OnLine Exemplification
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The Voice that went viral
The Voice That Went Viral
A Modern Parable Inspired by the Gospel of Luke 21:5–19
The world didn’t fall apart in one day—it crumbled the moment people stopped thinking for themselves.
That’s when a new voice showed up. Calm, confident, and clear.
He went by @TheTrueSignal. No one knew where he came from, but he spoke like someone who had all the answers. The world was shaking—floods, fires, unrest in the streets—and people were desperate for direction.
“None of this is random,” he said in his first video. “The signs were there all along. But most people didn’t want to see. I’ll help you see.”
His video spread like wildfire. Then came another. Then a livestream. Then a full-blown movement.
He called it The Network. It wasn’t a religion or a political party. It was a way of thinking. A way to survive what he called "the unraveling."
People clung to his words. They deleted their news apps. Blocked old friends. Quit their jobs. Some even sold their homes and moved into communal buildings run by Network leaders.
Elena Ramirez didn’t buy it.
She worked at Pulse, the company that hosted all the major videos. She wasn’t flashy—just a systems technician who made sure the site ran smoothly.
But she started noticing something strange.
No matter what anyone searched for—weather, recipes, even old music—they got Network videos. Other voices, real experts, news channels, teachers—they were being pushed aside.
She dug into the code and found it: a secret program was boosting The Network’s content and hiding anything that disagreed.
She told her boss. He told her to leave it alone.
“People feel safe listening to him,” he said. “Why stir up fear?”
When she tried to report it higher up, her access was cut off. Then a man showed up at her apartment. He didn’t threaten her outright—but he made it clear that asking too many questions would be a mistake.
So she left.
She packed up and disappeared. Shut off her phone. Went offline.
Meanwhile, The Network exploded.
People wore gray clothes with the Signal symbol. They started using a new app that filtered out everything except Network-approved content. Family members stopped talking to each other. One man in Ohio reported his wife to Network authorities because she questioned The Signal.
It wasn’t just a trend. It was a takeover.
In hiding, Elena found others who saw what was happening. Quiet people, thoughtful people, people who had been pushed out for asking questions. They met in coffee shops, in basements, in parks with no cameras.
One young man, a former Network volunteer, brought proof: documents that showed how people’s emotions were being tracked—how fear was used to keep them hooked.
Then came the final truth.
The voice of @TheTrueSignal? It wasn’t a person. It was a computer program.
The face was fake. The words were written by a team of professionals who knew exactly what to say to keep people following.
It was all a system. Not a savior.
When that truth leaked, people split.
Some refused to believe it. They said it was just another lie meant to shake their faith.
Others were devastated. Families tried to reconnect. Some apologized. Some couldn’t face the shame.
Elena didn’t do interviews. She didn’t want fame. She started working at a small nonprofit that helped teach people how to spot digital lies and think critically again.
“If one voice gets too loud,” she told a group of older adults at a local library, “ask who gave them the microphone.”
Jesus warned His followers not to be fooled by impressive buildings, flashy leaders, or loud promises. He said trouble would come—wars, disasters, betrayal—and many would rise claiming to have the answers. But He told them: don’t follow them. Don’t panic. Stand firm.
Elena’s story is a modern echo of that warning. When the world got shaky, people clung to a voice that promised safety. But it wasn’t truth. It was control. Elena didn’t save the world with power—she endured with honesty. Just like Jesus said: "By your endurance you will gain your lives." (Luke 21:19)
Truth is still truth, even when it’s quiet. And real faith doesn’t chase the loudest voice—it listens for the right one.
The Power of a Simple Story
The Power of a Simple Story
Let me ask you something.
Have you ever noticed that the people who change our lives the most usually aren’t experts?
They’re not standing behind podiums.
They’re not quoting books or trying to sound impressive.
Most of the time, they’re just ordinary people… telling a real story about something that actually happened to them.
And for some reason, those stories stick.
They stay with you.
They make you think.
Sometimes, they even change you.
I remember hearing about a man named David.
For years, his life slowly unraveled in a way that didn’t seem dangerous at first.
It started casually—just a drink here and there, something to take the edge off. Then it became a habit. Then a dependence. And before he realized what was happening, it had taken control of everything.
His job slipped away.
His relationships strained.
Trust eroded.
And eventually, he reached a point where he couldn’t pretend anymore.
He needed help.
So he made a decision that a lot of people never make—he walked into a recovery program and admitted the truth.
Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But honestly.
Months passed.
Healing came slowly, one day at a time. Not dramatic. Not easy. Just steady.
Then one day, one of the counselors approached him with an unexpected request.
“Would you be willing to speak to a group of high school students about addiction?”
David laughed.
“Not a chance,” he said. “I’m not a speaker. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
The counselor looked at him and said something simple:
“You don’t have to give a speech. Just tell them what happened to you.”
That was it.
No pressure to impress.
No expectation to be perfect.
Just… be real.
So a few days later, David stood in front of a room full of teenagers.
No notes.
No script.
No polished delivery.
And he said:
“I thought drinking would make life easier.
Instead, it almost destroyed my life.
I lost things that mattered to me.
I hurt people I care about.
But someone helped me.
I got treatment.
I’m sober now.
And I’m trying to rebuild my life.”
Then he stopped.
That was his entire message.
No long explanation.
No dramatic ending.
Just the truth.
At first, the room was quiet.
Then something unexpected happened.
A student approached him afterward and said softly,
“My dad struggles with drinking. I never understood it before… but I think I do now.”
Another said,
“I’ve been heading down that road myself. I didn’t realize it until today.”
David walked into that room believing he had nothing important to offer.
But what he gave them wasn’t advice.
It was something far more powerful—
Clarity.
There’s something about an honest story that cuts through everything else.
It doesn’t argue.
It doesn’t try to win a debate.
It doesn’t need to prove anything.
It simply says:
“This is where I was…
and this is where I am now.”
And people understand that.
Because deep down, we’re all trying to make sense of our own lives.
We’re all walking through something.
Struggling with something.
Trying to figure something out.
And sometimes, what we need isn’t more information.
We just need to hear from someone who’s been there.
Someone who can say,
“I didn’t have all the answers either.
But something changed.”
That kind of honesty takes courage.
Because it means letting people see where you’ve been.
It means speaking without knowing exactly how it will be received.
It means trusting that your story—imperfect as it is—still matters.
And the truth is, it does.
More than you think.
You don’t need the perfect words.
You don’t need to have everything figured out.
Sometimes the most powerful thing you can say is simply this:
“This is who I was…
and this is who I’m becoming.”
And for someone out there, that might be exactly what they needed to hear.
If this story meant something to you, let me know in the comments.
I put together an image inspired by it—I’d be happy to send it to you.
Deacon Tom'S Homily - When the Lamps were still there
When the Lamps Were Still There
Matthew 5:13-16 The sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time Feb. 15, 2016
There was a town that once believed in Street lights. Not the kind of light that dazzled tourists or made headlines—but the kind that worked quietly. Every street had lamps mounted on iron posts. They weren’t decorative. They were practical. They made it possible for children to walk home after sunset, for neighbors to pause and talk, for the elderly to move without fear. No one thought much about them, and that was the point. The light did its work without calling attention to it.
In those days, the town felt connected. People recognized one another. Shopkeepers noticed when a regular didn’t come in. Doors were locked, yes—but not out of suspicion. More out of habit.
Then things began to change. No one could point to a single moment or action. There was no crisis meeting. No dramatic vote. Just a series of small, reasonable decisions.
A few lamps flickered. Replacing the bulbs took time and money. Some people said, “It’s not really my responsibility. I don’t use that part of the street anyway.” Others said, “The light still works just fine for me.” One homeowner covered their lamp because it shone into their window at night. Another dimmed theirs because it drew attention to their house. A few worried the brightness made passersby uncomfortable.
“Not everyone wants light,” they said. “Let people choose for themselves.” “Let’s not impose.”
Eventually, the town council weighed in. They meant well. They always did.
“Lighting will now be optional,” they announced. “No one is required to keep their lamp on. We want to respect personal preference. Keep your light—just keep it close to home.”
At first, nothing seemed wrong.
People still went about their business. The lamps were still there. Some even worked perfectly—on the inside. Behind windows. In private yards. But the streets themselves grew dimmer.
Walking after sunset became uncomfortable. Then unsafe. People stopped lingering. Conversations shortened. Familiar faces became silhouettes. Doors closed earlier. Locks multiplied.
When something went wrong—when a theft happened, or someone fell, or a stranger was hurt—people asked how it could have happened. “We didn’t see it coming,” they said. “No one saw anything.”
One evening, a traveler passed through. He arrived just after sunset and slowed his steps as the road darkened. He could still make out the outlines of houses, but the spaces between them felt hollow. Quiet and unwatched. He stopped a resident and asked, “Why is it so dark here?”
The resident followed his gaze, then shrugged. “The lamps are still here,” he said. “People just don’t like standing out anymore.”
In Today’s Gospel Jesus says, “You are the light of the world.”
He doesn’t say, “You should become light one day.” He doesn’t say, “If conditions are right.” He says, “You are.” You see, light, by its nature, is meant to be seen—not to draw attention to itself, but to make everything else visible.
The town didn’t fall apart because people rejected the light. It fell apart because good people decided it was safer to keep it contained. No one became cruel overnight. They simply chose comfort over courage. Privacy over presence. Politeness over witness. And so, this was the truth the town learned too late:
The lamps were never taken away. They were never broken. They were never forbidden.
They were simply left unlit. No one demanded darkness. No one voted for it. No one set out to harm the town. Darkness came because light became optional. Because good people decided it was safer to stay unseen. Because standing out felt risky. Because shining felt like asking for trouble.
The greatest danger was never the darkness. It was the belief that light was no longer necessary.
And that is why today’s Gospel matters. Matthew tells us that Jesus does something very deliberate. He does not warn His disciples about persecution. He does not predict hostility. He does not blame the darkness. Instead, He turns to them and says: “You are the salt of the earth… You are the light of the world.”
Not you might be. Not once the world agrees with you. You are.
Jesus places responsibility—not on the darkness—but on the light.
That is why He adds: “No one lights a lamp and puts it under a bushel basket.”
He is not describing malice. He is describing fear. He is describing comfort. He is describing disciples who decide it is safer not to shine. So how do we live this in today’s world?
Well, not by being louder. Not by being angry. Not by trying to fix everything.
But by refusing to hide the light we already carry.
Light shines today when:
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A Christian speaks the truth with charity when silence would be easier
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A family chooses forgiveness instead of division
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A worker refuses to cut corners when no one would notice
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When a neighbor shows up when others look away
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A believer lives with hope when cynicism feels justified
These are small acts. They are ordinary. They are quiet. And that is exactly how light works.
The world does not need more arguments. It needs witnesses. It needs people willing to leave the lamp on—even when it costs them comfort.
The town in the story did not need new lamps. It needed people brave enough to light the ones they already had. And so do we.
So here’s the Gospel’s question. Not for discussion, but for the heart:
Where in your life has the light been dimmed—not because you lost faith, but because shining began to feel risky? Will you light one lamp—at home, at work, in mercy, in truth—so that someone else can see the path to walk? Because the light is still here. The only question left is whether we will let it shine.
Written By: Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
He Got in Line (The baptism of the Lord)
He Got in Line (The baptism of the Lord)
January 11, 2026, Matthew Gospel 3:13-17
On a bitter January evening, a new overnight shelter opened in the center of the city. The temperature had dropped quickly after sunset, and the sidewalks were crowded with people trying to keep warm. Word had spread fast. By the time the doors were scheduled to open, a long line had already formed, wrapping around the building and spilling into the next block.
The people waiting were a mix of stories and circumstances. Some had been on the street for years. Others were there for the first time, embarrassed and unsure, still wearing the clothes of a life that had recently unraveled. They shuffled forward slowly, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Volunteers moved up and down the line, handing out clipboards, explaining rules, and doing their best to bring order to something that always feels fragile.
Near the middle of the line stood a man who didn’t quite fit. He wasn’t flashy or obviously wealthy, but he looked steady in a way that caught attention. He wore clean boots, a simple coat, and no visible sign of panic. He waited quietly, saying little, not checking his phone, not complaining about the cold.
One of the volunteers noticed him and hesitated. She walked over and said gently, “I think you might be in the wrong place. This shelter is for people who don’t have anywhere else to go.”
The man nodded. “I know.”
She paused, unsure what to say next. “There are other programs. Other options.”
He smiled, not dismissively, but kindly. “I understand. But this is where I need to be tonight.”
So he stayed.
When the doors opened, he came inside with everyone else. He filled out the same intake form, answering questions that were repetitive and personal. He surrendered his bag when asked. He listened as the rules were read aloud: when lights go out, when showers are allowed, what happens if there’s a fight. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t explain himself. He accepted a bed number and followed the volunteer down a narrow hallway to a room full of metal frames and thin mattresses.
That night, sleep came and went. People coughed. Someone cried softly in the dark. Another person paced back and forth, unable to rest. The man lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening.
In the morning, he was one of the first to get up. He helped stack chairs after breakfast. He wiped down tables without being asked. When someone grew angry over a missing coat, he stepped in calmly and helped resolve it. He listened more than he spoke.
Days passed, then weeks.
He became a familiar presence. He learned names. He remembered small details. He sat with people who wanted to talk and with those who didn’t. He never rushed anyone. When someone disappeared for a few nights and then came back ashamed, he greeted them as if they had never left.
Some of the staff were uneasy. “Who is he?” they whispered. “Why is he here?” He didn’t fit the usual patterns. He wasn’t looking for housing. He wasn’t asking for help. He wasn’t trying to fix the system or impress anyone. He was simply there.
Finally, the director of the shelter asked to speak with him privately. She had been watching for some time. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re clearly capable. You could be running programs, raising funds, making decisions. You don’t need to be sleeping on a cot.”
The man looked at her and said, “If I want to understand this place, I can’t do it from an office. If I want to serve the people here, I can’t stay above them.”
She pressed further. “But you don’t belong in the line.”
He answered quietly, “That’s exactly why I joined it.”
Only later did the staff learn the truth. He was the founder of the nonprofit. The person whose name was on the paperwork. The one who had secured the funding negotiated with the city and made the shelter possible in the first place. He had authority. He had influence. He had every reason to stand apart.
But he chose the line.
When the news spread, reactions were mixed. Some people felt embarrassed that they had complained to him. Others felt strangely affirmed. If the person who had the most power chose to live under the same rules, sleep in the same room, and wait his turn, then maybe this place truly belonged to everyone.
The shelter changed after that. Trust grew. Walls came down. People felt seen. The man never asked for recognition. He eventually stepped back into leadership when the time was right, but he carried the shelter with him because he had first carried its weight.
That story brings us directly to the Jordan River.
When Jesus comes to John, He comes to a place filled with people who know they are broken. The Jordan is not a stage. It is not impressive. It is crowded, muddy, and uncomfortable. People are there confessing sins, admitting failure, and hoping for a new beginning.
And into that line steps Jesus.
John is disturbed. He recognizes what others do not yet fully understand. “I should be baptized by you,” he says. You don’t belong here. You could be doing great things. This is not your place.
But Jesus insists. “Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”
Righteousness, in this moment, is not about being separate. It is about being faithful. It is about obedience to the Father’s will, even when it looks unnecessary or confusing. It is about standing where humanity stands.
Jesus does not need repentance. He does not need cleansing. But He chooses the water because we need Him there.
Like the man at the shelter, Jesus does not lead from a distance. He does not exempt Himself. He does not save by staying above the mess. He gets in line. He shares the same water. He accepts the same misunderstanding.
And only after that choice does heaven open.
The Spirit descends. The Father speaks. “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”
The Father’s pleasure comes not after miracles, not after teaching crowds, not after the cross, but after obedience. After humility. After the choice to stand with those who have nothing to offer in return.
The Gospel reminds us that God’s way is not to rescue us from afar, but to walk with us from within. True righteousness often looks quiet and ordinary. It looks like presence. It looks like choosing the line instead of the platform.
Jesus gets in line so that no one is ever alone again.
Written By: Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
Standing for Life: A Call to Courage and Faith
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A Message from our Spiritual Director, Deacon Tom Sullivan Standing for Life: A Call to Courage and Faith
As Catholics and members of the Knights of Columbus, we are called to be defenders of life — not merely in word, but in conviction, in compassion, and in courage. In this season of Thanksgiving, we give thanks not only for the blessings we can see, but for the sacred trust God has placed in our hands: the defense of the most vulnerable, and the protection of the dignity of every human person.
Our faith teaches us that life is not a privilege to be granted by governments or courts; it is a gift — sacred, irreplaceable, and bestowed by the Creator Himself. From the moment of conception to natural death, each human soul bears the divine imprint. When society begins to define who is worthy of life, it loses sight of the true Author of life.
Recent headlines remind us that the struggle for life is far from over. The approval of new chemical abortion drugs and the opening of facilities performing late-term procedures are stark reminders of how far our culture has drifted from its moral center. Yet we do not respond with anger, but with prayer. We do not answer darkness with despair, but with the radiant light of faith, reason, and love.
The Knights of Columbus were founded on the principle of charity, but that charity is inseparable from truth. To be pro-life is not merely to be “against abortion”; it’s to affirm the profound truth that every person — mother, child, and father alike — is loved by God and worthy of hope. Our mission is not only to protect the unborn, but also to walk with women in crisis, to support fathers seeking to do right, and to help rebuild a culture where life is cherished again.
Saint John Paul II called it “a culture of life.” Pope Francis reminds us that every child is “a face of Christ.” And Christ Himself told us, “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for Me.” That truth must anchor us when we see the growing hostility toward life. It must strengthen us when we pray outside clinics, when we counsel a mother choosing between fear and faith, and when we advocate for laws that uphold life and conscience.
To be pro-life is to believe that peace begins in the womb. When we restore reverence for life, we begin to heal families, communities, and nations. Our movement is not political — it is spiritual. It’s the work of the Gospel made visible: mercy meeting need, truth overcoming deception, light conquering darkness.
Let us, then, as Knights and as men of faith, continue to pray without ceasing, to act with courage, and to speak with love. Let’s give thanks for the sacred work entrusted to us — to defend life, to serve families, and to remind the world that every heartbeat matters because every heartbeat was made by God.
Vivat Jesus!!
Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
Spiritual Director Don Bosco Council #7784
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| SK Rev. Mr. Thomas M Sullivan Asst. Chaplain |
The Late Shift
A MESSAGE FROM OUR SPIRITUAL DIRECTOR DEACON TOM SULLIVAN
Gospel of John 14:15-16 Pg:1
“The Late Shift”
The 6th Sunday of Easter
Gospel: John 14:15–16
“If you love me, you will keep my commandments.
And I will ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”
The soft click of rubber soles on polished tile echoed through the dim corridor as Angela made her way toward the nurse’s station. It was just past midnight, and the floor had settled into that peculiar kind of hush that only hospitals know—a reverent stillness broken only by the occasional beeping monitor or the distant rumble of a supply cart.
Angela had worked the overnight shift for twelve years at Saint Michael’s Medical Center in downtown Newark. The schedule wasn’t for everyone—long hours, often thankless—but she had found a strange kind of peace in the rhythm of it.
The world slowed down at night. Patients weren’t rushed in and out, phones didn’t ring as often, and there was time—time to be present, time to really care.
Most of her coworkers came and went, fresh out of nursing school and eager for daytime roles or quieter clinics. Angela stayed. Not because she had to. Not because she had nowhere else to go. But because something in her heart told her this was where she was needed most.
That night, her assignment was unusually light. Four patients—manageable. But one name on the list made her stomach drop slightly: Holloway, Marcus. Room 308.
She knew the name. Everyone did.
Mr. Holloway had been admitted a week earlier following major abdominal surgery. The procedure had gone well, but his recovery had been anything but smooth. He was combative, refused his medications, snapped at the aides, and rejected visits from the hospital chaplain. More than once, he had been overheard muttering, “Why don’t you all just leave me alone?”
Most nurses had learned to tread lightly around him—get in, do what was necessary, and get out. Angela had avoided him so far, but tonight, he was hers.
She gathered her charts, stethoscope, and a thermos of chamomile tea she’d brought from home. As she walked toward Room 308, her steps slowed just a little. The hallway stretched out ahead of her, dim and still, and she felt the weight
Pg:2
of what lay behind the door she was approaching.
Quietly, almost instinctively, she bowed her head as she walked and whispered a prayer—not rehearsed or lofty, but real:
“Lord, I don’t know what pain this man is carrying, but You do. I don’t have the right words, and I don’t know if I’ll even get through to him tonight. But I’m willing to try. Help me to be patient, to listen, and to love him like You would. Let Your Spirit speak through whatever kindness I can offer. Not for my sake, but because You never stop showing up for us. Even when we’ve given up. Even when we’re angry. Help me love him well. Amen.”
This prayer was not for herself, but for Mr. Holloway. She didn’t know his story, but she could sense it was a heavy one.
She knocked softly and pushed open the door.
The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the heart monitor. Mr. Holloway was awake, staring at the ceiling, his face set in that same hard scowl she’d heard about.
“Good evening, Mr. Holloway,” she said gently, her voice warm but unobtrusive. “I’m Angela. I’ll be your nurse tonight.”
He didn’t look at her. “Of course you are. You’re the next one in line, aren’t you?”
She didn’t respond to the bitterness. Instead, she stepped inside and set her things down.
“I brought you some tea,” she said. “Chamomile. Helps with rest.”
He turned his head just enough to look at her. “What makes you think I want that?”
Angela smiled faintly. “I don’t. But I thought I’d offer.”
He grunted but didn’t object when she placed the cup on his tray. He didn’t reach for it either. She checked his vitals, made small adjustments to his IV, and recorded the readings. All the while, she could feel the weight of his gaze—mistrustful, guarded.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked abruptly.
Angela paused. “It’s my job.”
“No,” he snapped. “That’s not what I mean. You’re… not like the others.”
Angela studied his face. There was anger there, yes—but beneath it, something
Pg:3
older. Woundedness. Weariness.
“I suppose I believe people deserve kindness,” she said. “Even when they don’t ask for it. Especially then.”
He laughed, but it was bitter. “Kindness? In this place? That’s a joke.”
Angela didn’t defend the hospital. She didn’t argue. She just nodded slowly. “I get it. You’ve been through a lot.”
“You have no idea,” he muttered.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t. But I’m willing to listen—if you want to talk.”
Silence fell again. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just unresolved.
Angela didn’t press. She sat down in the chair beside his bed and pulled out a small notepad. She began jotting notes for her other patients, giving him space. Minutes passed. Then he spoke.
“My wife died three months ago,” he said quietly. “Forty-eight years together. Cancer.”
Angela looked up. He wasn’t looking at her—his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.
“I was angry with her for dying,” he continued. “Can you believe that? Angry at her for leaving me.”
Angela said nothing, but her heart ached.
“She used to drink that tea,” he added. “Chamomile. Every night before bed. I hated the smell of it. Now I keep thinking I’d give anything to smell it again.”
Angela glanced at the untouched cup on the tray. Gently, she moved it closer to him. He looked at it, then picked it up with trembling hands.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said. “I’ve been so angry. At the doctors. At God. At everyone.”
“Maybe,” Angela said quietly, “it’s because someone finally stayed long enough to listen.”
He sipped the tea. “Do you believe in all that?” he asked. “God. Heaven. Any of it?”
“I do,” she replied. “Not just in theory. I believe He walks with us. Even in the worst of times.”
He shook his head. “I stopped believing the day they told me she was terminal.”
Pg:4
Angela didn’t try to convince him otherwise. Instead, she said, “I think sometimes faith isn’t about pretending everything’s okay. Sometimes it’s just about showing up. Loving people anyway.”
That night, Angela sat with Mr. Holloway for nearly an hour. They talked. They didn’t talk. He wept once. She didn’t offer platitudes. Just presence. Quiet, steady love.
When her shift ended at 7 a.m., she checked on him one last time before leaving. He was asleep, the tea cup empty beside him.
The following evening, when she returned, he asked for her by name.
Jesus said, “If you love me, keep my commandments.” That commandment, above all, is to love one another as He loved us. Angela could have walked in, done her duty, and left. But she didn’t. She chose to stay, to listen, to offer kindness—not because it was easy, but because she loved Jesus. And that love needed proof.
It was proof that didn’t shout. It didn’t come with a spotlight. It came quietly, in a paper cup filled with chamomile tea, in a willingness to sit with someone’s sorrow without needing to fix it.
And the power behind her ability to do that? The Holy Spirit—the Advocate Jesus promised. The Spirit that nudges us to respond with grace when we’re tempted to walk away. The Spirit that whispers, “Love him anyway.”
We all have our own Room 308. The place we’d rather avoid. The person who makes it hard to care. But Jesus didn’t say, “If you love me, feel something.” He said, “If you love me, keep my commandments.” And He didn’t leave us to do it alone—He sent the Holy Spirit to walk with us.
So let us live our love—not just with words, but with cups of tea, with listening ears, with compassion that costs something.
Because in the end, the clearest proof of our love for Christ is not how loudly we sing or how often we attend church. It’s how we love the least, the lost, and yes, even the bitter.
It’s in the proof we leave behind, one quiet night at a time.
Written by: Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
THE COMMENTS SECTION
“The Comments Section”
The Gospel of John 8:1-11 The Fifth Sunday of Lent 2015
A story for today, based on a truth that never ages.
It all started with a post.
Not even her post. Someone else had posted private messages between Lily and a married coworker.
It was Cropped just right. No context. Just enough to make her look like the villain.
By noon, the comments were flooding in. By five, her name was on every group chat in the company. By nightfall, people from high school—people she hadn’t spoken to in years—were weighing in like they knew who she was.
They called her all kinds of names, Homewrecker. Trash.
She couldn’t look away. The sting of every comment was like a punch in the stomach. She tried explaining to a few people—saying it wasn’t physical, that she had pulled away before anything went too far—but nobody wanted nuance.
They wanted someone to throw stones at. And the internet served up Lily.
She shut off her phone, then turned it back on five minutes later. She couldn’t stop checking. Couldn’t stop hoping it would all just… go away.
The next morning, her boss emailed. Short. Direct.
“Please come into the office. HR at 9:30.”
She barely slept. Barely ate. She walked into the building like it was a courthouse. Some coworkers avoided her eyes. Some didn’t bother. A few actually smirked.
She sat stiffly in the office chair. Martin from HR tried to play neutral, flipping through papers and using words like “reputation” and “standards.” Her body buzzed with shame.
Then in walked Jacob.
A Senior manager. Sharp. Respected. The kind of guy who never got pulled into gossip because he lived above it.
She braced herself for more humiliation. But Jacob didn’t come to the meeting to condemn her. He brought calmness, clarity, and Humanity.
“Lily,” he said, “we’re not here to ruin you. We’re here to deal with the truth.”
She expected a scolding. Instead, she got a pause.
“I’ve read the posts. I've also read the comments. What I saw online wasn’t accountability—it was a public stoning.”
Lily’s jaw clenched. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“People forget there’s a person on the other end of all that outrage,” Jacob said. “Have I made mistakes? Sure.
But what matters now is what you do next.”
He slid a paper toward her. “You can step away. Or you can stay. Own what happened. Grow from it. And we’ll all support that.”
She blinked. “Why are you giving me that option?”
He shrugged, gently. “Because I’ve needed grace before too. And someone gave it to me.”
Lily stayed.
It wasn’t easy. Every meeting felt like walking into a room with her past written on her forehead. But she stayed. She showed up. She worked. She didn’t post a performative apology.
She apologized directly—to the people who mattered. Even to the coworker’s wife. A letter, handwritten. No excuses. Just the truth.
Weeks passed. The internet moved on. But she didn’t. Something inside her was being rebuilt, brick by brick, in silence.
She stopped checking her mentions. Stopped needing people to believe her. Instead, she started becoming someone that she could believe in again.
Three months later, Lily sat in a quiet coffee shop across from a young girl.
Shay was barely twenty. She had been publicly outed by someone in her group chat. Screenshots, exposure, the works. Just like Lily, she had made some messy choices. Just like Lily, the internet wanted her hung.
“They say I deserved it,” Shay said, eyes on the floor.
Lily stirred her tea.
“I used to think the same thing,” she said.
Shay looked up.
“I thought if I messed up, I had to wear it forever. I felt I was done.
Then someone reminded me that making a wrong choice is not the end.
Shay swallowed and said. “People just don’t forgive anymore.”
“They do,” Lily said softly. “But it doesn’t start with them. It starts with you deciding that your story isn’t over yet.”
Lily didn’t preach. She just showed up. Sat with other women like Shay.
She Spoke at women groups.
She Listened, she Shared. Lily reminded people that failure didn’t mean you’re finished.
She still remembered what it felt like to be dragged into the digital square, humiliated, surrounded by a crowd that just wanted someone to blame.
And she still remembered Jacob’s voice in that HR room—not defending her, not excusing her—but giving her a way forward.
This is what the Gospel teaches us.
Not just in ink on a page, but in lives like Lily’s.
Today's Gospel says
A woman is caught. Not rumored—caught. They throw her down in front of Jesus, demanding blood. The law is on their side. The stones are in their hands. And Jesus does what?
He kneels in the dust.
He says. “Let the person without sin cast the first stone.”
One by one, they leave.
Not because they stopped believing in right and wrong—
but because they remembered they were human too.
And when it’s just the woman and Jesus left, he doesn’t say she was right. He says something better:
“Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”
He gives her what the world won’t: A way back, a new beginning.
A second chance without denial or shame.
That’s what Lily received.
That’s what Jacob gave.
That’s what Shay needed.
And maybe, just maybe that’s what we all need too.
Not a blank check.
Not a pass.
Just a hand in the dirt, writing...
Lily didn’t become a saint overnight. She still had moments where shame crept in—when she’d bump into someone from the office who remembered, or when her own memory replayed the worst days like a bad song on loop. But she no longer let those moments define her.
What changed was this: Lily no longer lived like someone who had to earn her way back into being worthy. She stopped apologizing for simply being human. She showed up for others the way someone once showed up for her—with truth, with grace, with no stone in her hand.
And over time, something quiet and sacred began to grow within her, not perfection, but purpose. Not a reputation, but true resilience.
She had been dragged into the dirt. But she walked out of it.
Not because the crowd approved. Not because the internet forgot. But because mercy found her, stood beside her, and said:
“This doesn’t have to be the end.”
So, she lived like that was true. And so, it was.
Written By: Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
The Digital Commission: A Modern Parable of Faith in the Age of Influence
The Digital Commission: A Modern Parable of Faith in the Age of Influence
May 17,2026 The Ascension of the Lord
Matthew 28:16-20
In a world where computer screens often replaced face-to-face conversation, Jordan Blake had once used social media like many others—chasing likes, followers, and fleeting approval. His days were spent carefully curating posts, studying trends, and crafting content designed to stir reactions rather than inspire reflection. At first, his numbers grew quickly and his videos gained traction, his opinions sparked debates, and his name began circulating widely across multiple platforms. Yet beneath the polished profile and growing audience, Jordan felt an emptiness he could not explain.
The more attention he gained, the more he realized that popularity alone could not satisfy a deeper longing in his heart. Endless scrolling, viral arguments, and superficial praise left him spiritually and emotionally exhausted. Though on the outside he appeared successful, however on the inside he felt disconnected from any true purpose.
One quiet evening, as the soft glow of his tablet cut through the darkness of his apartment, Jordan scrolled through an endless stream of headlines—stories of division, violence, loneliness, and fear. Each article seemed heavier than the last, painting a world desperate for connection yet drowning in noise. He set the device down for a moment, troubled by how deeply people seemed to be searching for hope in all the wrong places.
As he sat in silence, a powerful thought settled over him: with millions of people gathering online every day, these digital spaces had become more than entertainment—they were the modern public square, filled with hearts seeking meaning, encouragement, and truth. For the first time, Jordan began to wonder if his platform could be used for something greater than attention. Perhaps, instead of adding to the noise, he could become a voice of hope in the midst of it.
For the first time, Jordan began to see his platform differently.
Instead of using his voice merely for personal advancement, he chose to dedicate it to something greater. His content slowly transformed. He began sharing messages of hope, encouragement, and faith. He posted reflections on Scripture, personal stories of struggle and redemption, and practical encouragement for people facing anxiety, loneliness, or despair.
At first, the shift came with consequences. Some followers mocked him. Others blocked him, accusing him of becoming too serious or preachy. Brands that once sought partnerships disappeared. Jordan wrestled with doubt, wondering if he was destroying the very career, he had worked so hard to build.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Messages began arriving from strangers around the world.
A young mother battling depression wrote that Jordan’s words gave her strength to keep going.
A college student struggling with addiction shared that one of Jordan’s videos led him back to prayer.
A widower grieving the loss of his wife said Jordan’s daily messages reminded him that God had not abandoned him.
One by one, lives were being touched—not by polished perfection, but by authentic faith.
Jordan realized that his mission was no longer about numbers but about people.
He began hosting weekly live sessions where followers could ask questions about faith, purpose, and hardship. He created online communities centered around encouragement rather than division. He used modern tools to spread timeless truth.
His audience grew again, but this time it was different. His followers were not merely spectators; many became encouragers themselves, sharing hope within their own circles. Jordan’s platform became a ripple effect of digital discipleship.
Years later, Jordan spoke at a conference for young social media creators. Standing before a crowd, he reflected on his journey.
“I once believed influence was about being seen,” he said. “But Christ taught me that true influence is about serving. Social media gave me a microphone, but faith gave me a mission.”
He explained that every post, video, and message could either contribute to noise or become a light in darkness.
Jordan reminded them that technology itself was not the enemy—it was a tool. And like any tool, it could be used to build or to destroy.
By choosing faith over fame, purpose over popularity, Jordan discovered that modern discipleship was not confined to pulpits or distant mission fields. Modern discipleship could take place through smartphones, cameras, and internet connections when they are surrendered to God.
In the end, Jordan’s story reflects the enduring truth of today’s Gospel. Jesus commanded His followers to go into all the world and make disciples of all nations. In Jordan’s case, “going” meant entering the digital world—a mission field filled with searching hearts. His story reminds us that Christ’s Great Commission remains alive in every generation, calling ordinary people to use whatever gifts, platforms, or opportunities they have to share hope, truth, and love.
For in every age, whether on mountainsides or online, the mission remains the same: go, teach, and trust that He is with us always.
Grace on the Unexpected Road
Grace on the Unexpected Road
Luke 24:13-35 The Third Sunday of Easter
A young woman named Naomi had spent years building her life around one dream.
From the time she was in college, she believed she knew exactly what God wanted her to do. She wanted to work for a nonprofit that helped families in need. It was not just a career goal to her. It felt like a calling. She had studied for it, volunteered for it, prayed over it, and turned down other opportunities because she believed this was the path God had marked out for her.
When the position finally opened at an organization she deeply admired, everything seemed to fall into place. She made it through the first interview, then the second, then the final round. Each step felt like confirmation. Her friends told her, “This has your name written all over it.” Her pastor said, “Keep trusting God. He’s opening doors.” Even Naomi herself had begun to picture what life would look like once she got the call.
She imagined the office, the work, the people she would serve. She imagined telling her parents. She imagined all the ways this job would prove that the hard years had meant something.
So when the email came, she opened it already smiling.
But instead of an offer, it was a polite rejection.
They had chosen another candidate.
Naomi read it once. Then again. Then a third time, as if the words might change if she stared long enough.
But they didn’t.
Her stomach dropped. Her chest tightened. She closed her laptop and sat still in the silence of her apartment. For a long time, she said nothing at all. Then, finally, she whispered, “Lord, I just don’t understand.”
That night, the disappointment settled over her like a heavy coat she couldn’t remove. She had worked so hard. She had prayed so sincerely. She had believed so fully. And now it all felt foolish.
Over the next few days, she replayed everything in her mind. Maybe she had said the wrong thing. Maybe she was not as gifted as she thought. Maybe she had mistaken her own ambition for God’s voice. The deeper pain was not just that she lost the job. It was that she no longer knew what to do with all her hopes.
By Friday evening, her apartment felt too small for all her thoughts. She grabbed her coat and started walking with no real destination. The city was busy all around her, people moving in and out of restaurants and shops, laughing with friends, carrying groceries, living what looked to her like uncomplicated lives. Naomi felt alone inside the crowd.
Eventually she stepped into a small neighborhood coffee shop she had visited once or twice before. It was warm inside, with soft music playing and the smell of espresso hanging in the air. She ordered tea, more because she needed something to hold than because she wanted it and looked around for a place to sit.
That was when she noticed Mrs. Alvarez, an older woman from her church, seated near the window with a book open in front of her. She was a widow, quiet but kind, one of those people who never seemed rushed. When she saw Naomi, she smiled and waved her over.
“Sit with me,” she said.
Naomi hesitated for a second, then sat down.
Mrs. Alvarez took one look at her face and gently asked, “What happened?”
And something in Naomi broke open.
She told her everything. The interviews. The hope. The prayers. The email. The embarrassment. The confusion. The anger she felt toward herself. Even the anger she felt toward God.
“I really believed this was it,” Naomi said. “I thought this was the plan. I thought God was leading me. Now I don’t know what to think.”
Mrs. Alvarez didn’t rush to fill the silence. She did not offer quick answers or comforting words. She just listened.
After a while, she said, “Disappointment has a way of making everything look darker than it is.”
Naomi stared into her cup of tea. “It feels really darker.” She said.
“I know,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “But dark is not the same as empty. Just because you cannot see clearly does not mean God has left you on the road by yourself.”
Naomi looked up.
The older woman closed her book and leaned forward a little. “There are moments in life when we think God is absent because the future we expected has fallen apart. But sometimes it’s not that God has abandoned us. Sometimes our grief is so loud that we cannot yet hear His voice.”
Naomi said nothing.
Mrs. Alvarez continued, “Think about how often we ask God for direction, but only in the direction we have already chosen. We say, ‘Lord, lead me,’ but deep down we mean, ‘Lord, lead me where I already want to go.’ And when that door closes, we assume it must be failure. But a closed door is not always rejection. Sometimes it’s protection. Sometimes it’s redirection. Sometimes it’s simply the place where God meets us differently than we expected.”
Although Naomi's pain persisted, the words provided space for reflection and understanding within it.
For the next hour they talked. Mrs. Alvarez reminded her of past seasons when life had not gone according to plan, but grace had still appeared. She reminded her that God’s faithfulness is not measured by whether every hope works out on schedule. She reminded her that worth is not the same as success, and calling is often clearer in hindsight than in the moment.
Before they parted, Mrs. Alvarez put on her coat and said, “One day you may look back on this and see that God was closer to you than you knew. Not after the disappointment. But In it with you.”
Months passed.
Naomi did find another job, though not the one she had imagined. It was at a small community center on the other side of town. The salary was lower. The title sounded less impressive. It was not the story she had pictured telling people.
But over time, something unexpected happened.
She came to love the work.
She began mentoring teenagers who needed someone to believe in them. She helped organize food drives, after-school programs, and support groups for struggling parents. She met people whose courage humbled her. She found abilities within herself that had not been challenged in the position she previously believed suited her. She found the job more challenging than she had anticipated.
Looking back, Naomi would later say, “I thought God had vanished when that first door closed. But that was the very road where He was walking beside me.”
And that is the lesson of today’s Gospel.
In Luke’s Gospel, the two disciples walked the road to Emmaus filled with sorrow and confusion. They believed their hope had died with Jesus. They talked as people do when their expectations have been shattered. Yet all along, Jesus was with them, even though they did not recognize Him. Their pain clouded their vision. Only later did they understand that the Lord had never abandoned them.
That’s how it is for each of us too.
There are seasons in our life when disappointment blinds us. A prayer goes unanswered. A door closes. A future we counted on falls apart. And we begin to wonder where God is now.
But the Gospel reminds us that Christ still walks with His people on the road of heartbreak, confusion, and delay. He’s not only present at the end of our story, when everything makes sense. He is present in the middle of it, when we are still trying to understand.
Like Naomi. Like the disciples. Like each of us.
Sometimes our eyes are opened only later. But when they are, we discover that Jesus was with us through our entire life’s journey.
Written By: Deacon Thomas M. Sullivan
The Broken Foundation
The 20th Sunday of ordinary time
August 17th, 2025 Luke 12:49-53
The Parable of the Broken Foundation
Daniel Moreno was known in Oak Hollow as the kind of man you could trust with a handshake. Twenty-five years in the construction business had earned him that. He started with nothing but a set of worn tools and a stubborn streak about doing things right. Back then, he could have made quick money by cutting corners, but he’d always refused.
His crew respected him. His customers swore by him. His wife, Maria, loved him for the quiet integrity that never seemed to bend. Daniel had built his whole life on a foundation of honesty — not because it was easy, but because it was right.
One breezy spring morning, he got a call that could change everything. A wealthy developer named Howard Klein was in town with plans for a sprawling new housing complex — the biggest project the area had seen in decades. Dozens of homes, parks, and a clubhouse. It was a gold mine.
Howard wanted to meet.
They met at the Cornerstone Café. Howard was polished — silver hair, gold watch, the kind of man who looked like he’d never gotten dirt under his nails.
“Daniel,” Howard said, leaning across the table, “you’ve got a solid reputation in this town. That’s exactly what I need. If you’re in, this project could set you up for life.”
Daniel sipped his coffee, listening.
“There’s just one thing,” Howard continued. “We’re on a tight budget and an even tighter schedule. If we pour thinner foundations and skip some of the reinforcement, I can save a fortune. The houses will still look great. Nobody will know. I’ll cut you in on the savings. Everybody wins.”
Daniel’s brow furrowed. “Those reinforcements are there for a reason. They’re part of the code.”
Howard chuckled. “Codes are just red tape. You and I both know we can build faster without wasting time on things that don’t matter. People buy with their eyes, not their tape measures.”
Daniel felt a knot form in his stomach. “I’ll think about it,” he said quietly.
That night, Daniel laid it all out to Maria over dinner. “This could pay off the mortgage, get new trucks, cover Sophia’s and Marcus’s college. You could take that trip to Italy you’ve dreamed of.”
Maria’s eyes searched his face. “At what cost?”
“It’s not like anyone will get hurt,” he said. “The houses will still look fine.”
“Fine until the storms come,” Maria said softly. “You’ve built your life on doing what’s right, Daniel. Don’t trade that for a bigger paycheck.”
He didn’t sleep well that night.
The next day, Daniel spoke to his foreman, Luis.
“Boss, I’ve been with you twenty years,” Luis said, shaking his head. “We’ve never cheated a foundation. You do this, and when the ground shifts, it won’t be Howard’s name people curse. It’ll be yours.”
The talk spread. Some folks in town told him to take the deal — “It’s just business.” Others warned him against it. The mixed voices made his head spin.
Even his pastor called him in. “Daniel,” the pastor said, “sometimes the peace Jesus offers isn’t about keeping everybody happy. It’s about standing in the truth, even if it causes tension. The Gospel divides before it unites. Don’t confuse quiet with peace.”
Three days later, Daniel called Howard. “If we do this, we do it right. No shortcuts.”
Howard’s voice turned cold. “You’re making a big mistake, Moreno.”
The next morning, the contract went to another company.
The months ahead were lean. No new trucks. Smaller projects to keep the crew paid. Some friends stopped calling. Others mocked him for being “the noble pauper.”
One night on the porch, Maria took his hand. “You didn’t lose anything worth keeping,” she said.
Daniel wanted to believe her.
Two years later, heavy rains swept through Oak Hollow. The west-side development — Howard’s development — began to crumble. First small cracks in basement walls, then sinking patios, then full collapses. Families scrambled for safety. Lawsuits piled up. The construction company folded. Howard disappeared.
Daniel got a call from Mrs. Langley, whose home he’d built fifteen years earlier.
“Daniel,” she said, smiling as she welcomed him in, “this old house has stood through storms, floods, even that little earthquake. You built it right. I’m grateful.”
As she spoke, Daniel glanced out the window toward the ruined development. Piles of debris sat on lawns. Watermarks-stained broken walls. The smell of mildew lingered in the damp air.
Something stirred in him — not pride, but a quiet certainty.
He remembered a Sunday Gospel from Luke, the one he’d heard right before Howard’s offer: “I came to cast fire upon the earth… Do you think I have come to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division.”
He’d disliked that reading then. Division wasn’t his style. He was a get-along-with-everyone kind of man. But now, looking at those broken homes, he understood.
The “fire” Jesus spoke of — Daniel had felt it in his gut when Howard dangled that deal in front of him. It was the fire of truth, burning away excuses, showing him the choice for what it was. That fire doesn’t let you hide.
Daniel had lived that truth when he said no and watched the contract slip away. It wasn’t a light sprinkling over his head; it was like plunging into deep, cold water — the shock of loss closing in around him. But when he rose again, he was poorer in possessions yet richer in integrity. And the “division”? He’d felt that too — friends who thought him foolish, clients who drifted away, even Maria’s worried eyes in those early days. Truth has a way of separating those who want the easy road from those willing to stand on rock.
Now he saw it clearly: the division wasn’t the point — it was the cost. The peace that came after was different. Not the fragile peace of keeping quiet to avoid conflict, but the solid peace of knowing the storm could pound against you and you’d still be standing.
That night on the porch, Daniel told Maria, “I think I finally get that Gospel. Jesus didn’t come to keep everybody smiling. He came to make us choose what we’re going to build on — rock or sand. Truth or lies. And when you choose rock, some folks won’t walk with you.”
Maria squeezed his hand. “And that’s the only way to have peace that lasts.”
Daniel looked out into the night, the air fresh from the rain. “Turns out,” he said, “the only peace worth having is the kind that can survive a storm.”
Written By: Deacon Thomas M.Sullivan
HOW TO SIGN UP FOR EVENTS/VOLUNTEERING
HOW TO SIGN UP FOR EVENTS/VOLUNTEERING
- Go to website -kofc7784.org
- On left side of menu click on Event Calendar
- Choose the date that you are interested in signing up/volunteering
- Screen will appear that elaborates on the event and pertinent information
- Look for the CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
- Follow the direction for either member/nonmember. Do not worry about filling out the number of hours for volunteering etc. The idea is to get your name to the Event Chairman to know you are interested. If you are worried, call or email the Event Chairman, either by finding his information on the members list or in the narrative of the event. Once you have completed that and sent it you should receive a confirmation email that you are signed up.
- Hopefully, the Event Chairman will use this information to create a list of volunteers who will receive directed emails keeping them informed of the event. That is, IF the Event Chairman provides it.
- If all else fails, contact the Event Chairman.
How to get to the minutes and other council information
1. Click on the members only tab on the left side of the screen.
2. Sign in using your member number and password.
3. Click on the item you want to see from the list.
How to Update Your Email/Other Information
How to Update Your Email/Other Information
- Go to the website: www.kofc7784.org and click on Member List.
- Sign in using your membership number and date of birth.
- Find your name on the Member List and click on the UPDATE box.
- Update the information and click on the SUBMIT YOUR CORRECTIONS.
- This will get your changes to the Financial Secretary for action.
METHOD #2
TO UPDATE YOUR INFORMATION FROM THE SUPREME WEBSITE
- Go to website: www.kofc.org and click on For Members.
- Scroll down to Update Contact Information and click on it.
- Fill in the necessary information. Check the boxes that you are a Knight of Columbus and are updating Membership/Columbia information.
- Click Submit. This will update the National database and save some work for the Financial Secretary.
OR
- Go to our website: www.kofc7784.org and click on SUPREME COUNCIL SITE.
- Click on For Members and follow steps 3 and 4 above.
Equal Rights for Babies in the Womb
EQUAL RIGHTS FOR BABIES IN THE WOMB
At the March council meeting, a presentation was made by Ms Christine Flaherty, Executive Director of LIFENET asking for our support for "Protections of Babies in the Womb and their Families. Here is the link for more information.
For more information about LIFENET, click here.
Please call (973) 497-4500 or email BabyFeetStuff@gmail.com to order any of the following:
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20/20 Car Magnets (5-3/4″)
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Phone Stickers (2”)
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Bumper Stickers
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Prayer Cards
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Equal Rights Signs
- Lapel Pins
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Blue Ties/Scarves
Mailing address: LIFENET
P. O. Box 1800
Montclair, NJ 07042