Jewel M. Atkins: Ave Atque Vale

“The day when God is absent, when He is silent — that is the beginning of prayer. Not when we have a lot to say, but when we say to God ‘I can’t live without You. Why are You so cruel, so silent?’ This knowledge that we must find or die — that makes us break through to the place where we are in the Presence. If we listen to what our hearts know of love and longing and are never afraid of despair, we find that victory is always there on the other side of it.” From Jewel’s Tumblr dedicated to the beauty of Creation:Mme Scherzo

A small collection of her comments for the tape at the turn of the year:

I have to admit, after getting rid of TV, and no longer able to listen to my internet streaming radio’s a brick now, watching Owl Kitty, The Girl With The Dogs, Abroad in Japan, and Sam the Cooking Guy are much better offerings than cable or network TV. Haven’t seen a movie for years, but I can’t miss Sanity 4 Sweden, either.

Reading about Karl Marx’s life makes me understand communism. He was a parasite, a dead beat. Born in wealth, filled with bitterness and envy, slovenly, seldom bathed. This is what his mind produced, and now we are suffering the mass psychosis of this ideology.

I grew up in Montana. My husband and I camped on the Blackfoot Indian reservation at a campground called Chewing Black Bones. They had the Indian name for it on the sign too. Saskatchewan is hard enough to pronounce without all that other nonsense.
Homeschooling. Last year was awful. First, we homeschooled, then the boy went backmasked. They were going to mask them again. I’m homeschooling now and till he graduates.
Every day his school teacher sends me infantile videos on coping with stress.
Since we’ve been doing more difficult things, he wonders why he’s never learned these things before! Things like cursive, mental math, geography, literature, stuff like that. He’s also getting catechized in the Christian faith…without felt Jesus cutouts.
The best part of the day is the catechism class. He gets to ask important stuff. I often get to answer, “I don’t know, but we live in a world filled with wonders and mysterious things. It’s okay not to know everything.”
And finally, I got this message from Carl, who wants me to vote for Amy for school board because masks keep us safe:
“Hey Jewel, this is Carl, a volunteer with Amy Moreno for School Board. With COVID passing through our community, we need to elect leaders who will keep us safe and follow the advice of doctors – that includes wearing masks in our schools. Can Amy count on your vote to keep schools safe Nov. 2?  

“No. Masks are evil. It is child abuse. Children should not need a medical exemption to breathe air. They made my grandson so sick I withdrew him from school and he is being homeschooled this year. Remove2quit”

“I’m opting you out of texts immediately. Have a great day.”

Even more destructive to all civilization is White Progressive Feminist Women. I once read a comment that went something like this: Learning about art, history, music, poetry and literature through the lens of Post-modern, Marxist, feminism, is like learning about love through rape.
Feminism destroyed the family, and the black family in particular. It has destroyed the patriarchy and with it the sense of family history and ancestry. It has taught women to despise themselves, even as they hate men. And now, wonder of wonders! No one needs women, because there are more than enough simps and soylents to replace them. These insane, broot and barren beasts devour all that is good and beautiful and true. They fly into fits of rage when young women become traditionalists. For them, there are myriads of genders, but none for the feminine or masculine. All of this madness is entwined in the Big Lie. You Shall Be Equal to God.

As I’m reading this, I am listening to Dvorak’s Symphony from the New World. The best soundtrack for Genesis Chapter One. Scientism, atheism and all the replacements for God have no Bible. No Book. No hymns. They have tracts, pamphlets, manifestos, brightly colored ribbons. The Narrative. They had to build on what came from before them. They have to burn everything down because they don’t create anything. They are nothing but parasites. And this is their Credo:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

MacBeth Act 5, Scene 5

‘Thuglish**™” spoken by the woke elites and celebritized victims gives way to “Meaninglish**™”. A language not nearly as eloquent, but consisting of words and phrases that sound like s language, but in truth, is devoid of sense. It is linguistic cancer. Its Dyslexicon of emotionally wrought trigger words does nothing to inform. “Meaninglish**™” is the raving of the unbalanced progressive white women and race baiting black women who have ruined all that is good and decent. Sometimes, I wish I had a padlock on a belt with these evil behemouths.

The Catholic version of a Karen is Susan from the Parish Council. They stand outside the sanctuary with their clipboards to make sure you use the hand sanitizer and free paper mask. I asked my own priest if they were going to take people’s temperatures. He said he wasn’t sure, but didn’t seem upset if they did.

When my daughter came into the church, last year, in the middle of July, I nearly passed out from feeling smothered in the mask and the heat. By the time we left the church building, I wondered how anyone would want to join the Church given the ordeal.

The precatory psalms is well worth praying. As for Barnhardt’s perpetual singlehood, I think it makes perfect sense. She’s the type who’ll get martyred just because of her yap. A lot of people don’t marry and have children. A lot of people hook up, live together a while, and then go on The People’s Court to fight over who gets the dog. Modern times. Crazy times. What Ann fails to mention in her well-reasoned article is that many people who had a passel of kids are now raising grandkids because growing up is hard, and babies don’t stay cute. If you go to the lonely McDonald’s playland Everywhere, USA, you will find the old ones raising the young ones. People in their 70s stuck with great-grandchildren as their proteges. Despair smells like McNuggets and plastic Happy Meal toys.

When we first got married (Wyoming) Husman and I went hotpotting just outside Yellowstone Park. We were naked, in winter, and walked through bitter, ice cold, calf deep water…to join the other nekkid bathers in a warm pool of neck deep hotsprings water. Ahhh. Good times. It was the only place without ice. Lots of steam, but no ice.

This is the car my father bought a year after my mother died. It fit 5 kids, one dog, an ice cooler, had fold down upholstered seats, and a partition window that my father would tell us to put up when it got too raucous. Our car was also bulletproof. (My father had many questionable friends) On Halloween, we would drive mannequins around that looked like dead bodies.
Sometimes he would drive around with a chauffeur’s hat and people thought he was driving a governor or some high muckety muck around.
Very good times.

We had no bayous where I grew up, Lance, but we did learn us some singing. Mostly shape note hymns and campfire songs. My father, on Saturdays played piano at various dives and strip joints, and on Sundays, played only a bit less raunchy on the Wurlitzer in our church. I once played in the church, too, but only in D flat. The preacher’s wife could only sing about a half an octave. Their kids sang beautifully, like all preachers kid should. My brothers and sisters and I could sing four parts. In tune. But since becoming Catholic, (insert Church of Christ lamentations here) to my utter horror, I have learned that Catholics don’t know how to sing polyphony, the hymnals and missalettes are disposable, and the music is 50 off shades of gay. Mixing pipe organ and Lord of the Dance is pukeworthy. Truly, we are in the Great Chastisement.

I went to visit my daughter at Walter Reed a few years ago. She’d had a difficult first pregnancy and even more traumatic birth. Standing outside her room, waiting to go in, an Army Chaplain, as well as members of SS and WHCA were there. So many very good people came to comfort one of their own. This is what gives me so much hope about America. The Chaplain gave me his personal number. He has since retired, but only afterwards did I find out that he was the President’s Chaplain. It has been both an honor and privilege to have my daughter serve her country and this president. It has also been difficult. Up until recently, only a few people knew. I could count on only two reactions: hate or love.
The people who heard she’d been promoted to the WH who hated Trump, would spew the most hateful bile. People with whom I was good friends up to that moment, and after they vented, I would just stare at them, unable to comprehend that madness, and unwilling to respond.
I hope there’s no civil war 2. There is no pleasure in killing the evil among us and no pleasure in wishing them dead. Maybe there will be a fracturing in secession, who knows. It’s just my duty to keep my household together.

Meanwhile, here in Lancaster, Pretzelvania, Antifa/BLMers are trying to have a mostly peaceful riot, but there are police snipers atop the station house, and so sadly, Steve Inman is crying hot pockets full of gravy tears into his cup o noodles. And a local judge handed a repeat antifa poser a million dollar bail for posing as a medic at the latest mostly peaceful protest. A visiting rabble rouser wasn’t histrionic enough to persuade the social juicebox warriors and soylent tweens that the cops were kidnapping antifa kids and hauling them away in unmarked vans. All in all, subdued, for the most part. The night is still young, however.

Dearest H. It is already so much worse than we in our dotage can even begin to imagine.
Look at the above photo of faggish, social juicebox warriors holding up their wee baby fists…Soyapaloozers and incels all. Disposables. They escaped the abortionist’s scalpel and vacuum only to be made into perpetual infants by their parents and educatrices.
The worse to come arrived quite a while ago. Now, kindergarteners will be forced into the charnel house with the trannies until the shock wears off and it becomes normal.
Children who seek to flee the prisoner factory are sane for but one brief and shining moment. They soon become depressed And resigned. And then they go to the university schoolag in order to embrace their slavery with enraged joy. I think fire is the only cleansing agent capable of ending the cancer and scourge of public education.
The horrors of girls and cliques which boys once understood as a rite of passage in difficult and awkward adolescence has been eclipsed by them having to confront walls of screaming boy hatred from the girls and predatory lust from the faggotized boys.
We send our kids into minefields with keys around their necks hoping they don’t blow up and wonder why they hate school.

“The atheist is a man who digs holes in which to hide from the machines he’s created.” – Vance Havner
Our society has fully secularized, and is confident in the machines they’ve built to replace themselves.
The Merciful Overloads who advocate the disappearance of other people are now building holes in which to hide from the machines they’re creating. Smart holes, to be sure. Our merciful, nearly divine Overloads are Chinese-made machines. Chinese have no use for the soul, being good atheists…but they covet our properties…organs, lands, it’s all the same. They’ve already recolonized Africa…and the Dark Continentals now miss their European overloads. But at least the infestation of whites from Africa will make things right as Rhodesia.

My mother loved to write poetry. Her poetry was sentimental Hallmark card stuff and she used to send her poems off to Hallmark. The poetry album is full of rejection letters.
She used to read those poems aloud to me as a wee tyke. I still hear her when I read them in my head. But now, what transfixes me is her fine penmanship. She must have graduated from the College of Palmer Business Hand. Exquisite. Written in blue ink with a fountain pen. Perfection on onionskin paper. I hadn’t noticed those aspects before, until I took up the fountain pen, myself.
All kinds of muscle memories revive themselves, reviving other happy memories. It’s like being in 3rd grade once more.

Recently, the number 2 daughter has become a believer, thanks in large part to the absolute relativism of celebrity atheists. It becomes tiresome to know it all when you’re only in your early 30s. A bitter indulgence she happily gave up for Lent.

I think the Mr. Science Guy’s mistake is that he assumes Jesus existed enough to walk on thin ice. I wonder if Mr. Science Guy has a more in depth explanation about that whole crucifixion, death and ressurection thing Jesus might have done…if he’d only existed. Just a scosh.

Every good celebrity atheist knows Jesus doesn’t exist. And neither did his followers. And there is no way a church could possibly exist if Jesus didn’t exist.

Given the state of rancid corruption in the Church today, we may all wonder if the Church still exists…just a scosh, anyway, or if the gates of Baal’s Bath House and Opium Den have prevailed against it. We’ll know for sure when the Sweet Meteor of Death hits the Vatican while the entire Curia and their Jorge is in full flagrante delicto session with their South American rent boys.

Perhaps Cardinals Schneider, Sarah, and Burke will survive whilst in muzzled exile and the next Pope might actually be somewhat Catholic.

Christus vincit! Christus regnat! Christus imperat!

Names come in phases. I once wanted to change my name to Karen, because Carpenters. I was named for a different singer. Julie Andrews, a redhead my dad crushed on as a young man. He married a redhead, from a family of redheads, the matriarch being Jewel and the youngest being my mother Malinda. I was the only girl not to get red hair. My grandmother Jewel called herself J.J, and my father, who’d wanted me to be named Julie, had to cower in my mother’s jealous rage while she called me Jewel.
In school, I was Julie. Wrote my name that way, was called Julie by my dad, brothers and sisters, but not by my long dead mother, who called me Jewel LEE…
I found out how awful it was to be named Julie in junior high and high school. It seemed all the Julies of the Yakima Valley combined into one group of very pretty young women: cheerleader Julie, swim captain Julie; track star Julie, glee club soloist and thespian Julie, popular slut Julie…and there was me. Life was hard being a Julie, until I had to fill out a job application. Social Security Administration don’t do Julie if you are Jewel.

Growing up a fundamentalist KJV Onliest type of Christian left me deeply unsatisfied. In our world, the greatest miracle was the Holy Ghost dropping the Bible from Heaven and accepting Jesus as your personal lord and savior. The Catechism was strictly from the mind of Jack Chick and we were taught to evangelize by asking rapidfire questions quoting scriptures in order to corral the hapless heathen into recognizing his need for coming to Jeeezus. When I questioned my church’s belief that God quit doing the miraculous I was called demonic and put out of the church.
In finally embracing the Great Nemesis of One Holy Apostolic Church, I embraced a redefining of everything. Miracles are always and forever. Nothing exists apart from a Divine Will and Love that surpasses all understanding. I am content simply to marvel and to have few answers for why anything is. This is faith. As St. Augustine said: Hope has two beautiful daughters: Anger and Faith. Anger at the way things are and Faith to change things to what they ought to be.

From The Litany of Humility
Last prayer:
That others may be preferred to me in everything,
That others may become holier than I,
provided that I may become as holy as I should,
Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Maria, gratia plena,
Ave, Ave, Dominus,
Dominus tecum.
Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus,
Et benedictus fructus ventris (tui),
Ventris tui, Jesus.
Ave Maria!

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,
Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
Ora, ora pro nobis;
Ora, ora pro nobis peccatoribus,
Nunc et in hora mortis,
In hora mortis nostrae.
In hora, hora mortis nostrae,
In hora mortis nostrae.
Ave Maria!