Matthew Raymund Michael Morris Niblick

Oh! Breathe Not His Name
by Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

OH! breathe not his name,—let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o’er his head.

But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Niblick

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babies love their mommies and daddies for eternity

James Raymond Jordan, Memorial# 6923530 @ theResurrectionDiaries

James Raymond Jordan, Memorial# 6923530 @ theResurrectionDiaries

James Raymond Jordan, Sr. (July 31, 1936 – July 23, 1993) of Lumberton, North Carolina, was the American father of baseball and basketball player Michael Jordan and James R. Jordan, Jr., and the grandfather of University of Central Florida players Jeffrey Jordan and Marcus Jordan. A lifelong baseball fan, Jordan had played a large role in inspiring his son Michael to become an athlete. Jordan traveled the United States to follow Michael’s career, first at the University of North Carolina and then with the Chicago Bulls.

Cross Over Jordan, the Carolinan

While returning from a funeral, Jordan pulled into a rest stop near the intersection of Interstate 95 and State Road 74 just south of Lumberton, North Carolina to take a nap. Daniel Green and Larry Martin Demery spotted the car, a red Lexus SC400 coupe with the North Carolina License plate that read “UNC0023”, Michael had recently purchased for him.

Father and son, the image of love.

Father and son, the image of love.

Green and Demery shot Jordan to death while he slept in his car and then stole the vehicle. His body was found on August 3 in a swamp in Bennettsville, South Carolina, and was not positively identified until August 13.

Michael Jordan retired shortly after, in part due to the loss of his father, with whom he shared a close relationship. Continue reading

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Prophecy

Father Al, Petrus Romanus and The Last Pope

Father Alfred Kunz

Father Alfred Kunz

“In extreme persecution, the seat of the Holy Roman Church will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed the sheep through many tribulations, at the term of which the city of seven hills will be destroyed [in accordance with Revelation 18:4-20], and the formidable Judge will judge his people. The End.”

The murder of Father Alfred Kunz, a Catholic priest found with his throat slit inside his church in Dane, Wisconsin, strangely was ignored by the mainstream news and even by the Catholic news.

“According to his biographer, St. Malachy was visiting Rome in 1139 when he went into a trance and received a vision. Malachy wrote down this extraordinary vision in which he claims to have foreseen all of the popes from the death of Innocent II until the destruction of the church and the return of Christ.

Connection is made between the murder of Father Kunz with the sudden death of author Father Malachi Martin in 1999. Continue reading

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Ancestry

For Daddy: There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.

Daddy Matthew

This looks familiar, vaguely familiar,
Almost unreal, yet, it’s too soon to feel yet.
Close to my soul, and yet so far away.
I’m going to go back there someday.

Sun rises, night falls, sometimes the sky calls.
Is that a song there, and do I belong there?
I’ve never been there, but I know the way.
I’m going to go back there someday.

Come and go with me, it’s more fun to share,
We’ll both be completely at home in midair.
We’re flyin’, not walkin’, on featherless wings.
We can hold onto love like invisible strings.

There’s not a word yet for old friends who’ve just met.
Part heaven, part space, or have I found my place?
You can just visit, but I plan to stay.

I’m going to go back there someday.
I’m going to go back there someday.

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Culture

A California Teenager Goes Undercover to Investigate Life Among the Moonies

By 1977, with a fledgling community of committed and dedicated people, and with a sound teaching that inspired us to live our ideals, the Unification movement in California had grown rapidly. Our first challenge was to become ourselves a model of what we wanted the world to become. The love-ethic presented in the Divine Principle demanded a life of prayer, study, and service to others. We sought within our community to be caring, creative, and loving people, and upon this foundation to work actively for the sake of God and humanity.

We called ourselves “The Creative Community Project” and used a former fraternity house on Hearst Street as a place to teach the Divine Principle at luncheon and dinner programs. We were inspired by an ideal and wanted above all to communicate that ideal to those around us who, so it seemed, had very little commitment to anything other than self-interest.

Most people we encountered had only the foggiest sense of ethics, so we felt great meaning in sharing with them, through our dinner discussions and lectures, the significance of our own ethical ideals. Those who were serious and wanted to pursue those ideals further were invited to workshops at Boonville and, later, to other country retreats. — To Bigotry, No Sanction: Reverend Sun Myung Moon and the Unification Church by Dr. Mose Durst

Growing up in the San Francisco Bay area, Scott Keeler, 18, knew what every other teenager knew. As one of his classmates put it, “There’s this place you can go if you’re fighting with your parents. They’ll take care of you.”

But unlike most of the others, Keeler also knew that the “place,” Creative Community Project, was owned and run by the Rev. Sun Myung Moon‘s Unification Church. As student body president at Alameda, Calif. High School and reporter for his school paper, Oak Leaf, Keeler decided last spring to go underground and investigate the Moonies.

Using the alias Dirk Schwerte, he quickly discovered that Moonie recruiters were on the lookout for unattached teenagers.

“All anyone has to do,” he says, “is put on his backpack and walk down to Fisherman’s Wharf.” Though no mention was made of Reverend Moon or his church, Keeler was invited to the Moonies’ San Francisco headquarters. Here is his account of his bizarre experiences:

Creative Community Project is a large white Victorian house on Washington Street. I felt my stomach in my throat as I jabbed the doorbell. Before I could ring again, the door swung open. “Come on and join our circle,” said a young man with a fixed smile. He offered his hand. I cautiously took it and sat down. He squeezed my hand, smiling and staring at me.

Later a low-protein, vegetarian dinner of rice and broccoli was served. I noticed that all the first-time visitors had acquired a new Moonie friend hanging close by their side. “Come on, let’s go over and pull up some rug,” said a young man, putting his arm around me and beaming. His name was Bob. I noticed he didn’t have any food.

“Aren’t you eating?” I asked.

“No, I’m fasting this week. It’s spiritual fasting. Some of the people in our community do it.”

An hour and a half later Bob was still sitting beside me and holding my hand. We were being lectured by a Moonie leader named Sherri Sagar when there was a loud crash at the front door. A man was shouting “Jeannie!” and trying to force his way in. Suddenly at least 25 Moonie reinforcements flooded the entry, trying to push him back out. “Where is Jeannie?” he shouted. “Jeannie! Jeannie!”

“There’s no Jeannie here,” insisted one of the Moonies. “You’ll have to leave.”

“What do you mean?” shouted the man, clinging to the door molding. “She came here last week, you bastards! What have you done with her?”

The Moonies kept pushing, peeling his fingers from the door, and finally shoved him outside. We could hear him shouting after the door was closed and locked.

“What was that about?” I asked Bob.

“Just somebody being negative,” he said. “People attack us because they don’t understand what we’re doing.”

At the end of the evening everyone clasped hands and formed a circle. “Okay!” said Sherri Sagar. “I hope you all liked what you saw tonight and will come up to our farm. We have cars leaving tonight. But before everybody goes, we’re going to do a mass Choo-Choo!” The newcomers shrugged and exchanged glances. “Got it?” she shouted. “It’s easy! Just shake your partner’s hand until we’re through. Ready? One, two, three—Choo-choo-choo! Choo-choo-choo! Choo-choo-choo! Yea, yea, pow!” We newcomers began to laugh, but the Moonies just smiled. “What’s the matter?” they asked.

The Dodge van was packed with 15 people heading north to the Moonies’ farm at Boonville, Calif. The lecture about the farm had sounded appealing—being out in the country, by a cool creek, with people you liked. Sitting beside me was a Moonie named Joanna. She was 20, already married and divorced. “I’m so inspired now that I’m in the Family, I never want to leave,” she said. “There’s so much meaning here.”

No one had mentioned Moon or the Unification Church yet. I decided to take a chance. “How long have you been in the church?” I asked. Joanna’s eyes became distant. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. “How did you know about the church?” she asked finally. “Most people don’t know this early.”

I told her my cover story, and she seemed satisfied. “Well,” she said, smiling again in the darkness, “it’s good that you’re so open. Most people don’t understand and say bad things about us and the Principle.”

“What’s the Principle?” I asked.

“Well, it’s…” Then she stopped. A man on the other side of the van was looking at her with intense disapproval. “You’ll get that in the lectures,” she said finally. The stranger smiled and nodded. I nodded back.

“How are you feeling, Family?” shouted David, our leader, the next morning. “Great!” everyone yelled.

“Is everyone ready to have the best weekend of your life?”

“Yes!”

Dr. Jack was our exercise leader. “Now let’s do 25 regular jumping-jacks and 10 free-style.” We began bobbing up and down in count with Dr. Jack. I started wondering whether I was 8 or 18. After exercises we were separated into new groups, each recruit accompanied by a Moonie. Eight of us sat on the grass in a tight little circle with blankets and songbooks.

“Okay,” said Dr. John, our group leader, supposedly an M.D. from New Zealand. “Let’s start off this fantastic day by giving your name and sharing a little bit about you.”

When my turn came I talked about Dirk Schwerte, but emotionally I was telling about Scott Keeler (“My mom and dad are divorced. I keep mostly to myself. A lot of people call me a sissy because I don’t play sports…”). “That was really fantastic,” said Dr. John at the end of the sharing. “It shows how open you can be up here in the fresh air.” He laughed as we all clasped hands, and we laughed too. I was beginning to feel so warm and comfortable I wondered why I had ever suspected there was anything wrong with these people. I felt intensely guilty about deceiving them.

The first lecture was a 70-minute presentation of ambiguous references to God, cosmic principles and spirituality. Oriental symbols were put on a blackboard but never explained. After the lecture broke up, we went back to our groups. “Does anyone have any questions?” asked Dr. John. I raised my hand. The other recruits still did not know these people were connected with Reverend Moon and his church. I wondered what would happen if I mentioned it. “You know in the lecture when you talked about God being everywhere?” I began. “Well, is that what the church believes?”

Dr. John dropped his smile. The other Moonies stared at me. A fellow recruit named Paul looked bewildered. “What church?” he asked. No one answered. My eyes locked with Dr. John’s for what seemed a long, uneasy time. “That’s a good question, Dirk,” he said slowly. “Who can answer that?” His eyes never left mine.

“Ah, yeah,” Bob began uncertainly. He talked and talked and didn’t tell us anything.

It was time for volleyball. “Everybody hug in close,” commanded Dr. John. “We’ve got to be positive and chant so loud every second that we’ll love-bomb ’em right out of the game!”

“Yeah, yeah! Great! Yeah!” Every Moonie in our huddle was screaming. I forced a smile and chanted along with everyone else: “Win with love! Win with love!”

“Follow the game!” shouted Dr. John. “Keep your eyes on the ball!” It got easier and easier to chant as I followed the ball with my eyes. I began to lose track of the words I was repeating over and over. I felt I could do anything. A smile spread across my face as I heard our voices echoing off the surrounding hills. Suddenly I fell, and it took me several moments to realize I was on the ground. A Moonie was standing over me. My breath had been knocked out, but I went on chanting “Win with love” in a whisper. I couldn’t stop and it scared me. “Are you okay?” he asked. I picked myself up and checked my watch. We had been playing for more than an hour and had finished two games I couldn’t even remember.

The next evening I walked to the van to return to San Francisco. I said I was sorry I had to go, and I was. “Where am I ever going to get love like this on the outside?” I thought to myself. I was almost crying, and I went up and hugged Dr. John.

“Look, Dirk,” he began slowly, “can’t you just call your mom and tell her you’ll be home in a couple of days? You can call her right now.”

“Sure, just call her now,” said Bob. “You like it up here, don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…”

“Good,” said Dr. John, “because you can go up to Camp K with us tonight. I’ll drive you myself. Why don’t you tell your mom now?” Stepping forward, they closed in on me in a way I didn’t like, and I took a step backward.

“Hey,” I said finally. “I told you, I have to go. I’ll be back when everything’s straightened out, okay?”

A few days later I did go to Camp K, a converted Girl Scout camp in the Napa Valley where the Moonies continue their indoctrination. Before I went there, I spoke with several authorities on the Unification Church. They warned me that the Moonies were trying to isolate me from the outside world and to keep me from critically examining what they were saying. “If you’re good,” one of them warned me, “they smile and love-bomb you. But if you argue, then they descend on you.” Later one of the Moonies told me the church teaches that you don’t have any responsibility to your friends or family; your only duty is to Moon.

Unification Church members are smiling all of the time, even at four in the morning. The man who is full of love must live that way. When you go out witnessing you can caress the wall and say that it can expect you to witness well and be smiling when you return. What face could better represent love than a smiling face? This is why we talk about love bomb; Moonies have that kind of happy problem.

By the time I got to Camp K, I was beginning to understand some of the things I guess I hadn’t wanted to see before. At Boonville I had become close with a girl named Maureen. At Camp K they deliberately split us up. That’s when I realized they were playing with people’s lives. Any one-to-one sexual activity is absolutely forbidden. Couples are selected for marriage by church officials, often before they get to know each other. After I left, I seriously thought about kidnapping Maureen and having her deprogrammed. It took me about two months to reach her. I told her who I really was, and she got very defensive. She said, “I’m not leaving here. I’m better off here than on the road.” I knew I had to let her go.

In all, I spent three days at Camp K. Then I went back to Ghirardelli Square in San Francisco to continue researching my article and to photograph Moonie recruiters. While I was there I ran into Dr. Jack and another recruiter who knew me. They demanded to know who I was and what I was doing. I told them.

“Give me your film,” Dr. Jack demanded quietly, moving close.

I told him I wouldn’t.

“Give me the film,” he insisted.

“No,” I said, trying to hold my ground.

“Give it to me,” he droned. “Give me the film.”

I grabbed my camera, wrapping the strap around my arm and gripping the lens barrel. I almost gave in from fear, but then I exploded.

“No!” I yelled. “Forget it! I’m not going to give you the film!” People in the park turned and looked at me.

“Scott Keeler?” asked Dr. Jack. “Alameda?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“We’ll be in touch.”

My Daddy escaped the Moonies camp with a new friend in tow. They met again at the NIblick’s Hessen Cassel.

Works Cited

A California Teenager Goes Undercover to Investigate Life Among the Moonies.” : People.com. N.p., 24 July 1978. Web. 04 Mar. 2013.

Heartbreak and Rage: Ten Years Under Sun Myung Moon: a Cult Survivor’s Memoir” Neufeld, K G. College Station, TX: Virtualbookworm.com, 2002. Print.

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Lost, Please Find.

It started with opening facebook to a post Patrick Terry had just put up:

“That’s all I wanted, something special,
Something sacred in your eyes,
For just one moment, to be bold and naked
At your side”

Daddy and Me

I wondered for a moment at who wrote it as I gestured over the comment notifications, coming to one from a name I know from my oldest memories, Rosalee.

Rosalee Matt was a great artist, he had his Lincoln Life uniform on. I hope Arlene saved some of his work, it was amazing.

Angela Baxley Hey Rosalee—unfortunately I don’t think we have anything left of his. It seems each piece one by one met by some untimely demise along the way. I’m most heart broken over the one he painted specifically for me. If you do come across anything of his, including reproductions, Heather and I would love to collect whatever we can.

Daddy's Tired

Pam That’s you, Heather—in his expression!

Lisa Is that the hat that they gave your brother in December? The one of your Dad’s!

Heather You know—I don’t know. I’ll hafta ask Momma. That would make it that much more special!

Lisa Yes it would.

Heather It certainly does look like it!

Lisa That’s what I thought. I think it was Wonda was tagged, ended up being your pics. So I was checking them out again. But it’s time since your trip home. When I looked at this one I was like OMG I think that is the hat!

Angela Wow. That makes me so happy. I’ve always hated Matthew hasn’t had anything of his. It seems so unfair they never met—they look just alike. It’s so hard to see my father stuck at the same age as my brother. We’ve all grown older than he has now.

If you have any artwork by the artist Matthew Raymond Niblick (1958-1983), this is my father. Please contact me via spunkygidget@facebook.com.

Momma and Daddy

Update 4.9.2013

This morning via Twitter I was alerted to the Facebook “Other” inbox—others also being made aware that there might be messages missed… I went to check and there was a message from a nun in Wisconsin responding to this post. She had written in February:

A friend of mine is doing research on the paintings in the back of St. Michael Church, in Dane, Wis… I know that these were painted by Matthew Niblik as they are signed..

He painted these pictures when our church was new…1975. One of St. Michael sending Lucifer to hell, one of Our Lady of Guadalupe and one of our school and church.

I remember he had a sister who is a sister of St. Agnes…Sister Lael.

Not sure if this helps you.

longtime teacher at St. Michael…now Blessed Trinity School.

I’m hoping to they’ll be able to send digital photos — so exciting to really get to see artwork of his we’ve never seen!

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Dad

I’ve been told that I was Daddy’s girl. I’m not quite sure if that means he adored me, or that I preferred him over my mother—the concept is difficult knowing how critical my relationship with my mother is to me, but then again, perhaps that’s because the first best friend I lost was actually my father?

I took my love, I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around

After he died, I was taught that one day, I could see him again in a resurrection in a paradise earth where we could live forever, together. As long as I made it there myself.

And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
‘Til the landslide brought me down

Today was a special day for me, one of reconnection. I experienced my nervous system exploding where it felt like my nerves were crawling, struggling against the skin on my face for release from capitivty in my body.

Oh, mirror in the sky
What is love?

I wasn’t raised to believe that he’s in heaven, looking down on me. My mother sat me on the back stoop on Reid Street and explained how he was no longer, and that he would go back to the earth—crumbling a leaf in her hand demonstrating how life deteriorates, ashes, dust. It was March, in Indiana.

Can the child within my heart rise above?

I’ve struggled—”would he be proud of me?”—my whole life to live.

Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?

I have. I will. I am.

Can I handle the seasons of my life?

He would be proud of me.

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you

I don’t know how to breath, and I don’t know how to feel emotion—my nerves are deadened, a life lived in conflict.

But time makes you bolder

I guess today was the day I came to terms with my life.

Even children get older

My sisters had babies, and they are growing up without me.

And I’m getting older, too

And so is my mother.

Oh, take my love, take it down
Oh, climb a mountain and turn around

I wonder if my mother will hold true to this torture our whole lives.

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down

I had my father for 42 months, and the days of my birth and his death.

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills…
Well, the landslide will bring it down

I wish I could know my mother.

Oh, the landslide’ll bring it down.

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Daddy’s Arms

It’s not very often that I succumb to being sad. My perspective on life has been that it’s simply to short to spend it sad. My dad died when he was 24.

That being said, sometimes my strength runs out. At those times, I just want someone to hold me. I can see so clearly a little girl climbing into her father’s lap burying her head in chest to be comforted. I don’t know really if that’s how it works. I never really had the chance. But I imagine it. I imagine that it’s comforting.

Daddy's Girl

It seems so cruel and unfair that March is usually the beginning of spring. It seems so contrary to all that March means to me. Cherry apple blossoms rain little kisses, the grass is the greenest of young greens, the air is fresh, crisp, clean and clear. But he died, he left one night, and never returned.

And Jessica. She was enjoying the spring. A Sunday hike. She never came home either.

My momma tells me, “Every year I have this experience were I look at myself in the mirror and think, “good god girl, look at your eyes”. Our bodies know. It is like an impregnated negative pattern. I have tried to not think about it and rejoice within myself we made it to 25 years. Our bodies are a wonderful thing. It has always given a rough start to spring but I would not of had the strength to do it with out it. Look at what were are left with. And were we came from.”

I wonder, when she says “we made it to 25 years” does she mean her and my father – the love of her life? Or does she mean us? Those left behind, and here we are 26 years, now, later?

I guess she has a good point though. What better time of year to believe, to hope, to renew than spring?

Barefoot in the grass

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Six Random Things

  1. I play the violin and went to a performing arts school. I was first chair, first violin, and gave it up because I didn’t want to spend all day practicing.
  2. I quit high school because I was bored! This past year I graduated college, a double major with honors in Communications and Social Sciences. I am thrilled with my educational path, wouldn’t have done it any other way. (Oh! and I still don’t have a high school diploma!)
  3. I lived in Italy. It was just for a short bit of time, but I didn’t want to come back. One day I won’t.
  4. My daddy died when I was very young. I consider every year I live past 24 a gift. Because he didn’t get to have that, and I do.
  5. I would get upset when I was younger because I kept getting 99 percentile on the California Achievement Tests (which tested you against the nation). I couldn’t figure out how to get 100% and it frustrated me. Now I feel like a moron… There’s a difference between book smarts and common sense, as my dad would say!
  6. I got married the night before I turned 17. I was married for four years.

The Rules!

From Dave (who gave his hat tip to Connie Crosby):
1. Link to the person who tagged you: Kathy Gill
2. Post the rules on the blog.
3. Write six random things about yourself.
4. Tag six people at the end of your post. Tara, Stickel, Dan Fernandez, Mario Esposito, Molly, Ryan Stewart
5. Let each person know they have been tagged.
6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up.

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