Luke 8 has always felt like a chapter that breathes differently. It doesn’t march. It doesn’t thunder. It doesn’t arrive with the clashes of cymbals or the shock of sudden drama. Instead, it moves like a river whose depth you underestimate until you slip beneath its surface and discover a world so richly layered that you cannot help but slow down and look again. Luke 8 is not merely about miracles, crowds, storms, healings, or revelations—it is about the interior world of the believer. It is about the unseen movements beneath the noise. It is about what God is doing in the soil of a heart while the world is still caught up in the spectacle at the surface.

The chapter is a mirror. It reflects the storms we fear, the seeds we carry, the voices we entertain, the desperation we hide, and the quiet faith waiting for a moment to speak. Luke 8 is the anatomy of spiritual growth, told not through theological formulas but through living encounters. Every part of it pulses with life—life misunderstood, life mismanaged, life resurrected, life misplaced, life restored, life renewed. And the more you sit with it, the more you realize that Luke is handing us the blueprint of how Jesus forms people who learn to hear the whisper of God above the roar of everything else.

When I returned to this chapter with fresh eyes, I noticed that Luke is not simply compiling events. He is drawing out a sequence that mirrors the journey of someone who desperately wants God but isn’t always sure what is happening in their own soul. Luke 8 begins with seed—something hidden—and ends with resurrection—something revealed. It begins with parables spoken to the many and ends with Jesus walking into the private chambers of a home where everyone else has already given up hope. It starts with soil and ends with restored breath. And in between those bookends lies everything that makes faith feel difficult, beautiful, confusing, demanding, triumphant, and intimate.

The chapter isn’t random. It’s an intentional progression: the seed, the light, the storm, the chains, the fear, the healing, the waiting, the timing, the revelation. It is the portrait of a God who works on the inside while everyone else is focused on the outside. It is a sculptor chiseling where no one else can see, until suddenly what God has been shaping within becomes undeniable.

The soil of Luke 8 is the soil of the human heart. But soil doesn’t speak. Soil responds. And when Jesus begins this chapter with the parable of the sower, He isn’t teaching about farming; He’s diagnosing spiritual reality. He’s describing the condition that determines everything else that follows. Before miracles, before storms, before demons cast out, before healings, before resurrections—there is soil. The invisible place where the Word lands. The place that decides the trajectory of the entire chapter. The place no one else sees but God sees clearly.

And this is precisely how a believer’s journey begins: not with applause, not with revelation, not with a sense of calling or purpose or breakthrough. It begins with soil. Quiet soil. Soil that doesn’t get attention until it produces something. Soil that no one congratulates. Soil that doesn’t trend. Soil that doesn’t go viral. Soil that looks unimpressive until the seed hidden within begins to take shape.

That is how the kingdom begins in us. Not with spectacle, but with smallness. Not with clarity, but with possibility. Not with evidence, but with a seed.

Luke 8 is the defense of small beginnings.

When Jesus explains the seed that falls on the path, the rock, the thorns, and the good ground, He is confronting the realities that every believer faces: distraction, shallowness, interference, and endurance. He is naming what competes with the Word in us. He is naming the real battlegrounds we all experience. And perhaps the most sobering truth is this: the same seed is given to every soil, but the outcome depends entirely on its environment.

This is where Luke 8 challenges the modern believer. We often cry out for a breakthrough, a blessing, a sign, a fresh word, or a divine intervention—but Jesus stands in front of us and says, “What have you done with the seed I already gave you?” Because the seed isn’t the issue. The soil is. The Word is perfect. The promise is perfect. The instruction is perfect. The voice is perfect. The seed lacks nothing. But the soil may lack readiness.

The believer’s greatest victories often come down to managing the soil so the seed can grow.

When Jesus speaks of the seed that gets choked by thorns, He is indicting the modern age with surgical precision: the cares, the riches, the pleasures of life. In other words, distraction disguised as normalcy. We assume the enemy’s greatest moves are dramatic. Jesus disagrees. He says the great danger is being preoccupied. Busy. Drained. Scattered. Drowned in the wrong concerns. Chasing what the culture celebrates. Preoccupied with what everyone else is chasing. Before long, the seed is still there—but its power has been suffocated.

Spiritual death rarely begins with rebellion. More often, it begins with distraction.

Luke 8 warns us: what grows around you can kill what God planted within you.

But Jesus doesn’t leave us with warning alone. He names the good soil. He describes it not as perfect, but as honest and good. In other words, open. Responsive. Hungry. Willing. Tender. Soil that receives, retains, and perseveres. Soil that doesn’t demand spectacle. Soil that doesn’t insist on instant results. Soil that can sit beneath the quiet work of God without panicking that nothing looks different yet.

Good soil is not measured by emotion; it is measured by endurance.

This is the foundation upon which the rest of Luke 8 unfolds. The seed sets the stage. But then Jesus moves from seed to light. Because whatever is planted must eventually become visible. Jesus warns that no one lights a lamp and hides it under a jar. In other words, what He is planting in you is not meant to stay hidden. The Word is not given for consumption alone—it is given for manifestation. Faith doesn’t end in revelation; it ends in transformation.

Jesus moves from seed to light because the seed is meant to grow into something the world can see. And then Jesus says something that unsettles every casual believer: “Therefore consider how you hear.” Not what you hear—how you hear. Jesus is revealing something our modern culture rarely considers: spiritual growth is not determined by the quantity of information you consume, but by the posture with which you receive it.

There are people who hear everything and change nothing. And there are people who hear one thing and change everything.

Jesus is teaching us that hearing is not passive—it is an act of spiritual alignment. It is an act of preparation. It is the work of positioning yourself to receive what heaven is releasing. This is why so many people sit under the same teaching and walk away with completely different outcomes. It was never about the message; it was always about the soil and the hearing.

Jesus continues, building layer upon layer. And then suddenly, He says something that feels out of place: His mother and brothers arrive but cannot reach Him because of the crowd. When He is told they are looking for Him, He responds, “My mother and My brothers are those who hear the Word of God and do it.”

This is not a dismissal of His family. It is the continuation of the same theme: hearing and doing. Receiving and responding. Not merely admiring the Word but embodying it.

Jesus is redefining family—not biologically, but spiritually. He is saying, “The ones closest to Me are the ones whose soil responds.” The ones who hear and do. The ones who let the seed grow. The ones who choose discipline over distraction. The ones who let the Word interrupt their patterns.

If Luke 8 stopped there, it would already be one of the most profound chapters in the Gospels—but Jesus is only getting started. He moves from seed and hearing to the storm on the lake, and suddenly the focus shifts from what is happening inside of us to what is happening around us. The disciples enter the boat at His command. They are following His Word. They are moving in obedience. And yet a storm rises against them.

Luke is teaching a truth that every believer must eventually embrace: obedience does not prevent storms.

The storm is not evidence that you missed God; the storm is often the evidence that you followed Him.

Jesus falls asleep. The storm rises. The boat fills with water. The disciples panic. They wake Him with a cry that summarizes the human condition perfectly: “Master, we are perishing!”

Fear has a way of exaggerating the danger and diminishing the presence of God.

Jesus wakes, rebukes the wind and waves, and asks them, “Where is your faith?” Notice He doesn’t ask, “Do you have faith?” He asks, “Where is it?” In other words, “You have it—I gave it to you—but you misplaced it in the storm.” The seed was planted. The Word had been given. But the environment around them began to compete with the environment within them.

This is the pattern of Luke 8: what God speaks must be defended against what life throws at you.

The storm wasn’t sent to destroy the disciples. It was sent to reveal the root system of their faith. Because storms do not create weakness; they expose it. They do not create strength; they reveal it. Storms show you what has been growing in the soil long before the wind began to howl.

Jesus calms the storm, but He does more than calm the environment—He realigns their interior world. He shows them that His presence is greater than the waves. He demonstrates that His authority is not theoretical; it is tangible, immediate, and unstoppable. And He reveals that storms are not obstacles; they are classrooms.

Luke 8 refuses to let you look at your storms the same way again.

But Jesus is not finished. The moment they reach the shore, they are met by a man possessed by a legion of demons. The contrast is jarring. They move from the chaos of external elements to the chaos of internal torment. Luke is showing us that storms do not only exist around us; they exist within people. And the authority of Jesus extends to both realms.

The man is naked, isolated, self-destructive, and imprisoned by forces no one else can understand. Society has chained him, ostracized him, and abandoned him. But Jesus does not see a madman; He sees a person worth crossing a stormy sea to reach. This is the heart of Luke 8: the God who braves storms to reach the broken.

Jesus confronts the legion, restores the man’s mind, and sends the demons into the pigs. But what happens afterward is even more revealing. The people of the region see the man restored, clothed, and in his right mind—and they beg Jesus to leave.

Some people fear freedom more than bondage.

The presence of Jesus disrupts economies, norms, comfort zones, and familiar dysfunctions. His authority is beautiful to the desperate but threatening to the comfortable. Luke 8 exposes this painful truth: not everyone wants the level of transformation Jesus brings. Some prefer predictable brokenness over unpredictable healing.

The restored man begs to follow Him. But Jesus sends him home, saying, “Declare what God has done for you.” In one sentence, Jesus shows us that the greatest evangelists are not the ones with the most education, but the ones with the deepest transformation.

And Luke 8 continues, leading us toward the next movement—back across the water—toward crowds, toward a desperate father, toward a dying daughter, toward a woman who has been bleeding for twelve years and carrying a silent suffering no one else could see.

Crowds are waiting when Jesus returns from delivering the man set free from the legion. And into that crowd pushes a synagogue leader whose desperation outweighs his dignity. His name is Jairus, and he falls at Jesus’ feet with the urgency of a father whose world is collapsing by the minute. His daughter is dying. Twelve years old. A child standing at the doorway between innocence and emerging identity, suddenly caught in a battle she cannot fight. Jairus doesn’t approach Jesus as a leader. He approaches Him as a father. And this is one of Luke’s quiet themes—Jesus meets people not where their role places them, but where their humanity breaks.

As Jesus goes with Jairus, the crowd presses in. Movement becomes slow. The journey becomes interrupted. The urgency of a father’s plea becomes entangled in the chaos of people flooding and pressing and reaching. And buried somewhere in that crowd is another story—one that’s been quietly unfolding for twelve years. A woman who has been hemorrhaging and suffering, weakened and dismissed, unclean and untouchable by the standards of her world. Her pain is long-term, silent, socially inconvenient, and economically exhausting. She has spent everything. She has tried everything. She has endured everything. And Luke crafts her entrance into the story like a whisper no crowd could hear.

Her suffering is twelve years old. Jairus’ daughter is twelve years old. These parallel timelines are not coincidence—they are revelation. One represents a life just beginning that is being cut short. The other represents a life long burdened that has been stretched beyond breaking. One is near death; the other is nearly invisible. One is urgent; the other has grown used to disappointment. And Jesus steps into both stories with the same compassion, the same authority, the same availability.

The woman does what the culture forbids her to do: she moves through the crowd with a hope so small it barely qualifies as a plan. She doesn’t cry out. She doesn’t demand anything. She doesn’t even want attention. She simply wants the edge of His garment. That’s all. She reaches. She touches. And immediately something moves inside her. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Physically. She knows instantly that her body has changed. Healing entered her the moment her fingers brushed the fringe of His robe.

But Jesus does something unexpected. He stops. He asks who touched Him. And Peter, ever the realist, reminds Him that the crowd is crushing in on all sides. But Jesus says, no—someone touched Me with intention. Someone pulled power from heaven into their brokenness through a touch that faith made possible. Jesus is not asking for information; He is calling the woman into recognition. The healing that was private must now become public. Not to embarrass her—but to restore her fully.

Suffering is not healed until shame is healed.

She comes forward trembling. She tells her story. And Jesus calls her daughter. It is the only place in the Gospels where He uses that word toward a woman. It is not accidental—it is identity restored. It is dignity recovered. It is belonging pronounced. It is Jesus telling a woman who has been cut off from society for more than a decade that she is family to Him.

And while this miracle unfolds, another story continues moving forward. A messenger comes from Jairus’ home with news that must have hit him like a blow to the chest: “Your daughter is dead. Don’t bother the Teacher anymore.” It is the kind of sentence that drains hope, shatters faith, and collapses the world beneath your feet. And Jesus, hearing this, speaks not to the messenger—but to the father whose heart is unraveling. He says, “Do not fear; only believe, and she will be well.”

In that moment, everything stops. Jairus must decide whether to believe what he has just heard or to believe the voice walking beside him. This is the crossroads every believer eventually stands upon: the report you see versus the promise you stand on. And Jesus refuses to let the father surrender to despair.

Fear is always louder than faith, but faith has the final word when Jesus is present.

Jesus arrives at the house, and the mourners are already wailing, already confirming the worst, already turning finality into spectacle. Jesus tells them she is not dead but asleep, and they laugh in His face. Luke includes this detail to remind us that unbelief is not passive; it mocks what it does not understand. But Jesus does not correct them. He removes them. He takes only Peter, James, John, and the parents into the room where the girl lies still.

The presence of doubt is often the greatest obstacle to experiencing resurrection.

Jesus takes her by the hand and speaks to her. His voice—calm, authoritative, unwavering—enters a place beyond human reach. And the child rises. Breath returns. Life returns. Her parents are overwhelmed, caught between joy and awe, shock and reverence. Jesus tells them to give her something to eat, because resurrection must be followed by nourishment. Life must be sustained, not just restored.

Luke 8 ends quietly, not with a public celebration but with a private moment of a family holding their daughter again. But the chapter’s conclusion is not the end of its message. Luke has taken us on a journey from seed to soil, from storms to deliverance, from crowds to individuals, from private desperation to public revelation, from whispered faith to resurrected promise. And beneath every moment of the chapter lies one unshakable truth: God is always doing deeper work than what you see on the surface.

Luke 8 operates like an X-ray of the spiritual life. It shows you layers beneath layers, truths beneath appearances, meanings beneath moments. It reveals that God is always working simultaneously in places you pray about, places you ignore, places you forgot, places you fear, and places you didn’t even know needed healing. Luke 8 is not simply about events—it is about principles that govern spiritual growth.

Consider the chapter as four movements, each one revealing a deeper dimension of the believer’s journey.

Movement 1: The Seed and the Soil This is where the journey begins—not with knowledge, but with receptivity. Not with outward expression, but inward surrender. The seed is always sufficient; the soil is always the factor. Luke is teaching that the believer’s transformation is not spontaneous; it is cultivated. The kingdom grows in hiddenness before it grows in visibility. And what you nurture internally eventually becomes the life you display externally.

Movement 2: The Light and the Hearing This movement reveals that what God plants is meant to shine. Light is the natural outcome of truth taking root. But hearing becomes the hinge. The way you receive truth determines the way truth transforms you. Hearing is more than listening; it is allowing the Word to rearrange your internal structure until obedience becomes the instinct of your soul.

Movement 3: The Storm and the Authority Here, Luke shifts to the spiritual reality of conflict. Storms rise even when you are in the center of God’s will. Implementation follows instruction. Opposition follows obedience. But Jesus shows that His authority is not limited to calm seasons—it is proven in turbulent ones. He teaches that storms don’t define your faith, but reveal where your faith has been placed.

Movement 4: The Broken and the Restored The final movement deals with the human heart. The possessed man, the bleeding woman, the dying child—each represents a dimension of human suffering: spiritual torment, physical affliction, and relational devastation. Jesus meets each with a tailored response, proving that His compassion is as varied as the needs of the people He touches. Restoration is not a one-size-fits-all miracle; it is personal, deliberate, and deeply intimate.

Yet woven through all four movements is an even deeper truth: Jesus is not merely saving people; He is forming them. He is shaping disciples who learn to recognize the movements of God in all seasons—hidden or visible, quiet or dramatic, tender or forceful. Luke 8 forms the kind of believer who understands that faith is not a performance; it is a posture. It is not a moment; it is a process. It does not grow only in the spectacular; it grows in the soil of persistence, hunger, humility, and endurance.

The disciples learned this in stages. They learned what it means to hear. What it means to obey. What it means to panic. What it means to be corrected. What it means to witness deliverance. What it means to be stretched. What it means to walk into someone’s deepest agony and trust Jesus to speak life into what seems irrevocably lost.

And nothing in Luke 8 is accidental. Every placement, every sequence, every encounter is shaped by divine intentionality. Luke is writing like a physician diagnosing the layers of the human condition while also writing like a historian capturing the movements of the Kingdom. And within that dual method lies a third dimension—Luke is writing like someone who understands that the presence of Jesus is always the determining factor. Whether seed or storm, crowd or crisis, demonic chains or dying children, Jesus remains the axis around which everything else turns.

Luke 8 is reminding the believer that growth is not linear—it is layered. You may be good soil in one area of your life and thorn-filled in another. You may be hearing well but panicking in the storm. You may be trusting God publicly but bleeding privately. You may be reaching in desperation or collapsing in fear. You may be the crowd, the disciple, the woman, the father, the restored man, or the resurrected child depending on the season you’re in. Luke 8 welcomes you in all of it, because Jesus meets you in all of it.

The chapter does not call you to perfection. It calls you to presence. To keep returning to the One who sows the seed, calms the storms, restores the broken, raises the dead, and calls out the hidden faith buried beneath years of silence. Luke 8 calls you to recognize that the God who speaks in whispers is also the God who commands the waves. That the One who teaches about soil can also cast out legions. That the One who responds to a secret touch can also raise a lifeless child with a single word.

Luke 8 forms a faith that is both tender and unshakeable. A faith that listens deeply and stands firmly. A faith that survives storms and confronts darkness. A faith that reaches in desperation and rises in resurrection. A faith that starts with seed but ends in transformation.

If you sit with this chapter long enough, you begin to see your own reflection inside it. You recognize the moments when you’ve been rocky soil, shallow soil, thorn-filled soil, or good soil. You recognize the storms that exposed your anxieties. You recognize the chains that once held you hostage. You recognize the moments when you were the desperate father or the silent woman who reached for Jesus when no one else knew the depth of your pain. You recognize the times when you needed resurrection in places you thought were beyond repair.

Luke 8 is your story long before you realize it. And like the chapter itself, your story is not random—it is sequential. God has been working through each season, each struggle, each breakthrough, each teaching, each storm, each healing. There are threads woven through years you forgot about, linking moments you never realized were connected. The God who healed the woman and raised the girl in the same journey is the same God who orchestrates your life with a precision you cannot yet see.

Luke 8 demands reflection, not haste. You cannot rush through it and grasp its depth. It asks you to slow down, to linger, to listen. Because the God of Luke 8 is not forming you quickly—He is forming you deeply. And depth requires time, storms, seed, struggle, waiting, revelation, correction, healing, and resurrection. Depth requires the kind of faith that does not panic when Jesus sleeps in the boat because you know He never abandons His own. Depth requires the courage to push through crowds for a single touch. Depth requires believing His voice above the report of death. Depth requires trusting His timing when delays feel dangerous.

Luke 8 is a chapter of becoming. Becoming good soil. Becoming a faithful hearer. Becoming a storm survivor. Becoming someone who refuses to let shame silence you. Becoming someone who trusts the God who enters graves and brings breath back into places everyone else has dismissed. Becoming the kind of believer who understands that Jesus never stops revealing Himself, never stops forming you, never stops meeting you, never stops speaking, never stops restoring.

This chapter, in its fullness, is a portrait of what it looks like to live a faith that grows roots deeper than storms, stretches beyond fear, pushes through the crowds of distraction, and rises again when all hope seems buried. And this is the invitation Luke 8 gives you—not just to read it, but to live it. To let its patterns become your habits. To let its truths become your reflexes. To let its revelations become your identity. To let its Savior become your center.

Luke 8 is not ancient history—it is present reality. And if you walk with it long enough, you will see the storms for what they are, the seed for what it is, the crowd for what it reveals, the reaching for what it awakens, the resurrection for what it accomplishes. You will see that nothing in your life is wasted. No delay is arbitrary. No storm is purposeless. No suffering is unseen. No faith is ignored. No cry is forgotten. And no death has the final word when Jesus is present.

Luke 8 is the quiet depth beneath the storm. The whisper beneath the noise. The seed beneath the soil. The hope beneath the fear. The light beneath the jar. The restoration beneath the shame. The resurrection beneath the grief.

And the God of Luke 8 is the God of your story still.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Warning: Contains spoilers

#tv #fiction #anime #SF

For as long as humans have dreamt of robots, they have dreamt of them becoming human. Artificial General Intelligence (AGI) remains the ambition of most AI companies, despite current LLMs exhibiting worrying tendencies to ramble, hallucinate or engage in the mass production of child pornography. With this aspiration comes the attendant fear that, once sentient, the robots will take our jobs, murder us all in our sleep, or simply transform us into paperclips. Genocidal AIs are such a science-fiction staple that introducing a robot in Act One almost inevitably leads to the AI Apocalypse by Act Three.

Compared to this pervasive trope, 2023 anime series Pluto offers a refreshing alternative. Inspired by the 1960s Astroboy comics, Pluto is a short and sympathetic meditation on the nature of humanity, delivering an emotional gut punch with almost every episode. Its story and beautifully rendered aesthetic are a homage to the High Futurist optimism of a bygone era, composed of flying cars, skyscraper cities embraced by bucolic countryside, and peaceful robot and human coexistence.

Not that there is no conflict in Pluto. Episode one starts us off with not one, but two murders: a highly advanced robot and a renowned roboticist. Symbols left at the crime scenes suggest the murders are connected, but this presents an enigma: forensics indicate a robotic suspect, yet Pluto’s robots obey an equivalent of Asimov’s First Law of Robotics and hence cannot harm humans. It is up to Gesicht, Europol’s foremost robotic detective, to crack this case.

Gesicht has a personal investment in this investigation. As more robots and humans fall victim to the mysterious murderer referred to as the titular Pluto, we learn that all of them are connected to the ‘39th Central Asian War’: the invasion of the ‘Kingdom of Persia’ on the ostensible grounds that it illegally stockpiled robots of mass destruction – a very thinly veiled reference to the 2003 Iraq War. The robots being targeted are the world’s seven most advanced robots, which includes Gesicht himself. All were to some degree involved with the invasion of the Kingdom of Persia, while all human victims were on the ‘Bora Inquiry Commission’, an international inspection team sent in ahead of the invasion to determine whether the Kingdom did indeed possess robots of mass destruction. Someone is out for vengeance, but the question is who, and why.

A whodunnit at a surface level, Pluto’s real story is an existential reflection on the nature of humanity, and how a robot might attain it. While not programmed to have them, Pluto’s most advanced robots start to experience emotions as an emergent property driven by a desire to emulate and understand their human counterparts. Humans might remark on robotic superiority in terms of intellect, durability and the absence of emotional complications, but many robots feel afflicted with a pervasive melancholia because they cannot access the human way of relating to the world. They want to experience a sunrise, not merely detect the appearance of a nearby star over the horizon.

Trauma is the key that unlocks the emotional door for Gesicht and others who fought and killed thousands of robotic adversaries in the 39th Central Asian War. As we encounter the robot victors, we see them struggle with depression, hate, grief, regret, and guilt, exacerbated by their unfamiliarity with emotional feelings, and a lack of human understanding, bordering on callousness, for what they are going through. Robots prove particularly vulnerable to traumatic events because their memories don’t fade or alter with time, causing one to desperately ask a human whether the hate it feels will ever diminish.

Hate is at the centre of the paradox that Pluto interrogates. If attaining humanity requires a robot to feel, then how can it remain subject to Asimov’s First Law? A robot that can feel, can hate. A robot that can hate, could kill. After all humans kill other humans all the time. Some characters contend that might be the necessary ingredient for emotional awakening, and it is certainly a driving force for many characters, both human and robot. Attempting to answer whether hate can indeed be overcome, Pluto explores if and how a cycle of hate and vengeance, both at the personal and societal level, can ever be broken. In the end, it affirms that it can, arriving at similar conclusion to Thunderbolts* in showing how kindness, forgiveness and love are the way out of the hateful doom spiral.

Pluto executes its introspection on the nature of humanity intelligently and with real sympathy for all its characters, villains included. Compared to my recent read The Interdependency, there is a remarkable amount of backstory and character development in a mere eight episodes. There are some aspects though where Pluto’s evocation of the Golden Age of science fiction leads it astray. Most unforgivable is the extremely limited presence of female characters, who are relegated to either loving wives or emotional sisters. There is no reason why all of the seven main robots should be male, nor for the overwhelming majority of the support cast to be the same. And while the patriarchy may be the most obvious, Pluto on the whole exhibits the problematic lack of diversity that sadly remains emblematic of much anime. An upgrade to the 21st century was absolutely warranted here, and the absence of it is disappointing. Environmentally Pluto has equally remained in the 1960s. We see plenty of flying cars, but no mass transit. Skyscraper cities, but no renewable energy. For an otherwise very carefully composed series, this is a crude techno-optimist streak, with technological development serving to both magically overcome environmental destruction and reimpose traditional gender norms.

These are not trivial critiques, and I would have preferred for Pluto to reinvent utopian futurism for the 2020s rather than simply importing it wholesale from the 1960s, if only because we could all do with an alternative aesthetic to the all-pervasive cyberpunk or Terminator derivatives. Choosing this traditional Golden Age of Sci-Fi setting places Pluto outside the contemporary utopian aesthetic of solarpunk, but it is not a bad thing to have multiple utopias to choose from. Despite these flaws, Pluto is a beautifully crafted, emotionally compelling and intellectually engaging series that most certainly deserves viewing. It is more than redeemed by its optimism on the potential for human/robot coexistence, its belief in empathy, care and love as the real keys to humanity, and its insistence that our future isn’t determined by technology, but by what we choose to do with it. And possibly, by what it chooses to do with itself.

Notes & Suggestions

• Another excellent meditation on technological advance, utopian possibilities, what it means to be human and how synthetic constructs fit into all of this is animated series Pantheon. Similarly, Citizen Sleeper is a comparatively short but beautifully crafted game that also mixes musing son synthetic existence with an insistence on kindness and mutual aid, although in a distinctly more cyberpunk dystopian setting.
• For a running commentary on all things wrong with AI, I recommend following Cory Doctorow. I reviewed his excellent book The Internet Con some time ago.

UNSENT  

Dear A, you were the first man of my life. I remember when my mom dropped me at that cafe after talking to you and trusting you would take care of her 16 yo kid. And you did. You were the most caring, sweet, responsible boyfriend. You taught me things and you honored my innocence. Together with my first time, came my first bouquet of flowers. I was so young, but you saw me through and you treated me as a woman. I am so thankful life gave someone like you, that carried me to my 18 kissing my forehead until the end. My family adores you. I know you are married now and I wish you knew how much I wish you well.

Dear F, my 18 yo self is still tangled up in the memory of us. I was your muse, and you loved me with a fierce devotion. I can still remember my hands trembling every time my dad would say “You got a letter.” and I would immediately recognize your handwriting on the envelope. I kept them all tucked away for years between the pages of the books you sent me: Wuthering Heights, Philip Roth. I still remember our first kiss in front of the sea in Paraty and the emotion everytime “Someone like you” from Kings of Leon would start playing everywhere I’d go. A decade later I was 28 and you “kidnapped” me for a weekend driving 100km from São Paulo to your place. I was moving to Vienna a week later. By then you had a son, a divorce, and a different kind of weight on your shoulders. I wished I could give you back the spark of our youth, because you truly are a beautiful person. That weekend I became friends with your friends, even had some beers with your uni professor. We had so much fun. Sometimes I still talk about politics with them. Ending up in that dodgy asian spot with you all felt oddly perfect. I’ll always be curious about your work as an editor at the newspaper, your life and the places you drift to.

Dear R, we spent 4 years together, although you always correct me: 4 years and a half. Those felt like an entire life. Your family adopted me because I was so young in such a big city. Your mom was a legit fairy godmother to me. I was your sister’s bridesmaid. I still remember how she got emotional the last time I saw her before moving to Vienna saying I was just a girl when she met me, and now she was in front of a beautiful woman. You are like family to me. I adore you and your wife. Please take good care of her, cause you are not easy, and she is ten times more tolerant to you than I could ever be. Thank you for everything.

Dear D,   we began in such a sweet, unexpected way. I still remember the first time I saw you: you were leaving work just as I was starting there that same week. My mind immediately whispered, “I’m going to date this guy.” And it made no sense at all to me, I wasn’t even attracted to you, and besides, you were on your way out. Little I knew you’d keep visiting us, and somehow, for the next weeks, we simply clicked. You laughed at all my jokes and you loved my grimaces. I started gathering the little geek toys you’d scattered around the agency, arranging them on my desk like tiny trophies of our growing connection. One day you showed up with something wrapped in aluminum foil, slipping it to me under the desk as if we were doing something illicit. I leaned in and whispered, “Did you bring me a brick of weed, D?” You shook your head and said, “No. MUCH BETTER. Chocolate brownie.” Your tenderness won me over. Your super catholic family and that side comment you dropped from the day you saw me wearing white, you wanted to carry me straight to the altar. But you also carried your own shadows, and like a wounded dog, you slipped away to tend to your pain alone. My heart was into pieces again. Guess you could never really believe how much I liked you, always putting me on a pedestal. A decade later you moved to Portugal while I was living in Vienna. You toyed with the idea of visiting me a few times, but I was already in a relationship. Your current girlfriend is stunning and I wish you both so much to be happy.

Dear P, what a movie. We were messy. You were 3 years younger but you had a special way on producing music and I really thought you were an awkward genious. I really loved your messy hair after making love and how we would sit together in that chair in my bedroom starring the landscape of the city that would never sleep. In the middle of my trip to India you materialized in front of me at the Taj Mahal and I'll always keep that moment as the most shocking, overwhelming experience of my life. We were both miles away from home and we simply met each other by chance on the other side of the world. It took me a few minutes to understand that was real and you were in front of me. My immediate reaction was to run away, but you, at the top of your 20s chased me all the way garden down to the entrance to say hi. And then you gave me a shy peck kiss that left my brother and the tour guide shocked wondering: do you know this guy? I loved your audacity. Months later you materialized again in front of me 600km away from São Paulo, where we both lived. By now everyone knew the story and shared a complete astonishment. It seems you are in Canada now. I am not particularly curious about you, but I hope you are living your best life. And I really hope you kept that audacity of yours, which was just so hot.

Dear G, we were a perfect sequence of mistakes. It was my first paid gig as a copywriter and you had a girlfriend, which you hid from me, of course. You offered me rides back home after work and one day you just stopped on the red traffic light and you kissed me. From that moment on, traffic laws meant nothing to us. Red lights became invitations. You dazzled me with magic tricks, apps, and your ability to hypnotize entire rooms. I dazzled you with words. You wrote down my throwaway comments like sacred texts. I’ll admit it: creatively, we were annoyingly good. I still remember how amusing it was to flirt or discuss with you over our desktops all afternoon long without anyone realizing what we were talking about or what was happening. When you finally broke up with her and invited me to your place, I had to lecture you about sorority and “how much of my creative process you have jeopardized by making me unable to be spontaneous around everyone, while having to hide this whole story, and how that was slowly killing me”, while you would kiss me at every period in between my sentences confirming I looked beautiful while angry. I ran away from you, and I confess I feel a little sorry for your current wife.

Dear C, we really fell hard for each other. it was not easy to manage the distance, I was in Brazil half of the time, and you were in Austria. I wish you knew how devoted I was to you all along. There was nobody else in my heart and you read me so wrong, jealous of all my friends. I knew you loved me, on your own fashion, but you hurt me so deeply, that sometimes I just felt like I should send you the therapy bills. I know there's another side to every story but you seemed to have 10. The condoms I found in the trash, the bedsheets yet to be washed, all the messages from other girls missing you. And yet you wouldn't leave me in peace. You wouldn’t let me go. You pushed me to the deepest emotions, to feelings I did not know I could have. I feared that all that I have given you was a ship out to nowhere. And I worked so hard on myself, wishing I could have those moments back. But I found out there was a little light on me yet, there was a lot of strength on me yet. And I took that to my life. You made me unstoppable. I have no resentment towards you, and if anything I choose to remember the books you read to me under the sun in Croatia and swimming naked with you at the sea. It's all good now.

Dear B, I don't think you'd ever give me the chance to say how sorry I am. And I respect that as I do you. You're a truly authentic dude and watching you playing the piano made me rethink my entire life, wanting to redecorate my home, paint my canvases. We geeked over Radiohead and orangutans. The truth is I was overwhelmed by how much I liked you and the magic you brought to my life. It was unfair how I picked your vulnerability and used it against you to justify staying away. I sabotaged it cause you were too good, I was too hurt from my last relationships and too scared to believe on anything again. How arrogant I was. As a result you lived rent free in the back of my mind for years. You were hurt too, but you were so honest. I didn't know how to do any better. I even went to a concert of yours at Porgy and Bass but I never showed up to say hi. What was wrong with me?

Dear M, I was really hurt when you got to know me. But then you would smile with so much trust and that angelic face of yours, you just made it seem so easy. You've been nothing but open hearted. You brought me to your family, we played with your nieces, we painted, ran, played jenga, did pottery, in less than a day the girls got so close to me. We took Livi in so many walks. You showed me a different type of love. A calm one. The first time I told you I loved you, you replied: “I love you too, Paula. I love you long time”. I remember how nice it was to come back home to you, the beauty of just being around. You were not jealous, you trusted me, you took care of me. You cuddled my hair at night. For a while I thought we would be forever. It was painful to see you feeling so lost with your life here, while trying to be so caring for me. I also tried my best, believe me. It took me a lot of strength to let you go, but ultimately I did it, because I wanted you to be happy, even if it would mean I wouldn't be your girlfriend anymore. But I see the light in so many things out there and a lifetime gently now sits on the stairs to my home. You deserve all love.

/feb26

Wisconsin Badgers at Illinois Fighting Illini

My basketball game of choice tonight will a Big Ten Conference contest between the Wisconsin Badgers and the Illinois Fighting Illini. Rather than listen to a radio call of the game, I'll first try to watch it broadcast by Peacock TV on the smaller set back in my room.

And the adventure continues.

There comes a moment in every believer’s life when the quiet pressure to please everyone becomes too heavy to ignore, and the soul starts whispering for something truer. It usually happens after a long stretch of trying to manage a thousand expectations at once trying to be gentle enough for one group, bold enough for another, polished enough for some, raw enough for others, present for everyone and still somehow holy enough in the ways people measure holiness. And then, in that moment when your spirit is tired and your mind is overworked and your heart is stretched thinner than it should ever be, a simple truth rises like a clear voice cutting through the fog. Stop trying to be liked by everybody. You don’t even like everybody. That truth doesn’t come to shame you or make you defensive; it comes to release you from a burden God never placed on your shoulders in the first place.

The strange thing about that line is how instantly it exposes the quiet myth we’ve been living under. Somewhere along the way, we learned to equate spiritual goodness with universal likability. We picked up the subtle idea that holiness required us to become shapeless, agreeable, predictable, calm, and acceptable to every personality, every preference, every opinion, every expectation in the room. And because we love God, we adopted that belief without questioning it. We thought kindness meant saying yes too often. We thought humility meant hiding our gifts. We thought love meant absorbing every blow. But real kindness has boundaries. Real humility still has a spine. Real love requires truth. And real obedience to God often disrupts what others want you to be.

What makes this conversation even deeper is the tension we don’t admit: you don’t like everyone. Not because you’re harsh or judgmental, but because your spirit has taste. Your heart discerns. You recognize who lifts you and who drains you. You notice who speaks life into you and who quietly sows confusion. You sense when someone’s presence stirs peace and when someone’s presence disturbs it. You can feel alignment and misalignment without needing to explain it. And that’s not a flaw; that’s part of how God built you. Your spirit is not random. It’s wired for assignment. You were never meant to fit every room, and every room was never meant to fit you.

But the moment you start believing you’re supposed to be universally liked, you begin deforming your life into a shape it was never meant to hold. You lower your voice so others won’t feel confronted by your clarity. You step back when God is telling you to step forward. You minimize your convictions so others won’t misread your passion. You censor your identity so people won’t accuse you of being too much. In short, you become a version of yourself that is easier to digest but harder to recognize. And every time you shrink, you lose spiritual oxygen. You start breathing shallow. You start second-guessing your own discernment. You start doubting the whispers God speaks to your heart. You begin translating yourself into what others prefer instead of what God intended. And once that happens, the slow unraveling of purpose begins.

Part of the tragedy of universal approval is that it rewrites the question you ask God. Instead of asking, What do You want me to do?, you start asking, Who do they need me to be so they’ll accept me? And that question is spiritual poison. It dissolves authenticity. It erases courage. It neutralizes anointing. It quiets your authority. It blurs your purpose. It keeps you tiptoeing through life, hoping no one gets upset, no one gets confused, no one gets uncomfortable, no one pulls away. It keeps your heart divided between the truth God gave you and the approval you’re trying to earn.

Look at Scripture. Every person God raised up had to let go of the desire to be universally liked. Noah preached obedience while the world laughed. Moses led people who complained constantly. David was adored in one season and hunted in another. Jeremiah wept because no one wanted to hear the truth he carried. Esther had to risk her reputation and her safety at the same time. Paul walked into cities where people cheered for him and other cities where people wanted him dead. And Jesus—the embodiment of love itself—was misunderstood, rejected, misrepresented, criticized, hated, and crucified. If perfect love wasn’t universally loved, why do we expect to be?

The moment you accept that God does not require you to be liked by everyone, a strange freedom enters your life. Your shoulders lower a little. Your breathing deepens. Your voice steadies. You begin to see that the pressure you thought was “godly responsibility” was actually emotional captivity. You start realizing how much of your energy has been spent negotiating peace with people who were never meant to steward your purpose anyway. You begin noticing the places where your spirit dimmed itself out of fear of being too bright for someone else. And slowly, the Holy Spirit invites you into the quiet truth that obedience is lighter than approval. Alignment is lighter than applause. Truth is lighter than performance. Purpose is lighter than people-pleasing.

This realization does not make you selfish or dismissive. It makes you honest. It makes you healthy. It makes you spiritually awake. Because once your eyes are open, you start seeing the subtle negotiations you’ve been making for years. You remember the conversations where you said yes out of fear instead of yes out of calling. You recall the friendships where you minimized yourself to keep the peace. You remember the seasons when you made yourself small because someone else felt threatened by your growth. You remember the times you apologized for things that were not your mistake, simply to prevent someone’s temporary discomfort. You remember the dreams you delayed because someone else didn’t see the value of them. And somewhere deep in your spirit, you feel the quiet grief of all the ways you abandoned yourself trying to keep temporary peace.

But here’s the beautiful part: God never wastes even those seasons. They become lessons. They become clarity. They become new direction. They become wisdom in your bones. And they become the moment where you finally say, Enough. Not in anger. Not in bitterness. But in obedience. Enough of trying to mold myself into everyone’s expectations. Enough of turning my purpose into a negotiation. Enough of letting the opinions of people override the instructions of God. Enough of shrinking to fit places God never asked me to stay. Enough of apologizing for being who God handcrafted me to be.

And once you reach that point, old versions of you start falling off like scales. You begin stepping into conversations without the fear of being misunderstood. You begin setting boundaries without feeling guilty. You begin speaking with clarity even if someone takes it the wrong way. You begin showing up in your fullness without rehearsing how to make yourself smaller. And you begin realizing that the people who are truly aligned with your purpose never require you to shrink in the first place.

Alignment looks like people who celebrate your obedience instead of resenting it. Alignment looks like people who understand your boundaries instead of punishing you for them. Alignment looks like people who aren’t threatened by your growth but inspired by it. Alignment looks like people who don’t compete with your calling but add strength to it. Alignment looks like voices that confirm what God has already whispered. Alignment looks like friendships that don’t demand half of you just to tolerate the fullness of you.

And yet, even with alignment, you will still encounter some who simply don’t understand you—and that’s okay. They’re not supposed to. You are not their assignment. Their confusion is not your responsibility. Their discomfort is not your burden. Their misinterpretations are not your job to correct. What God called you to do in this life is too precious, too urgent, too eternal to be diluted by the temporary opinions of people who were never meant to interpret your blueprint.

Because the truth is, your life is not a public relations campaign. Your calling is not a popularity contest. Your anointing is not supposed to be universally accessible. When God marks your life, you will always stand out in ways that demand explanation—but explanation is not your task. Faithfulness is. Your job is to steward what God placed in your hands. Your job is to move where God tells you to move. Your job is to speak when God tells you to speak. Your job is to listen when God tells you to listen. Your job is to grow even when others don’t want you to. Your job is to rise even when some prefer the version of you that stayed low.

And maybe the hardest part for many believers is this: sometimes God removes people you wanted to keep. Not because they were evil, but because they were too small for the next chapter of your calling. Not because they were toxic, but because the season changed. Not because you failed, but because God is protecting the future version of you they were not designed to handle. Growth will always rearrange your relational landscape. And when God is pruning for purpose, it often feels like rejection until you understand the assignment.

This is where spiritual maturity grows its roots. When you stop seeing every relational shift as a loss and begin recognizing it as redirection. When you stop grieving what God removed and begin honoring why He removed it. When you stop fighting to keep everyone happy and begin fighting to stay obedient. When you stop treating other people’s approval as your oxygen and start breathing the atmosphere of the Holy Spirit again. When your soul finally settles into the truth that some will like you, some won’t, and none of it can stop God from doing what He intends to do through your life.

You were never meant to carry the weight of being universally liked. God never asked that of you. He asked you to follow Him. He asked you to trust Him. He asked you to obey Him. And He asked you to be courageous enough to be who He created you to be, even when that identity is too bright for some, too bold for others, and too unfamiliar for those who preferred the smaller version of you. Your worth was settled long before anyone formed an opinion about you. Your identity was established before anyone misunderstood you. Your value is rooted in God, not in public consensus. And once you embrace that reality, you walk into a freedom that cannot be taken away.

The moment you begin to release the need for universal approval, the spiritual atmosphere around you shifts. Not because the world changes, but because you finally occupy your life with the kind of authority God intended. You stop walking like someone waiting for permission. You stop speaking like someone afraid of being misunderstood. You stop moving like someone apologizing for existing. Instead, something rises in you—a calm, steady confidence that doesn’t depend on applause. A security that doesn’t need validation. A freedom that doesn’t ask for permission slips. And slowly, you become someone who no longer needs acceptance to function.

But that transformation doesn’t happen instantly. It unfolds the way a sunrise unfolds—slowly, steadily, beautifully. At first you notice hints of change: you stop explaining yourself so much. You stop worrying about who approves of your decisions. You stop rehearsing conversations in your mind trying to create a version of yourself that everyone will be happy with. You stop carrying guilt for choosing what makes your soul healthy. And before you realize it, you are no longer negotiating with anyone about who God called you to be.

There is a moment in this process where the silence of others becomes sacred instead of scary. The absence of certain people no longer feels like abandonment—it feels like clarity. You stop seeing distance as punishment and start seeing it as protection. You begin recognizing that God removes certain voices because they cannot steward the next version of you with wisdom. The you that God is shaping requires a different environment, a different circle, a different atmosphere, a different level of spiritual oxygen. And God, in His mercy, makes adjustments that you may not have the courage to make yourself.

This is the season when your future begins to speak louder than your past. Your purpose starts pulling you forward more than people pull you back. Your spirit becomes sharper. Your ears become more sensitive to God’s whisper. Your discernment heightens. You become aware of what used to go undetected. The subtle spiritual misalignments you used to ignore now feel like alarms. The unhealthy dynamics you used to explain away now look undeniable. And slowly, you realize you’ve been living under the weight of expectations God never authorized.

Here is the truth many believers miss for far too long: you don’t need universal approval to fulfill a God-given assignment. You don’t need mass consensus to walk in your calling. You don’t need the endorsement of people whose spiritual bandwidth cannot comprehend the depth of what God is shaping inside you. Some people simply don’t have the capacity to understand your calling, and that is not an insult to them—it’s simply a description of the part they play in your story. Some are meant to walk with you for a lifetime. Some for a season. Some for a moment. And their chapter length is not your decision; it is God’s orchestration.

One of the most liberating spiritual truths you will ever embrace is this: not every person who started with you is meant to finish with you. Some people cannot continue into a chapter they were not written into. Their absence is not a deficiency in your character. Their departure is not evidence of failure. It is evidence of transition. Evidence of growth. Evidence of divine movement. Evidence of God clearing your spiritual path.

You will notice something powerful once you embrace this: the pressure to prove yourself disappears. You stop carrying the burden of convincing anyone of your worth. You stop trying to justify decisions that were made between you and God alone. You stop trying to persuade people to believe in something they were never spiritually positioned to understand. The freedom that enters your life in that moment is indescribable. It is the difference between living inside a cage of expectations and living inside the open field of purpose.

And here’s something else God will teach you: the people who are meant for your journey will not require you to contort yourself into someone you’re not. They won’t punish you for having boundaries. They won’t make you feel guilty for choosing obedience. They won’t manipulate your kindness. They won’t demand that you shrink to accommodate their insecurity. They won’t resent your growth. They will see your calling, respect your process, honor your voice, and value your presence. They will hold space for who you are becoming, not just who you were.

The absence of universal approval becomes the birthplace of genuine spiritual alignment. Because the moment you let go of the need to please everyone, the only voice left guiding you is God’s. And that is where the real transformation begins. You become someone who follows divine instruction without waiting for applause. Someone who surrenders outcomes without fear of reactions. Someone who speaks truth without diluting it. Someone who makes decisions without needing a room full of cheerleaders. Someone whose heart is anchored, not in external acceptance, but in internal obedience.

The irony is that once you stop trying to be liked by everyone, you become more lovable to the people who matter most. Authenticity has a gravity to it. People recognize when someone has stopped hiding. They recognize when someone is no longer divided internally. They are drawn to people who walk in their fullness without apology. And the relationships formed in that environment are deeper, stronger, healthier, and spiritually sound.

But even then, not everyone will stay. And that’s part of the beauty of divine alignment—it filters your relationships. It reveals who is truly connected to you and who was only connected to a version of you. Some people are not rejecting you—they are rejecting the discomfort of being near someone growing beyond the boundaries of their comfort zone. And that’s all right. Their rejection is not your direction. God’s calling is.

Let’s go even deeper into the part many believers rarely address: the emotional tug-of-war that happens inside you while you transition out of people-pleasing. There will be days when you feel guilty for no longer performing in ways others have come to expect. There will be moments when your old instincts try to resurface—moments when you want to explain yourself, appease someone, soften a boundary, rescue someone from discomfort, or return to the old version of yourself that made life easier for everyone else. There will be moments when loneliness tries to convince you that compliance would feel safer than clarity. But that’s just the echo of an old identity trying to survive in a new season.

Spiritual maturity means embracing discomfort without surrendering your calling. It means choosing obedience over emotional dependency. It means sitting with the silence and letting God speak instead of rushing to fill the space with approval-seeking behavior. It means recognizing that not every uncomfortable moment is an attack—sometimes it is simply a breaking of old patterns.

You will know you are growing when God’s voice becomes louder than the noise of people’s expectations. When His peace outweighs the pressure to please. When His approval becomes enough. When your spirit stops asking the world for permission to walk in purpose. When you stop apologizing for becoming the person He has been shaping in you for years.

This journey is not about becoming careless or unkind. Quite the opposite. It is about becoming authentic, grounded, spiritually aligned, and emotionally honest. It is about loving people without worshiping their opinions. It is about honoring others without abandoning yourself. It is about walking in humility without shrinking into invisibility. It is about carrying grace without carrying everyone’s emotional load. It is about being available to serve without being available to be drained.

And eventually, after enough time in this new freedom, something remarkable happens: you begin to reap the fruit of obedience. Peace settles into places anxiety once ruled. Clarity forms where confusion used to live. Strength rises where insecurity once drove your decisions. Your prayers deepen. Your discernment sharpens. Your boundaries stabilize. Your heart becomes whole in ways you didn’t even know you needed.

This is the life God meant for you: a life where obedience leads, where approval fades, where purpose governs your steps, where your identity is rooted in eternity rather than opinion. A life where you step fully into your calling without looking back to see who claps. A life where you walk boldly into rooms knowing that God’s presence is your validation. A life where your worth is not debated—it is settled.

And once you taste that kind of spiritual freedom, there is no going back. You won’t trade it for applause. You won’t sacrifice it for acceptance. You won’t compromise it for popularity. You won’t negotiate it for temporary peace. You will protect it with the seriousness of someone who finally knows what they were created for.

So here is the truth that closes this entire journey: you were never meant to carry the weight of being universally liked. God never asked it of you. People demanded it. Insecurity enforced it. Fear whispered it. But God never required it. He asked for obedience, faithfulness, courage, integrity, and trust. And when you release the counterfeit expectations of pleasing the world, you step into the authentic expectations of heaven.

Stop trying to be liked by everybody. You don’t even like everybody. But you can love them. You can bless them. You can pray for them. You can honor them. All without needing them to approve of you. That is spiritual maturity. That is emotional freedom. That is divine alignment.

And that is the life God has been trying to lead you into all along.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

Het nieuws dat slachtoffers van seksueel geweld op minderjarigen vanaf 01/02/2026 in België een gratis advocaat krijgen is nu een week oud. Jo de Meester, Stafhouder van de Balie Antwerpen, en Paul Van Tigchelt, parlementslid van OpenVLD anders in de commissie justitie, reageren op de aankondiging.

Jo de Meester reageert

Jo de Meester is de Stafhouder van de Balie van Antwerpen. Vreemd is dat het de Stafhouder en niet zijn Voorzitter van het Bureau voor Juridische Bijstand is die reageert. De OVB houdt hen nochtans altijd voor als aparte juridische en financiële entiteiten met elk hun verschillende bevoegdheid. (Ai die lange ego-advocaten-tenen?) Jo de Meester vertelt:

Ik verwijs naar de berichtgeving van afgelopen zondag op de VRT.

In Brussel bestaat het project Lawyers Victim Assistance waarnaar werd verwezen in het persartikel dat in samenwerking met Brussel Hoofdstedelijk Gewest enige tijd geleden werd opgezet.

Het Federale regeerakkoord van januari 2025 bepaalde als volgt:

“We zorgen dat slachtoffers van ernstige geweldsdelicten en zedenfeiten beroep kunnen doen op algemene bijstand door een advocaat zowel voor als tijdens hun verhoor. Er wordt een systeem van permanentie georganiseerd binnen de advocatuur, zodat deze slachtoffers, 24/7 de nodige gespecialiseerde juridische ondersteuning kunnen krijgen.”

Het Ministerie van Justitie, OVB, OBFG en de lokale balies bekijken hoe deze zorg kan gerealiseerd worden over gans België, waarbij gekeken wordt naar de ervaringen van Lawyers Victim Assistance.

Er is op dit ogenblik nog geen nieuwe wetgeving hierover afgekondigd.

De gesprekken zijn lopende. Ik houd u uiteraard verder op de hoogte.

Het moge duidelijk zijn, we zijn in België ver van huis wanneer het gaat om slachtoffers juridische bijstand te verlenen.

Paul Van Tigchelt reageert

Morgen, 11/02/2026, in de commissie justitie in het parlement stelt Paul Van Tigchelt, volgens agenda, vraag 12 over “De gratis hulp van een advocaat voor slachtoffers van verkrachting of partnergeweld”

Bespreking beleidsnota minister van justitie

Morgen vanaf 11u wordt in de commissie justitie de beleidsnota van de minister van justitie, Annelies Verlinden, besproken.

In bijzonder interesseert ons volgende passages:

In overleg met de balies zorgen we, samen met de minister bevoegd voor gelijke kansen, ervoor dat slacht- offers van intrafamiliaal- en seksueel geweld beroep kunnen doen op juridische bijstand zodat we hen beter kunnen informeren over hun rechten en opties van bij het begin. Hiertoe wordt een systeem van permanen- tie georganiseerd binnen de advocatuur, zodat deze slachtoffers, 24/7 de nodige gespecialiseerde juridische ondersteuning kunnen krijgen.

We moedigen de verschillende wijzen van alternatieve geschillenbe- slechting ook aan via het systeem van de juridische rechtsbijstand. Hierover traden wij in overleg gaan met de Ordes van Advocaten. Hun concreet voorstel hiertoe wordt afgewacht.

Daarnaast willen we de juridische tweedelijnsbijstand bestendigen en herzien. Zoals eerder toegelicht, is het daarbij van belang om in het systeem van juridische bijstand de alternatieve vormen van geschillenoplossing, zoals de bemiddeling, te faciliteren.

Waar zijn de centen, mevrouw de minister?

Wij reageren diepgaand komend weekend op dit alles, samen met een blik omtrent de internationale verplichtingen die België al decennia schendt …

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children for status is een onafhankelijk collectief dat schuldig verzuim door de Staat ten aanzien van seksueel geweld op minderjarigen en kinderhandel oplossingsgericht documenteert en aanklaagt

Day 1: 30 Days of Healing Post Breakup Prompt: Describe the emotions you are experiencing post breakup.

Betrayal, pain, deceit, insecure, deficient, angry, confused. I am feeling all of these things. They swirl through my brain, completely unrestrained wreaking havoc on my brain. How to you coalesce the feelings of love you have for someone with the knowledge that they are not good for you? How do you make your heart believe what your brain already knows?

Throughout this relationship I was honest, giving, loving, and caring. That's not to say I was perfect, because I was not. However, I know that I gave mt all and put in my best effort to make my partner feel loved. There were multiple occasions where I did not feel like this effort was being matched. I would voice my feelings only for my partner to turn it into something much bigger than it was, unwilling to compromise and making it into an attack against their character instead of listening to how I am feeling. This repeated dismissal of my feelings lead me to feel inadequate and like I was simply asking for too much.

This feeling was intensified when I made a compromise I would normally never make in shoving my own feelings aside about my partner being in contact with their ex. They swore to me that there were boundaries, that they don't talk every day, that its only ever texting, never phone calls. All of these were lies. Even on a weekend with just the two of us on vacation, when we rarely see each other in person due to being long distance, they were texting their ex. They texted their ex while we were in bed together. The claim was always that they are just friends and completely platonic, but I know better. The relationship between them is one of codependence and one that never, for one day, took a pause. They went straight from romantic partners who talk every day to “friends” who talk every day. This constant gaslighting left me confused and feeling pathetic.

When I finally said enough was enough and that I couldn't do it anymore my partner chose their ex. When push came to shove and they had to pick who stayed in their life they choose their ex. This makes me feel pain and betrayal. I feel like someone has hold of my heart and is SQEEZING it. I am so heart broken over this betrayal. I am heart broken that someone I put so much love and energy into could treat me this way, could choose someone who treated them so terribly instead.

I feel lost and hopeless. I feel like I'll never find someone who gives me the same energy and effort that I give them. I feel scared to trust anyone or open up ever again. I feel broken. I feel everything and nothing simultaneously.

I was all of nine years old when I first heard Blondie on the radio and first saw them on TV. Like many others of my generation I was fascinated by Debbie Harry. It's an appeal that still hasn't altogether faded: even now I have a couple of Blondie LPs on my shelves & half a dozen of their 7” singles. On Wednesday, I finished reading Harry's 2019 memoir Face It. I had been mildly curious about the book when it came out, though not quite so curious that I didn't mind waiting until I found a cheap second-hand copy of it somewhere. Not until the other weekend did one turn up: at the Oxfam shop in Chepstow. The asking price was a reasonable £2.99.

As is very often the case with celebrity autobiographies, it's not entirely the subject's own work. At least in this instance there's no hidden ghost-writer: a line on the title page states up-front that it's “in collaboration with Sylvie Simmons and based on a series of recent exclusive interviews.” There is very much the feeling that the story is told in Harry's own words, but, perhaps because of the collaborative composition, one feels at times not quite fully on-board a first-person narration. It's no masterpiece, but there is plenty of interest even for the casual fan. For me, the most absorbing chapters were the ones tracing the singer's pre-fame progress through various bohemian milieux in late '60s and early '70s New York. Among the illustrations are many portraits of Harry sent to her by fans: these provide a intriguing counterpart to the numerous snapshots of the almost invariably photogenic chanteuse.

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In today's post, a CD including a selection of Philip Glass's Etudes for piano, performed by the Dutch pianist Feico Deutekom. For what are relatively recent compositions, there are a good many different recordings out there. Indeed, I used to own the composer's own renditions of the first ten Etudes. I didn't hold on to that one as I didn't like all ten of the pieces, and there was sometimes the sense that Glass was playing near the limits of his ability. Deutekom's versions appealed precisely because they weren't a complete set. I gather Vanessa Wagner's recent recording of all twenty pieces has been hailed by many as the best yet, and I was tempted to acquire that version. My suspicion, though, is that ca. two hours of Glass on solo piano, no matter how well-executed, is likely to be just a bit too much for me.

I wonder if Phil and Debbie ever crossed paths in the early '70s. Might Debbie have served Phil a drink in one of her waitressing jobs? Might Debbie have hailed Phil's taxi when he was a cab driver?

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The cheese of the week has been Roquefort. I bought a wedge from the Newhall Farm Shop on Saturday. I'd long been resistant to the allure of blue cheese until my first encounter with Roquefort about nine months ago. I had wondered if a sheepsmilk blue might have any more appeal than the cowsmilk ones I'd hitherto disliked. Not only did I love it at first taste, it opened the way for me to be able to appreciate the likes of Stilton and Gorgonzola, that I had previously disdained.

Audible link

This latest thriller by author Michael Connelly is putting it's finger on a very timely issue. Combined with the excellent reading by Peter Giles this makes for probably my favorite audiobook of 2025.

Story

How much do people, young people, teenagers even, get influence by AI chat bots? Especially since there are numerous apps promoting AI companions as friends, therapists or girlfriends even. This is a very real issue and a very new one. Michael Connelly tackles the issue in convincing fashion.

In the story, an AI companion advised a teenage boy to kill his ex. Now the two families are suing the company behind the bot. The company, which is trying to sell to one of the big players, is under immense pressure to settle the matter quietly. It also has vast sums of investor money to work with.

But don't fret — we are not about to get bogged down in endless legal maneuvering. This is both due to our main character, the Lincoln Lawyer, who is pushing hard for a trial, but also due to how the story is written. It is not wasting any time, progressing fast and often skipping unimportant bits, opting to instead summarize them in one or two phrases. This makes for a surprisingly short book, but one that is never boring.

Michael Connelly shows the sort power these companies have, yielding ungodly sums of investment funds. But he also makes a point that they cannot go unchecked, that there need to be boundaries. He manages to raise hope without getting unrealistic or too idealistic. He stays real.

Missed opportunity?

I was hoping the book would broach the subject of deep fakes. I even thought it was going to happen, when a video of questionable origin is brought up. We are seeing AI generated videos of mind-bogging quality show up every day, created by people with little to no knowledge of the technology that enables it. So an AI startup with lots of money and talent could conceivably do even better.

But trying to influence a court with a generated video would be a reckless maneuver, possibly not worth the risk. So maybe that's why the story takes a different turn there. Still, I thought it would have been a great opportunity to highlight yet another issue.

Jack McEvoy

Journalist Jack McEvoy is my favorite Connelly character. He's easier to identify with than other characters from this author and his books are some of the best. But if you were hoping for another McEvoy story, then I need to disappoint you. This is very much a Lincoln Lawyer story, with McEvoy only playing a supporting role.

Recording

Unlike the Harry Bosch series, the Lincoln Lawyer books are still read by just one narrator. In the absence of a second main character that makes sense. And with Peter Giles doing the reading, there is really nothing more I could ask for.

His low, gravelly voice is very pleasant to listen to. Different characters all get their own voices which are consistent and exhibit little to no flaws across the entire book.

The recording is clear and crisp. Bring it all together and you have a masterclass in how to make an audiobook.

Who is it for?

This audiobook combines a great story with superb reading. If you know and like the works of Michael Connelly you won't de disappointed by this one. If you're a fan of the Lincoln Lawyer books in particular, you should not miss this one!

But there's more to this one. It focuses of an important and very timely issue. AI is changing our lives and we need to be careful with what we allow and where we draw our lines. Because of that, I recommend everyone listen to this book. It makes some great points.

Thought I change things up a little bit. Why not? For a couple of months, my wife and I have been feeding our younger son baby food. It’s been a challenge.

Normally, I would write about this on my other blog, but it’s down for maintenance and revamping. Truthfully, I don’t know when I’ll bring it online again. All I know is that it will be used again in the unforeseen future in the off chance I go back to the workplace.

I discussed this new blog with family and friends so updating them isn’t a problem. But since my other blog is offline I’m wondering if I should write about being a stay-at-home dad, private investigator, and other topics. I don’t want to limit myself, but I don’t want to do the extra work of copying an article on this blog and pasting it to my other blog.

My best solution is to let the topics come out naturally on paper, type them on the WriteFreely app, and decide whether to publish or not. We’ll see.

Finally, my red Blackwing 746 pencil is about two more inches useable before I throw it into my tiny pencil collection. It’s been a great pencil, but I don’t plan on buying another one soon. And buying a box is out of the question. So what pencil should I use next?

Maybe I’ll use a Blackwing 602 from a box I bought at a discount. More on that later.

#writing #article #babyfood #pencil #privateinvestigator #stayathomedad

28 January 2026

Star in a bag (working title, or maybe Ornament): think I was interested here in trying to fragment in a new way. It seems like the approach was to try to paint like collaging, to allow shapes to overlap while remaining as faithful as possible to the logic I initially perceived in my visual source (a plastic glow-in-the-dark star cloaked by a red Chinese New Year envelope). To cause an incidental explosion or a breakdown from a center or axis and then probe any odd relationships that materialize as a result. To encourage forms to collide and conjoin and echo each other as they expand outward. A kind of polyphony. Have been looking at Schwitters a lot this week, particularly his 1925 collage Untitled (Heures crépusculaires). Stacked blocks of muted values and slices of visual information coalescing into gradations of color and thought.

26 January 2026

Last night I reorganized a drawer of ephemera that had been piling up in since I moved into my new place. Noting some arrangements and encounters here. Print of the top of a silver spoon protruding from the opening of a Chinese New Year red envelope, which contained a plastic glow-in-the-dark star. On an envelope that contained a wedding invitation: an ink-stamped snowman overlapping a postage stamp with a pink begonia on it, the word “forever” arcing over the snowman's torso. Pink tissue paper cradling a neon-yellow tennis ball. A program from the Tate with some Cézanne apples on the cover partially obscured by a slightly blurry polaroid from Winchester of a black cat nestled into an angle made by two pieces of wood in the guardrail lattice of a wooden footbridge over the River Itchen.

24 January 2026

Began the day sitting by the window in my room under the white morning sun with my eyes closed. Opened them and a black bird flew by.

I’m thinking that I’ve been a dead fish floating downstream for a long time, but then suddenly I’ve come to life swimming upstream, unable to complain because no words come out of my fish lips, only bubbles, and suddenly I feel the strong current trying to drag me with it, but not me! I swim nimbly with muscular movements and lo and behold even I make it up this waterfall.

I know that that’s where the bears are, I’m not stupid. And yet these dangers must be faced, even though this is just a matter of luck, isn’t it?

It’s just a matter of luck. Being a fish in this example, is also just luck (or lack thereof)

The only real choice was coming alive swimming upstream

And for someone such as me, it wasn’t a choice at all!

The Creative Discipline Behind JZAI: Turning Vision Into Sound

In the world of independent hip hop, talent is only one part of the equation. What truly defines an artist over time is discipline, clarity of vision, and the ability to transform ideas into consistent creative output. The project behind JZAI is built on this principle: music is not just inspiration—it is structure, focus, and long-term commitment.

Behind every release, every concept, and every step forward, there is a process designed to turn creativity into something sustainable.

Creativity as a Daily Practice

Many people think creativity appears in moments of inspiration. In reality, for an independent artist, creativity is a habit. The work behind JZAI is based on the idea that artistic growth comes from repetition, observation, and constant refinement.

Writing lyrics is not only about expression, but about clarity of thought. Each idea is developed with intention, focusing on themes such as:

personal evolution

mental resilience

self-discipline

ambition and long-term thinking

navigating challenges with perspective

Instead of chasing trends or external expectations, the creative process starts internally. The goal is to produce music that feels honest, focused, and aligned with a consistent artistic direction.

From Concept to Track

Every song within the JZAI project begins with a concept. Sometimes it comes from a personal experience. Other times it comes from a mindset, a question, or a moment of reflection.

The process typically follows three stages:

1. Idea development Defining the message or emotional tone behind the track.

2. Writing and structure Building lyrics that balance storytelling, rhythm, and clarity.

3. Sound direction Choosing production that supports the mood and reinforces the identity of the project.

This structured approach allows each release to feel intentional rather than improvised. Over time, it also helps build a recognizable sound and narrative style.

The Importance of Consistency

One of the biggest challenges for independent artists is consistency. Without the structure of a label or management team, progress depends entirely on personal discipline.

For JZAI, consistency means:

continuing to write, even without immediate releases

improving technical skills over time

maintaining a clear artistic direction

showing up regularly in the creative process

Growth in music rarely comes from sudden breakthroughs. It comes from steady effort and long-term focus.

Building Identity Through Sound

In today’s music landscape, listeners have access to unlimited content. What makes an artist stand out is not volume, but identity.

The sound behind JZAI is shaped by a few core principles:

emotional authenticity

modern but timeless production choices

balance between introspection and energy

coherence across releases

The objective is not to follow a single trend, but to develop a sound that evolves while remaining recognizable.

Identity is built track by track, decision by decision.

Independence as a Creative Advantage

Operating as an independent hip hop artist brings challenges, but it also creates opportunities. Without external pressure to follow commercial formulas, the project can grow at its own pace.

This independence allows:

full control over creative direction

flexibility in release strategy

freedom to experiment and refine

a stronger connection between artist and audience

For JZAI, independence is not a limitation—it is a foundation for authenticity and long-term sustainability.

The Role of Mindset

Behind the music, there is a strong focus on mindset. The philosophy of the project is based on a simple idea: growth happens through discipline, patience, and self-awareness.

This perspective influences both the creative process and the long-term strategy. Instead of measuring success only through numbers or short-term attention, the focus remains on:

improvement over time

building a solid body of work

developing a professional presence

creating lasting value

In a fast-moving industry, mindset often becomes the difference between temporary visibility and long-term progress.

Looking Forward

The JZAI project continues to evolve with a focus on sustainability and gradual expansion. Future steps include new releases, deeper sound development, and a stronger digital presence across platforms.

Each stage is part of a larger vision: building a career that grows steadily, without losing creative integrity.

Discipline, Vision, and Long-Term Growth

Hip hop has always been rooted in self-expression, but the modern independent landscape requires more than passion. It requires structure, consistency, and strategic thinking.

The work behind JZAI reflects that balance—creative freedom supported by discipline and long-term vision.

Because in independent music, success is not just about making noise.

It’s about building something that lasts.

Building an Independent Path in Hip Hop: The Vision Behind JZAI

In today’s music industry, being an independent artist is both an opportunity and a challenge. Technology has opened doors that didn’t exist before, but it has also created a highly competitive environment where visibility, consistency, and identity matter more than ever.

The project behind JZAI was born from a simple idea: create music that reflects real experiences, personal growth, and a long-term vision, without compromising authenticity.

This is not just about releasing songs. It’s about building something meaningful over time.

More Than Music: A Long-Term Mindset

For many artists, the focus is on quick exposure or viral moments. While visibility is important, the foundation of JZAI is different. The goal is to develop a sustainable career based on consistency, discipline, and identity.

Hip hop has always been a culture of expression and storytelling. For JZAI, music is a space to explore themes such as:

personal growth

resilience and mindset

self-awareness

ambition and purpose

the process of building something from the ground up

Each track is part of a larger journey, not just a standalone release.

The Power of Independence

Being an independent hip hop artist means taking responsibility for every aspect of the project. From writing and creative direction to branding and digital presence, independence requires more than talent—it requires strategy.

The decision to remain independent is intentional. It allows:

full creative control

a clear artistic identity

long-term flexibility

direct connection with listeners

In a world driven by trends, independence makes it possible to stay focused on authenticity rather than short-term attention.

Building a Digital Presence

Today, an artist’s career exists as much online as it does in the studio. Visibility is no longer limited to radio or traditional media. Platforms, portfolios, and digital publications play a critical role in shaping an artist’s reputation.

Part of the JZAI vision is to build a strong and consistent digital footprint that reflects professionalism and growth. This includes:

music distribution across streaming platforms

professional artist profiles and portfolios

written content that shares the vision behind the project

strategic online presence focused on long-term positioning

The goal is simple: when people search for JZAI, they find a clear, credible, and evolving artistic identity.

Authenticity in a Fast-Moving Industry

The modern music landscape moves fast. Trends come and go, sounds change, and attention spans are short. In that environment, the most valuable asset an artist can have is authenticity.

For JZAI, authenticity means:

writing from real experience

staying consistent with the artistic vision

avoiding shortcuts that compromise identity

focusing on growth instead of comparison

Success is not defined by a single moment, but by the ability to evolve while staying true to the original purpose.

Looking Ahead

The journey of JZAI is still in progress, and that’s exactly the point. The project is designed to grow step by step, with a focus on sustainability rather than speed.

Future plans include:

new music releases

expanded digital presence

collaborations with other artists and creators

reaching broader international audiences

Every step is part of a long-term strategy built around consistency, learning, and continuous improvement.

A Project Built to Last

Hip hop has always rewarded those who stay real and stay committed. The vision behind JZAI is grounded in that philosophy: build slowly, stay authentic, and let the work speak over time.

This is not about chasing trends. It’s about building a voice. A presence. A legacy.

And this is only the beginning.