Kinists lost one of their greatest allies and mentors on July 24 when Stanley Poston passed from this world. He meant more to each of you reading this than you may ever know. Though his funeral was only two days later, on a Monday morning, the church was packed with mourners. Even the Amish came to pay their respects. There was neither a seat nor a parking space to be found, despite the absence of air conditioning, as the temperature approached 90 degrees at 10 a.m.

Franklin Sanders officiated and did an excellent job. Listen to the eulogy. Stan’s high school sweetheart, his greatest treasure in life, was the very picture of strength and refinement. After the service, Stan was the very first to be buried in the Reformed Episcopal churchyard. He was carried to his long rest in a beautiful pine casket, lovingly crafted by his son Joe and adorned simply but perfectly with a cross made by his daughter Jena. Jena read a poem she wrote for the occasion called “Fare Thee Well.” A Bible opened to the 23rd Psalm and several roses were placed on the casket and it was covered with the hallowed soil of Tennessee until the Resurrection.

Stan is a dear friend of ours, and just one month earlier, God blessed us with the opportunity to have a final conversation with him in person. Even in the throes of death, his mind did not stray from the few passions that occupied his every waking thought. He wanted to see the white race survive, his beloved Southland prosper, and his people return to the Kinsman Redeemer who ransomed them. To Stan, these were like the three legs of a stool; remove any one of them and the seat falls.

Above all, he was an independent farmer who refused to rely on trucks to feed his family. If Stan had lived to read this story about the oldest family-owned farm in America being sold, he would have sent out emails to everyone he knows with the words “Check 6, y’all,” and “Molon Labe!” (Come and take them!). He was an inspiration to thousands, and the life’s work of this simple farmer was nothing less than an attempt to reclaim the Church and our heritage.

My favorite memory of Stan was on a brisk day, years ago, while touring Lexington, Virginia. After we paid our respects to Fathers Jackson and Lee, I convinced him to show me around the Virginia Military Institute, his alma mater. He did so reluctantly, and I’ll never forget how the sight of the female cadets made him seethe with anger. He preferred to look away from the school, to the north, and speak of a more honorable time, when 257 young cadets marched to New Market and some gave their last full measure to repel an invading army.

Stan discerned that the end is near for the monstrosity known as the “United States.” Facing more than $200 trillion in debt, it is safe to say that we are now bankrupt, and the band is about to play Dixie.

Stan loved and hated with all his heart. We will not meet him again in the flesh until the world is changed, but what a happy day that will be.