Shameful. It is looking more and more like martyrdom is a real possibility for Abedini. Pray for this man and his captors. I note too that the only MSM outlet to report any of this is Fox News. Why is that?
Iranian jailers have denied crucial medication to Pastor Saeed Abedini, the American citizen imprisoned there for his faith, according to the Idaho resident’s family and legal team.
Abedini’s father went to visit him at the prison he was recently moved to, taking personal belongings, blankets and medications prescribed by Abedini’s doctor last July to treat internal bleeding he sustained while locked up in Tehran’s infamous Evin prison.
But the elder Abedini was denied entry and told his son could not have access to any of the items, his attorneys said.
Last week, Abedni, 33, who has been held in Iran for more than a year for practicing Christianity, was transferred to Rajai Shahr Prison in Karaj, Iran, a prison known to house Iran’s most violent criminals.
According to reports, Rajai Shahr Prison was built to accommodate 5,000 inmates, but at present houses about 22,000, which has led to severe overcrowding and inhumane conditions.
This is just wrong. The one sure way to stop it is to not participate in it. Don’t let creeping commercialism and greed besmirch Thanksgiving Day. Use it, instead, as a day of rest and thanksgiving to God who is the giver of all real gifts, X-box et al. notwithstanding.
Last Thanksgiving Day, Kimberly Mudge Via’s mother, sister and nieces left in the middle of their meals to head for the mall.
“They barely finished,” says the 28-year-old who lives in Boone, N.C. “They thanked me and left their plates on the counter.”
That scene could become more common in homes across the country. Black Friday shopping, the annual rite of passage on the day after Thanksgiving, continues to creep further into the holiday as more stores open their doors a day early.
It’s a break with tradition. Black Friday, which typically is the year’s biggest shopping day, for a decade has been considered the official start to the busy holiday buying season. Stores open in the wee hours of the morning with special deals called doorbusters and stay open late into the evening. Meanwhile, Thanksgiving and Christmas remained the only two days a year that stores were closed.
Now Thanksgiving is slowly becoming just another shopping day. Over the past few years, major retailers, including Target and Toys R Us, slowly have pushed opening times into Thanksgiving night to one-up each other and compete for holiday dollars. Some initially resisted, saying that they wanted their employees to be able to spend time with their families.
A mother weeps beside the dead body of her son at a chapel in the aftermath of Typhoon Haiyan in Tacloban. She cried bringing him into this world; screamed in frustration as she nurtured him; and now weeps as her hand caresses his cold, lifeless cheek. Her heart is broken; the grief overwhelming. The wooden cross on the distant wall is utterly unapproachable.
Multiply this mourning by 10,000, and add countless millions who are now homeless, jobless and without food or clean water, struggling to survive after what is believed to be the most devastating natural disaster in recorded history. The photographs pierce the heart: the catastrophe, destruction and havoc are unimaginable. Wives have lost their husbands, and husbands sob their hearts out at the loss of their soul-mates. Thousands of children have been orphaned. Lawless hordes are looting. Bodies are rotting in the streets.
Like the suffering Job, some will be pleading to God, asking “Why?”
But this is not a time for theodicy. The whole creation is groaning, as in the pains of childbirth. Life is a tragedy: it is one bitter problem followed by another; a day of trauma followed by a week of anguish followed by a month of sorrow and a year of unbearable pain. And then, at last, you die.
We can reflect and pray: the Archbishop of Canterbury leads the way.
Read the whole thing and then act. Cranmer describes living in a broken world like it is. You have the chance to be the eyes, ears, voice, and heart of Jesus. Consider donating the the Anglican Relief and Development Fund by clicking here.
A little over 8 minutes. Watch it all.
This is sad to read. I lost my dad 9 years ago and am glad he shared some of his stories with me. If you have a surviving WWII veteran, take some time and talk with them before death silences their voices. Thank you for your service to our country, young veterans—both past and present. God bless you.
When Young came home from the war, more than 70 years ago, there were 16 million veterans like him — young soldiers, sailors and Marines who returned to work, raise families, build lives. Over the decades, children grew up, married, had children of their own; careers were built and faded into retirement; love affairs followed the path from the altar to the homestead and often, sadly, to the graveyard.
Through it all, the veterans would occasionally get together to remember the greatest formative experience of their lives. But as the years wore on, there were fewer and fewer of them. According to the Department of Veteran Affairs, just a little over 1 million remain. The ones who remain are in their 80s and 90s, and many are infirm or fragile.
Apologies to the Brits. From the pen of my mama. Check it out.
One thing I thought I could do during WWII was to find out the customers of the O.P.C. [Ohio Power Company, now AEP] who had sons in the service, learn their names and ask about them when the customers paid their bills. Few checks were used back then so we were busy with cash customers. I always asked John’s Dad [my grandpa Maney] about John [my dad] and he would reply. Then, one day, he volunteered that John was on his way home! That’s why when I saw John in at Dolly’s [a now extinct local restaurant], I stopped to tell him his dad had told me he was on his way home and I wanted to thank him for all he’d done for our country–and for me. I shook his hand as my Dad had taught me, got my Coke and went to a booth to look at the Saturday Evening Post, a magazine I dearly loved for its funny cartoons. When I left to go get [my sister] Betty at Thomas’ Jewelry (I’d worked there Saturday afternoons and evenings for quite awhile) John was still sitting up front on a bar stool. I stopped to show him a cartoon, he asked me if I’d like to go to the movie and I said yes after I’d told Betty I wouldn’t be walking home with her. John wasn’t really sure who I was ’til he walked me home and saw Dad’s picture. I knew he hadn’t been with a girl for over 2 years so when he was leaving I kissed him on his lips (yips as [granddaughter] Bridget used to say) and I suppose it turned out to be too much for him.
Heh. Classic mama. I’m still trying not to think too much about that kissing stuff, though. Kinda disgusting, even at this stage of the game. Remember, remember the 10th of November, a key date in Maney family history.
So we’ve got six—count ‘em, SIX—pussycats in our house. I’m still the only priest in central Ohio who runs a cat house. And with six pussycats in the house, guess who visited us this week? Mice. Three of ‘em to be exact.
You would think with six pussycats in the house, word would get out via mice social media, Squeaker, not to visit here. You would also think that with six pussycats in the house, any mouse who stepped foot in the house would be an instant appetizer, no?
But not this house. Not our pussycats. No, our pussycats invited the mice in and offered them drinks, cigarettes, and floozie mice women. They set up a welcome tent for the little varmints. Apparently we’ve treated our pussycats so well and fed them so much that they’ve gotten fat and lazy and have forgotten that they are pussycats. Pussycats are supposed to eat mice, not party with them.
All except one of our pussycats, that is.
Last night Puddy Tat demonstrated he’s the only one earning his keep. He’s the only mouser in the bunch because he bagged the two remaining mice (my wife discovered the first mouse and threw him out on his, um, tail). The Tats carried the little buggers around in his mouth squeaking and all, real proud of himself. But he wasn’t quite sure what to do with each of them once he caught them. So we had to take them from him and throw them out, alive and kicking.
So let this be a warning to all you cat owners. Send them to pussycat boot camp periodically. Make sure they remember who they are so they can do their duty when the time comes. Otherwise, you’ll be guilty of turning your pussycat into a wussycat, just like we have. Don’t let that happen to you, binky.
To no one’s surprise, the vast majority of those who consume pornography are males. It is no trade secret that males are highly stimulated by visual images, whether still or video. That is not a new development, as ancient forms of pornography attest. What is new is all about access. Today’s men and boys are not looking at line pictures drawn on cave walls. They have almost instant access to countless forms of pornography in a myriad of formats.
But, even as technology has brought new avenues for the transmission of pornography, modern research also brings a new understanding of how pornography works in the male brain. While this research does nothing to reduce the moral culpability of males who consume pornography, it does help to explain how the habit becomes so addictive.
A frightening review of something that is more addictive than crack cocaine and which has disastrous consequences on healthy male-female relationships. Read it all.