Today I was not focused enough during the fitness class to get the choreography right.

I’ve been having guilt about certain choices I’ve made, which I don’t regret nonetheless

Because they were for me

But

I’ve placed myself in an uncomfortable spot indeed, much like a nut in a nutcracker, only I am the one operating it, if you understand how this can be confusing?

And I am feeling the wrong things, why aren’t I angry?

One fine day maybe

I guess I shouldn’t crank that damn nutcracker to begin with

It’s the type of situation where I am clearly an idiot man.

Let go of the fucking handle , idiot man!

hey I have listened to Johnny Cash by Fred Eaglesmith all day, a powerful song about all of the shallow so called fans of Johnny Cash who only listened to him when he was dead or covered Hurt by Nine Inch Nails, but in 1989 when Cash was struggling they were all listening to heavy metal; they couldn’t care less…

I can’t explain why, but these lyrics are so good and I myself is exempt I think because I am too young to have been listening to him when he was alive, I mean.

I mean I really don’t care either way

I just want to live and die in peace

Terms of Disservice

The 1980s cemented capitalism to be as vital to human life as water. People struggle to think of how society would work without the exchange of money. Employers prey on this knowledge to keep the carrot just out of reach.

You're lucky to have the money you do get because where else are you going to find work? A vast majority of people work jobs that don't require specific skills. As such they are paid poorly and treated worse. It's retail and there's 30 applicants waiting to replace you. That is, if they replace you. Maybe when you leave there will be no replacement and your former pay rate becomes a profit.

These days, skilled jobs and office careers have also adapted this attitude. Profit is king and even non-profits have to play the game because the services they supply will need assistance from other, for profit businesses. Therefore, they have to save every penny.

Burnout

Each and everyone of us, from the hairstylist to the lawyer, are overworked and doing the job of at least two people. You're sick, you have a family emergency and you're entitled to take that time away. You're not entitled to someone to cover your work while you are away. You are welcomed back to work with today's workload and all the work from the days you were away. Stay late, come in early, work on your own time to catch up because overtime costs money.

Since your organization is chronically understaffed to place more cash into the shareholders' hands, there is no planning within all levels of staff. This is due before end of the day. Can you rush that? I know you're busy, but...

This is just a busy time, it will slow down soon. Keep your chin up because you need that pension and retirement benefits. You'll get to rest during retirement. Don't retire too early though. Drawing that pension too early will result in penalties. It's best just to stay at work.

If things are tough, you can talk to your doctor and maybe get a stress leave. Of course, remember there won't be someone to cover for you. Additionally, the organization is going to be a bit frustrated because you were thinking of yourself. The note on your file isn't about checking in on you and how you're doing when you get back from the leave. Its a black mark. You're not dependable. They're going to put you under a microscope and document any issues to replace you with someone they can count on.

Policy as Legal Disclaimer

Of course, you are right and legally you are entitled to that stress leave. Did you try the resources we supply? There's a free, 15 minute appointment with a counselor for a meet and greet to see if you like them. After that, their fees apply. We also have a link to a website full of other resources. You can learn how to breath, find a list of tips and activities to improve your mood, learn about resilience or cognitive behavior therapy.

These are part of your benefits and we are actively trying to help you. It's all written there in the policy. It's not us, it is you. The policy also states that you won't work overtime unless it is approved. Also, be sure to have that done for tomorrow morning. That second part isn't in the policy or written down.

As a teacher, the policy and job agreement you signed says you work 8 hour days that will include planning time. Please remember what is not written is how much planning time you receive. Twice a week we will give you twenty minutes. Enjoy your weekend!

Remember to practice team lifts, but get the job done yesterday please. Immediately fill out an incident report if you get injured. Of course, any incident will need to be investigated to ensure that our insurance is not liable. Therefore, we are likely to find you untrustworthy for lying about who was at fault.

You are entitled to two 15 minute ,breaks and an hour for lunch. It's not our fault that you don't take them. Maybe you need to do some professional development to be more efficient if you cannot get the work done.

Please refer to your job description if you have any questions about your duties. Also note the line that says “and other responsibilities.” Wow, that's a lot more garbage than I thought our workplace produced. Well, I will leave you to it. Thanks again for taking care of that.

Oh, and we'd like to get you some additional training that we're willing to pay for, of course. Unfortunately no, this added skill won't come with a raise. Though at the end of this course you'll have a certificate that you can add to your resume. The next course is in two months. However, we'll need you to start the work next Monday.

Oh, sorry to hear about your cousin passing. And thanks for sharing that lovely story about growing up together on the same block. So, you can use a vacation day or a personal day. No, the bereavement leave is for your immediate family.

Accountability means “I'm just doing my job.”

The 1980s brought us the trickle down theory, if the wealthy are making profits that means more opportunities for the rest of us. Instead, what trickles down is so entirely minimal that survival becomes the only option. We turn our backs on each other because we have bills to pay. People take jobs in industries that they don't support or believe in. If the only work in your town is for Shell Oil and Gas, you bite your tongue and get that paycheck.

As employees we've been hired into positions that command each other, not compliment. The tallest blade of grass will get cut unless it bends over.Your supervisor cannot stick their neck out to stand up for you because they have bills too. The power in any organization is fragmented all the way up to the top by design.

Basically, the system of capitalism thrives on the lack of accountability. From the waitress to the CEO, everyone has plausible deniability. The waitress must charge you the same price for the sandwich despite you asking to remove the meat. The CEO isn't responsible for the food poisoning because she wasn't there. The company may have to pay fines, but the CEO won't lose their job.

Your phone call goes to an automated system created to frustrate you until you reach the point of giving up. For the company, it was a one time investment to save money paying for returns or exchanges or a human to answer the call. Every transaction in our lives is pushed through infinite layers of obfuscation that make it impossible to trace any real accountability.

The user agreement for everything you own or lease is a catch-all, zero accountability contract. They aren't responsible for your phone battery exploding, your name and passwords leaking from their servers or that they used your video for their advertising. The website FAQs could all just have the preemptive answer, “We're not responsible.”

As an employee, you are not documented for being late or disciplined with a write up of any kind at all. Instead, supervisors or human resources will pull you aside to have a chat on the issue. It's sold as if they don't want you to be officially in trouble. However, it is now your word against theirs. When it comes time to let you go for showing up late again, they may not have written proof, but you signed an at-will employment agreement.

Fine Print

The art of the fine print feels like a thing of the past. Either all of the language surrounding our capitalist controlled lives is in fine print or none of it is. These days, organizations don't even want to pay a lawyer to hide the gotcha clauses. Instead, it's all out in the open. This is a necessary evil because how else could they pay their employees, people like us? We all need money for basic needs, right? It's not the meteor that killed the dinosaurs. It was the fact that every dinosaur bet their life savings on the asteroid flying by. The house took the bet and the dinosaurs lost. Sure.

After 30 years of Reaganomics the fine print is the regular print. It is impossible to make life saving medicine if the stock price of the manufacturer is too low. Nevermind the simplicity of the formula or the ready availability of the ingredients. The United States has a president who personifies capitalism. This blatent disregaurd for human life. The wheeling and dealing out in the open despite rules, regulations and the checks and balances. Accountability is non-existent in the US government at the moment. Like capitalism, you cannot put the genie back in the bottle. No matter who is in the White House in the future, the checks and balances are out the door.

Profit not people

This is the society we have made for ourselves. It sounds overly dramatic, a generalization of our world. I'd argue that we've been so programmed by marketing that we cannot see the true reach of capitalism. Do you know what Effective Altruism is? This is a product of the 21st century. This philosophy of Effective Altruism can be broken down to “I have to make the most profit to help the most people.” This is a philosophy held my many of the tech billionaires. Before I can buy you that meal that you so badly need, I need to maximize my profits to ensure that I can buy you as many meals as you need.

Of course, the catch is that there's never enough money yet. I've got 5 billion dollars, but that's only going to buy you 166 billion meals. What if you have children and you children's children have children? How will they eat? No, 5 billion isn't enough. I need to hold onto that money and invest it in a way to triple its value. This is how Effective Altruism believers think.

Ever since the 1980s, when we really leaned into Capitalism, we have been asking ourselves a question before we attempt to help our neighbors. What's in it for me? Or as they said in the 80s, “Where's the beef?”

I was once a tree no one noticed.

I stood in a forest outside Jerusalem long before soldiers ever touched me, before iron pierced me, before blood stained my grain. I grew slowly, quietly, rooted in soil that had felt the footsteps of prophets and peasants alike. I stretched toward the same sun that warmed shepherds on distant hills. I drank the same rain that softened the earth beneath wandering sandals. I did not know what I would become. I only knew how to grow.

There is something sacred about growth that happens without applause. No one congratulates a tree for reaching upward. No one applauds its patience. It simply stands. It absorbs. It endures seasons. It bends in storms. It loses leaves and grows them back again. If you had passed by me in those early years, you would have seen nothing special. Just another trunk among many. Just another quiet witness to history.

But heaven already knew my future.

Axes eventually came. They always do. The day I was cut down was not dramatic. There was no thunder from the sky. No voice announced my destiny. Just the dull rhythm of steel striking wood. Blow after blow after blow. My fibers splintered. My body trembled. I fell. In that moment, everything I had been rooted in was severed. The earth I knew was gone. The sky I stretched toward felt farther away. I was stripped, carried, carved, and shaped into something I did not choose.

Sometimes destiny feels like loss before it ever feels like purpose.

They cut me into beams. They stripped away my branches. They smoothed parts of me and left other parts raw and rough. I did not understand why my shape mattered. I did not understand why my form needed to change. I only knew that I was no longer a living tree. I had become an instrument.

And instruments can be used for beauty or for brutality.

Rome had mastered the art of terror. They perfected crucifixion not simply as execution, but as spectacle. Wood like me became tools of humiliation. We were lifted high so suffering could be seen from far away. We were planted in public view so fear could sink deep into the hearts of onlookers. I had seen others like me used this way. I had heard the screams. I had felt the weight of broken bodies before I ever carried His.

But the day they brought Him to me was different.

I heard the crowd before I saw Him. Shouts. Mockery. The chaos of humanity caught between hatred and confusion. Soldiers dragged Him through dust and accusation. His back was already torn open. His shoulders were raw. Blood had marked the path long before He reached me. And when they threw Him down upon me, I felt something no other cross had felt before.

I felt innocence.

I had carried criminals. I had supported rebels. I had borne the weight of thieves and murderers. I had known the heavy resignation of men who understood their guilt. But this Man did not feel like guilt. He felt like surrender without shame. He felt like authority wrapped in humility. He felt like silence that thundered louder than the mob.

They stretched His arms across my beam. I felt His skin press against my grain. I felt His breath move shallowly as they positioned Him. And then the hammer rose.

There is a sound iron makes when it pierces flesh and sinks into wood. It is a sharp, final sound. A sound that echoes. Each strike drove the nails through His wrists and into me. His blood flowed along my surface. It soaked into my fibers. It marked me permanently. I had once drawn water from the earth. Now I drank redemption from wounds.

If wood could weep, I would have.

He did not curse me. He did not resist me. He did not blame me. His body trembled with pain, but His spirit did not recoil. When they lifted me upright and dropped my base into the hole carved into rock, the jolt tore through both of us. The weight of the world seemed to settle into that moment. Sky above. Earth below. And between them, I stood as the meeting place.

I had been cut down to become a bridge.

As He hung there, I listened. I heard Him pray for the very men who had driven the nails. I heard Him promise paradise to a dying thief. I heard Him entrust His mother to a disciple. I felt every labored breath vibrate through my frame. His back scraped against my rough surface with every movement. The crown of thorns pressed deeper as He lifted Himself to speak. Each word cost Him oxygen. Each sentence required agony.

And still, He chose to speak.

I felt the tension in His arms as gravity pulled against the nails. I felt His heartbeat weaken over time. I felt the weight of sin that was not visible to human eyes but heavier than any body I had ever carried. Something cosmic was happening, something that stretched beyond Rome and beyond Jerusalem. I was no longer just an execution device. I was the altar upon which mercy and justice met.

Darkness fell over the land, and I felt creation respond. The air shifted. The earth trembled. The sky grew heavy. When He cried out, “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me,” it was not confusion. It was fulfillment. It was the echo of ancient prophecy reverberating through suffering. His voice shook through my grain like thunder trapped in timber.

Then came the words that changed everything.

“It is finished.”

Not defeated. Not ended in failure. Finished. Completed. Accomplished. Paid in full. The breath that followed those words was not taken from Him. It was given. He yielded it. And when His body went still, I felt the stillness too.

For a moment, time seemed to pause.

Soldiers approached to confirm death. A spear pierced His side, and more blood and water flowed down my surface. I had once been a tree rooted in earth. Now I was rooted in history. The centurion who oversaw the execution whispered something under his breath. “Surely this was the Son of God.” Even Rome felt it.

They eventually lowered His body from me. The weight that had defined me that day was gone, but something had changed forever. I was stained. Marked. No longer merely wood. I had carried the Lamb of God. I had held the Savior of the world. I had been the instrument of suffering that became the symbol of salvation.

Do you understand what that means?

The object meant to display shame became the emblem of hope. The tool of death became the sign of eternal life. The cross was Rome’s message of domination. But heaven rewrote the narrative. What was intended for terror became the testimony of love.

I did not choose to be cut down. I did not volunteer to hold Him. I did not understand my purpose while I was growing in obscurity. But in the hands of God, even wood shaped for execution can become the centerpiece of redemption.

Perhaps you feel like wood that has been cut down. Perhaps you feel stripped of what once defined you. Perhaps life has carved you into shapes you never requested. There are seasons when you lose roots you thought would last forever. There are moments when you are carried into roles you never imagined. And sometimes you are used in ways that feel painful before they ever feel meaningful.

But consider this: what if the very place of your greatest wounding becomes the place where heaven touches earth? What if the scars you carry are not signs of abandonment, but markers of divine purpose? I was once part of a forest. Now I am part of the story of eternity.

I did not become sacred because of my strength. I became sacred because of who hung upon me.

There is a truth hidden inside my grain that many miss. I did not save anyone. I could not forgive sin. I had no power of my own. I was simply surrendered to the moment I was assigned. And because I held Him, I became forever associated with what He accomplished.

That is the mystery of surrender. When you allow yourself to be used by God, even in ways that cost you, you become part of something infinitely larger than your own understanding. Your life may feel ordinary, like a tree growing unnoticed. But heaven sees the whole story before the first ring forms in your trunk.

After that day, people would speak of me differently. Some would revere me. Some would misunderstand me. Some would turn me into jewelry. Some would place me on church walls. But none of them were there when the blood flowed. None of them felt the weight of redemption press into wood fibers. None of them heard the breath that declared completion.

I was there.

I felt the paradox. The Creator of trees nailed to timber. The Author of life embracing death. The King of glory crowned with thorns. It did not make sense in the language of power. But it made perfect sense in the language of love.

Love does not always conquer through force. Sometimes it conquers through surrender. Sometimes it wins by losing. Sometimes it transforms the instrument of execution into the banner of salvation.

And that is my story.

I was a tree that became a cross. I was a cross that became an altar. I was an altar that became a symbol. And through it all, I learned that nothing is too broken, too ordinary, or too painful to be woven into God’s redemptive design.

If wood could speak, this is what I would say: do not despise the cutting seasons. Do not curse the shaping. Do not assume that being stripped means being discarded. There may come a moment when the very place you thought defined your downfall becomes the place where eternity intersects with time.

I stood between heaven and earth once. And for a few sacred hours, I carried the weight of the world.

But the story did not end on that hill.

The hill grew quiet after they carried Him away.

The crowd that had roared with accusation slowly dissolved into whispers. Some left satisfied. Some left shaken. Some left unchanged. The soldiers returned to their routines. The sky cleared. The darkness lifted. But I remained.

I remained planted in the ground, stained with blood that no rain could wash away. The wind moved across the hill as if nothing eternal had just happened. Birds eventually returned. Life continued. Yet history had shifted.

I had felt His final breath. I had carried the silence that followed. I had absorbed the cost of redemption in ways no human eye could see. And in that stillness, I began to understand something that trees in forests never learn.

Purpose is not measured by how long you stand. It is measured by what you hold.

For years I had grown upward, measuring progress in height and strength. Rings formed inside me, marking seasons survived. Storms shaped my resilience. But none of those years defined me the way those final hours did. It was not my growth that changed the world. It was my surrender to a moment I did not choose.

That is the paradox of divine purpose. We spend so much of life trying to build ourselves tall and strong, yet heaven often works most powerfully through what has been cut down.

Three days passed.

From where I stood, I could not see into the tomb carved into rock. I did not witness the stone being rolled. I did not see angels descend. I did not feel the earth tremble at the resurrection the way I had felt the tremor at His death. But I sensed something had shifted in the unseen realm.

The atmosphere felt lighter.

The despair that had hung heavy like thick fog began to thin. Word spread in fragments at first. Whispers of an empty tomb. Rumors of appearances. Disciples who had once scattered now speaking with strange boldness. Something unstoppable had been unleashed.

The One who hung upon me was no longer bound by death.

I had been the stage for His suffering, but I would not be the end of His story. My role was finite. His victory was eternal.

And that is important to understand.

The cross is not the conclusion. It is the doorway. It is not the final word. It is the bridge between devastation and resurrection. I carried Him in death, but the grave could not carry Him long.

As the days unfolded, followers began to speak differently about that hill. They no longer spoke of shame alone. They spoke of sacrifice. Of atonement. Of love poured out. The instrument Rome used to intimidate had been redefined by mercy.

That is what God does. He redefines.

He takes what was meant for humiliation and turns it into honor. He takes what was intended to silence and turns it into proclamation. He takes what was fashioned for cruelty and transforms it into compassion made visible.

I had once been part of a forest, indistinguishable from the rest. Then I was cut down and shaped for execution. Now I had become a symbol carried across generations.

But hear me clearly. The power was never in the wood.

It was in the obedience of the Son.

There is a danger in mistaking the instrument for the Savior. I am wood. I splinter. I decay. I cannot forgive. I cannot redeem. I cannot resurrect. I was merely the place where love chose to suffer publicly.

The cross matters because of who chose to hang upon it.

And that choice was not forced. He said earlier that no one could take His life from Him; He would lay it down of His own accord. I felt that truth in the way He surrendered His spirit. It was not torn from Him by Rome. It was yielded.

There is a difference between being overpowered and choosing to give.

The world often associates strength with domination. Yet the greatest display of strength I ever felt was not in the soldiers who hammered nails. It was in the Man who allowed it.

His arms stretched wide upon me were not merely pinned; they were open. Open in forgiveness. Open in invitation. Open in declaration that nothing, not even death, could separate humanity from the love of God if they would receive it.

I was once a vertical beam anchored in the earth. When they fastened the horizontal beam across me, something profound was formed. A meeting point. A crossing of lines. Vertical reaching heavenward. Horizontal stretching outward toward humanity.

That shape was not accidental.

It speaks without words. Reconciliation upward. Reconciliation outward. Love that bridges both directions.

And you, reading this, are invited into that intersection.

You may not feel sacred. You may feel like something cut down too soon. Perhaps life has carved you into shapes that feel harsh and undesired. Perhaps you carry scars that remind you of blows you never saw coming. Perhaps you feel used, misunderstood, or discarded.

I understand more than you think.

I did not volunteer for suffering. I did not ask to be the place where nails were driven. I did not request to be lifted in public shame. But in the hands of God, what looked like my ruin became my reason.

The cross did not look victorious on that Friday afternoon. It looked like failure. It looked like silence from heaven. It looked like injustice allowed to win. The disciples felt it. The crowd felt it. Even creation groaned beneath it.

But Sunday was already written.

There are moments in your life that feel like Friday. Moments where prayers seem unanswered. Moments where darkness falls at noon. Moments where the dream you carried appears lifeless. In those hours, you may stand like I did, holding weight you never wanted.

Yet the story may not be over.

The cross teaches us that God’s greatest work can be unfolding in what appears to be defeat. The payment for sin was being made when observers saw only agony. Prophecy was being fulfilled while skeptics mocked. Redemption was being secured while hope seemed extinguished.

The silence of Saturday did not negate the promise of Sunday.

And the same is true for you.

Your waiting is not wasted. Your suffering is not unseen. Your questions are not ignored. There may be a resurrection on the horizon you cannot yet perceive.

I stood rigid while heaven accomplished something beyond my comprehension. I did not fully understand the theology of atonement. I did not grasp the eternal covenant being sealed in blood. I simply held steady while love endured.

Sometimes faithfulness looks like holding steady.

It looks like remaining upright when everything inside you wants to collapse. It looks like carrying weight without fully understanding why. It looks like trusting that God is weaving purpose through pain.

Years later, followers would speak boldly of what happened upon me. They would proclaim that through the cross, sin was defeated. That through the cross, death lost its sting. That through the cross, access to God was restored. The veil in the temple had torn at the very hour His spirit departed. The barrier between holy and humanity was ripped apart as His body was torn.

I did not see the veil, but I felt the tremor.

Something that had separated was now open.

The cross is not comfortable theology. It is not sentimental. It is not sanitized. It is brutal. It is raw. It confronts us with the seriousness of sin and the depth of divine love simultaneously. It declares that forgiveness is costly, but that God Himself was willing to pay.

And that changes everything.

You no longer have to climb toward heaven through performance. You no longer have to earn what has already been purchased. You no longer have to wonder whether you are worth pursuing. The cross answers that question decisively.

You are.

If wood like me could be chosen to stand at the center of history, then your life, however ordinary it feels, is not overlooked. If God could transform an execution device into a symbol of hope recognized across continents and centuries, then He can transform your pain into purpose.

But remember this carefully. Transformation does not mean comfort. The cross was not polished or painless. It was rough. It tore skin. It held suffering. Redemption often passes through difficulty before it arrives in glory.

Resurrection does not erase the memory of crucifixion; it redeems it.

Even after He rose, the scars remained in His hands. The wounds were not hidden. They became testimony. Thomas touched them. The disciples saw them. The marks of suffering became evidence of victory.

The cross does not pretend pain never happened. It declares that pain does not have the final word.

I have often wondered what became of me physically after that day. Some traditions say I was broken apart. Others say I was hidden. Others say fragments were preserved. History cannot confirm every detail. Wood decays. Empires crumble. Relics fade.

But the message endures.

It endures because it is not anchored in timber. It is anchored in truth.

The Son of God loved the world enough to step into flesh. He walked among those He created. He healed, taught, forgave, and revealed the heart of the Father. And when the fullness of time arrived, He embraced the cross not as an accident, but as assignment.

I was not an interruption in His plan. I was part of it.

And here is where the story becomes personal.

There is a cross-shaped space in every human heart. A place where pride must bow. A place where self-sufficiency is surrendered. A place where love demands response. You cannot remain neutral at the foot of the cross. You either walk away unchanged, or you kneel and allow it to change you.

The cross confronts arrogance. It dismantles the illusion that we can save ourselves. It invites humility. It extends grace. It whispers that forgiveness is available, but it will cost you your resistance.

You must lay something down.

The One who hung upon me laid down His life. The least we can lay down is our stubborn refusal to receive what He offers.

If I could speak into your life directly, I would say this: do not waste your Friday. Do not assume that darkness means abandonment. Do not interpret silence as absence. The cross looked like the end, but it was the turning point.

Your story may have chapters you wish were never written. Betrayals. Losses. Failures. Regrets. But none of those chapters are beyond redemption if you bring them to the foot of the cross.

The blood that soaked into my grain was not symbolic alone. It was sacrificial. It was intentional. It was sufficient.

He did not hang there reluctantly. He endured the cross for the joy set before Him. That joy included reconciliation. It included restored relationship. It included you.

I was once wood growing quietly in a forest, unaware that I would carry the weight of the world. Now my image is recognized globally. Not because of my strength. Not because of my beauty. But because of the love displayed upon me.

And that love has not diminished.

It still reaches across centuries. It still calls hearts home. It still heals the broken. It still forgives the guilty. It still offers hope where despair seems dominant.

I am the cross Jesus died on.

I felt the nails. I absorbed the blood. I heard the final words. I stood in the darkness. I remained through the silence. And I testify that what happened upon me was not defeat, but deliverance.

The hill called Golgotha became the place where eternity intersected with humanity. The instrument of death became the gateway to life. And the wood that once grew unnoticed became part of the greatest story ever told.

Your life, too, can be woven into that story.

You may not be asked to hold the Savior physically, but you are invited to carry His message. To embody His love. To reflect His sacrifice. To stand upright in a world that often misunderstands surrender as weakness.

Remember what I learned: purpose often begins with cutting. Calling often follows shaping. Redemption often emerges through suffering. And victory sometimes looks like loss before it looks like triumph.

The cross is not merely a memory of pain. It is a declaration of love.

And love, once unleashed, cannot be contained.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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It was one of those sweet dreams that lingers in your memory long after you are awake, giving you sensuous pleasures even when you dwell on it for a moment. Her elegant, young face, with heavy make-ups was so close to my face that she could even hear my thoughts. Now that I think of – her face is an elegant version of actress Jenna Ortega, whose face I had seen last night while browsing movies on Netflix.

“You are so beautiful, so attractive, I am afraid to look at you,” I whispered.

“Even with my crooked tooth.”

She smiles, revealing her lower canine tooth, the one that refuses to line up with the rest of the premolars.

“It’s cute,” I respond.

I ask her to join me for coffee, and she submits to my will. We sit in the cafe, and I start telling her about my life. I don’t ask her any questions, afraid of finding out how young she is. She listens to me, smiling. I tell her about my kids and about my wife. I show her their pictures. Even after knowing about my family, she is listening to me with the same affection, never letting her smile leave her face.

Now, there is a crowd, and I am in the center. She is farther away behind the crowd, but her gaze is still focused on me. Even without looking at her, I sense her pensive look, eager to get my attention. I am busy talking with the crowd, but she is the one reigning in my mind. I can’t look at her or pull her to the center and put her next to me. Even in my dream, I tell myself it’s better this way, I should not give her a false hope, I should not betray her. That’s when I wake up, my whole body still imbued with the joy of being enamored by someone so beautiful, so innocent.

How we worship someone, never revealing it to a single soul, and taking the secret with us to the dust.

---

She was of average height, had fair skin, and a face with immaculate features. I had never seen such beauty in my entire life—the belle of the ball. She sat on my left, on a separate bench but in the same row. The girl on the right was pretty too, but she had pimples on her cheeks. She can be my backup, I thought. It was the most stressful week of our juvenile years, but with those divas by my side, the week went by quickly. We sat in the classroom, mostly writing answers in our booklets. Now and then, I would glance to my left, wishing I could watch her forever.

On the first day, during the English exam, I somehow managed to gather the courage to ask her a question about prepositions to make sure I had them correct. She showed me her answer book. She definitely likes me, I surmised. The second day was Nepali. At the end, she asked me a few questions on Nepali grammar, and I promptly told her what I had written.

When it was Math’s turn, she and the “backup” were extremely chatty and friendly to me in the morning, pleading for assistance during the exam. Never in my life had I had so many girls come to me with their plight. I just stood there, face flushed, unable to come up with any smart answers. Even when I managed to utter, “OK, I will try,” it didn’t come out right, and I hated myself for my lack of conversational skills. But I was good at math and ready for the rescue mission.

As soon as the exam started, I began writing. I could see them from the corner of my eye, looking at me with desperation. Once I finished filling out my answer book, I asked for another paper and placed my completed book on my left for her to copy. The backup's face became desolate. Wait until your friend finishes, I told her. When “my girl” was done copying, I placed it on my right for backup. I sat there pretending to write, but I was really just waiting for them to finish. When I emerged from the exam room, I was proud to have succeeded in rescuing my harem.

During the remaining days, our interactions were mostly limited to eye contact. On the last day after the exam, I was outside with my friends planning our afternoon. I noticed her in my periphery. I could see her lingering, and I basked in the moment, knowing she was nearby—perhaps waiting for me. I was stupid and lacked the courage to approach her, ask her name, where she lived, or her number. The next time I raised my head, she was gone.

Only then did it dawn on me what she meant to me. Even among my close friends, I felt lonely. I searched for her face everywhere—in crowds, in cafes, in stores, in magazines, in movies, in stories, and in my dreams. Whenever I saw a girl from behind who matched her height, I walked quickly, hoping it would be her. Oh, how many times I regretted not approaching her. I didn't even know her name or her caste, but I dreamed about her all the time. In the mornings, I lay in bed imagining our encounter—how happy she would be to see me again, how she had lost hope of ever seeing me, or how much she had cried thinking about me. I imagined she would get mad at me because I didn't approach her or ask for her name or number on that last day; she would refuse to talk to me until I hugged and kissed her.

These reveries kept me alive during those days. The afternoons were tough. The scorching sun and the quiet milieu made it feel as if the whole town were taking a nap, with nothing to entertain or pass the time. To make the situation worse, Hindi romantic songs would blare out from the radio, making me emotional. I would go down and borrow Manohar Kahaniya or other magazines from the store owners I knew. One day, my eyes landed on the face of a perfume model who looked similar to her. My heart pounded. I looked around, afraid that someone would notice my feelings. I tore the page out and slipped it into my pocket. Now and then, I would fish out the picture, look at her face, and cover my face with it.

Divya Rana became my favorite actress when I watched her debut movie because she, too, resembled her. I wanted the critics to praise her. I secretly looked at her picture a little longer whenever it appeared in any magazine. When college enrollment started, I joined Banasthali because a friend of mine said that many students from her school enrolled there. I scanned for her face in every class, but she was nowhere to be found. I went to other colleges in search of her. One day, I saw my “backup” with her friends in a Padma Kanya sari. I walked toward her and smiled when our eyes met, but her face showed no expression, and she continued talking to her friends. I was angry and felt betrayed. I wanted to say to her “pepperoni face” that the only reason she was attending college was because of me. But I didn't, nor did I ask about her friend.

One day, I took the picture out of my pocket. The face on it, once visually stunning and elegant, was faded and discolored, like an old memory. I could hardly see her features anymore. I crumpled it and threw it in the trash.

How we worship someone, never revealing it to a single soul, and taking the secret with us to the dust.

---

She was of average height, had fair skin, and a face with immaculate features. I had never seen such beauty in my entire life—the belle of the ball. She sat on my left, on a separate bench but in the same row. The girl on the right was pretty too, but she had pimples on her cheeks. She can be my backup, I thought. It was the most stressful week of our juvenile years, but with those divas by my side, the week went by quickly. We sat in the classroom, mostly writing answers in our booklets. Now and then, I would glance to my left, wishing I could watch her forever.

On the first day, during the English exam, I somehow managed to gather the courage to ask her a question about prepositions to make sure I had them correct. She showed me her answer book. She definitely likes me, I surmised. The second day was Nepali. At the end, she asked me a few questions on Nepali grammar, and I promptly told her what I had written.

When it was Math’s turn, she and the “backup” were extremely chatty and friendly to me in the morning, pleading for assistance during the exam. Never in my life had I had so many girls come to me with their plight. I just stood there, face flushed, unable to come up with any smart answers. Even when I managed to utter, “OK, I will try,” it didn’t come out right, and I hated myself for my lack of conversational skills. But I was good at math and ready for the rescue mission.

As soon as the exam started, I began writing. I could see them from the corner of my eye, looking at me with desperation. Once I finished filling out my answer book, I asked for another paper and placed my completed book on my left for her to copy. The backup's face became desolate. Wait until your friend finishes, I told her. When “my girl” was done copying, I placed it on my right for backup. I sat there pretending to write, but I was really just waiting for them to finish. When I emerged from the exam room, I was proud to have succeeded in rescuing my harem.

During the remaining days, our interactions were mostly limited to eye contact. On the last day after the exam, I was outside with my friends planning our afternoon. I noticed her in my periphery. I could see her lingering, and I basked in the moment, knowing she was nearby—perhaps waiting for me. I was stupid and lacked the courage to approach her, ask her name, where she lived, or her number. The next time I raised my head, she was gone.

Only then did it dawn on me what she meant to me. Even among my close friends, I felt lonely. I searched for her face everywhere—in crowds, in cafes, in stores, in magazines, in movies, in stories, and in my dreams. Whenever I saw a girl from behind who matched her height, I walked quickly, hoping it would be her. Oh, how many times I regretted not approaching her. I didn't even know her name or her caste, but I dreamed about her all the time. In the mornings, I lay in bed imagining our encounter—how happy she would be to see me again, how she had lost hope of ever seeing me, or how much she had cried thinking about me. I imagined she would get mad at me because I didn't approach her or ask for her name or number on that last day; she would refuse to talk to me until I hugged and kissed her.

These reveries kept me alive during those days. The afternoons were tough. The scorching sun and the quiet milieu made it feel as if the whole town were taking a nap, with nothing to entertain or pass the time. To make the situation worse, Hindi romantic songs would blare out from the radio, making me emotional. I would go down and borrow Manohar Kahaniya or other magazines from the store owners I knew. One day, my eyes landed on the face of a perfume model who looked similar to her. My heart pounded. I looked around, afraid that someone would notice my feelings. I tore the page out and slipped it into my pocket. Now and then, I would fish out the picture, look at her face, and cover my face with it.

Divya Rana became my favorite actress when I watched her debut movie because she, too, resembled her. I wanted the critics to praise her. I secretly looked at her picture a little longer whenever it appeared in any magazine. When college enrollment started, I joined Banasthali because a friend of mine said that many students from her school enrolled there. I scanned for her face in every class, but she was nowhere to be found. I went to other colleges in search of her. One day, I saw my “backup” with her friends in a Padma Kanya sari. I walked toward her and smiled when our eyes met, but her face showed no expression, and she continued talking to her friends. I was angry and felt betrayed. I wanted to say to her “pepperoni face” that the only reason she was attending college was because of me. But I didn't, nor did I ask about her friend.

One day, I took the picture out of my pocket. The face on it, once visually stunning and elegant, was faded and discolored, like an old memory. I could hardly see her features anymore. I crumpled it and threw it in the trash.

Luke 13 is not a gentle chapter. It does not ease its way into the conscience. It does not flatter the reader. It confronts, corrects, awakens, and invites all at once. It is a chapter about urgency, repentance, spiritual blindness, divine patience, narrow doors, bent backs, small beginnings, and a God who longs to gather His people even when they resist Him. If there is one thread that ties Luke 13 together, it is this: time is a gift, but it is not guaranteed, and mercy is extended, but it must not be ignored.

In a world obsessed with comfort, affirmation, and self-justification, Luke 13 cuts through illusion. It speaks directly to the heart of spiritual procrastination. It addresses the dangerous assumption that there will always be another opportunity to turn, another season to obey, another moment to respond. The message is clear and sobering: do not mistake God’s patience for indifference.

The chapter opens with people reporting a tragedy. Certain Galileans had been killed by Pilate, and their blood had been mingled with their sacrifices. It was political violence mixed with religious horror. The crowd’s underlying question was unspoken but obvious. Were those victims worse sinners than others? Did they deserve it? Was their suffering evidence of divine judgment?

This instinct is deeply human. When tragedy strikes someone else, the mind searches for moral explanation. There is a subtle comfort in believing that suffering must be directly tied to personal sin because it preserves the illusion of control. If their tragedy was earned, then perhaps mine can be avoided. If their downfall was punishment, then my stability must be righteousness.

Jesus immediately dismantles this thinking. He says that those Galileans were not worse sinners than others. Then He references another disaster: eighteen people who died when the tower of Siloam fell on them. Again He denies the simplistic equation between tragedy and personal sin. And then He says the words that echo through the entire chapter: unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.

The point is not that suffering equals guilt. The point is that death is universal. Tragedy is not a grading system. It is a reminder. Life is fragile. Breath is temporary. Repentance is urgent.

Repentance is often misunderstood in modern culture. It is frequently reduced to guilt or emotional remorse. Yet biblical repentance is far deeper and far more powerful. It is a change of mind that leads to a change of direction. It is the recognition that one’s life has been oriented away from God and must now be reoriented toward Him. It is not simply feeling bad. It is turning around.

Luke 13 teaches that repentance is not optional for the spiritually curious. It is essential for the spiritually alive. The tragedies mentioned at the beginning of the chapter are not theological puzzles to be solved. They are alarms. They are wake-up calls. They are reminders that the time to align with God is now.

Immediately after this sobering warning, Jesus tells a parable about a fig tree. A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard, and for three years he came seeking fruit and found none. He tells the vinedresser to cut it down. Why should it continue to use up the ground? But the vinedresser asks for one more year. He will dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit, good. If not, then it can be cut down.

This parable reveals something profound about the character of God. There is justice in the vineyard owner’s expectation. A fruit tree is meant to bear fruit. There is nothing unreasonable about seeking evidence of life. Yet there is also mercy in the vinedresser’s request. One more year. One more season. One more opportunity.

Luke 13 presents a God who expects fruit but who also extends patience. However, patience is not permission to remain barren. It is an invitation to respond. It is time granted for transformation.

The question becomes personal. Is life producing spiritual fruit? Is there growth, love, humility, obedience, and surrender? Or is there only appearance without substance? The fig tree parable refuses to allow complacency. It challenges the assumption that proximity to spiritual things equals spiritual vitality.

Immediately following this parable, Jesus heals a woman who had been bent over for eighteen years. She was crippled by a spirit and unable to straighten herself. When Jesus sees her, He calls her forward and declares her free from her infirmity. He lays His hands on her, and immediately she straightens up and glorifies God.

This miracle is not just physical restoration. It is a living illustration of the entire chapter. The woman represents humanity bent under the weight of spiritual bondage. She could not straighten herself. Effort was insufficient. Time had not healed her. Religion had not corrected her posture. But when Jesus speaks, when He touches, when He releases, transformation is immediate.

Yet even in the face of this miracle, opposition rises. The synagogue ruler is indignant because the healing occurred on the Sabbath. His concern is procedural, not compassionate. He speaks to the crowd about the six days available for work, implying that healing could have waited.

Luke 13 exposes religious legalism as another form of spiritual blindness. The ruler could see the calendar but not the miracle. He could defend a rule but not celebrate redemption. He valued structure over salvation.

Jesus responds with clarity. If one would untie an ox or donkey to give it water on the Sabbath, should not this daughter of Abraham be set free from bondage? He reframes the Sabbath not as restriction but as restoration. The Sabbath is not merely about ceasing labor. It is about entering freedom.

There is deep symbolism in the phrase daughter of Abraham. It is an affirmation of identity. The woman is not defined by her condition. She is defined by covenant belonging. Luke 13 consistently reminds the reader that spiritual identity precedes outward circumstance.

The healing of the bent woman also reveals something essential about repentance and fruitfulness. Repentance is not self-repair. It is surrender to the One who can straighten what has been bent. Fruit grows from freedom. Transformation begins with encounter.

Jesus then transitions into two brief parables about the kingdom of God. He compares it to a mustard seed that becomes a large tree and to yeast that leavens an entire batch of dough. These images seem almost gentle compared to the earlier warnings, but they are deeply connected.

The kingdom begins small but grows relentlessly. It often appears insignificant at first. A seed is unimpressive. Yeast is hidden. Yet both possess transformative power. The mustard seed becomes a tree where birds nest. The yeast permeates the whole.

Luke 13 reveals that the urgency of repentance is not because God is insecure. It is because the kingdom is advancing. Time is moving. History is unfolding. God’s purposes are growing whether individuals participate or not.

There is encouragement here for those who feel small. Obedience that seems minor may be part of something far greater. A prayer, a step of faith, a moment of surrender may appear invisible, yet it can initiate profound growth. The kingdom does not measure by immediate scale. It measures by faithful alignment.

As the chapter continues, someone asks Jesus a direct question: Lord, are there few who are saved? It is a theological inquiry framed in numerical terms. How many make it? Is the path exclusive? Is the gate narrow?

Jesus does not provide statistics. Instead, He gives a warning. Strive to enter through the narrow door. Many will seek to enter and will not be able. The emphasis shifts from curiosity about others to responsibility for oneself.

The narrow door is not about arbitrary restriction. It is about alignment. A narrow entrance requires intentionality. It requires leaving certain baggage behind. It demands focus.

Luke 13 does not present salvation as casual or automatic. It is offered freely, but it is not entered carelessly. There is a moment when the master of the house rises and shuts the door. Those outside knock and claim familiarity. They say they ate and drank in His presence. They heard His teaching. Yet He declares that He does not know them.

This is one of the most sobering passages in the chapter. Proximity is not the same as relationship. Exposure to truth is not the same as transformation by truth. Attendance is not the same as allegiance.

Luke 13 insists that repentance is personal. It is not inherited by association. It is not secured by cultural Christianity. It is not guaranteed by religious participation.

There will be weeping and gnashing of teeth, Jesus says, when people see Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and all the prophets in the kingdom while they themselves are cast out. People will come from east and west, north and south, and recline at the table in the kingdom of God. And behold, some who are last will be first, and some who are first will be last.

This reversal theme runs throughout Luke’s Gospel. Those who assume security may find themselves outside. Those who seem unlikely may find themselves welcomed. The kingdom disrupts expectation.

Luke 13 is deeply relevant to a modern audience because it addresses spiritual complacency. It challenges entitlement. It confronts self-righteous comparison. It exposes the danger of assuming that tomorrow is guaranteed.

At the end of the chapter, Pharisees warn Jesus that Herod wants to kill Him. His response is fearless. He refers to Herod as a fox and declares that He will continue casting out demons and performing healings until His appointed time. He speaks of Jerusalem, the city that kills prophets and stones those sent to it.

Then comes one of the most tender laments in Scripture. Jesus says, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, how often I would have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.

Here is the heart of God revealed. Judgment is real, but so is longing. Warning is sincere, but so is compassion. The image of a hen gathering chicks conveys protection, warmth, shelter, and safety. The tragedy is not that God was unwilling. It is that the people were unwilling.

Luke 13 ends with a house left desolate and a promise that they will not see Him until they say, blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. There is both sorrow and hope woven together.

This chapter does not allow the reader to remain neutral. It asks hard questions. It demands introspection. It confronts assumptions. It invites repentance. It reveals mercy. It exposes hypocrisy. It promises growth. It warns of exclusion. It expresses longing.

For those who approach Scripture seeking comfort alone, Luke 13 may feel sharp. But its sharpness is surgical, not cruel. It cuts in order to heal. It warns in order to rescue. It calls in order to restore.

In a culture that normalizes delay, Luke 13 calls for immediacy. In a society that measures success by visibility, Luke 13 celebrates hidden growth. In a religious environment that can mistake ritual for righteousness, Luke 13 insists on fruit.

Repentance is not about shame. It is about alignment. The narrow door is not about elitism. It is about sincerity. The fig tree is not about fear. It is about opportunity. The bent woman is not about spectacle. It is about liberation.

The urgency in Luke 13 is not panic. It is clarity. It is the clarity that comes from recognizing that life is short, eternity is real, and God’s mercy is both abundant and purposeful.

There is a profound balance in this chapter between warning and invitation. The same voice that says unless you repent you will perish is the voice that says I longed to gather you. The same teacher who speaks of a narrow door also speaks of people coming from every direction to sit at the table. The same Lord who acknowledges judgment also extends one more year to the fruitless tree.

Luke 13 ultimately teaches that divine patience is not indefinite. It is graciously extended time meant for response. It is an act of love that should never be mistaken for approval of stagnation.

The chapter challenges every reader to ask difficult questions. Am I assuming tomorrow? Am I mistaking familiarity for relationship? Am I producing fruit or merely occupying space? Am I bent under something that only Christ can straighten? Am I resisting the wings that long to gather me?

Luke 13 is not a chapter to skim. It is a chapter to sit with. It invites slow reflection. It demands honest self-examination. It offers hope to the bound and warning to the complacent.

In the end, it reveals a Savior who walks steadily toward Jerusalem, fully aware of rejection, fully aware of the cross, yet still healing, still teaching, still calling people to repent, still longing to gather.

The urgency of Luke 13 is not rooted in fear of loss but in the desire for fullness. It is not merely about avoiding perishing. It is about entering life. It is about becoming fruitful. It is about standing upright in freedom. It is about participating in a kingdom that begins small but expands beyond imagination.

This chapter is a mirror. It reflects motives. It exposes delay. It confronts pride. It reveals longing. It calls for surrender.

And above all, it reminds every reader that now is the moment. Not tomorrow. Not someday. Now.

If Luke 13 has a pulse, it is the steady rhythm of urgency wrapped in mercy. The chapter does not shout in chaos, and it does not whisper in passivity. It speaks with measured authority. It confronts without cruelty. It invites without forcing. It warns without delighting in warning. And the longer one sits with it, the more it becomes clear that this is not merely a collection of teachings and events. It is a unified call to awaken before the door closes.

When Jesus speaks about striving to enter through the narrow door, He uses language that implies effort, intentionality, and focus. The word strive suggests engagement. It implies that passivity is not sufficient. This does not mean salvation is earned through human merit, but it does mean that indifference is incompatible with genuine faith. There is a difference between receiving grace and ignoring it.

The modern world often celebrates broad gates and wide roads. Inclusivity is frequently defined as removing boundaries. Yet Luke 13 presents a narrow door not as an arbitrary exclusion but as a defining clarity. A narrow door requires alignment. One cannot carry everything through it. Pride does not fit. Self-righteousness does not fit. Secret rebellion does not fit. Unrepentant arrogance does not fit. The narrowness is not cruelty. It is purification.

The tragedy described in this passage is not that the door is narrow. The tragedy is that many will realize its significance too late. They will knock after it has been shut. They will appeal to proximity. They will mention shared meals and shared spaces. They will point to external association. And yet they will hear the words, I do not know you.

This statement is not about intellectual recognition. It is relational. To be known in biblical language is to be in covenant, to be in alignment, to be in surrender. The danger in Luke 13 is the illusion of familiarity. It is possible to hear truth without embracing it. It is possible to sit under teaching without yielding to it. It is possible to reference spiritual language without undergoing spiritual transformation.

This chapter dismantles the comfort of religious surface-level engagement. It calls for depth. It calls for surrender. It calls for genuine repentance that produces fruit.

The mention of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and the prophets seated in the kingdom while others are cast out introduces the theme of reversal. Luke’s Gospel consistently highlights this divine inversion. Those who assume they are first may find themselves last. Those who appear last may be welcomed first. The kingdom does not operate on human hierarchy. It operates on humility.

This reversal is both sobering and hopeful. It warns those who rely on heritage, status, or reputation. At the same time, it reassures those who feel overlooked or marginalized. The invitation is open, but the response must be authentic.

When Jesus declares that people will come from east and west, north and south to recline at the table in the kingdom of God, He is expanding the horizon beyond ethnic and cultural boundaries. The kingdom is not limited by geography. It is not confined to a single lineage. It is not reserved for those who presume ownership. It is extended to those who respond.

Luke 13 therefore addresses both complacency and despair. To the complacent, it says do not assume security. To the despairing, it says do not assume exclusion. The door is narrow, but it is open now. The invitation is urgent, but it is sincere.

The closing section of the chapter brings political tension into view. Pharisees warn Jesus that Herod desires to kill Him. The response is fearless and deliberate. Jesus refers to Herod as a fox, a term suggesting cunning but not ultimate authority. He declares that He will continue casting out demons and performing healings today and tomorrow, and on the third day He will reach His goal.

There is a profound steadiness in this declaration. Threat does not accelerate Him. Fear does not redirect Him. Opposition does not derail Him. Luke 13 reveals a Savior who is not reactive but resolute. His mission is not dictated by earthly rulers. His timeline is not controlled by intimidation. His path leads to Jerusalem, and He walks it intentionally.

This composure stands in contrast to human panic. Many people live as if every external threat determines their next move. Luke 13 portrays a different way. Purpose anchored in divine calling produces calm in the face of pressure.

Yet the chapter does not end with defiance. It ends with lament. Jesus speaks over Jerusalem with repetition that conveys deep emotion. Jerusalem, Jerusalem. The repetition echoes heartbreak. This is not a cold pronouncement of doom. It is a grieving recognition of resistance.

How often I would have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing. This image is tender and powerful. A hen gathering chicks communicates safety, warmth, and protection from predators. It conveys vulnerability and care. It is not an image of force but of invitation.

The tragedy is not divine unwillingness. It is human refusal. Luke 13 exposes the mystery of free will within divine sovereignty. God longs to gather. God extends patience. God offers shelter. But He does not override the will of those who resist Him.

The phrase your house is left to you desolate is sobering. Desolation is not immediate annihilation. It is emptiness. It is the absence of presence. It is the consequence of rejecting the One who gives life.

Yet even here, hope is not extinguished. Jesus speaks of a future recognition, a future declaration of blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord. The door of mercy remains open in the present moment.

Luke 13 therefore holds tension between warning and hope, justice and compassion, urgency and patience. It refuses to reduce God to a single attribute. It reveals a holy God who demands repentance and a loving God who extends time for it.

The fig tree earlier in the chapter remains a central metaphor for understanding this tension. The owner seeks fruit because fruit is the natural outcome of life. The vinedresser intercedes for more time because transformation can occur with care and cultivation. This balance reflects the character of God.

There is expectation. There is patience. There is opportunity. But there is also a limit.

In contemporary life, it is easy to drift into spiritual inertia. Distraction is abundant. Entertainment is endless. Responsibilities multiply. Luke 13 cuts through distraction with clarity. It reminds the reader that life is finite and eternity is real.

The tragedies mentioned at the beginning of the chapter are not presented to provoke fear but to awaken awareness. Death is not selective based on moral superiority. Towers fall. Political violence erupts. Life can end suddenly. The correct response is not speculation about others but repentance for oneself.

Repentance in Luke 13 is not framed as public performance. It is internal transformation. It is reorientation toward God. It is the acknowledgment that independence from Him leads to spiritual barrenness.

The bent woman healed on the Sabbath becomes a living symbol of what repentance makes possible. She had been bound for eighteen years. Eighteen years is long enough for hope to fade. Long enough for identity to merge with limitation. Long enough for resignation to settle in.

Yet one encounter changed everything. Jesus did not demand that she straighten herself first. He called her. He spoke. He touched. And she stood upright.

This moment reveals that repentance is not self-powered improvement. It is response to grace. It is stepping forward when called. It is allowing the touch of Christ to release what has held one captive.

The indignation of the synagogue ruler exposes another layer of spiritual danger. Legalism can become a shield against compassion. Rules can become more sacred than restoration. Luke 13 insists that true obedience aligns with the heart of God, not merely the letter of regulation.

When Jesus compares the kingdom to a mustard seed and yeast, He reinforces the idea that transformation may begin invisibly. Many expect dramatic displays. Yet often the most powerful growth occurs quietly.

A seed buried in soil appears lost before it emerges. Yeast mixed into dough disappears before it permeates. In the same way, repentance may feel hidden at first. Fruit may take time to manifest. But growth rooted in genuine surrender will expand.

The kingdom is not static. It is advancing. It is expanding through hearts that respond. It is growing through lives that turn.

Luke 13 therefore becomes intensely practical. It is not merely theological reflection. It demands response. It calls for examination of one’s own fruit. It challenges reliance on association. It warns against delay.

One of the most dangerous assumptions in spiritual life is that there will always be more time. The fig tree was given one more year, not endless years. Patience is purposeful, not permanent.

There is a difference between waiting on God and postponing obedience. Waiting on God is rooted in trust and submission. Postponing obedience is rooted in avoidance. Luke 13 exposes the latter.

The narrow door image also addresses distraction. Wide gates allow casual entry. Narrow doors require attention. To pass through, one must focus. This focus is not anxiety-driven. It is clarity-driven.

The chapter invites a shift from comparison to conviction. Instead of asking whether others are worse sinners, it asks whether one’s own heart has turned. Instead of speculating about numbers saved, it calls for personal striving. Instead of judging tragedy, it calls for repentance.

The lament over Jerusalem reveals that divine desire is not exclusion but gathering. The hen’s wings remain extended. The urgency is not because God delights in judgment but because He longs for reconciliation.

Luke 13 ultimately confronts the illusion of neutrality. There is no safe middle ground. One either responds or resists. One either bears fruit or remains barren. One either enters through the narrow door or stands outside knocking.

Yet the tone of the chapter is not despair. It is invitation wrapped in seriousness. It is mercy framed by urgency. It is love expressed through warning.

For modern readers, Luke 13 may feel countercultural. It resists self-centered spirituality. It confronts religious complacency. It demands personal responsibility.

But within its warnings is profound hope. The fig tree is not immediately cut down. The bent woman is not ignored. The kingdom begins small but grows large. People from every direction are welcomed. The Savior walks steadily toward sacrifice, not retreat.

The message is clear and enduring. Do not delay repentance. Do not assume security based on proximity. Do not mistake patience for permission. Do not cling to legalism at the expense of compassion. Do not underestimate small beginnings. Do not ignore the open door.

Luke 13 is a chapter that presses gently but firmly against the heart. It asks whether life is producing fruit. It asks whether surrender has replaced self-rule. It asks whether one has stepped through the narrow entrance of genuine faith.

It reveals a God who warns because He loves, who delays judgment to extend opportunity, who heals the bent, who grows the small, who walks toward the cross with unwavering purpose, and who longs to gather even those who resist.

The urgency of Luke 13 is not about fear-driven religion. It is about awakened living. It is about recognizing that every breath is grace. It is about responding while the door is open. It is about aligning now rather than assuming later.

There is something deeply liberating about this clarity. When repentance is embraced, the burden of delay lifts. When surrender is chosen, fruit begins to form. When one steps through the narrow door, freedom replaces uncertainty.

Luke 13 stands as a timeless reminder that mercy and urgency are not opposites. They are partners. Mercy gives time. Urgency gives direction. Together they call the soul to life.

And the invitation remains. Now is the moment. Now is the season. Now is the opportunity to turn, to align, to step forward, to allow the One who straightens the bent to restore what has been misaligned.

The door is narrow, but it is open. The tree may yet bear fruit. The kingdom is growing. The wings are extended.

Respond while there is time.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Image: Andy Warhol’s Rain Machine, 1971, LACMA version, Photographer unknown. Sourced from: http://rooftoplinnaeus.blogspot.com/2010/04/original-vertical-garden.html

Andy Warhol was obsessed with the artistic uses of new technologies. Part of his ongoing relevance lies in the dexterity with which he embraced innovations ranging from the Polaroid camera to the early personal computer. In this respect, his participation in the Art and Technology Program seems foreordained.

The Art and Technology Program

In the 1960s, at that fragile moment when anything seemed possible, Maurice Tuchman conceived the idea of the Art and Technology Program for the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA). Tuchman envisioned collaborations between artists and business sponsors that would bring the former “into these industries to make works of art, moving about in them as they might in their own studios.”

Tuchman had to navigate multiple obstacles, including belligerent artists, a cautious LACMA Board, some risk adverse corporate executives, and various legal headaches. Nevertheless, he succeeded in connecting artists such as Len Lye, Andy Warhol, and John Chamberlain with companies ranging from the Rand Corporation and Kaiser Industries to RCA and Hewlett Packard. It was a brilliant idea, but one that inadvertently walked right into the contradictions of its era.

Rain Machine (Daisy Waterfall)

Andy Warhol’s Rain Machine (Daisy Waterfall) proved to be one of the most successful collaborations, in this case between Andy Warhol and Cowles Communications, facilitated by Tuchman’s curatorial guidance.

Ultimately, four Rain Machines were produced. Two disintegrated within six months of being exhibited, due to water damage. A third one that Tuchman purchased from Warhol and later donated to the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh in the mid-1990s was irretrievably damaged while in storage. Only one original Rain Machine exists today.

Like much of Warhol’s work, Rain Machine was deceptively simple, yet highly influential and captivating. Tuchman wrote in his 1971 exhibit report to LACMA that “Many people and particularly the artists who were there installing their own pieces, felt the Warhol to be one of the most compelling works in the exhibition because of its strangely tough and eccentric quality.”

Flower Power

It is possible that Rain Machine (Daisy Waterfall) is exactly what it appears to be: an artistic experiment that combines then innovative 3-D lenticular technology with running water to produce a visually compelling effect. However, given the salience of flowers both to Warhol’s work and the politics of the era, one suspects that there is more going on with this piece than one or two quick passes through an exhibit might suggest.

By this point, Warhol had already produced the masterful Flowers series, which rendered hibiscus blossoms in brilliant Day-Glo colors and debuted to ecstatic audiences at the Leo Castelli Gallery in 1964. Flowers often represented beauty and optimism in Warhol’s work. Indeed, one iteration of Rain Machine appeared at the 1970 Tokyo Expo, under the theme Progress and Harmony for Mankind, suggesting that Rain Machine might serenely be a note-perfect response to the Age of Aquarius.

Rain Machine was also produced during the brief era of “flower power” in the United States. Though it became trite later, the concept originated with Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, who in 1965 urged young people to resist the Vietnam War with love and positivity. News photographs of young protestors placing flowers in the gun barrels of American National Guardsmen at the mass 1967 Anti-War Protest at the Pentagon appeared in Time and Life and would have been highly salient to someone as media saturated as Warhol.

Though Warhol cultivated an apolitical persona and deflected critical inquiries about his work, Rain Machine suggests that he always knew where he was in real time.

Art, Technology, and War

Warhol also seems to have recognized earlier than most the inherent paradox of the Art and Technology Program, which was launched with great optimism at the exact moment politics made such a conceit unworkable. By the time Rain Machine reached Tokyo, the United States had rapidly moved from the Summer of Love to the brink of social breakdown.

In that short space of time, Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy had been assassinated, mass protests against the Vietnam War had derailed the 1968 Democratic National Convention, race riots had decimated major American cities, and the previously peaceful Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) had splintered into militant factions that included the violent Weather Underground. Increasingly, in artistic circles, business and technology became synonymous with violence.

General Electric (GE), for example, had originally featured in Tuchman’s list of participating corporations. However, by 1970 the broad anti-War movement identified GE as one of the primary American corporations that had a vested interest in prolonging the Vietnam War and which waged violence for profit. A March 1970 student rally against GE at the University of Illinois rapidly turned destructive and became one of the signal moments in an anti-War movement that was moving closer to organized violence.

It was a chemist at GE who first discovered, in the mid-1940s, that it was possible to artificially seed clouds and generate precipitation. This insight later became the scientific basis of Operation Popeye, a top-secret Department of Defense project that used artificial weather-modification methods to prolong the monsoon season in North Vietnam and Laos, thereby disrupting key enemy transportation routes and inflicting psychological pressure.

Operation Popeye was uncovered by the New York Times in 1972, and Rain Machine predates general public awareness of this scandal. Still, Warhol always did have an uncanny sense of which way the wind was blowing. Even if Rain Machine is not a direct response to Operation Popeye, in context it hints at the destructive tension between technology and nature that would give way, after the Vietnam War, to the environmental movement.

The Most Beautiful Art

In one of his characteristically gnomic soundbites, Warhol famously proclaimed “I want to be a machine, and I feel that whatever I do and do machine-like is what I want to do.”

Whether he meant this or not as an approach to real life is impossible to know. Yet the artist who wanted to be a machine nevertheless created a work of artificial nature that re-sensitizes the viewer to the beauty and fragility of the real thing.

Warhol also said that “having land and not ruining it is the most beautiful art that anybody could ever want to own.” If we read between the lines, Rain Machine bears a higher level of scrutiny than the Prince of Pop may have initially led us to believe.

There is a question that has lingered in locker rooms, on battlefields, in boardrooms, and in hospital waiting rooms for generations, even if it is rarely spoken out loud with full honesty. What does God do when two sincere prayers collide? When one person bows their head and asks for victory, and another person somewhere else bows their head and asks for the exact opposite outcome, how does heaven respond? Does God choose a side? Does He evaluate worthiness and assign favor? Does He intervene for the most faithful, the most desperate, the most deserving? Or does something far deeper unfold than we are prepared to see?

This question is not really about sports. It may begin there because sports make the tension visible. Two teams gather. Both pray. Both believe. Both hope. Both ask for the same thing: let us win. But the scoreboard cannot accommodate two victors. One will celebrate. One will walk away disappointed. And somewhere in the background, the quiet doubt whispers, did God choose them over us?

The human heart is wired to interpret outcomes as proof of favor. When things go our way, we feel affirmed. When they do not, we feel overlooked. We are tempted to measure divine love by visible results. Yet the Scriptures consistently dismantle that way of thinking. The Bible does not present God as a tribal deity who pledges allegiance to one camp over another. It presents Him as sovereign, patient, and committed to a purpose that transcends immediate outcomes.

When Jesus said that the Father causes the sun to rise on both the righteous and the unrighteous, He was dismantling the illusion that blessing always signals preference. Rain falls on opposing fields. Breath fills the lungs of both the grateful and the ungrateful. Life itself is evidence of grace, not a scoreboard of superiority. If God does not withhold sunlight from those who reject Him, it is unlikely that He is pacing heaven trying to decide which uniform He prefers.

So how does God respond when prayers conflict?

The answer requires a shift in perspective. We assume prayer is primarily about altering circumstances. Scripture reveals that prayer is primarily about transforming hearts. We assume the goal is to secure outcomes. Scripture reveals that the goal is alignment with the will of God. We assume the victory is external. Scripture reveals that the deepest victories are internal.

Consider the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus prayed with such intensity that sweat fell like drops of blood. His request was clear. If it is possible, let this cup pass from me. That prayer was sincere. It was honest. It was vulnerable. And yet the immediate circumstance did not change. The cross still stood. The betrayal still unfolded. The suffering still came. If prayer were merely a tool to eliminate hardship, then that moment would be the most confusing in history. Instead, it became the most revealing. The power of prayer was not in escaping pain but in surrendering to purpose.

When two people pray for opposite outcomes, heaven is not trapped in a dilemma. God is not weighing prayers on a scale like a judge balancing evidence. He is not calculating merit. He is not responding to volume or eloquence. He is working at a level beyond the visible.

If two teams pray for victory, one will experience the joy of triumph. The other will face disappointment. But both can experience growth. Both can encounter refinement. Both can be drawn closer to God. The win may expose pride that needs to be confronted. The loss may cultivate resilience that cannot be learned any other way. The win may test humility. The loss may deepen dependence. The outcome does not define divine favor. It reveals an opportunity for formation.

Throughout Scripture, we see faithful people who did not receive the outcome they requested. Paul prayed three times for the thorn in his flesh to be removed. The answer was no. Yet the no carried a promise. My grace is sufficient for you. My power is made perfect in weakness. That answer did not eliminate the struggle. It infused it with purpose. Paul learned that divine strength is often displayed through human limitation. If we measure God’s faithfulness solely by immediate relief, we will misunderstand His deepest work.

The question of conflicting prayers forces us to confront what we believe about God’s character. If we believe He is limited, then we assume He must choose one person at the expense of another. If we believe He is abundant, then we begin to understand that He can work redemptively in both stories simultaneously. God does not operate within the constraints of scarcity. His grace is not a finite resource. His love does not diminish when distributed. His wisdom does not require compromise.

Imagine two individuals praying for the same promotion. Both are qualified. Both have families. Both have bills. Both believe the opportunity will change their lives. One receives the position. The other does not. If the one who was rejected concludes that God favored the other more, despair will follow. But what if the rejection is protection? What if the path not taken shields them from unseen pressures? What if the delay redirects them toward something more aligned with their calling? We rarely possess enough information to evaluate the full arc of our own lives, let alone the divine orchestration behind them.

Faith requires trust in the unseen architecture of God’s purposes. It requires confidence that His vision extends beyond the horizon of our current desire. When Joseph was betrayed by his brothers and sold into slavery, it appeared that his prayers and dreams were shattered. Years later, he would look back and say, what you meant for evil, God meant for good. That statement could only be made from a vantage point of hindsight. In the moment, the pain was real. The confusion was real. The injustice was real. Yet God was not choosing sides between Joseph and his brothers in the way we might imagine. He was weaving a larger story that would preserve an entire nation.

When we reduce God to a tie-breaker, we misunderstand His role. He is not a referee ensuring equal distribution of wins. He is the Author of redemption shaping eternal outcomes. He is not primarily concerned with temporary victories. He is invested in lasting transformation. The scoreboard may declare a winner, but heaven evaluates the heart.

This truth can feel unsettling because it removes the illusion of control. We prefer a God who can be persuaded into guaranteeing success. We want prayer to function like a strategy for securing favorable circumstances. Yet authentic faith moves beyond manipulation. It moves into surrender. It acknowledges that God’s wisdom surpasses our perspective.

There is also a subtle danger in assuming that visible success equals divine endorsement. History is filled with examples of individuals who achieved extraordinary victories yet lacked integrity. It is equally filled with quiet saints who endured obscurity and hardship while remaining faithful. The kingdom of God does not measure significance by applause. It measures it by obedience. The widow who gave two small coins was commended by Jesus not because of the amount but because of the heart behind it. External comparisons often distort internal realities.

When two sides pray for opposing outcomes, the deeper question becomes this: what is God forming within each person through this experience? If a team wins and attributes the victory solely to their own skill, pride may grow. If they recognize their dependence on God and respond with humility, gratitude, and generosity, the win becomes a platform for witness. If a team loses and descends into bitterness, the loss becomes destructive. If they respond with grace, perseverance, and unity, the loss becomes transformative. The difference lies not in the outcome but in the response.

Scripture repeatedly emphasizes that trials produce endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. That progression does not depend on winning. It depends on trusting. It depends on allowing God to shape us through circumstances rather than define us by them. The apostle James wrote that we should consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds because the testing of our faith produces perseverance. That perspective reframes conflict. It suggests that what appears as opposition may actually be refinement.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus challenged His followers to seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness. The promise that follows is that all these things will be added as well. Seeking the kingdom means prioritizing alignment with God’s will over securing personal advantage. When we pray for victory, perhaps the more profound prayer is this: let Your kingdom come in me through this. Let my attitude reflect You whether I stand on a podium or walk away in silence.

Conflicting prayers reveal the limitations of our perspective. We often assume that what we desire most is what we need most. Yet Scripture consistently shows that God’s ways are higher than ours. Isaiah recorded the words of the Lord declaring that as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways higher than our ways and His thoughts than our thoughts. That gap in perspective invites humility. It calls us to trust beyond comprehension.

It is also important to recognize that free will operates within the world God created. Outcomes in sports, careers, and relationships are influenced by preparation, choices, discipline, and countless variables. God does not override human agency in every moment. He works within it. He redeems through it. He guides those who seek Him. But He does not reduce life to a series of predetermined outcomes that ignore effort and responsibility. Prayer does not replace preparation. It sanctifies it. It orients our motives. It invites God into the process.

When we understand this, the anxiety surrounding conflicting prayers begins to soften. God is not forced into favoritism. He is not arbitrating petty rivalries. He is cultivating hearts. He is drawing people toward Himself. He is shaping character through every circumstance.

One of the most profound truths in Scripture is that God works all things together for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose. Notice that the promise is not that all things are good. It is that all things can be woven into good. A loss can become a lesson. A delay can become preparation. A disappointment can become direction. This does not minimize pain. It infuses it with hope.

When two people pray for opposite outcomes, heaven is not divided. God’s love is not split. He is present in both spaces. He is near to the anxious heart on the sideline and the confident heart in the spotlight. He is not confined to a single narrative. He is orchestrating many simultaneously.

The ultimate tie-breaker question is not about who wins. It is about who becomes more like Christ in the process. Jesus did not promise His followers unbroken chains of success. He promised His presence. He promised that in this world we would have trouble, but we could take heart because He has overcome the world. Overcoming does not always look like winning. Sometimes it looks like enduring with faith intact.

When we begin to see life through this lens, our prayers evolve. Instead of demanding outcomes, we seek transformation. Instead of bargaining for advantage, we ask for wisdom. Instead of fearing disappointment, we trust that even disappointment can be redeemed. That shift does not eliminate desire. It purifies it.

God does not wear a jersey. He does not sit in heaven cheering for one team while ignoring another. He is not confined to our categories of rivalry. He is the Creator who holds the universe together, the Redeemer who enters suffering, the Spirit who comforts and convicts. He sees beyond the moment. He works beyond the visible. He loves beyond the outcome.

And when we truly grasp that, the question changes from how does God break a tie to how can I honor God regardless of the result. That is where authentic faith is forged. That is where peace begins to replace anxiety. That is where the deeper victory emerges.

Because one day the trophies will fade, the applause will quiet, and the headlines will be forgotten. What will remain is who we became in the process. The humility learned in success. The resilience formed in loss. The trust strengthened through uncertainty. The character refined through pressure.

Heaven does not celebrate scoreboards. It celebrates surrender. It celebrates obedience. It celebrates love expressed in the face of opposition. And when two prayers collide, God is not choosing one heart over another. He is inviting both into a deeper story that stretches beyond the boundaries of a single moment, beyond the limits of a single field, beyond the horizon of a single desire, and into the eternal purpose that He is unfolding even now, in ways we cannot yet fully see, but are called to trust as we continue walking forward in faith, believing that whether we stand in victory or endure in defeat, His presence remains steady, His purposes remain good, and His work within us is far more significant than any temporary outcome could ever be, which leads us to confront an even more personal layer of this question, one that moves beyond stadiums and promotions and into the quiet places of the heart where we wrestle not with opposing teams but with opposing fears, and where the real conflict is not between two competitors but between control and surrender, between anxiety and trust, between demanding answers and embracing faith, and it is in that private arena that the question of how God handles conflicting prayers becomes intensely personal and begins to reshape the way we approach Him in every area of our lives.

It is in that private arena of the heart that this question stops being theoretical and starts becoming transformational. The issue is no longer about two teams or two competitors. It becomes about two desires within us. One desire wants control. The other longs for trust. One wants guaranteed outcomes. The other is willing to walk by faith. And when those desires collide, we discover that the real tie God is breaking is not between opponents on a field but between opposing impulses within our own soul.

We often approach prayer with subtle expectations. We may not say them aloud, but they live beneath the surface. If I pray sincerely enough, perhaps God will ensure the result I prefer. If I demonstrate enough faith, perhaps the outcome will align with my plan. Yet faith is not leverage. It is surrender. Prayer is not persuasion; it is communion. It is not about convincing God to join our side. It is about allowing Him to reshape our understanding of what truly matters.

When Jesus taught His disciples to pray, He began not with personal requests but with reverence. Our Father in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Before asking for daily bread, before requesting deliverance, before acknowledging needs, the focus was placed on who God is. That structure is not accidental. It reorders the heart. It reminds us that prayer is grounded in relationship, not transaction.

Conflicting prayers reveal whether we believe God exists to serve our ambitions or whether we exist to serve His purposes. That realization can be uncomfortable. It forces us to confront our assumptions. If my prayer is not answered in the way I desire, does my trust weaken? If someone else experiences what I hoped for, does envy creep in? These responses expose the depth of our alignment with God’s will.

Consider Hannah in the Old Testament. She prayed fervently for a child. Her anguish was real. Her longing was intense. When God answered her prayer and gave her Samuel, she did something unexpected. She dedicated him back to the Lord. The blessing she received was not clutched selfishly. It was surrendered. That posture demonstrates maturity. It shows that answered prayer is not an endpoint. It is an opportunity for deeper devotion.

Now imagine two women praying in similar anguish for children. One conceives. The other waits. Is God favoring one and neglecting the other? Or is He working through different timelines, different callings, different purposes? Scripture is filled with stories of delayed fulfillment that later revealed profound meaning. Abraham and Sarah waited decades. Joseph endured years of hardship before his dreams materialized. Delay did not signal abandonment. It signaled preparation.

When we internalize this truth, we begin to understand that God’s responses to prayer are not competitive. He is not choosing winners and losers in the way we define them. He is weaving stories. He is cultivating faith. He is guiding destinies in ways that often remain hidden until much later.

This perspective invites humility. It encourages us to hold our desires with open hands. It does not eliminate passion. It refines it. We can still pray boldly. We can still ask confidently. But we anchor those requests in trust. We say, Lord, this is what I hope for. Yet more than that, shape me according to Your wisdom.

When two business owners pray for the same contract, God is not obligated to divide His loyalty. He may grant one the deal and redirect the other toward an opportunity that better aligns with long-term purpose. When two students pray for admission into the same program, one acceptance letter does not imply superior worth. It simply marks a different path. Divine orchestration cannot be measured by immediate comparison.

There is also a profound freedom that emerges when we release the idea that every outcome must validate us. If I lose and conclude that I am less favored, insecurity grows. If I win and assume that I am more favored, pride grows. Both distortions damage the soul. But if I see both victory and defeat as platforms for growth, I remain steady. My identity is not anchored to results. It is anchored to relationship.

Paul wrote that he had learned the secret of being content in any situation, whether well fed or hungry, living in plenty or in want. That contentment did not come from indifference. It came from trust. He understood that Christ strengthened him regardless of circumstance. Contentment dismantles the fear that God must constantly prove His love through favorable outcomes.

Conflicting prayers also expose a deeper truth about community. We are interconnected. Our victories and losses often affect others. God’s purposes frequently extend beyond individual benefit. When Joseph rose to power in Egypt, it was not merely for his personal success. It preserved countless lives during famine. What appeared to be delayed justice was actually strategic positioning. The brothers who betrayed him could not see that future. Joseph himself could not see it at first. Yet God was working beyond the visible conflict.

This should encourage us when we face disappointment. We may not perceive the full impact of a closed door. We may not understand how a loss today prevents a greater loss tomorrow. We may not recognize how a setback builds the endurance necessary for future responsibility. Faith trusts that even unseen benefits are real.

Jesus told a parable about a farmer scattering seed. Some fell on rocky ground. Some among thorns. Some on good soil. Growth depended on the condition of the soil. In many ways, life’s outcomes reveal our spiritual soil. When success comes, does gratitude flourish? When hardship comes, does perseverance take root? God is always attentive to the soil of the heart.

The temptation to view God as a tie-breaker stems from our desire for certainty. We want predictable formulas. Pray this way, receive this result. Believe this strongly, secure this victory. But faith is relational, not mechanical. It cannot be reduced to equations. It requires trust in a Person, not reliance on a formula.

This relational trust transforms the way we respond to both triumph and loss. If we win, we give thanks without arrogance. If we lose, we reflect without despair. We recognize that neither outcome defines our ultimate worth. Our identity rests in being loved by God, redeemed by Christ, sustained by the Spirit.

One of the most liberating realizations is that God’s ultimate plan is not threatened by our temporary setbacks. His kingdom advances through faithfulness, not flawless records. The early church grew not through uninterrupted victories but through perseverance amid persecution. Their strength was not in dominating opponents but in enduring hardship with courage.

When we embrace this perspective, our prayers deepen. Instead of asking solely for advantage, we ask for alignment. Instead of focusing exclusively on outcomes, we focus on obedience. Instead of fearing that God might choose someone else over us, we rest in the assurance that His love is constant and undivided.

The cross stands as the ultimate demonstration of this truth. From a human standpoint, it looked like defeat. The disciples’ hopes appeared shattered. Yet through what seemed like loss, salvation was accomplished. Resurrection followed crucifixion. Victory emerged from surrender. If God can transform the darkest moment in history into the foundation of redemption, then He can certainly work through the smaller conflicts we face.

When two prayers collide, heaven is not confused. God is not scrambling. He is sovereign. He is patient. He is wise. He sees beyond the narrow frame of a single event. He sees the trajectory of lives. He sees how character is formed in pressure. He sees how humility grows in success and resilience in disappointment.

So how does God break a tie? He does not break it by favoritism. He breaks it by elevating the conversation. He redirects our focus from rivalry to refinement. He reminds us that the deepest victory is not external triumph but internal transformation. He calls us to trust Him beyond the scoreboard.

And when we finally grasp that truth, peace replaces anxiety. We can compete wholeheartedly without idolizing the outcome. We can pursue excellence without demanding control. We can pray boldly without fearing rejection. We can celebrate others without feeling diminished.

Because God does not wear a jersey. He wears authority. He does not stand on one sideline. He reigns above all fields. His purposes are not threatened by conflicting desires. They are advanced through surrendered hearts.

When heaven refuses to wear a jersey, it invites us into a deeper understanding of faith. It teaches us that the greatest victory is becoming who God created us to be. It reminds us that trust is stronger than triumph, that surrender is more powerful than control, and that eternal purpose outweighs temporary applause.

And in that understanding, the question shifts permanently. We no longer ask which side God is on. We ask whether our hearts are aligned with Him. We no longer measure favor by outcomes. We measure growth by faithfulness. We no longer fear losing because we understand that with God, nothing surrendered is ever wasted.

In every competition, in every conflict, in every crossroads where two prayers rise in opposite directions, God remains steady. His love remains constant. His purposes remain intact. And His invitation remains clear: trust Me beyond the outcome, honor Me in every result, and discover that the truest victory was never about the scoreboard at all, but about the soul that learned to walk with Me through both celebration and sorrow, through both open doors and closed ones, through both applause and silence, until faith itself becomes the triumph that no rival, no circumstance, and no temporary loss can ever take away.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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[15.ii.26.b : dimanche / 8 February] Here’s the opening line from V.W.’s essay “On Being Ill”:

Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us by the act of sickness, how we go down into the pit of death and feel the waters of annihilation close above our heads and wake thinking to find ourselves in the presence of the angels and the harpers when we have a tooth out and come to the surface in the dentist’s armchair and confuse his ‘Rinse the mouth – rinse the mouth’ with the greeting of the Deity stooping from the floor of heaven to welcome us – when we think of this, as we are so frequently forced to think of it, it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature. Novels, one would have thought, would have been devoted to influenza; epic poems to typhoid; odes to pneumonia; lyrics to toothache. But no …

In May of 2020, I became ill or (rather) an illness inhabited me (by forced entry), but as annoying as this unwanted guest was, the illness didn’t interest me as a subject worthy of contemplation, only of enduring and (in the beginning) I assumed that I would need only endure for a short time before this too should pass. I ignored the illness as best I could. It wasn’t “my” illness. I wanted nothing to do with it. Please leave me alone, go away, I said. You’re not welcome. I refused to acknowledge this illness or even talk about it. When recently, I mentioned this illness (now in its sixth year) to a close friend, he said, “I had no idea. You never talk about it.” Why would I talk about it? Why should I want to? It’s bad enough to have to suffer the illness, let alone spend any effort to acknowledge it. Why describe an experience that one does not wish to be having? In refusing to talk about this illness that I wouldn’t even acknowledge as mine, I also refused to write about it. The idea of a literature of illness made me sick.

Since the middle of last November, I’ve been attempting a cure. I’ve restructured my daily life around creating the conditions under which this illness would grow tired of residing in my body. I have been (through a process of elimination) searching for its source of sustenance for the sole purpose of cutting that source off. What I wanted was to make my body so uninviting to the illness that it would become impatient & disgusted and leave, to look for some other soul to afflict (even though I wouldn’t wish this illness on anyone), one that would perhaps show it a better welcome and embrace it as their very own illness to be loved and cherished and submitted to. But after three months of austerity, this illness has displayed a serene indifference to my elective suffering, mortifications adopted to expel it made no impression whatsoever. And so here the illness remains, kicked back in a comfortable chair with its feet up sipping bourbon & smoking a cigar. “Think you can get rid of me that easy, old son?” says the illness. “I think you’ll discover that you and I are alike in many ways. You are obstinate and never give up, no matter what, you hang on even when you know you’ve lost and there’s no hope. Well, that’s me. I’m the bitter pill that refused to come up, the tick that burrows in so deep that to extract it will cost a pound of flesh. So go right ahead. Take your cure. Test me. See how true I am to you. My devotion to you burns with a greater passion than Dido showed for Aeneas.”

[15.ii.26.a : dimanche / 19 January] Vita has just this moment left V.W. … what does she feel? languid, like waking up after a long blissful dream and wanting to hang onto that feeling, but knowing that it will fade and the inflooding reality of the present will wash away the ecstasy that came with giving oneself over to fantasy. One walks through the world holding on to sweet sleep, dulling the senses against the noise of the world, the shouts in the street, the affronts of the indifferent world that doesn’t care about your personal experience of joy and whether it persists or fades to become a simulacrum.

V.W. writes:

“Oh & mixed up with this is the invigoration of again beginning my novel, in the Studio, for the first time this morning. All these fountains play on my being & intermingle. I feel a lack of stimulus, of marked days, now Vita is gone … & she has 4 days journey through the snow.”

Something about that last line stirs within me, an image of a woman dressed all in white, bundled in white fur (polar bear skin?) … I see her sitting in the back of a white car with a black vinyl top, her hands buried in a muff. The car glides along a snow-covered road and she stares into the forest thick with snow-covered trees.

A cluttered desk overflowing with DVDs, game controllers, and a computer setup highlights the challenge of balancing a busy to-do list with the pursuit of better health and productivity.

I haven't blogged lately for several reasons. I have been feeling much better from my Obstructive Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy (I have blogged extensively about it in several past posts). I will just say my Camzyos and Metoprolol 200 mg ER twice daily seems to be working. I am sleeping at night and I hardly feel my heart symptoms anymore. The only lingering negative is a high heart rate most of the time, even when sleeping. But I have more energy, and that is actually why I haven't been blogging as much.

I know what you are thinking: if you are feeling better, why aren't you blogging? Well, it is because I am catching up on backlogged personal projects I have wanted to get done, and spending too much money in the process. Ever since AI came on the scene, I have been getting up to speed and, with its help, doing things I have wanted to do but didn't have the knowledge or know where to look. For instance, I have over 2,000 discs (DVDs, CDs, and Blu-rays) from over 30 years of accumulation that I am finally archiving and getting into my Plex server for my home. I had no one to ask and couldn't find resources, so I just had the discs sitting around, many never opened, as I relied on streaming services. But I have been on a purge of subscription services since early last year. I am also finding approximately 100 DVDs that have either disc rot or are scratched. That last one really hurts, as most of the disc-rotted and scratched discs have never been opened. So there has been a renewed sense of urgency on my part to get these things archivally backed up.

All the while, I have been using Windsurf AI IDE and other tools to make software that I want to use and customize for myself, like a Personal Poster that posts to all my social media platforms and a separate blog poster program to post to all my different sites without having to worry about cutting and pasting.

Then there is continuing to build out my homelab and home server setup, and again, thanks to AI. I ask and it helps and puts it in a way I can understand. It is a resource I have never had before. I have also been trying to stay ahead of the negative side of AI causing prices to spike on computer hardware so that I will not have to have a computer subscription like the one recently introduced by HP (windowscentral.com). I refuse to rent a PC. I have never leased a car and will not lease a PC. At what point do companies take subscriptions too far? Personally, I think we are there.

So with all of this, plus working so I can afford to buy and pay for everything, I have been rather busy. The only things I want to write about and express my feelings on lately are my other health conditions (which I may do) and politics/economics, which are driving me crazy and I am trying to stay away from because I don't think anyone cares about my opinions on these matters.

All that said, I am still here and I have not gone anywhere. I just have a lot on my plate right now. Hopefully I will be back to writing more regularly soon, and I will have plenty to share about what I have been working on.

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#personal #productivity

goin' racin'!

Along with race fans around the world, my attention today will be focused on the Daytona 500 NASCAR Cup Race. Pre Race Coverage is being broadcast by FOX and is now on my TV. College Basketball will have to play without me today, I'm goin' racin'!

And the adventure continues.

3 February 2026

Noting down what Jake (Lamerton) said during his visit about “remoteness.” A useful and interesting word in the context of my work that I had not really pinned before. Came up when speaking about On diversion (which is hopefully going into the show he's curating next month), but I suppose it has always applied as a subconscious aspiration. And I've been feeling it in droves via Lee Friedlander's work, specifically a handful of his many photographs of American landscapes: Livingston, Montana (1970), Knoxville, Tennessee (1971), Victor, Colorado (2001). In these, remoteness is something privately clarifying, all the more rich and attentive for its detachment from the infinite noise and possibility of populated space. Generous in its isolating force.

Here’s my release for the evening. A word appetizer. A salad before the main course. The last time I was in this space, I spoke of love vampire energies. I don’t need to, but in case any person with conscious awareness is reading this, I have decided to mindfully explain myself.

Every word or action we choose is powerful enough to change or affect other souls and energies. I take responsibility.

There was something about a certain situation that irked me. I was irked because I allowed myself to feel “more” than the situation required. Upon further meditation, I refuse to react so irrationally either. I have vomited the previous entry, and I return with more peace in my heart.

I was referring to certain people as vampires, because they move and act as such. As if they are not human, as if they are not mortal and fallible. They act as if the laws of the universe do not apply to them. They travel and move about in this world, as if they can pick and choose when to appear and disappear from people’s lives, and everyone else on the receiving end, simply must “accept” or risk losing them completely. This is not love. I shall not even attach the word to what I had previously called them.

Alas! We are all mortals. Everything is impermanent and as such, no matter how you choose to live your life—there will be consequences.

Every cause has an effect and vice versa. Everything is connected. And hurtful action is hurtful. Intention is one thing, but if you care for someone, no matter what you intended, can you soften enough to repair? To take steps toward into love?