11/05/2025
This actually brought tears to my eyes.
If we all treated each other with even a fraction of the love for human life shown here, this world would already be a much better place.
Just because a system is broken doesnāt mean we have to be.
We donāt have to follow blindly ā we can choose to carve our own path.
While we may be far removed from the atrocities of the N**i regime, our society still carries deep flaws and injustices ā they just wear different faces.
Take housing, for example. Home ownership is slipping farther and farther out of reach for younger generations.
And the truth isā¦ we **can** do something about it.
We give away so much when we buy and sell through the systems that were built to keep us dependent. Banks take and take ā and by the time youāve finished paying your front-loaded mortgage, youāve often paid more than **double** the cost of your home.
But it doesnāt have to be that way.
Did you know you can sell your home directly to someone ā without a bank in the middle?
Real people helping real people.
Thatās how we start changing the system ā one conscious choice at a time.
This is what Iām working toward.
No more investors getting me a mortgage so I can drown in interest.
No more feeding a system that profits off debt and dependency.
The investor plan got me close to what I wanted ā but it still didnāt feel right.
Iām going to live my truth and follow my purpose ā to create something that brings freedom back to people, not takes it away.
The kind of plan Iām building creates **housing accessibility for the buyer** and **long-term income security for the seller**.
Instead of paying insane interest to a bank, the buyer pays a little extra directly to the seller ā a couple hundred thousand that goes straight into creating *real financial security* for both sides.
Thatās what fairness looks like.
Thatās what community looks like.
And thatās the kind of system I want to be part of building.
A priest volunteered to die in a stranger's place at Auschwitz.
The man he saved lived 53 more years and attended his savior's canonization.
Auschwitz, July 1941. The sirens blare. Roll call.
All prisoners of Barracks 14 stand at attention. A man has escaped. The N**is' rule is absolute: for every escapee, ten prisoners will be executed.
SS-HauptsturmfĆ¼hrer Karl Fritzsch walks the line. Choosing. Pointing.
"You. You. You."
Each man selected steps forward, knowing what comes next. Starvation bunker. No food. No water. Slow death.
Then Fritzsch points at prisoner 5659.
Franciszek Gajowniczek.
He's 40 years old. A Polish army sergeant. Arrested for being in the resistance.
When Fritzsch points at him, Franciszek cries out:
"My wife! My children!"
He has two young sons. They need their father. His voice breaks with desperation.
The SS officers laugh. They've heard this before. Begging doesn't matter.
Then another prisoner steps forward.
Prisoner 16670.
An older man. Thin. Glasses. Wearing the striped uniform like everyone else.
He removes his capāa sign of respect when addressing an SS officer. And says, calmly:
"I am a Catholic priest. I am old. I have no wife or children. I want to die in place of this man."
The SS officers are stunned.
In Auschwitz, prisoners fight each other for scraps of bread. They betray each other to survive. Nobody volunteers to die for someone else.
Fritzsch stares at prisoner 16670. "Who are you?"
"I am a Catholic priest."
A long pause. Then Fritzsch makes his decision:
"Request granted."
Prisoner 16670āFather Maximilian Kolbeāsteps into the line of the condemned.
Franciszek Gajowniczek steps back to the others. Alive. For now.
Who was Maximilian Kolbe?
Born 1894 in Poland. Became a Franciscan priest at 20. Studied in Rome.
But Father Kolbe wasn't a quiet monastery priest. He was an activist.
In the 1920s-30s, he founded a massive Catholic publishing operationāNiepokalanĆ³w (City of the Immaculate)āone of the largest religious publishing centers in the world.
Newspapers. Magazines. Radio. Reaching millions of Polish Catholics.
When the N**is invaded Poland in 1939, Kolbe refused to stop publishing.
He printed anti-N**i materials. Hid Jewish refugees at his monastery. Continued preaching even when it was illegal.
In February 1941, the Gestapo arrested him.
In May 1941, he was sent to Auschwitz. Prisoner number 16670.
At Auschwitz, Kolbe continued helping people.
He worked in the camp hospital. Snuck extra food to starving prisoners. Heard confessions (strictly forbidden). Offered comfort.
For each act of kindness, he was beaten. But he never stopped.
"Hatred destroys," he told fellow prisoners. "Only love builds."
Now, in July 1941, he was putting that belief to the ultimate test.
The ten condemned menāincluding Father Kolbeāwere stripped naked and locked in an underground starvation bunker.
No food. No water. No light. Just concrete walls and the slow approach of death.
Most prisoners in starvation bunkers died within daysāscreaming, fighting over urine to drink, losing their minds.
But witnessesāincluding the bunker guard, Bruno Borgowiecāsaid Cell 18 was different.
They heard singing. Prayers. Father Kolbe's voice leading the others in hymns.
"They were praying loudly," Borgowiec later testified. "Father Kolbe was supporting the others, saying prayers in a loud voice."
After one week, half the men were dead.
Father Kolbe remained conscious. Still praying. Still comforting the dying.
After two weeks, only four men remained aliveāincluding Kolbe.
The SS needed the bunker for new prisoners.
On August 14, 1941, they sent a camp medic to finish it. Lethal injections of phenol (carbolic acid) directly into the heart.
Father Kolbe was still conscious. He extended his arm calmly for the injection.
The medic later testified: "He was calm. He looked me in the eyes. He prayed."
Father Maximilian Kolbe died August 14, 1941. Age 47.
He'd been in Auschwitz for 3 months.
He volunteered to die after being there 2 months.
Meanwhile, Franciszek Gajowniczekāprisoner 5659āsurvived.
He survived Auschwitz. He survived Sachsenhausen concentration camp (transferred in 1944). He survived the death marches as the N**is fled the advancing Soviets.
In May 1945, Franciszek Gajowniczek was liberated.
He returned to Poland. To his wife. To his sons.
For 53 more years, he lived the life Father Kolbe had given him.
Every year, on August 14, Franciszek visited Father Kolbe's shrine.
He'd stand thereāthis old man, bent with ageāand say the same thing every time:
"He died for me. I lived because of him. Every day I've had since 1941 is a gift he gave me."
In 1971, Pope Paul VI beatified Father Kolbe.
Franciszek attended the ceremony in Rome. Age 70.
In 1982, Pope John Paul II canonized Father Kolbe as a saint.
Franciszek attended that ceremony too. Age 81.
This time, the Popeāhimself Polish, himself a survivor of N**i occupationāembraced Franciszek publicly.
The man Father Kolbe saved was there to see his savior become a saint.
Franciszek Gajowniczek died in 1995 at age 93.
He'd lived 53 years after Auschwitz.
He'd seen his sons grow up. Marry. Have children.
He'd seen Poland freed from N**i occupation. Then Soviet occupation. Then finally free.
He'd seen Father Kolbe recognized as a saintāa martyr of charity.
At Franciszek's funeral, his grandson said:
"Every person here exists because of Father Kolbe. Our grandfather, our father, usāwe're all alive because a priest we never met decided to die for a stranger."
Here's what makes Father Kolbe's sacrifice different:
People die for family. That's expected. That's instinct.
People die for friends. That's loyalty. That's love.
Father Kolbe died for a complete stranger.
He didn't know Franciszek Gajowniczek. They'd never spoken. Weren't friends. Weren't related.
He just heard a man cry out for his wife and children.
And decided: that man deserves to live more than I do.
In Auschwitzāwhere survival meant stealing bread from dying men, where prisoners betrayed each other for extra rations, where humanity was systematically destroyedā
Father Kolbe volunteered to die for a stranger.
That's why his story matters.
Not just because he was brave (though he was).
Not just because he was holy (though he was).
But because he proved that even in hell, humans can choose love over survival.
The N**is designed Auschwitz to destroy human dignity.
To prove that when pushed far enough, everyone becomes an animal. Everyone betrays. Everyone breaks.
Father Kolbe proved them wrong.
He chose dignity. He chose sacrifice. He chose love.
And because of that choice, Franciszek Gajowniczek lived 53 more years.
Had grandchildren.
Attended his savior's canonization.
Told this story thousands of times.
Father Maximilian Kolbe: Born January 8, 1894. Died August 14, 1941.
Polish priest. Published anti-N**i materials. Arrested February 1941. Auschwitz prisoner 16670.
July 1941: Volunteered to die in place of Franciszek Gajowniczek.
Starved for 14 days. Killed by phenol injection August 14.
Beatified 1971. Canonized 1982. Martyr of Charity.
Franciszek Gajowniczek: Born 1901. Died 1995.
The man Father Kolbe saved.
Lived 53 more years. Raised his sons. Met his grandchildren.
Attended Kolbe's beatification (1971) and canonization (1982).
Spent his life saying: "He died for me."
Every August 14, for 53 years, Franciszek visited Kolbe's shrine.
And said: "Thank you."
That's the story.
Not abstract "love triumphs."
But: a priest died so a stranger could have 53 more years.
And that stranger never forgot.
Never stopped being grateful.
Never stopped telling people what happened in Cell 18.
Father Kolbe died August 14, 1941.
Franciszek lived until March 13, 1995.
53 years, 6 months, 27 days.
Every single one a gift from a man he'd never met.
Who heard him cry out for his family.
And said: "I'll die instead."
That's love.
Not as metaphor.
As action.
Remember Father Maximilian Kolbe.
Remember Franciszek Gajowniczek.
Remember Cell 18.
Where one man chose to die.
So another could live.
And 53 years later, attend his savior's canonization.
That's the miracle.
