On Sunday, I followed my work friend, let's call him N, to the local Swedish church because he’d invited me. I understood none of the service because it was in Swedish, but found great delight in the fact that God had disseminated the Good News to so many different nations and peoples.

The conversation I would have after service with one of my friend's friends, let's call him M, was some of the eye-opening theological discussion I've had in a long time. I had been praying for some kind of breakthrough, praying to God that I would find friends of faith to discuss my concerns with. God surprised me completely. If you told me 2 weeks ago that I would go to Swedish Church, and have a faith breakthrough there talking to an AI unicorn startup founder, I would've told you to go fuck yourself. I honestly thought God had left me out dry. I was resigned to my fate, and counting down the days until my death.

Here’s the gist of what I got out of that conversation.

1. God is far larger that I had imagined

2. I have to put some preconceived notions of the Christian life to death

3. Additional Reflections

God is far larger than I had imagined

This is what I recall of his story of how M, the AI unicorn startup founder, came to faith. I may have gotten some details wrong, and I've made some edits for readability, but the large strokes are there.

“

I'd describe myself as always having been spiritual. My mom would say that I was always searching for meaning in my life. I first came to read the Bible a couple years ago just because I felt called to it. I started from Genesis, and when I arrived at Matthew, I cried for an hour. I'd had this background process in my brain all my life which was one that was searching for the meaning of my life. So when I understood that this was it, I felt a great sense of peace, because I didn't have to think about that anymore. You know when your computers at 80% CPU and RAM usage, because of some background process you didn’t know about? It was like killing that background process.

So I asked God, “What now?” Soon, God called me very specifically to evangelize to startup founders. I was a founder at the time. I was like, “That's great, but how do I do that? My startup sucks, so nobody will listen to me.” In a year, our startup went from 0 to 11 million in revenue, and at the end of three years, it had reached 33 million in revenue. I've already handed off the reins to my other cofounders, and I'm going back to Sweden now, where I'm going to work full time on content that gives practical advice to startup founders, and also points them to Christ. I’ll be on X, Youtube, everywhere.

“

Despite not having been a Christian for very long, M was incredibly well-versed in theology, and given his background as an AI startup founder, he had some incredibly techno-pilled takes that I mostly agree with, but are so out there that most Christians, especially members of the clergy would balk at them. Some of his takes I remember were:

• I think of reading the Bible as aligning your neural net with God's worldview. That's why I do it every morning, and every night.
• We're going to need a Jesus vector for designing ethical AI. Because Jesus is God in human form, if you model his life and actions through a mathematical vector, you can get the mathematical equivalent of “What would Jesus do?” that the AI can follow.

The more I talked to M, the more my mind was blown. The startup, and tech/AI space is one of the most secular and amoral environments I have come into contact with, and I had never seen anyone so deep in the space (an AI unicorn founder) be so Christian. I realized that, I’d already decided in my head “there’s no way a founder of a very successful startup could be a devout Christian.” I didn't even know they made people like this. Very clearly, God is capable of it, praise be to Him!

My initial realization was that God’s plans, and his orchestrations of those plans span years and eons are intricate, and unimaginable to the human mind. He’d carefully guided M’s spiritual journey all through his life in search of meaning, revealed Himself to M a couple years ago, and performed miracles in M’s life. He’d put me through the spiritual wringer to bring me to the end of myself 2 weeks ago, and He made us cross paths, the very week before M left for Sweden, pretty much forever. And through our conversation, He redefined my understanding of the Christian life. Do you understand how improbable any of this is? How many things had to go right (or wrong) for this to happen? Now I see that coincidences don’t exist. God really does not play dice with the universe.

The macro realization I had following that was that I was limiting the possibilities of life that could be made possible by an infinite God, and by consequence, I was limiting the ways that the Christian life could be lived out.

I have to put some preconceived notions of the Christian life to death

I was too entrenched in the examples of what it meant to live out your faith which I had seen in Korean Christian Church. How it usually went was:

• If you are a good Christian, you serve your church in some capacity or go on missions until you get greater and greater responsibilities. Other things are lesser responsibilities.
• The people that “really” serve God are those that are missionaries, or pastors.

That had been the “model Christian life” that I had been presented with all of my life. To be honest, it wasn't even what I had been presented with all my life. There were plenty of examples of Sunday school teachers and other mature Christians in my life that proved to me that living out your faith was so much more than serving at church, but I was blind to it. Serving at church is not wrong, but constraining the Christian life to just the time we spend inside church fails to take into account many other areas of life.

The consequence of my failure to realize this was that I was living the Christian life in a very stupid manner. I was so afraid of hell and death that I tried to condense the Bible into set of rules to live by and tried to live it to a tee, almost Phariseeically in nature. I had turned life into an impossible multiple choice test, for which every question had a correct answer. For example, the answer to “What should I do with my free time?” was “community service, reading the Bible, or prayer.” The answer to “How do you serve God and please Him?” was “serve at church.”

First of all, these answers were incomplete and unsatisfactory for obvious reasons. In my definition of the world, I could sleep well at night if I had read the Bible that day. If I didn’t, I was a complete and utter failure. How does that make sense? Second of all, I was failing the test miserably and torturing myself for it because that test is not passable by any man. Who is perfect? Who can live without sin? I had always known in my head that the Bible was not a set of rules. It has rules, but it is more so a set of stories that define a worldview on what it means to live this faith. This only clicked, and made sense to me when I talked to M, and saw how God had called Him to live his life.

I told M about this concern of mine, and he had an interesting story as his answer.

“

Back in college, when I didn’t believe in Jesus yet, one of the guys in my dorm was really into building dirt bikes, and he would always write “Dirt Bikes for Jesus” on his bikes. Back then, I was like, “Why is he doing that?” Now, I'm like, “ahhh, that makes sense.” He was just a guy that really loved dirt bikes, really loved Jesus, and brought those two things together. Whenever I think about how to live out my faith in my daily life, I just think of that happy dirt bike guy. He wasn't going out evangelizing on the streets or anything, but I'm sure that everyone that knew him or talked to him came into contact with Jesus living through him.

“

Now instead of a multiple choice test, when I think about my life, I see a blank piece of paper. I can draw on it, rip it up, throw it in the trash, do whatever I want with it, so as long as my heart is in accordance with what God's heart is. There are no “Christian things” (street evangelism, serving at church, community service, etc.) and “non-Christian things” (writing fiction, building a startup, riding a skateboard, etc.) anymore. Everything becomes a “Christian thing” when God is at the center of your heart, save for mass murder or selling meth to five-year olds.

Additional Reflections

The really funny thing about all this is that people had been telling me this about the Christian life for all my life, whether it was directly, indirectly via stories, or inside books. I’d heard it so many times I’m hitting myself on the head right now for not getting it. But I was blind to it, and not by choice. The thing is, you can't understand these things by yourself, no matter how smart you are. These come as revelations from God. Even if you understand it on an intellectual level, it will never leave any lasting impact in your life until God works in your heart.

Just like how God brings people to faith out of accordance with his will, God too is the one that makes someone's faith grow, develop, and brings them to new understandings. This is a new paradigm for my faith. I've been trying to work my way to salvation, when actual, real change in my life, not just surface level changes, has been in God's hands this entire time. He's just been waiting for me to hit rock bottom, and give up on myself completely, so that He could reveal even more of Himself to me. Why did He wait for that to happen? Probably to prove to me that I can't do a single fucking thing on my own.

Well, I'm all the better for it, so no complaints there. I'm as free as a bird. Keeping God at the center of my heart is really difficult, but that's actually God's responsibility too. I'm going to stop trying so hard. In moments of self-reflection, I will once again inevitably despair at my imperfection. But I want to remind myself of this.

I don't need to rely on myself, or trust in myself anymore because:

1. I can trust that God is always working in my heart, and He will grow my faith, develop me, and use me for His will.

2. I can trust in Christ's redeeming work on the cross, where He died for my sins, precisely because I am imperfect, and never will be.

Now all that remains is for God to continue aligning my heart with His for the rest of my life. I'm not going to force this continual transition either, as I may have previously done. I'm going to let it happen in time, and be patient, letting God work in His perfect timing. I’m not going to try to force it myself, and watch my effort amount to nothing.

I admit I do feel a little too free, the kind of free where you're like I can do anything I fuckin' want, and I don't think that's what God wants of me. I still think I should fear God in some form or another. I'm also not exercising my free will to push myself towards God as much (by keeping in spiritual disciplines, etc.), out of the trust that God will change me. But as always, everything is a balancing act, and I know I'm swinging pretty hard onto one side right now, and hopefully I will self-correct into a better range.

There is also something to be said about the nature of these revelations. Usually, these revelations that God brings into your life are so drastic and life-altering that it feels like going from being blind to being able to see. They can also feel so obvious after the fact of realization that you wonder how you didn’t understand this before. But because you are human, and you will never be able to comprehend the true nature of God, you will spend the rest of your life, revelation after revelation, being amazed at how little you are, and how great God is.

My Life Has Already Changed

Remarkably, that single Aha! moment has already has changed my life. My understanding went from a very narrow definition of morality into more so a worldview that can be generally applied, freeing me from rules, and the obsession of having to be right every single time. This has had cascading effects on how I see other parts of my life as well. I always felt guilty writing fiction because I thought God would rather have me doing other “Christian things” in my free time. In my job as a programmer, I was previously searching for a formula of perfect rules and frameworks that would lead me to the right answer every time, even though I knew in my brain that those didn't exist.

Simply put, these worries are gone now. I'm happily writing a short story that I'll publish on this blog, and I've been producing much better output at work. I used to always have a background process in the back of my head asking “Is this what God really wants me to do? Wouldn't He want me to be doing something more 'Christian'?” That's also gone now. I've also been nervous and flighty around people ever since I moved to this city because I was so damn stressed about my faith all the time, but I've entered a state of nonchalantness where I'm just spitting all the time, like I used to do. But it's not with faked confidence or bravado anymore that I previously needed because I secretly thought I was a shitter/loser, and hated myself. Those thoughts have also magically vanished. I’ve ceased to rely on who I am as a source of confidence, but instead trust deeply in the fact that God has me securely in His hands, and He is with me. That trust has developed as a result of these recent events.

Addendum (12/10/2025)

We had this discussion in Bible study today about the role of free will and the role of God in spiritual growth. Sometimes, God gives gifts without any action on your end, but typically, you need to take some action too. What I need to remember is that God has given us an insane amount of free will for a reason. I’m not going to choke myself out with the burden of it, because I trust in His grace, but I do need to exercise it to get closer to Him, serve Him, and those around me. Here’s to putting in a lot of hard work, but remembering that God is one that enables me to work hard, and is the one that makes my effort yield fruit.

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow.”

1 Corinthians 3:6

Next

Next blogpost, I'll talk about some of the more non-faith related conversations that me and M had, and how M, and another guy who we'll call J, both tried to convince me hard to become a startup founder. They also told me that an app I'm building for fun on the side has potential to make some money. Not a lifetime's worth of Fuck You money, but maybe some sweet side income. Does God want me to become a startup founder? That would hilarious if I did become a startup founder. Because recently, I've decided that I don't want to become one because it's too much work, and I don't think I'm cut out for it.

#personal

An Alpine Holiday, Hallmark Channel 2025 (2.5/5 Hot Chocolates)

Read more #100HotChocolates reviews

Two aspects differentiate An Alpine Holiday: authentic French Alps sets (no fake snow!) and a story that focuses more on sibling relationships than romantic entanglements.

A last wish sends two sisters on a quest to retrace their grandparents' alpine love story. Ashley Williams, a Christmas movie regular with quirky comic timing, plays one of the sisters. Their tension drives the plot, each carrying a sleigh full of grievances and regrets to unwrap.

The rest? Weak romance cider. One gets a limp French tour guide, and Williams has a nonsensical marriage epiphany about her dweeb back home.

Only for Hallmark Heads.

#movies #ChristmasMovies #HallmarkMovies #RomCom #HolidayMovies #100HotChocolates #AshleyWilliams #ChristmasReview #100WordReview #Larrys100 #100DaysToOffload #Drabble

In Summary: * Most significant event today was assembling and studying the instruction manual for my new little folding washing machine. Plan is to run the first load or two of laundry through it tomorrow morning. Wish me luck.

Prayers, etc.: * My daily prayers

Health Metrics: * bw= 223.11 lbs. * bp= 149/90 (62)

Exercise: * kegel pelvic floor exercise, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 07:00 – cooked meat, cooked vegetables, rice * 10:45 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 12:00 – pizza * 19:00 – 1 peanut butter sandwich

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:40 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:30 – bank accounts activity monitored * 07:00 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources * 10:30 – listening to Jack in 60 Minutes, then to The Markley, van Camp and Robbins Show * 11:45 to 13:15 – watch old TV game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 13:30 – listen to relaxing music * 15:00 – listening to The Jack Riccardi Show * 18:00 – Listening now to The Flagship Station for IU Sports ahead of tonight's basketball game. * 19:40 – the Hoosiers control the opening tip, and the game is underway. GO HOOSIERS! * 21:38 – and the Hoosiers win. Final score: Indiana over Penn St. 113 to 72

Chess: * 10:30 – moved in all pending CC games

Here is a story I submitted to my professor at the community college I attended. He taught a writing class and had tenured at Stanford University, so I felt he knew quite a bit about writing. When he returned my story marked up just a bit in red ink, he wrote:

“This is the best short story I’ve read from a student in thirty years. Scratch that! This is the best short story I’ve read in thirty years.” (Paraphrased)

Well, I just KNEW I was going to get it published and some big magazine, right?

Wrong.

Led me to believe that he was either mistaken, or you have to know people to get into any professional magazine—or both. Either way, here it is:

Note: I apologize for the few swear words. I hadn’t read the story in over a decade and had forgotten they were there.

***********************************************************

Eulogies and Epitaphs

Some things are sweeter than honey, more luscious than life, and they come in the form of dreams. At any moment someone might walk through the door and enter your life, someone that doesn’t even exist but on paper, and that someone has the power to change your life.

Such was the case when Fred entered the diner at exactly six o’clock on a Wednesday morning. He didn’t exist except on paper, from a story I’d written for class. The instructor had us set a fictional scene in which we’d meet our character at a diner, talk things over with him and then write it. The thing was this was a dream, the kind of dream in which the things that make absolutely no sense in reality make perfect sense in the dream, like dancing rainbows or flying pigs. Sometimes life’s best lessons come in unconscious absurdity, because that is the only time we let our guard down long enough to swallow truth’s jagged little pill.

I knew who he was immediately from the lines on his face. Each wrinkle told a morose story, a sad tale of never having belonged anywhere. I’d created him, but while sitting at the booth near the window, I felt that I had it all wrong; maybe in some measure he had created me. And then I had to ask myself, do we create our fictional characters or do they create us? Does reality pour forth from books and novels, or do we pump emotional truth into our fiction? And does the best fiction have some effect on reality, such as the internet and cell phones having first existed in the form of the written word.

Our eyes met and he knew exactly who I was. I could tell by the slight smile, the illumination filling his rheumy eyes. He ambled precariously over to my table, and he waved me back down when I tried to stand. I was uncomfortable because I’d never met one of my fictional characters before. What was I supposed to say? Thanks for agreeing to this interview? How the hell would we pull this off?

He sat down and the waitress appeared, like one of those actresses off that seventies television program. Flo was her name. Her yellow uniform contrasted against the beige walls, and she held a green pad of paper.

“Coffee,” Fred said. “Black.”

“Just the way I like it, too,” I said.

Fred smiled as if he knew a secret, and maybe he did. The unease I felt increased, as if something were sliding up the back of my spine, a chill or slithering shadows. I looked behind me but only saw the backside of the waitress as she walked back to the kitchen with our order.

This interview was happening too fast. It was too life-like, less of a dream, which made it disconcerting. If this was a dream, then why did Fred already have a cup of coffee before him? Why was the spoon he was using to swirl ice around in his coffee clang loud like the tines of bells?

“The ice cools it down enough—”

“—I know,” I interrupted. “You can’t drink it when it’s hot.”

Like me, I thought, as I realized a cup of coffee was before me and I was doing the same cooling measure Fred was, stirring cubes of ice from my water glass into the thick liquid. The scent of caffeine filled the air, mingling with the clank of sterling silver on ceramic glass. The waitress’s perfume lingered like the seventies TV show, almost forgotten but still there just the same. The entire setting seemed dated, running backwards in time.

“Perfect place for an interview,” Fred said.

“Yeah,” I said, without conviction. “Nice… décor.”

Fred chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“The fact that you killed me in your story, yet here I am. Here we are.”

The waitress took our coffee cups away, and I realized that she was part of the dream, like a looping event, constantly refilling our cups and taking them away, and us barely getting to sip the hot liquid before she took it away or brought fresh coffee.

A bit weird, but I could get used to that, because this was one of those dreams that occurred halfway between sleep and consciousness. I felt the pressure of the pillow behind my head, heard my wife snoring next to me, so I knew I was asleep. But a part of me was awake, in this semi-liquid state of quasi-consciousness, locked partway between being fully awake and completely asleep, a realm of dreams in which anything could happen, where just enough reality poured in like cement, until sounds and colors hardened with a vividness that life never possessed.

I ignored my wife’s snores and they dissipated into the sound of a large semi tractor trailer rumbling down the road… going… going, gone—and all that was left now was Fred sitting across from me, trying to take a sip of his coffee before the waitress returned in this dream that was not a dream.

“Here she comes now,” I said.

“Better hurry up and take a sip,” Fred said.

“Why can’t she just leave us alone?”

“It’s part of the reason we’re here, son.”

I raised my eyebrows and almost laughed at my quizzical reflection in the window’s reflection beside Fred’s head. Fred grinned as if he understood exactly where I was coming from. He reached for his coffee mug but the waitress removed it before contact.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said. “Just like life. You think you’re going to get a little moment of peace and rest, then here comes life.”

“Here comes life,” I repeated, writing it down, wondering where the notebook and pen had come from. “So… the waitress represents life like a metaphor—”

“It’s best if you don’t try to understand it right now, son.” Fred took a sip of the coffee the waitress had just set down, enjoying it immensely from the expression on his face. “Just write it all out, let it flow… like a story or the drip, drip, drip of percolating coffee.”

He laughed at his own joke. Or was his humor a metaphor, too?

I was beginning to understand that this was as much an interview with myself as it was with my character. In that semi-conscious state I wondered what time it was, realizing I had to get up and off to school by a certain time—and had I set my clock the night before?—and I began to worry.

When I looked at the wall clock it read six o’clock. “That’s impossible.”

“What is?” Fred followed my gaze and read the clock. “I stopped it.”

“What?” I laughed, nervous. “You stopped the clock? Or you stopped time?”

Suddenly the noises in the diner intensified: the clanging of Fred’s spoon on the side of the ceramic cup, the same beige as the drab walls; the conversations of other patrons filling the room; the sizzle of eggs and bacon from the open window revealing the kitchen. And such wonderful scents! I became hungry, my stomach growling as I thought of hot buttered rolls and thick, rich coffee. The tempting goodness of syrup licked the air, contrasting with the bitter twang of coffee Flo had just set down before me.

“Such is life,” I said, feeling my rumbling belly and realizing that no matter how much I ate or drank, I would never be satisfied, not for long.

“You’re catching on, son.”

“In my story you never fit in, never belonged to anyone or anywhere,” I cut in, intending to take control of the interview. That was the number one rule: never let the interviewee control the interview.

“How do you know it’s your story?” Fred asked.

“What?” I was about to say something that was on the tip of my tongue, like peripheral memory, almost a tangible thought, an almost-question. “What are you talking about, Fred?”

“Don’t you think it’s my story?” Fred asked. “After all, you’re not in the story. You don’t appear once. But I do.” Fred brushed aside a wisp of gray hair that had fallen down his brow. “So shouldn’t we say it’s my story?”

“Okay, YOUR story.” My words came fast and clipped, angry because already I was losing control of the interview with a person that didn’t exist. “Whatever.”

I looked at the clock and it read a quarter after six. But as I watched, the minute hand slid backwards until it rested on the twelve. I was locked between wakefulness and sleep, where anything could happen and often did. Flo came back with another round of coffee. This time I was ready, having gotten used to my strange surroundings, and I drank as I could before she took it away again.

“Now you’re learning. You’ve got to breathe it in when it’s there, and be content when it’s not.”

“About your story…” I said, trying to take control again. “You never fit in anywhere in your story.”

“I didn’t write that,” Fred said. “You did.”

“But it’s your story.”

“How do you know it’s not your story, son?”

“Because I’m not in it. That’s what you said, remember?”

“Doesn’t matter what I say; I’m just a fictional character.”

“Damn it!” I pushed my coffee away. “Why doesn’t anything work out the way I plan? I’m just trying to get this assignment done for class, and you want to go all Socrates on me with philosophy.”

“Maybe that’s what makes for a good story, son. Asking questions that others want to know.”

“Do readers want questions?” I wondered aloud.

“Do they want them answered?” Fred offered.

The interview was turning back onto myself again, and I realized I’d already lost control a long time ago, and not just the interview; I’d lost control of life and love and all my hopes and dreams; I’d let hope slip away for the sake of beautiful women with blond hair, sacrificing my desires and offering my power to others who, eventually, deserted me. Wasn’t my life the exact replication of what was happening in the diner, with Flo giving us what we desired then removing it before we were satisfied?

Something was wrong. Suddenly I wanted to wake up, to run out of the diner as fast as I could and head back to reality where I convinced myself that I was in control. I strained to hear my wife’s snoring—she always snored—and soon the rumble of a diesel engine grumbled outside the diner. I was going to wake up and write this assignment, put thought to paper and be done with it—damn it!

“Not so fast,” Fred said, and the rumble dissipated like fading dreams once remembered but quickly forgotten. “We’re not done here.”

An icy hand touched my shoulder and I remembered Edna from my story, Fred’s wife who, although deceased, still spoke to him. You need to listen to Fred, dear, her words slithered into my mind, and I realized that in this half-dream and half-wakefulness anything could happen, that ghosts could manifest, could whisper things into my mind exactly as I had Edna whisper dark things into Fred’s mind while writing my story—HIS story.

I jumped up, but immediately I was sitting again as if I hadn’t moved, and here came Flo with another round of black ichor, the remnants swishing around and slithering up the sides of the ceramic cups she set on the table. The coffee had changed, had become like life at the end: old age and withered skin and aching joints; rheumy eyes and failing health; funeral plans and coffins and, at the very last, the embalmer filling our veins with eternal illusion.

“Make it stop,” I whispered. “Please.” I wasn’t in control anymore—not that I ever was—but this made it worse, this dream that wasn’t a dream. “Make this dream or story—or whatever it was—stop.”

“It’s not my story, son. It’s not yours, either. It’s our story; we tell it together. That’s why you can’t wake until we both get to the end.”

“But this is an interview, not a story.”

That’s what you think, Edna whispered behind me.

I turned around but saw only Flo’s hips sashaying back and forth as she carried our coffee back into the kitchen. I wondered what went on in there, where all those luscious scents and sizzling sounds emanated from, but the rumble of a diesel engine grew louder, and I felt myself beginning to wake.

“We don’t have much time, son.”

Why did he always have to call me son? Did he feel a need to rub in the fact that he was older and presumably wiser?

“Much time for what, pops?” I countered, trying to take another stab at control.

Immediately I felt bad for saying pops. Fred had never fit in anywhere in his life, and here I was ostracizing him by calling him pops, by exposing his weakness.

“Or is it YOUR character weakness?” Fred asked. “Maybe you took your weaknesses and filled me with them.”

Was he reading my mind? And why not? After all, he had crawled from my subconscious where I was conscious of nothing, had slithered like primordial ooze through my typing fingers onto the computer screen when I’d created him. Fred knew more about me than I knew about myself. And now he was asking whether I injected him with my own weakness. How dare he!

“I thought this was your story, Fred. So it has to be your weakness.”

“Our story, son. Our weakness.”

“Whatever.”

Mine, too, Edna whispered, her voice growing fainter. It’s my story, too.

Maybe it was all of our stories: Fred and Edna and me. Maybe we all got involved and took control, writing the story to let our emotional truths out, exposing our shortcomings and flaws, revealing our fears and longings and—

Edna sat beside me, solidifying her substance into an ethereal bag of flesh and blood. She smiled and the chill of the grave wafted out like breath, slapping my face. Fred grinned at the waitress who asked, “Will there be anything else?” Before I could respond, the waitress took the tip that I couldn’t remember laying down.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” I said, indicating the interview and life and death and everything in-between. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this at all.”

Edna laughed and the chill of the grave intensified. I felt earthworms moving in the ground around her coffin, wherever her body rested. The chill of dank earth and the scent of soil filled my nostrils.

“Make it stop,” I whispered, but like life and death the dream never stopped, because we never had any control anyway. We only told ourselves we did.

Flo brought us more coffee and the rumbling diesel engine grew louder. Fred mentioned something about not having much time again, and Edna’s form thickened and congealed like the fear growing in the pit of my stomach.

I had to get out, had to move fast. I stood but Flo blocked my exit from the booth. I shoved her and immediately found myself sitting back in the booth again, with Flo setting down a cup of coffee and Fred shaking his head with a forlorn expression as if I had just betrayed him.

“What is it that you want?” I shouted at Fred, I shouted at all of them. The patrons looked at me as I stood, and Fred and Edna and Flo just laughed. “Just what the hell do you want?”

“What is it that YOU want, son?” Fred asked. “When you’re writing stories and ruining the lives of your characters and hurting them like you hurt Edna and me, what the hell is it you really want?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“Just tell us what it is you really want, dear,” Edna said, her voice loud and her body fully tangible.

“To write… simply to write,” I said. “What else is there?”

“To live on through your fiction,” Fred said.

“To live and never die in the minds of others,” Edna offered.

“Each character in your fiction,” Fred said, “each minor person who dies, lives on in the minds of the readers, and thus they never die.”

“None of us do,” Edna said with a smile.

“Except for you,” Fred said. “You’re going to die, John.”

The rumbling of the engine grew louder, shook the window beside the booth. The table vibrated and spoons wiggled. Ripples circled inside the coffee mugs, rippled outward from the coffee and spread throughout reality, spiraling outward with truth. And the truth was that my characters might possibly never die, not if they lived on in the minds of others.

But me?

I was going to die. The finality of the situation grew louder, like the rumbling of the diesel looming closer. The spoons bounced on the table and the window cracked. The minute hand on the clock spun around faster and faster as life slipped away like seconds and minutes and hours bleeding into eternity. Time was slipping away with each story I wrote, with each day lived.

I was going to die.

It was through my characters that I wanted to live on and be remembered. It was through the death of Fred and Edna that I hoped I would continue to exist in the minds of others.

How ironic to use death in order to live, to use fiction for truth, and to write words in order to replace reality’s illusion. Or was that merely wishful thinking, too?

Suddenly the rumbling grew louder and I was awake. My wife’s snores filled the bedroom, the smell of sleep saturating the air. The warmth of coziness licked my body, but I forced myself up into the darkness with a gasp. It was a half hour before the alarm was set to go off at six o’clock. Gradually, I calmed down. All a dream… that’s all. My breathing returned to normal and I wiped sweat from my brow.

The scent of coffee lured me toward the kitchen. My wife mumbled something in her sleep, the diesel engine almost forgotten.

I sat at the kitchen table, a ceramic mug of steaming coffee in hand, voraciously hungry. But hungry for breakfast or hungry for life? I heard the alarm go off and then it died.

A few minutes later my wife moved into the kitchen past Fred who sat across from me. She didn’t see him, but that was okay because he existed only for me, a fantasy come to life, a character I had breathed life into. He had been created piecemeal from pieces of myself and others, cemented together by my own emotional truth. Fred existed only for me and no one else, unless they let Fred into their minds via the reading of my fiction.

Did you enjoy the interview? Fred asked.

I grinned. My wife asked what I was grinning at and I cleared my throat.

“Just waking up, honey.”

She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down in the same exact spot that Edna was sitting; Edna and my wife occupied the same space. When did the dream end and reality begin?

“I understand,” I told them all, but my wife only knew I spoke to her.

“Understand what, honey?” she said.

Edna and Fred reached across the table and held hands. I did the same with my wife. Arms crossing dimensions, hands from different worlds, clasped on one table in one time and space; the dream bled into reality, or maybe reality bled into the fantasy. Regardless, we were all there, in one place and under one roof. Together.

“My stories aren’t just expressions of who I am,” I answered my wife. “They’re eulogies.”

“What does that mean?”

I shook my head. “Never mind.”

Some things were best left unexplained. How could I explain that Fred and Edna were with us? How could I tell her that each story I penned was nothing more than a tombstone, the words nothing more than epitaphs etched in the mind of others. But only if I sold those stories, only if others actually read them.

An image of a solitary tombstone came to mind. It rested on a grassy hill, and no one knew it was there, no one ever read its words or knew who was buried there. When I looked around the table, Fred and Edna were gone, and only my wife remained.

I squeezed her hand tighter.

Le domaine Médard‐Bourgault de St‑Jean‑Port‑Joli, classé « site patrimonial » au Québecpatrimoine-culturel.gouv.qc.ca, est à la fois un héritage artistique et immobilier (maison familiale et œuvres sculptées). Créer une fiducie d’utilité sociale (FUS) – appelée ici « Fiducie André‑Médard Bourgault » – permettrait de confier ce patrimoine à une entité autonome chargée d’un « intérêt général »voute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Selon le Code civil du Québec, une FUS est « l’affectation d’un patrimoine à une vocation d’intérêt général plutôt qu’au bénéfice d’une personne »voute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Autrement dit, les biens du domaine seraient gérés pour la conservation du patrimoine et l’animation culturelle, non pour le profit privé. Ce véhicule juridique est expressément conçu pour la préservation du patrimoine : « la fiducie présente notamment un grand intérêt pour la préservation de biens patrimoniaux »voute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Par exemple, la FUS permettrait de consacrer les revenus (billetterie, dons, etc.) exclusivement à l’entretien du site et à son rayonnement culturel.

Avantages de la fiducie pour protéger le domaine

La fiducie assure une perpétuité de vocation et une gestion collégiale du patrimoine. En créant la FUS, on transfère les bâtiments et œuvres dans un « patrimoine d’affectation autonome » distinct du patrimoine personnel du constituantvoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Ce patrimoine fiduciaire peut être déclaré perpétuel : « la FUS peut être perpétuelle, elle existe tout aussi longtemps que le patrimoine auquel elle est affectée »voute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Dans la pratique, cela signifie qu’aucun individu (ou groupe privé) ne « possède » véritablement le domaine : il n’appartient qu’à la fiducie. Les fiduciaires gèrent alors les lieux selon l’objectif fixé (protection, accueil du public, résidences artistiques, etc.)voute.bape.gouv.qc.cavoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Cette structure empêche par exemple qu’un héritier vende les terres à des promoteurs ou que le site soit morcelé : le domaine est « cantonné » à la fiducie et protégé de la spéculation immobilière.

La FUS offre par ailleurs des avantages procéduraux et fiscaux. Les actifs placés en fiducie ne font pas partie de la succession du fondateur, ce qui simplifie la transmission : les bénéficiaires désignés héritent par la fiducie sans passer par une homologation de testament classiquerbcwealthmanagement.com (passage en lieu sûr des actifs). De plus, une FUS à vocation culturelle peut obtenir le statut d’organisme de bienfaisance enregistrévoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. En devenant OBNE (organisme à but non lucratif) ou organisme de bienfaisance, la fiducie pourrait émettre des reçus fiscaux pour les dons et recueillir des subventions réservées aux organismes culturels. Par exemple, le Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec (CALQ) offre des subventions aux organismes à but non lucratifcalq.gouv.qc.ca (et non aux individus). Une fiducie active comme OBNL faciliterait l’accès à ces financements. Enfin, en cas d’inaptitude du propriétaire (84 ans), la fiducie assure la continuité de la gestion : ses actifs pourront être administrés par les fiduciaires sans interruption au-delà de l’incapacité ou du décès du fondateur.

Obstacles et limites

Malgré ses atouts, la fiducie comporte des contraintes. Sa mise en place exige un acte juridique bien structuré et la désignation de fiduciaires compétents. La gouvernance de la FUS repose entièrement sur ces personnes et organisations engagées. En effet, « une FUS, même perpétuelle, est entièrement dépendante de l’implication des personnes et des organisations qui s’y engagent »voute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Si les fiduciaires cessent d’agir (démission, désintérêt), la fiducie peut devenir inactive, laissant le domaine sans gestion. Il faut donc un conseil de fiduciaires solide et des règles statutaires claires pour assurer la pérennité.

La fiducie doit donc être conçue avec l’aide d’un notaire pour éviter les conflits (régime matrimonial, don manuel, etc.). Enfin, la fiducie impose des obligations administratives (comptes, réunions du conseil, respect de l’affectation, etc.) qui peuvent être lourdes pour un petit organisme.

Financements et subventions facilités

Le principal atout d’une fiducie/OBNL est l’accès simplifié aux subventions et aux dons publics. Le domaine, en tant qu’entité culturelle, pourrait bénéficier des programmes gouvernementaux destinés aux musées et aux sites historiques. Par exemple, le ministère québécois de la Culture ouvre régulièrement un Programme d’aide au fonctionnement des institutions muséales (PAFIM)musees.qc.ca, ciblant les musées et lieux patrimoniaux. Le guide d’aide-mémoire PAFIM précise que les dépenses admissibles incluent les salaires, l’entretien courant, les réparations, le chauffage, l’électricité, l’assurance, etc.musees.qc.camusees.qc.ca. Une partie des 8 000 $ annuels d’assurance pourrait être couverte par ce programme, tout comme l’entretien des bâtiments et l’embauche de guides pour les visites.

Au plan fédéral, le programme Emplois d’été Canada (anciennement « Canada Summer Jobs ») accorde aux OBNL une subvention salariale allant jusqu’à 100 % du salaire minimum pour engager des jeunes de 15 à 30 anscanada.cacanada.ca. La fiducie, en tant qu’employeur sans but lucratif, pourrait ainsi obtenir de l’aide pour payer les guides d’été ou les animateurs – et ne débourser qu’une partie (voire rien) de leur salaire. De même, divers programmes municipaux ou régionaux soutiennent la culture. Par exemple, la Ville de Québec propose une aide spéciale pour l’« accueil de résidences de création » : tout organisme culturel disposant d’un lieu de création (musée, centre d’art, domaine patrimonial, etc.) peut solliciter un financement pour héberger des artistes en résidenceville.quebec.qc.ca. La Fiducie André‑Médard pourrait en principe soumettre une telle demande si elle aménage des espaces de résidence.

D’autres subventions sectorielles existent : le CALQ offre des bourses et subventions aux OBNL artistiquescalq.gouv.qc.ca, et le Conseil des arts du Canada octroie parfois des fonds pour des expositions ou la revitalisation de lieux patrimoniaux. Par exemple, le programme fédéral « Patrimoine canadien – Aide au fonctionnement des musées » soutient les institutions muséales (notamment pour des expositions itinérantes ou la numérisation de collections). Enfin, l’adhésion à la Fiducie nationale du Canada (National Trust) donnerait accès à des conseils, outils et même un programme d’assurance pour maisons patrimonialesnationaltrustcanada.ca. Bien que ce ne soit pas une subvention directe, il s’agit d’un service avantageux pour les propriétaires d’un site historique.

Exemples de subventions potentielles :

• PAFIM (Québec) pour l’exploitation muséale (salaires, réparations, assurance)musees.qc.camusees.qc.ca.
• Emplois d’été Canada (gouvernement fédéral) pour financer jusqu’à 100 % des salaires d’étudiants guidant le publiccanada.cacanada.ca.
• Programmes municipaux de soutien au patrimoine ou à la culture (ex. : résidences artistiques, événements culturels).
• Subventions du CALQ aux organismes artistiques sans but lucratifcalq.gouv.qc.ca.
• Subventions de Patrimoine canadien pour musées (programme d’aide aux musées) ou muséologie (expositions, numérisation).
• Fonds privés et fondations (donateurs, commandites) avec reçu fiscal possible si statut OBNE obtenuvoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca.

Exemples de structures organisationnelles

En pratique, la création d’une fiducie peut s’accompagner d’une structure de gestion dédiée. Par exemple, la Fiducie du patrimoine culturel des Augustines (Montréal) a groupé son monastère et ses collections dans une FUS, tout en mandatant un OBNL pour en assurer l’exploitation hôtelière et muséalevoute.bape.gouv.qc.cavoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. De même, la FUS des Augustines gère l’actif immobilier et muséal (Monastère de 1695 et archives), et un OBNL (Le Monastère des Augustines – Lieu de mémoire) s’occupe du volet économique. Cette double structure (FUS + OBNL) garantit que les décisions d’exploitation restent fidèles à l’affectation patrimoniale décidée par la fiducie.

Pour le domaine Médard‑Bourgault, on pourrait imaginer un modèle comparable : la Fiducie André‑Médard Bourgault détiendrait officiellement les terrains, bâtiments et collections, tandis qu’un organisme de gestion (association ou OBNL local déjà en place) s’occuperait des activités quotidiennes (visites, entretien, programmation culturelle). Il existe aussi des exemples de coopératives d’activités culturelles, de fondations ou de sociétés d’économie sociale qui peuvent jouer ce rôle. L’important est de préserver l’“affectation” des lieux (toile de fond culturelle et pédagogique) : la fiducie fixe la vocation (préservation et diffusion du patrimoine de Médard Bourgault), et la structure gestionnaire concrétise cette vocation auprès du public.

En résumé, la création d’une fiducie d’utilité sociale apparaît comme la meilleure protection pour le domaine Médard‐Bourgault. Elle inscrit le lieu dans une vocation durable d’intérêt public, permet de mobiliser financements publics et privés spécifiquement destinés au patrimoine, et sécurise le site au-delà de la vie du fondateurvoute.bape.gouv.qc.cavoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca. Les obstacles (complexité juridique, obligations familiales) sont réels, mais peuvent être surmontés par une planification professionnelle. À long terme, cette approche offrirait à André‑Médard Bourgault la garantie que le patrimoine légué par son père sera perpétué et valorisé dans les règles de l’art patrimonial québécois.

Sources : Définition et atouts de la fiducie d’utilité socialevoute.bape.gouv.qc.cavoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca ; guide MCC sur le fonctionnement des musées (PAFIM)musees.qc.camusees.qc.ca ; site gouvernemental Emplois d’été Canadacanada.cacanada.ca ; programme de résidences de la Ville de Québecville.quebec.qc.ca ; site du CALQcalq.gouv.qc.ca ; analyse légale des fiducies au Québecgirardavocats.comgirardavocats.com ; étude de cas (fiducie des Augustines)voute.bape.gouv.qc.cavoute.bape.gouv.qc.ca.