, I had TRIED to secure two more encounters for a later date; a movie, and perhaps a spin around the rink at Nathan Phillips Square.
I left the dinner completely enraptured with that young woman.

To this very day… At this very hour… Some 15 years later, I still am.

The greatest thing to ever happen in my life was my becoming a Catholic. But the greatest thing to ever happen in my life was meeting Andrea Schlegel.

Drea, thanks for being my skating partner.
I love you, darling.

Folks, we won’t have to pry their pens from their cold, dead hands.

All we have to do is turn off the television set.   All we have to do is hit the scan button on our car audio system.   All we have to do is stop our newspaper subscription.  (Newspa-whaa?… Subscri-whaaadie??)

That’s it.  All we have to do is exhibit a little discretion on where we get our information.  Because the mainstream media continues to blast itself right in the foot.

Pun most explicitly intended.

The Sandy Hook Lies continue to emanate from all corners, but we here at damiangoddard.com are thankful that we have good, gun-totin’, God-fearin’ folk like Molotov Mitchell who have made the choice to put themselves on the front line for truth… for freedom… for faith.  (Where have I heard that before?…)

What gun was used by Adam Lanza?  Who should have their collective asses sued?

Molotov provides some answers.

By the way.  Some “journalists” still use pens.  Even the cold-hearted, spiritually dead, ones.

Daily Gospel – 1:10:13

*WARNING* – The following contains some highly inflammatory statements.  And the other guy uses the f-word.  Viewer discretion is advised.

Is Barack Obama gonna “go there”?

Similarly, is James Yeager gonna “go there”?

Down what path is the United States headed?

Like I’ve said, we are living in very troubled times.  Pray.
And if you are a devoted Catholic, pray in front of the Blessed Sacrament.
Please.

Daily Gospel – 1:9:13

In this most poignant scene from 1968’s “The Shoes of the Fisherman”, Cardinal Kiril Lakota finds himself under the spotlight, wading into deep philosophical/theological waters. During a brief respite from the papal conclave, the priest who had spent 20 years in a Siberian labour camp is asked how he reconciles the justification of violence with being a bishop of the very church Jesus Christ established. While his reply runs the risk of leaving many of his peers incredulous, possibly bearing the brunt of being ostracized, it actually serves to be the defining moment of his rise to the See of St. Peter… the moment when prisoner 103592R dons the Shoes of the Fisherman.

“For Marie, it was an impossible mix of emotions: “We just held the babies. We cried. We looked at them. We studied them. We talked to them. We baptized them. And…we loved them.  Bernadette, Adam, and Christine were loved, respected, and cherished for every moment of their short four-hour lives.”

They baptized them.

Bernadette, Adam and Christine were baptized.  And they are now in Heaven.

This is an indisputable fact.  Unlike the innocent children who perished in Newtown, we know these Innocents are enjoying the Beatific Vision.

They are Home.  Bernadette, Adam and Christine are where we are all made for.

I will rejoice in this.

As for sorrow?  I will suffer those pangs reserved for Jason and Marie Taylor.  And not only because they have been denied the chance of watching their three little miracles mature.  But because of a life-long battle against Innocence lost, due to Original Sin.  A battle in which I, too, am engaged.

Woe is us.  And Glory belongs to St. Bernadette, St. Adam and St. Christine.

Holy Innocents, pray for us.

Daily Gospel – 1:8:13

Daily Gospel – 1:7:13

I tear up every time I hear this song, and read the poem that inspired this wonderful orchestration.

I’ve included the words from the most beautiful poem constructed by a Saint of the Catholic Church.

To borrow –
The Burning Babe was taken from a collection called St. Peter’s Complaint, printed privately and circulated shortly after the poet’s execution in 1595. Ben Johnson said that he would have been content to destroy many of his own poems to have written The Burning Babe. The version with archaic spelling is taken from the 1972 Reprint from AMS Press New York of 1872 Fuller Worthies Library edition edited by Alexander B. Grosart. The version with modern spelling is taken from The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900, edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch, 1919.

Listen to the majesty of this symphonic creation.
And then read the poem below.
Unlike the intricacies of the arranged music, read the poem in its simplicity… with an open heart.
Let it, literally, infect you.
And then… read it again.  And again.
Utter beauty.

Oh, how we are loved by Love.
And I haven’t a clue.  Not the foggiest.

St. Robert Southwell, pray for us.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

THE BURNING BABE

by Robert Southwell
As I in hoary Winter’s night stood shiveringe in the snowe,
Surpris’d I was with sodayne heat, which made my hart to glowe;
And liftinge upp a fearefull eye to vewe what fire was nere,
A prety Babe all burninge bright, did in the ayre appeare.
Who scorchèd with excessive heate, such floodes of teares did shedd,
As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fedd;
Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heates I frye,
Yet none approch to warme their hartes or feele my fire but I!
My faultles brest the fornace is, the fuell woundinge thornes,
Love is the fire, and sighes the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes;
The fuell Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales,
The metall in this fornace wrought are men’s defilèd soules,
For which, as nowe on fire I am, to worke them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath to washe them in My bloode:
With this He vanisht out of sight, and swiftly shroncke awaye,
And straight I callèd unto mynde that it was Christmas-daye.