Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

Faith,Family,responsibility,integrity. Words men live by. Reward hard work Trump 2020 Backwoods Mississippi Joined October 2016

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The Four Hearts @t4hrts

9 months ago

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TRUTH TELLER @truth_teller58

9 months ago

This is what we will be doing going forward. Protecting and respecting our streets. No more Obama Rules

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Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

9 months ago

R is missing 👍 5 speed manual transmission is fancy! 😉

Giggling Gannon @GigglingGanon

9 months ago

When a grown man sees this and has no idea what is missing. 🤦

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Mr PitBull Stories @MrPitbull07

9 months ago

“I delivered a pepperoni pizza to a house last night. Total was $18.50. An elderly man opened the door. He moved slow. The house was dark. "My wife used to handle the money," he apologized, fumbling with a jar of coins. "She passed last week. I just... I didn't know how to cook." He poured the coins onto the porch table. Pennies, nickels, dimes. "Is it enough?" he asked, voice shaking. "I can look for more." It was maybe $6 in change. I looked at him. I looked at the cold, dark house. "Actually, sir," I said. "It's your lucky day. We have a special for seniors tonight. It's on the house." I pushed the coins back toward him. "Really?" his eyes watered. "Really. And hey, I get off shift in 30 minutes. Do you mind if I come back and eat a slice with you? I hate eating alone." He smiled. A real smile. "I'd like that, son. I'll leave the light on." We sat on his porch and talked about his wife for two hours. The pizza was cold. But the company was warm. I paid for the pizza out of my tips. Best $18.50 I ever lost.” ~Bringer of Rain

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Jeff pontz @827js

9 months ago

This is an Army of Veterans who are prepared to do whatever is necessary to uphold the Constitution. Their numbers are growing by the thousands. Getting real! Re-post if you support this!

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Susan @emma6USA

9 months ago

Yesterday Stan Nelson who was the Last survivor of D-Day passed away. R I P 🙏💔😢🕊️. Thank you for your Service.

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Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

10 months ago

A couple scars and leftover callus’s from rocking one of those. Hungover as a teen, always found one in my hands in the most rocky damn dirt. 😂

𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 @Matt_Pinner

10 months ago

I bet no one knows what is this!

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Catholic podcast @Cath0licP0dcast

10 months ago

READ IT ONCE AND THE MIRACLES WILL HAPPEN

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MotherMary @Mothermary0012

10 months ago

Saint Michael the Archangel defend us in battle

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Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

10 months ago

@elonnews40 Hope

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Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

10 months ago

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Scott E Larson @ScottELarson2

10 months ago

🙏🏻❤️

dahlia kurtz ✡︎ דליה קורץ @DahliaKurtz

10 months ago

"I'm going to heaven probably today or tomorrow." Nan wants to go because she misses her husband. "I just hope he's not got an angel on the side." But wants to say goodbye to each member of her family before she goes. Spend more time with your loved ones. 🎥TT little_jessx

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RosarySon @SkyVirginSon

10 months ago

Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you. Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen!

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H*****Z @Hz___143

10 months ago

What do you think? He didn't break the law out of greed, but love. Facing prison for buying his mother's life-saving medicine, the Judge saw his heart, dropped the charges, and gave him a second chance to care for her.

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𝔊𝔯á𝔦𝔫𝔫𝔢 🕊️☘️ @GrainneMcD92925

10 months ago

All Glory to The Father, The Son and The Holy Spirit 🕊️

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Catholic Quotes @CatholicQuote12

10 months ago

Saint Michael the Archangel defend us in battle.

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Michelle Maxwell ™ @MichelleMaxwell

10 months ago

The neighbors call the cops on my dad every six months. They think he’s running a fighting ring or flipping pets for profit. For years, I wasn't sure they were wrong. My father, Frank, is a man of few words and even fewer friends. He lives on a fixed income in a small, weathered house just outside of town. He’s 68, walks with a limp he got in ’71, and spends most of his day in his garage. But his most controversial habit involves the local animal shelter. Like clockwork, Dad brings home a dog. Not the cute puppies everyone wants. He picks the "unadoptables." The three-legged pit bulls, the senior labs with gray muzzles, the curs that cower in the corner. For six months, that dog lives like royalty. I’d visit and see Dad hand-feeding them steak scraps, walking them for hours, talking to them in a soft voice he never used with me. Then, six months later? Gone. The dog vanishes. No photos, no collar left behind. Just an empty bowl and Dad driving his rusted pickup truck to the shelter to get another one. "Where’s Barnaby?" I asked last Sunday. Barnaby was a one-eyed Golden Retriever mix he’d had since spring. That dog worshipped the ground Dad walked on. "Moved on," Dad grunted, staring at his coffee. "Moved on? Did you sell him, Dad? The neighbors are talking. They say you’re sick." "Let them talk." I couldn't take it anymore. I loved Barnaby. The thought of my father selling that sweet soul to some stranger for a few hundred bucks made my stomach turn. So, when I saw him load a bag of high-grade kibble and a new leash into his truck the next morning, I followed him. I expected him to drive to a breeder or a shady parking lot exchange. Instead, he drove two towns over to a drab apartment complex near the VA hospital. He pulled up to a ground-floor unit. I watched from my car, phone ready to record evidence, as he knocked on the door. A young man answered. He couldn't have been older than 25, but he looked 50. He was missing his right arm, and the way he stood—tense, scanning the perimeter—screamed PTSD. I recognized that look. I’d seen it in Dad’s old photos. Dad didn't say a word. He just whistled. From the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, a dog jumped out. It wasn't Barnaby. It was "Duke," a German Shepherd he’d had last year. Duke looked incredible. Focused. Calm. He trotted right up to the young man and sat by his left leg, leaning his weight against the boy’s thigh. The young man crumpled. He fell to his knees, burying his face in Duke’s fur, sobbing. Duke didn't flinch. He just held his ground, anchoring the boy to reality. Dad handed the young man a thick envelope. Not money—paperwork. Vaccination records. Training logs. I got out of my car. "Dad?" He jumped, looking more terrified than I’d ever seen him. He walked me away from the boy, lowering his voice. "You weren't supposed to see this." "You trained him," I realized. "You didn't get rid of them. You trained them." Dad sighed, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "A fully trained PTSD service dog costs anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand dollars. The insurance doesn't cover it. The VA has a waiting list a mile long. These boys... they come home, and they can't sleep, they can't go to the grocery store, they can't breathe." He looked back at the young man, who was now smiling through tears, throwing a ball for Duke with his left hand. "I can't give them money," Dad said, his voice cracking. "I don't have any. But I know dogs. And I have time." "But why the secrecy? Why every six months?" "Because that’s how long it takes to turn a scared shelter dog into a soldier’s lifeline," he said. "Basic obedience, task training, desensitization. I take the broken dogs nobody wants, and I turn them into the partners these kids need." "And Barnaby?" I asked, my throat tight. "Delivered him yesterday to a female marine in Ohio. She hadn't left her house in two years. She went to the park this morning." 🐾 on my ❤️ Please share if this moved you.