Back in 2018 I wrote an editorial celebrating what a determined president could achieve in a single week. President Trump had just walked away from the flawed Iran nuclear deal, brought home three North Korean hostages, confirmed a historic summit with Kim Jong Un, overseen the capture of five ISIS leaders, and announced record job numbers for April. The mainstream media, meanwhile, obsessed over the non-story of Stormy Daniels. Those feats would have been impressive in a full year; they were unheard of across Obama’s eight years of managed decline.

Trump went further. With a stroke of his pen he clawed back $15 billion of taxpayer money from the bloated $1.3 trillion spending bill Congress had rammed through in March. He signed the omnibus reluctantly, vowing never to repeat the exercise, then began trimming the fat—money Congress had appropriated for programs where spending was either illegal or physically impossible. The cash would have sat in accounts until bureaucrats siphoned it elsewhere. Democrats screamed “cuts!” even though the funds could not lawfully be spent. Trump had wanted $60 billion in savings but broke the package into smaller, less controversial pieces to get anything through the Senate. The $15 billion was the easiest slice, yet the big-spending crowd still threatened to block it. I thanked the CRTV White House Brief at the time for shining light on the story the networks ignored.

Contrast that with the Biden years. Foreign policy that had been steadily reversing Trump’s gains: Iran emboldened, proxies attacking U.S. interests, North Korea and China testing new limits, and the catastrophic Afghanistan withdrawal that gifted the Taliban weapons, airfields, and global prestige while abandoning Americans and allies. Domestically we endured the worst inflation in forty years, wiping out wage gains and crushing fixed-income families; a southern border crisis that shattered records for illegal crossings, fentanyl deaths, and strain on communities; and multi-trillion-dollar spending sprees that ballooned the national debt without delivering the promised infrastructure miracle or energy independence. Job numbers were routinely revised downward, growth was anemic, and the media’s favorite distraction was rarely the substance—only the endless narrative that shielded the administration.

Yet the most personal insult came from the very platforms that claim to connect us. On January 6, 2021, Facebook permanently deleted my account. I had zero connection to the events of that day. The timing felt orchestrated—back-channel pressure from elements of U.S. intelligence that disliked independent voices asking hard questions. It was a chilling reminder that Big Tech and government could collude to silence dissent without due process.

Even before that final deletion, the pattern was clear. One ordinary day I woke up “in Facebook jail”—locked out for twenty-four hours with no warning. I couldn’t post, couldn’t view my business page, couldn’t scroll my feed, and couldn’t even open Messenger to contact friends or customers. I was away from my computer when it hit, so the first I knew was the sudden digital exile. As a partially disabled pensioner trying to make an honest living selling my writing and related products, every restriction hurts. Facebook had lately forced me to post pictures with my text if I wanted to promote my columns; then they changed the rules again and demanded I separate the writing from the products. I’m not hunting for violations—I share memes and commentary to advance a libertarian-leaning agenda—but the platform’s double standards are obvious.

The offense that triggered the latest ban wasn’t even my content. I had shared a silent video I found already circulating on Facebook. It showed what looked like high-quality security footage: a gunman walking up to a crowd of women and children on a street, raising a pistol. A woman in the crowd draws, fires, the man drops, people scatter. She takes cover behind a red car whose driver speeds off, then retrieves the discarded weapon and moves to help the downed shooter. I added a simple comment: “That ended well.” It read like a powerful pro-self-defense meme.

It wasn’t staged. The location was Suzano, Brazil. The gunman was Elivelton Neves Moreira, 21. The crowd was waiting for a school to open at 8 a.m. The woman was Katia da Silva Sastre, an off-duty military police officer and mother of a seven-year-old who was present (plus another younger child elsewhere). Moreira had already fired shots. Had he discovered she was a cop while searching her bag, the outcome could have been far bloodier. Elivelton died later at the hospital. The Governor of São Paulo honoured Katia on Mother’s Day for her courage. I didn’t create the clip; I shared what Facebook itself was hosting. Yet that was enough to lock me out.

I run a Facebook group and had recently told a member to stop reporting comments that met both platform and group rules. The complainant sent me a private message whining that I had “publicly shamed” them. I suggested they simply block people they disliked. Perhaps that same person decided to retaliate by flagging my share. Whatever the trigger, the episode confirmed what many of us already knew: the rules are enforced selectively against those who refuse to toe the approved line.

I refuse to surrender to despair. The principles that produced real results in 2018—fiscal discipline, strength abroad, economic opportunity, and the fundamental right of self-defense—have not been repealed by any administration. Media spin and Silicon Valley gatekeepers can obscure the truth for a season, but they cannot erase it forever. Americans who value liberty, honest work, and accountability will keep speaking, keep building, and keep voting their convictions. Better days are still possible when we refuse to abandon hope.

Mother’s Day traces its modern origins to a daughter’s devotion. In 1908, Anna Jarvis held a memorial service for her mother, Ann Jarvis, who had passed three years earlier in 1905. Ann Jarvis was no ordinary woman. She had tended to the wounded soldiers of both sides during the American Civil War and founded “Mother’s Day Work Clubs” to advocate for public health improvements and better conditions for families and communities.

Anna intended Mother’s Day to be a deeply personal tribute—an individual’s heartfelt recognition of their own mother’s sacrifices and love. Yet by 1914, President Woodrow Wilson, a Democrat, saw political opportunity and proclaimed it a national holiday. Anna Jarvis would later spend years denouncing the growing commercialism that turned the day into a festival of flowers, cards, and gifts, far removed from its sincere beginnings.

Despite these distortions, the essence remains: it is incumbent upon us, as a society, to make things good for mothers and families. We must not give up on hope.

At present, there are numerous obstacles to childbearing and raising families—economic pressures, career demands, and cultural shifts. It doesn’t have to be this way. Every family negotiates sacrifices at many points so that the family unit can thrive and grow. One much-discussed issue is women in the workplace and demands for perfect “equal pay” outcomes. This is something of a furphy. There will always be trade-offs and sacrifices in life; the focus should be on what is best for families as a whole, not rigid ideological score-keeping.

This truth was recognised by former Australian Treasurer Peter Costello, whose pro-family policies, including the baby bonus, famously contributed to a baby boom during his tenure. Families responded positively to incentives that made raising children more viable.

In a public sense, the best gift we can give mothers this Mother’s Day—and every day—is prosperity and affluence for the broader community. That means policies aimed at improving workforce participation and outcomes, lowering public debt, reducing regulatory burdens, and allowing businesses to profit and grow. Strong economies support strong families.

To put our own challenges into stark perspective, consider the horrifying image above: a Sudanese woman subjected to the barbaric practice of “tyre necklace” burning—doused in fuel and set alight after a tire was forced around her—allegedly for being unfaithful. This is the face of true, visceral misogyny and brutality against women in parts of the world.

Do the Trump haters, so quick to decry perceived slights in the West, see this misogyny? Real oppression exists far beyond the borders of our comfortable debates. As we honour our mothers, let us commit to building societies where families can flourish, and never lose hope in the enduring power of motherhood and human resilience.

For many who stand outside the Christian faith—or who are still weighing its claims—the doctrine of the Holy Spirit can feel like a late addition, a theological footnote invented by the early church or imposed by councils centuries after the events of the Gospels. They see the fiery descent at Pentecost, the dramatic language of the Book of Acts, and the elaborate Trinitarian formulas of later creeds, and assume the Spirit is a New Testament invention. This misunderstanding is understandable. The debate has indeed been contentious since the earliest decades of Christianity, flaring up in ancient heresies and medieval controversies alike. Yet a careful reading of the full biblical text reveals something far more profound: the Holy Spirit is present and active from the very first verses of Genesis through the last pages of Revelation. The evidence is textual, consistent, and clear.

The contention is ancient. In the fourth century, groups known as Pneumatomachians (“Spirit-fighters”) denied the full deity of the Holy Spirit, prompting the Council of Constantinople in 381 to affirm the Spirit’s equality within the Godhead. Centuries later, in the twelfth century, the humanist philosopher Peter Abelard subjected Trinitarian dogma—including the Spirit’s personhood—to rigorous rational scrutiny. A brilliant dialectician and precursor to later humanist thought, Abelard applied logic and philosophy to sacred mysteries. He associated the Father with Power, the Son with Wisdom, and the Holy Spirit with Goodness or Love, insisting that faith must be pursued through inquiry and understanding. “By doubting we come to inquiry, and by inquiry we perceive the truth,” he famously declared. Church authorities, led by Bernard of Clairvaux, condemned his works on the Trinity at councils in 1121 and 1141, viewing his rational approach as undermining traditional dogma. Abelard was no atheist; he remained a committed Christian. But his insistence that reason could illuminate even the deepest doctrines made him a lightning rod—proof that questions about the Spirit’s identity have long tested the boundaries between faith and intellect.

Yet the Bible itself does not wait for later theologians to introduce the Spirit. In the Old Testament, the Hebrew term ruach—meaning breath, wind, or spirit—appears repeatedly as the active presence of God himself. At creation, “the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters” (Genesis 1:2), bringing order out of chaos. The same Spirit empowers leaders: judges like Othniel and Gideon, kings like David, prophets who declare God’s word, and even craftsmen like Bezalel, filled with divine wisdom for the Tabernacle. The Spirit convicts of sin (Genesis 6:3), grieves over rebellion (Isaiah 63:10), and is personally addressed in prayer—“Do not take your Holy Spirit from me,” David pleads (Psalm 51:11). The phrase “Holy Spirit” itself appears explicitly in the Old Testament, though less frequently than in the New: in Psalm 51 and Isaiah 63, for instance, where the people’s resistance is said to have grieved God’s Holy Spirit. God even speaks in plural terms—“Let us make man in our image” (Genesis 1:26)—right in the context of the Spirit’s creative work, hinting at a complexity within the one God that later revelation would clarify.

The New Testament does not invent the Spirit; it fulfills and names what was already there. Jesus promises the coming of the Paraclete—the Advocate, Comforter, the Spirit of truth—who will dwell within believers (John 14–16). At His baptism, the Spirit descends like a dove while the Father speaks from heaven, presenting a Trinitarian moment. On the day of Pentecost, the same Spirit who hovered at creation now fills the church with power, enabling bold proclamation and the birth of a new covenant people. Paul later describes the Spirit’s ongoing work: producing fruit in character (Galatians 5:22–23), distributing gifts for the common good (1 Corinthians 12), and sealing believers for redemption (Ephesians 1:13–14). The terminology becomes more precise—“the Holy Spirit”—but the reality is the same divine Person who has been active all along.

Skeptics may still object that the Old Testament never spells out a fully developed doctrine of three co-equal Persons. Fair enough. Scripture unfolds progressively, as a story rather than a systematic textbook. The Old Testament lays the foundation; the New Testament brings the full light of Christ. Yet the textual thread is unbroken: the same God who breathed life into Adam is the same Spirit who breathes new life into the church. The actions attributed to the Spirit—creating, empowering, grieving, guiding, convicting—consistently portray a personal, divine presence, not an impersonal force.

Those still exploring faith need not fear that the doctrine was manufactured by councils or medieval scholars. The Bible itself testifies to the Spirit’s presence across both Testaments. Abelard was right in one respect: honest inquiry does not destroy faith; it can lead us deeper into it. Open the pages. Read Genesis 1 alongside John 3 and Acts 2. The wind that moved over the waters at the beginning is the same wind that still moves hearts today. The evidence has always been there—clear, compelling, and inviting anyone willing to look.