Four days before Lindsay Clancy, the feminist saint, killed her three children, she asked Google where to find the carotid artery. The kind of question any homeschool mother might ask, instructing her kids.
I will say that again. Killed her three children.
That is not where it stopped. How to slit a throat so someone dies. Can you turn off the airbags on a Kia Sorento. Can you treat a sociopath. Four days of research on her own phone, all of it read out loud to a jury in Massachusetts that still has not decided if this is murder.
That is not a breakdown. That is not some psychotic snap. That is a plan. Someone sat there and planned it out.
Her children were five, three, and eight months old. Cora. Dawson. Callan. She strangled them in that basement on January 24, 2023, then cut herself and jumped from a second-story window. She lived. They did not.
I do not do the news. I learned why driving a garbage truck, listening to Glenn Beck tell me every morning that the world was ending. My wife and I stay out of it as much as we can.
But my whole feed is this woman now, so I am going to say the true thing, because the church was not charged with commentary. When Jesus was taken up, he charged his disciples with making disciples of men, baptizing them in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. They stayed around Jerusalem instead, so God sent persecution, and persecution scattered them into the uttermost parts of the world. Everywhere they landed, they carried the word on their mouths and did what they were told.
Here is the true thing. We live in a sin-corrupted world that is rolling toward the fire God promised, down to the elemental level. People are becoming brute beasts. Go to your local mall and watch. I think about Planet of the Apes, Charlton Heston staring at the broken Statue of Liberty, you damn dirty apes, realizing the apes were us. That is where we are. So do not be shocked that a woman sat with her phone studying ways to kill her kids. Where the carotid artery is. How to take the airbags out of a Kia Sorento.
And do not tell me it was postpartum psychosis. The Bible said this time would come. Without natural affection, 2 Timothy 3:3. It is in a woman’s DNA to comfort, to nourish, to nurture, and to take care of things. Not to kill and destroy. When that flips, the problem is deeper than hormones.
Is the devil in it? I wrote this morning about pastors with sex drives no normal man has, four times a day and dragging other people in. The fallen angels of Genesis 6 were obsessed the same way, and it was not natural. Devils are real. The Son of Sam heard his neighbor’s dog telling him to kill people. It is always somebody else. It is always the devil made me do it. Possession is possible, but I believe we have the ability to take ourselves down these paths or not. You do not study the carotid artery on Tuesday and blame a hallucination on Friday.
The jury was never asked to decide what happened. They were asked to decide whether the story about what happened is more real than what happened. On the first of September, 2026, twelve jurors told the judge they could not agree on what to call it. Outside the courthouse, people held rallies. For her.
The knuckleheads are out too, demanding the 19th Amendment be revoked over this. We are past that point. There was a time when the family was the unit, the man carrying the outward face of the home and the woman the inward face. The founders wanted voters with land and something to lose. That world is gone, and no amendment brings it back. The problem is not in the ballot box. It is in the heart.
None of this started in that courthouse. It started in 1970, when Shulamith Firestone published The Dialectic of Sex and named childbearing itself as the source of women’s oppression. Pregnancy is barbaric, she wrote. Her answer was artificial wombs. Children made somewhere else, by something else, so motherhood would never ask anything of anyone again. She was not a crank selling pamphlets. The book was a sensation. The serious people of that decade took the tyranny of reproduction as a real problem that needed a real solution.
Fifty-six years later, the machine they built runs on time. Feed it the worst thing a person can do, and it prints a diagnosis. Murder goes in one end, and something called a “struggle” comes out the other.
Watch who the machine will not process.
In August, in Billings, Montana, a 44-year-old man named Alan Smith killed eight members of his own family at a Sunday dinner. Four of them were children, ages twelve to fifteen. His parents had asked him to move out weeks earlier. There were no rallies for Alan Smith. Nobody called him the real victim. The machine had one word for him. It keeps a whole dictionary for her.
A mother named Mandy said the plainest sentence of the whole affair, mom to mom, woman to woman. If she were truly innocent, she would beg for death. Six hundred and forty thousand people watched her say it. The mothers know. They have carried the real thing, and they know the difference between a woman who suffers and a woman who kills.
You have watched this run your whole life. When a man fails, you are handed his name and his guilt. When a mother kills, you are handed a brochure. You were not imagining the difference. You were taught not to say it. You have sons. You have daughters. The machine has a word ready for each of them, and it is not the same word.
I am not outside it. I have wanted softer names for my own failures. Every honest man has. The machine’s real product is not mercy for killers. It is permission for the rest of us.
Patrick Clancy buried all three of his children. Then he did the one thing the machine cannot forgive. He kept living. He did not sit in a dark room for three years dressed in black, which is the performance they wanted from him. He went back to work. He moved on. And for that, the people holding candles for his wife look at him with suspicion. A father who survives his own children is supposed to disappear quietly. The machine spends nothing on fathers. It already knows what they are for.
The Bible says the blood of Abel cried out to God from the ground. The voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground, Genesis 4:10. Three children’s blood is in the ground in Duxbury. God has never once asked for the diagnosis.
The jury went home without a verdict. The searches are still in evidence.
