Estava pensando no que escrever; a verdade é que ainda estou com um dia de atraso, então poderia falar sobre hoje ou sobre ontem

Decidi falar sobre tudo.

Meu amor, como é bom te ver, como é bom falar que te amo olhando seus olhos, sorrindo o seu sorriso, desejando a tua boca e o teu corpo.

Como eu sou apaixonado por você, por quem você sempre foi e por quem você se tornou

Como essa pose de mãezona/diretora/líder me cativa, como é gostoso te ver cuidando dessas meninas e como eu não consigo não pensar e não sorrir, imaginando você falando assim com nossos filhos.

Você não sabe o quanto me preocupa você não se cuidar da forma que deveria, da forma que eu queria, e deixando todo o teatro de lado, eu realmente não sei se conseguiria viver em um mundo onde você não existe.

Eu queria poder ser mais pra você, queria poder estar fisicamente contigo, te dar uma vida que te deixaria com medo da morte, porque morrer significaria deixar de viver ela comigo.

Manuela, eu te amo

E vou te amar pra sempre…

E isso não é nem uma declaração mais, é uma constatação.

Hoje o dia foi bom, porque eu ouvi o que em todos esses dias que temos conversado, eu sempre quis ouvir.

Você nunca me pediu pra ficar, pra tentar, pra insistir, mesmo isso sendo tudo que eu queria ouvir, e as poucas pessoas para quem contei versões mais tranquila da nossa historia, me desincentivaram da mesma forma.

Hoje pela primeira vez alguém me falou pra ficar, pra tentar, pra insistir, pra não desistir, e meu coração se encheu de esperança porque pensei, então o que eu to fazendo não é loucura?

Mas eu não consigo me esquecer de sábado também, no banheiro você me disse que pra você terminar, algo muito grande teria que acontecer, você teria que ter toda a certeza que eu tenho e blablabla…

Acho que ali eu finalmente me dei conta que as coisas não dependem de mim; eu não acho mais que você vai mudar de ideia se eu escrever todo dia, se eu te falar que te amo em cada mensagem, se tentar encontrar brechas pra falar com você a todo momento.

Acredito que você já saiba o que sinto, o quanto te quero, o quanto sonho com você o quanto te amo.

E por mais que minha estratégia seja, tentar afogar ela com todo o amor do mundo, e se não der certo, despejar ainda mais amor; eu não acredito mais que seja o excesso do meu amor, o motor que te fara escolher algo.

Quando eu terminei meu ultimo relacionamento eu estava bem frustrado, eu deixei de ser a pessoa que vai embora a muito tempo, mas eu estava cansado de abandonar todos os meus sonhos, de abrir mão de tudo que eu imaginava para o futuro, por alguém que parecia não querer abrir mão de nada.

Quando terminei eu sai com o Lucas e o Jojo, e eu falei pra eles, que a próxima pessoa que eu namorasse, ia ter que gostar mais de mim, do que eu gostava dela, que eu estava cansado de ser a pessoa que tenta tudo; aquele dia que o Lucas foi lá e eu contei tudo pra ele, ele me lembrou dessa fala, e veio como um soco no meu peito.

Eu sei que você me ama, não vou colocar seus sentimentos sobre julgamentos aqui, mas eu quero alguém que me ame mais do que eu a ame (e olha que vai ser uma competição absurda), mas eu não quero ter que ficar provando todo dia que sou eu quem é o amor da vida dela, que sou eu quem vai faze-la feliz… eu quero alguém que me escolha, mesmo sem todas as certezas do mundo, alguém que me queira, mesmo que me querer seja pular de cabeça em um rio que você não sabe a profundidade.

Vi uma frase hoje, e acho que ela se aplica a nós dois, ela dizia:

“O que você não esta mudando, você esta escolhendo”

A partir de amanha a gente não vai mais conversar, e dessa vez é real, porque eu quero você, mas só se você me quiser também.

Eu vou estar aqui se alguma hora você resolver voltar, eu não consigo controlar o amor que sinto por você, e muito menos escolher não senti-lo.

Eu provavelmente vou voltar a escrever, mas não amanha, eu preciso realmente separar na minha cabeça o escrever porque te amo, do escrever porque acredito que te escrevendo você vai me amar e me escolher.

A nossa casa continua aberta, com a luz entrando pela janela, o canto dos passarinhos nas arvores, o cheiro de bolo vindo da cozinha… A casa esta limpa, as paredes pintadas, e é impossível não sentir o gosto de lar ao entrar nela.

Mas agora no portão da frente, tem uma placa pendurada, vende-se.

A gente pode desistir da venda em algum momento, decidir que o nosso sonho ainda é aquela casa, decidir que não vamos nos mudar...

Ou podemos realmente vende-la, tendo a certeza que, quem quer que for morar ali, será muito feliz.

Nossa casa é a coisa mais bonita que já tivemos Manuela, ela sempre vai existir na minha memória, e sempre vai ser meu lar.

Do garoto que já ta cansado de se despedir,

Do garoto que te ama mais do que tudo,

Do garoto que não imagina como serão os próximos dias sem te ver,

Do garoto que esta chorando enquanto escreve porque sabe que pode estar deixando o amor da vida dele ir embora, mas aprendeu que a gente tem que deixar as coisas irem,

Do garoto que sempre, sempre, sempre,

Vai ser o seu garoto,

Nathan

There are moments in Scripture that speak loudly, and then there are moments that whisper so powerfully they shake the foundations beneath your feet. The folded burial cloth of Jesus is one of those moments. It is so subtle, so easily overlooked, so ordinary on the surface that millions read past it without pausing to let its weight settle into their spirit. Yet when you sit with it, when you allow the cultural meaning to be heard in the silence of that empty tomb, you realize Jesus didn’t just rise—He left a message behind. A deliberate one. A message woven into a simple act, something only the most attentive heart would find. And He left it there for those who feel abandoned, overlooked, or forgotten by God. He left it for those who wake up in seasons that feel like tombs. He left it for anyone whose faith flickers more than it burns. That folded cloth was not tradition. It was not tidiness. It was not coincidence. It was a declaration. A promise. A revelation meant for the darkest corners of the human soul. It still speaks today, and its message is as alive as the One who left it.

When you step into that ancient tomb with your imagination, you must remember this wasn’t a place cleaned up for the sake of reverence. This was a hurried burial, done before sundown, wrapped in the urgency of Passover preparations. There was no expectation of order. The women who came early in the morning expected sorrow, not symbolism. They came armed with spices, not hope. They carried grief, not expectation. But what they found was a stone rolled away, an empty slab, and a cloth—folded with intention. That small detail becomes enormous when you understand ancient Jewish culture. A master at the dinner table would crumple his napkin when finished, signaling the meal was over. But if he folded it, he was sending a message to the servant: I’m coming back. Every servant knew this. Every household understood it. Jesus, raised in a Jewish home, steeped in Jewish customs, did not leave that cloth folded by accident. He was telling them, and telling you, your story is not over. Your darkness is not permanent. Your tears do not have the final word. When God folds something, when He marks a moment with intentionality, it is because He is not done speaking.

The folded cloth doesn’t scream; it whispers. And sometimes whispers are more powerful than shouts. Sometimes God’s quietest moments carry His loudest promises. Think of how much of God’s voice is found in silence. Elijah didn’t find God in the wind, or earthquake, or fire—he found Him in the still, small voice. Jesus did not thunder His triumph from the clouds on resurrection morning. He left a folded cloth. A detail so gentle, so humble, so easily dismissed, yet carrying the thunder of eternity in its meaning. This becomes especially significant when you consider how many believers today feel like God’s silence means His absence. They interpret quiet seasons as abandoned seasons. They confuse delay with rejection. But God’s silence is not a void—often it is a message waiting to be understood, a symbol waiting to be interpreted. That folded napkin was God speaking in the quiet, the resurrected Christ leaving a marker of hope for every generation that would crawl through their own shadows wondering if God still sees them.

It is deeply moving to imagine Jesus, moments after rising, taking the time to fold that cloth. Think about the tenderness of that action. Consider the calm, intentional nature of it. He had just conquered hell itself. He had just shattered the chains of death. The greatest victory in the history of existence had just taken place, and He paused to fold a cloth. This shows the heart of God in a way theology alone could never capture. It shows that the God who moves mountains also moves gently. It shows that the God who breaks chains also restores order. It shows that the God who ushers in eternity also bends down to leave a message for a grieving world. In that gesture you see the intersection of cosmic victory and personal compassion. It tells you that your life is not too small for His attention and your pain is not too insignificant for His care. If Jesus will fold a cloth to speak to your heart, then nothing in your life is overlooked. Nothing is meaningless. Nothing is forgotten.

Many Christians have been taught to look at the empty tomb solely as proof of resurrection, and of course it is. But fewer have been taught to see that folded cloth as proof of intention. Jesus does nothing by accident. His miracles were never random. His conversations were never wasted. His parables were never filler. And His resurrection was not chaotic. Every detail spoke. Every movement mattered. The stone wasn’t rolled away so He could get out; it was rolled away so you could see in. The angels didn’t sit by the tomb for decoration; they sat to interpret what human eyes could not yet understand. And that folded cloth was not placed there to be neat; it was placed there because the greatest hope humanity would ever receive needed a symbol simple enough for the humble to understand and profound enough for the searching to treasure. This is how God speaks—through symbols, whispers, quiet nudges, and hidden messages that appear when the heart is ready to see.

If you’ve ever walked through a season where God felt silent, you know how suffocating that silence can feel. You pray, but heaven feels like stone. You hope, but nothing moves. You stand at the mouth of your own tomb—fear, loss, loneliness, betrayal, exhaustion, illness, heartbreak—and you wonder if God remembers you at all. The folded cloth tells you He does. It tells you He is not finished with your story. It tells you what looks dead is not beyond resurrection. The folded cloth tells you that even when you cannot hear God, He is still speaking. Even when you feel abandoned, He is still intentional. Even when everything around you looks like an ending, He is preparing a beginning. This message becomes a lifeline for believers who have mistaken silence for abandonment. You are not abandoned. You are not forgotten. You are not unnoticed. You are simply standing in the quiet moment between Jesus folding the cloth and Jesus stepping back into the room.

There is something extraordinary about the timing of when the folded cloth was discovered. It happened at dawn. The moment the horizon broke open with the first light. The symbolism is unavoidable. Resurrection always begins at the edge of night. God often moves at the moment you thought the darkness had won. When the women walked to the tomb, their world was still marred by the trauma of Friday. The memory of the cross was fresh. The echoes of violence still rang in their ears. Their grief was raw. Their faith was strained. And yet, while they carried sorrow toward the tomb, Jesus had already risen behind the scenes. This truth is vital to your own life: God often completes His greatest works in the silence before the dawn, in the unseen hours when you assume nothing is happening. When it looks like nothing is moving, God is already rewriting the ending.

The folded cloth calls you to trust the God who works in hidden places. It reminds you that just because you haven’t seen the breakthrough doesn’t mean it hasn’t begun. Just because the stone still looks heavy doesn’t mean it hasn’t already been rolled. Just because the night feels long doesn’t mean the sun hasn’t started its ascent. God works in layers. God works in shadows. God works in silence. And in that tomb, He worked in a way that transformed human history without a single spoken word. He conquered death quietly. He left a promise gently. And He stepped into resurrection powerfully. That order still holds true today. Your life might be in the quiet stage. The stage where God is working behind the scenes. The stage where the cloth is still folded but Jesus hasn’t stepped out to meet you yet. But the promise remains unchanged: He’s not finished. He’s coming back—to your situation, your struggle, your heartbreak, your unanswered prayer, your deep ache for direction.

To understand how personal the folded cloth truly is, picture the disciples entering the tomb. Their hearts were shattered. Their hope was bleeding. They had watched everything they believed crumble before their eyes, and now they stand inside the silence of an empty tomb. But then John sees the cloth. Scripture says he saw and believed. John didn’t need the angel. He didn’t need a sermon. He didn’t need a booming voice from heaven. A folded cloth was enough. That tells you a lot about what God can do with small details. Sometimes the smallest sign can reignite the largest faith. Sometimes the quietest gesture can resurrect the loudest hope. Sometimes the slightest whisper from God can bring you back from the edge of despair. This is the power of the folded cloth—its simplicity becomes its strength, and its meaning grows with every passing generation that understands what Jesus was really saying.

The folded cloth also challenges how we interpret waiting. Jesus did not leave that message because the resurrection was incomplete. He left it because His mission was not over. He was saying, I will appear again. I will reveal myself. I will finish what I started. When you are waiting for God to show up, waiting for direction, waiting for healing, waiting for clarity, waiting for deliverance, you must remember that God does not delay without purpose. His timing is precise. His movements are calculated. His plans are exact. The folded cloth is evidence that God is never done when you think He is done. He is not a God who leaves loose ends. He is not a God who abandons halfway. He is not a God who writes half a story. When He begins a work, He completes it. When He starts a miracle, He finishes it. When He breathes life into you, He sustains it. The folded cloth is the symbol of a God who finishes everything He touches.

The truth is many believers know the folded cloth story in fragments. They hear it in Easter messages, told quickly, used as illustration, almost like a footnote in the resurrection narrative. But when you allow it to expand, when you sit with it deeply, when you place yourself inside that tomb and look at that cloth through ancient eyes, it becomes a deeply intimate gift. It becomes something more than a lesson; it becomes a testimony. It becomes a revelation that God intentionally leaves signs for those who are broken enough, humble enough, and hungry enough to notice them. Jesus did not need to leave that cloth to prove resurrection. He left it to prove intention. He left it because He knew the human heart would need it. He knew that generations of believers would suffer seasons of silence. He knew people would struggle with doubt, sorrow, hopelessness, and a sense of abandonment. He left it because He knew we would need a reminder that He comes back to the places we thought were dead.

When we look at the folded cloth as a message from Jesus rather than an incidental detail, it begins to change how we interpret the quieter seasons of our lives. People often crave signs and wonders—loud moves of God, dramatic breakthroughs, unmistakable miracles—but God has always been equally comfortable speaking through subtleties. A burning bush may ignite calling, but a cloud the size of a man’s hand can carry the promise of rain. A parted sea may rescue a nation, but a gentle whisper may steady a prophet on the verge of collapse. God does not always speak loudly because He doesn’t need volume to carry authority. The folded cloth is a reminder that God’s simplest gestures often hold the deepest truth, and sometimes the greatest revelation comes in the moments most people overlook. When Jesus folded it, He was choosing a language quiet enough for the humble to understand and clear enough for the spiritually awake to never forget.

This is profoundly important because so many believers misinterpret their seasons of silence. They believe that if God is not speaking loudly, then He must not be speaking at all. They believe that if miracles are not visible, then miracles must not be happening. They believe that if the tomb still feels cold, then resurrection must not be near. But the folded cloth teaches you to see God in the subtleties. It teaches you to become attentive, observant, spiritually sensitive—to look for the sacred in the small moments and the divine in the mundane details. Jesus could have left the tomb in a blaze of glory, announcing the resurrection with trumpets and thunder, but He chose a folded cloth because He wanted to leave a message that could travel across cultures, across centuries, across human experiences, a message that would reach the weary, the tender, the overlooked, and the discouraged with quiet force. He chose a symbol that would draw people closer rather than push them back with spectacle.

One of the most powerful aspects of the folded cloth is how it reframes the way we understand divine timing. Jesus had told His disciples repeatedly that He would rise on the third day. He had prepared them with prophecy. He had shaped their expectations. He had given them every reason to believe. And yet they still struggled. They still doubted. They still broke down under the weight of Friday’s brutality. That is because human hearts often collapse under pressure even when the mind knows truth. Jesus left the folded cloth for hearts that were grieving, not minds that were analyzing. He left it for souls that had lost their balance. He left it for the disciples who needed something tangible to grasp while their emotions caught up to their theology. This is why the folded cloth still matters today—because believers often know what Scripture says, but life gets heavy. Circumstances get complicated. Pain gets loud. And in those moments, God often speaks through symbols, gestures, and reminders that anchor the soul back to His promises.

The folded cloth also becomes a remarkable window into the character of Jesus Himself. It shows a Savior who is calm even in cosmic victory. It shows a Messiah who is gentle even after conquering death. It shows a King who thinks about His followers before they think about Him. It shows a Lord who communicates not only through power but through tenderness. Folding a cloth is not the action of someone rushing. It is not the action of someone careless. It is the action of someone thoughtful, intentional, and compassionate. In that moment Jesus was not only declaring His triumph—He was caring for the emotions of the disciples who would soon discover the tomb. He was preparing comfort for the women who would come at dawn. He was setting the stage for their faith to be reignited. The same God who orchestrates the resurrection is the God who comforts the grieving. This is the Jesus who sees you, who considers you, who leaves signs for you even when you feel least deserving of them.

If you have ever felt forgotten by God, the folded cloth is His message to you. If you have ever wondered whether God still cares about your situation, whether He has heard your prayers, whether He knows your sorrow, that cloth whispers back with a sacred certainty: I am not finished. I am still working. I am still present. I am still coming back. The folded cloth is Jesus telling you that the story you think is dead may be the one He is preparing to resurrect. It is Jesus telling you that the darkness you are enduring is not permanent. It is Jesus telling you that the silence surrounding you is not abandonment—it is preparation. God often works in stillness because stillness teaches you to look, to wait, to trust. The folded cloth was meant to speak to people who would one day feel like their lives were unraveling, reminding them that God’s plans are never undone by human circumstances. If Jesus can fold a cloth after defeating death, He can certainly hold your life together while He prepares your breakthrough.

This detail also carries a message about spiritual attentiveness that is desperately needed today. We live in a world that trains people to look for the dramatic and ignore the subtle. People crave the emotional highs, the firework moments, the instant results. But the Kingdom of God is built on seeds, not explosions. Jesus spoke through parables, not performances. The Holy Spirit whispers more than He shouts. The folded cloth invites you back into the spiritual posture of attentiveness—of slowing down enough to see what God is leaving right in front of you. If the disciples had rushed past the cloth, if they had dismissed it as unimportant, they would have missed one of the greatest messages Jesus ever left behind. The same is true for you—if you rush through life, if you speed through discomfort, if you sprint to get past your pain, you may miss the quiet messages God has placed right inside your situation. God is often speaking, but you must slow down to see the folded cloth in your own story.

There is also a profound psychological and emotional dimension to the folded cloth. Trauma has a way of blinding people to hope. The disciples had endured the violent death of their Teacher. Their world had been shattered. Their expectations had collapsed. They were spiritually disoriented. When trauma takes hold, the mind becomes foggy, the heart becomes numb, and the ability to see God becomes severely impaired. Jesus left the folded cloth for people in that state—not for those whose faith was strong, but for those whose souls were trembling. He left it because He knew the human heart would need a sign small enough to enter through the cracks of despair, yet profound enough to restore belief. This is why the folded cloth continues to minister to people whose lives feel shattered—it meets them quietly, without pressure, without force, without intensity. It meets them the way Jesus met Mary at the tomb, with gentleness and familiarity, calling her by name. The folded cloth is Jesus calling your name through a small, symbolic act.

When you truly absorb the meaning of the folded cloth, it reshapes the way you view your future. If Jesus left a message saying He would return, then no ending in your life is truly final unless God declares it so. If Jesus folds a cloth instead of discarding it, then nothing in your life is disposable to Him. Everything can be redeemed. Everything can be restored. Everything can be resurrected. That folded cloth tells you that the God who begins a good work in you will finish it, whether the world believes it or not. It tells you that the promises spoken over your life are not abandoned simply because your circumstances look bleak. It tells you that your story is still in motion even when the world thinks it’s over. The folded cloth becomes a lens through which you can see resurrection not only as an event but as a pattern—God revives what looks dead, restores what looks ruined, and returns to what looks abandoned.

What makes this symbol even more compelling is how it intersects with your personal spiritual journey. Every believer has experienced seasons that feel like tombs—seasons of grief, confusion, illness, betrayal, loss, exhaustion, or transition. These tombs can feel suffocating. They can feel permanent. They can feel like abandonment. But the folded cloth tells you that Jesus is still moving inside your tomb even when you cannot feel Him. It tells you that the stone you cannot move is already being handled by divine hands. It tells you that the silence you fear is actually the space God is using to bring resurrection to fruition. The folded cloth invites you to trust that God has not forgotten about you, that He is not finished with your story, and that He is already preparing the moment when He will step into your situation with resurrected power.

It is also worth noting that Jesus didn’t fold everything. He only folded the face cloth. The rest of the grave clothes were left behind in a different condition. There is symbolic meaning here as well. The face cloth was personal. It touched His skin. It covered His features. It was intimate. Jesus folded the one piece that would have been closest to Him. That reveals something profound: God leaves the clearest messages in the most intimate areas of your life. The areas that touch your identity. The areas that shape your sense of self. The areas the enemy tries hardest to distort. Jesus folded the cloth that covered His face to send a message directly to yours: I am alive, and I’m not done with you. When God speaks to your life, He often speaks to the very places where your identity has been bruised, your confidence has been shaken, and your faith has been stretched. His messages are personal because His love is personal.

The folded cloth also provides a stunning parallel to the larger narrative of Scripture. The story of God has always been one of return. Eden lost—return promised. Israel exiled—return promised. Jesus ascends—return promised. God has never been a God of abandonment. He has always been a God of return. The folded cloth fits into the same pattern. It is Jesus telling the world that He doesn’t walk away from what He starts. It is a foretaste of the second coming. It is a symbol of the everlasting promise that the resurrected Christ is not finished with humanity. Every believer longing for hope in a broken world can look at that folded cloth and hear the message of eternity: He is coming back. Not only to the world at large but to the specific areas of your life where hope feels thin.

The longer you meditate on this symbol, the more layers reveal themselves. The folded cloth becomes a message of hope, yes, but it also becomes a challenge. It challenges believers to remain watchful, expectant, spiritually awake. The same way a servant would be ready for the master’s return upon seeing the folded napkin, believers today are called to live in readiness—not fear-based readiness, but faith-based readiness. The folded cloth is a reminder to keep your heart open, your spirit alert, your faith engaged. It is a reminder that God is active even when you cannot see Him. It is a reminder that Jesus is present even when He feels hidden. It is a reminder that the story is still unfolding, and you are still part of it.

And perhaps the most beautiful part of all is this: the folded cloth shows you that God speaks in layers so deep that even your future self will continue discovering meaning. You will return to this truth again and again across your lifetime. When you face a fresh heartbreak, the folded cloth will speak differently. When you walk through a new season of silence, it will comfort you in a new way. When you experience breakthrough, it will remind you of the faithfulness that carried you through. The folded cloth is not a one-time revelation—it is a lifelong companion. It is a symbol that grows with you, shifts with you, strengthens you, and whispers hope into every new chapter you walk through.

So when you find yourself in seasons that feel dark or silent or unfinished, remember this: the God who folded the burial cloth is the God who is still folding details inside your story. He is arranging things you cannot see. He is preparing moments you cannot predict. He is setting the stage for breakthroughs you cannot imagine. You may feel like your life is a tomb, but Jesus has already been working inside that darkness. You may feel forgotten, but Jesus has already left you a message. You may feel like nothing is moving, but resurrection always begins before it can be seen. The folded cloth stands as a permanent reminder that Jesus is not finished with you. Not today. Not ever.

And when your faith feels thin, when your hope trembles, when your heart feels fragile, let the folded cloth whisper the message Jesus has been sending since resurrection morning: I’m not finished with you. I’m coming back. To your heart. To your story. To your future. To every place that needs healing, hope, and resurrection.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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There is a moment in every believer’s journey when the words of Hebrews 3 stop sounding like distant theological commentary and begin feeling like a mirror that pulls you in and holds you there, revealing not just what you claim to believe but the condition of the heart that does the believing. When you walk slowly through this chapter, letting each line breathe inside you instead of glancing across it the way people skim past familiar verses, something in the text begins to stir the deeper places that polite faith rarely touches. You start feeling the weight of the writer’s urgency, the quiet but unshakable insistence that the real battle of the spiritual life is not fought in the grand performances of our outward obedience but in the silent negotiations of the heart, where faith is either strengthened or sabotaged in ways invisible to everyone except God. Hebrews 3 does not simply describe unbelief as a lapse in thinking or a momentary spiritual dip; it describes it as a condition that grows roots, one that builds slowly when left unattended and can harden into a spiritual callus that begins to shape everything about the way a person hears God, responds to God, and walks with God. That is why this chapter carries the tone of a warning spoken by someone who dearly loves the listener, someone who sees danger coming long before the listener does. It is not the tone of accusation, but the tone of someone saying, “Please do not take this lightly. The cost of drifting is far greater than you think.” And when you read it with a surrendered spirit instead of a casual one, you begin to understand that Hebrews 3 is not a message you study; it is a message that studies you.

What strikes me every time I read this chapter is the way it moves between past and present, as if it is standing in two worlds at once, calling us to see ourselves in Israel’s story while also exposing how that same story continues playing out in the modern believer’s inner life. The writer takes us back into the wilderness generation, not to shame them or to hold them up as failures, but to hold up a sobering truth about how the heart can drift even while God is visibly active in a person’s life. That is a difficult truth for many Christians to accept, because we tend to believe that if God makes Himself clear enough, if the miracles are impressive enough, if the signs are undeniable enough, then faith should come naturally and obedience should follow effortlessly. Yet Hebrews reminds us that the generation who saw the Red Sea part, who witnessed manna fall from heaven, who were guided by fire and cloud, still managed to grumble, still managed to wander, and still managed to harden their hearts against the One who rescued them. This reveals a principle that is uncomfortable but essential for spiritual maturity: evidence can surround a person, miracles can accompany a person, provision can sustain a person, and yet unbelief can still grow quietly inside that person. The issue is not the lack of divine activity. The issue is the condition of the heart that interprets the activity. Hebrews 3 is confronting enough to force us to ask honest questions about the ways we treat God’s goodness as familiar, His miracles as routine, and His voice as optional.

The moment the chapter opens with the call to consider Jesus, you can feel the writer pulling the reader away from the noise of their world, away from the competing voices, away from the burdens they carry, and right into the presence of the One who embodies the faithfulness of God. The word consider in this passage is not meant as a casual glance but as a deep, lingering reflection, almost like the way a sculptor studies the marble before carving the first line or the way a poet sits with a single sentence for hours until the meaning blooms. Hebrews tells us to consider Him, to truly fix our focus on Jesus so that His faithfulness reshapes our understanding of what it means to be part of God’s household. When the writer compares Jesus with Moses, it is not to diminish Moses but to elevate Christ to His rightful position as the builder of the house rather than just a servant inside it. This is a reminder that your faith is not built on inspiration borrowed from the past but on the living foundation of the One who holds all things together. It also reminds us that faithfulness is not measured by intensity of emotion, length of commitment, or the magnitude of personal sacrifice; it is measured by whether we keep our confidence in Christ firm until the end. This passage quietly dismantles the idea that faith is a single moment of conviction. Instead, it paints faith as a continual posture, a daily orientation of the heart that chooses to trust God even when the circumstances do not cooperate, even when the feelings fluctuate, and even when the path ahead refuses to reveal itself in advance.

As the passage shifts into its warning, you can feel the emotional temperature rise, not in anger but in tenderness. “Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts.” The key word in that sentence, the one that many believers overlook, is not harden but today. The writer is telling us that faith is always experienced in the present tense. Yesterday’s devotion does not substitute for today’s obedience, and tomorrow’s intentions do not heal today’s rebellion. The spiritual life does not unfold in memory or imagination; it unfolds in the now. This is why God speaks in the present, not to haunt us with the past and not to burden us with the future, but to draw us into the sacred opportunity of the moment. Hardened hearts are rarely the result of single decisions. They are usually the cumulative effect of many todays in which God’s voice was heard but not honored, recognized but not followed, acknowledged but not surrendered to. A hardened heart does not begin hard; it becomes hard through patterns of avoidance, procrastination, rationalization, and quiet refusal. That is why the writer of Hebrews is pleading with his readers to pay attention to the way their hearts respond to God in the present tense. He knows that spiritual decay does not feel dramatic when it begins. It feels subtle, like nothing more than a shrug. And that shrug, repeated over months or years, becomes a stance.

What we often underestimate is the spiritual psychology behind drifting. Drifting is almost never loud. It is never dramatic at the beginning. It does not announce itself. It does not crash into your life like a storm. Instead, it creeps in quietly through weariness, discouragement, delayed prayers, unmet expectations, prolonged stress, subtle disappointments, and the gradual shift of your focus from God’s promises to your surroundings. Drifting begins when the urgency of faith is replaced by the comfort of familiarity. It begins when the journey with God becomes routine enough that miracles start feeling like memories instead of present realities. And Hebrews 3 exposes this with the gentlest but most unrelenting clarity. It asks us to face the truth that a believer can drift while still attending church, drift while still praying, drift while still serving, and drift while still calling themselves faithful simply because the outward structure of faith remained intact even as the inner fire quietly dimmed. Hebrews is calling out the internal drift long before it becomes external collapse, because God sees the heart long before the cracks form on the surface.

The more you sit with this chapter, the more you sense that the warning is not fear-based at all. It is love-based. God warns because God wants to protect. God exposes because God wants to heal. God confronts because God wants to restore. The wilderness generation is not held up in Scripture as a cautionary tale to embarrass them, but as a loving warning for us so that we do not repeat their story. When the text says that their hearts always go astray and they did not know God’s ways, it is not describing intellectual ignorance but relational resistance. They saw His works, but they failed to let His works reshape them. They received His provision, but they refused to let His provision soften them. They walked with Him physically but did not walk with Him spiritually. And Hebrews 3 is gently telling us that it is entirely possible to be in proximity to the things of God without being in intimacy with the heart of God. That distinction matters more than we realize. Proximity produces familiarity. Intimacy produces transformation. Israel had the first. God wanted the second. And Hebrews is asking whether we truly want it too.

One of the deepest threads running through this chapter is the concept of rest—not rest as in sleep, not rest as in vacation, but rest as in the spiritual state where a believer stops striving against God and finally trusts Him enough to surrender. The wilderness generation never entered God’s rest because they never surrendered their distrust, their entitlement, their fear, their complaint-driven worldview, or their desire to control the journey. Rest is not the absence of responsibility; it is the absence of resistance. It is the moment when your soul finally stops wrestling with God over how your life should unfold. And Hebrews 3 begins laying the foundation for the next chapter, revealing that rest is not a geographical destination or a historical event but a spiritual posture available to believers right now. Yet this posture is only possible for the heart that remains open. Rest cannot exist inside a hardened heart. Hardened hearts strive. Hardened hearts worry. Hardened hearts resent. Hardened hearts replay old wounds. Hardened hearts measure God’s character by their circumstances. Rest requires softness, trust, tenderness, and willingness. The chapter is not just warning us about drifting; it is inviting us to a better way of living—one that is lighter, freer, quieter, and more anchored than most Christians ever experience.

The emotional beauty of this chapter reveals itself more deeply when you notice how God describes the heart He desires. He does not ask for flawless hearts or scholarly hearts or heroic hearts. He asks for soft hearts. Softness is vulnerability, but not weakness. It is humility, but not timidity. It is surrender, but not passivity. A soft heart is one that remains teachable even after disappointment, remains grateful even after loss, remains faithful even after silence, and remains open even after being wounded. Softness is strength shaped by trust. And Hebrews 3 calls us to guard that softness because the pressures of life will naturally push us toward hardness unless we actively resist the drift. The chapter does not merely urge vigilance; it urges encouragement. It calls believers to exhort one another daily so that no one becomes hardened by sin’s deceitfulness. In other words, the state of your heart is not just your personal responsibility; it is a shared responsibility within the body of Christ. Faith flourishes in community. Believers help keep each other’s hearts soft by speaking truth, showing compassion, carrying burdens, offering grace, and reminding one another of God’s goodness. When the writer says daily, he is emphasizing frequency because he understands how quickly drift can begin. Encouragement is not a nicety in the Christian life; it is a spiritual safeguard.

One of the more haunting lines in this chapter is the question: “Who were they who heard and rebelled?” The writer answers by pointing out that it was the very people Moses led out of Egypt. These were not faithless strangers unfamiliar with God. These were the recipients of miracles. They walked through waters that split in front of them. They saw God defeat an empire on their behalf. They lived under supernatural protection and provision. And yet they did not trust Him. The warning here is clear: great experiences with God in the past are not a guarantee of faithfulness in the present. Memory can inspire faith, but memory cannot replace faith. The Christian life requires fresh trust, renewed surrender, and consistent openness. A believer who relies solely on past experiences will eventually drift because yesterday’s faith cannot sustain tomorrow’s challenges. Hebrews is calling us to an ongoing relationship, not a historical one.

As you continue reading at a slower pace, you begin to see that the wilderness generation’s primary issue was not lack of evidence but lack of willingness. They wanted deliverance without dependence, miracles without maturity, freedom without formation, and blessings without obedience. They wanted God’s power, but not God’s leadership. They wanted God’s help, but not God’s authority. And Hebrews reveals that this same tension continues in the hearts of believers today. Many people admire Jesus, but fewer want to be led by Him. Many love the idea of faith, but fewer love the surrender that faith requires. Many desire God’s rest, but fewer desire the process that leads to rest. Hardened hearts resist surrender because surrender threatens the illusion of control. And Hebrews gently reminds us that as long as we cling to control, we cannot enter the rest God offers. Rest begins where resistance ends.

What makes Hebrews 3 so spiritually potent is not just its warning but its invitation. It does not merely say, “Do not harden your heart.” It invites you into a life where your heart is continually softened by who Jesus is and what He has done. The chapter urges us to consider Him, to hold firmly to the confidence we had at the beginning, to encourage one another daily, and to remain attentive to the voice of God. These are not burdens; they are lifelines. They are pathways into spiritual stability, emotional resilience, relational depth, and divine intimacy. This chapter is not interested in producing fearful Christians but faithful ones. Not cautious Christians but courageous ones. Not hardened Christians but tender ones. Hebrews 3 is a spiritual recalibration, a way of bringing wandering hearts back into alignment with the One who calls us beloved.

When you sit with this chapter long enough, a quiet realization begins to rise inside you, a realization that the greatest danger to faith is not persecution or suffering or external opposition. The greatest danger is internal erosion. It is the subtle slipping of confidence, the gradual cooling of conviction, the slow forgetting of God’s goodness, the steady dimming of hope, and the unnoticed reshaping of the heart by pressures instead of promises. Hebrews 3 is exposing the inner landscape long before the outer life begins to reflect its decay. Most people assume their spiritual collapse would be sudden and obvious, something they could see coming, something they could prepare for, something they could catch early enough to correct. But collapse seldom works that way. More often, collapse is the inevitable result of many small compromises, many delayed obediences, many silenced promptings, and many days in which a person hears the voice of God and either postpones their response or rationalizes their resistance. This is why the writer says today. Not tomorrow. Not later. Not eventually. Today is where faith is built or abandoned. Today is where the heart softens or hardens. Today is where obedience begins or drifts. Today is where confidence is strengthened or sacrificed. The urgency is not fear-based but love-based, because every today shapes all the tomorrows that follow.

At the same time, Hebrews 3 is not calling us into a panicked vigilance but a peaceful awareness. The posture this chapter calls us into is not frantic striving but attentive trust. It is the awareness that your heart is always becoming something. It is either becoming more tender or more calloused, more trusting or more resistant, more surrendered or more self-reliant. And the shift from one direction to the other is rarely accompanied by dramatic emotion. It happens quietly, sometimes invisibly, through the decisions and attitudes you carry into the ordinary hours of your life. Hebrews teaches that the heart is shaped by habits, by what you meditate on, by the voices you allow to influence you, by the disappointments you refuse to process honestly, by the gratitude you either nurture or neglect, and by the degree to which you trust God with what you cannot control. This is why the command to encourage one another daily is not an optional footnote. It is the spiritual ecology of the kingdom. Hearts remain soft when surrounded by other soft hearts. People stay faithful when they are reminded that faithfulness still matters. Believers stay tender when they are loved by other believers who refuse to let them drift unnoticed.

One of the profound layers beneath this chapter is the idea that unbelief is not merely refusal but rebellion. It is not passive. It is active. It is the heart saying, “I prefer my interpretation of reality over God’s.” This is the essence of the wilderness generation’s downfall. They saw God’s works, but they did not let those works redefine their worldview. They lived through miracles, but those miracles did not rewire their trust. After the Red Sea parted, they still feared their enemies. After manna fell, they still doubted God’s provision. After water flowed from a rock, they still questioned whether God cared. From the outside, their skepticism seems unimaginable, almost absurd. But Hebrews uses their story to show us that unbelief is not a logic issue. It is a trust issue. And trust is not built by information but by surrender. This is why many modern believers still struggle with the same spiritual patterns. They ask God for a sign, He gives the sign, and then they require another sign to believe the first one. They ask God for confirmation, He gives confirmation, and then they need reassurance to accept the confirmation. The issue is not the lack of divine communication but the heart’s unwillingness to yield. Faith grows where surrender lives. Unbelief grows where control reigns.

The more deeply you let this chapter speak, the more you begin to see yourself in the wilderness story. Not in the dramatic rebellion but in the subtle doubts, the quiet resentments, the unspoken frustrations, the delayed obediences, and the small corners of the heart where distrust hides beneath religious language. Hebrews 3 is not trying to shame you with these reflections; it is trying to rescue you. It is trying to rescue you from living a life where your heart is slowly shaped by fear instead of faith, by disappointment instead of devotion, by memories instead of miracles, and by emotions instead of truth. It is trying to save you from becoming the kind of believer who lives close to the things of God but never truly rests in the heart of God. It is trying to pull you out of the exhausting spiral of striving and into the freedom of surrender. The wilderness generation shows us that it is entirely possible to be delivered and still not be free. Freedom does not happen when chains fall off the wrists but when the distrust falls off the heart. Hebrews invites you into that freedom.

Another profound dimension of this chapter is the way it reveals the nature of spiritual rest. Rest is not the absence of effort or adversity. It is the presence of trust. It is the ability to walk through difficulty without assuming abandonment, to endure uncertainty without assuming danger, to face delays without assuming denial, and to move into the unknown without needing to know. Rest is the posture of a heart that believes God wholeheartedly even when life does not cooperate. It is the heart that understands that God is not just leading you to something; He is forming you into someone. And the formation matters as much as the destination. The wilderness generation wanted the destination without the formation. They wanted the promise without the process. They wanted the land without the lessons. But God refuses to offer a rest that sits only on the surface. He offers a rest that settles into the soul. Hebrews teaches that this kind of rest requires a heart that is willing, open, and yielded. Rest cannot be forced. It must be received. And it can only be received by the heart that stops resisting.

The contrast between Moses and Jesus in this chapter is also deeply significant because it reshapes the reader’s entire understanding of spiritual authority. Moses was faithful as a servant. Jesus is faithful as a Son. Moses delivered the people from Egypt. Jesus delivers the people from themselves. Moses brought Israel into a covenant. Jesus becomes the fulfillment of the covenant. Moses led a physical nation. Jesus builds a spiritual house. This comparison does not diminish Moses but reveals the incomparable glory of Christ. It reminds the reader that faith is not built upon symbolic leaders but upon the living presence of the One who sustains all things by His word. Fixing your eyes on Jesus is not simply admiration; it is alignment. It is the steady centering of your identity, your decisions, your desires, your relationships, and your obedience around the One who is faithful, unchanging, trustworthy, and victorious. When the writer says Christ is faithful as a Son over God’s house, he is reminding you that you are held, guided, known, and led by One whose authority is rooted not in service but in sonship. That means every command He gives is backed by love, every warning He offers is wrapped in wisdom, and every promise He speaks is guaranteed by the perfection of His character.

What becomes increasingly clear is that Hebrews 3 is about identity as much as obedience. It is about reminding believers who they are within the household of God. The writer says we are His house if we hold fast to our confidence and the hope to which we boast. This means you do not simply belong to God in a legal sense. You belong to Him in a relational sense. You are part of His household, His family, His dwelling place. You are not an outsider trying to earn access. You are an insider learning how to walk in the reality that is already yours. And the condition attached to that identity is not performance but perseverance. It is not flawless living but faithful living. It is not perfect holiness but ongoing trust. We belong to God not because we never fall short but because we never let go of the One who holds us. Hebrews teaches that holding firmly to your confidence is not stubbornness; it is spiritual clarity.

As the chapter closes, the writer asks again why the wilderness generation failed to enter God’s rest, and the answer is painfully simple: unbelief. Not unbelief as in atheism. Not unbelief as in denial. Not unbelief as in ignorance. But unbelief expressed through continual distrust. A distrust that refused to surrender even after witnessing divine faithfulness repeatedly. Their unbelief was not a moment of doubt but a lifestyle of resistance. And the warning is clear: do not let that pattern repeat in you. But the invitation is equally clear: you can choose differently. You can cultivate a heart that trusts God today. You can soften your heart when it begins to harden. You can respond to God’s voice without delay. You can live with an open spirit even in difficult seasons. You can encourage others daily so their hearts stay tender too. You can let Jesus remain the center of your confidence. You can choose a faith that grows stronger instead of weaker. You can walk in rest instead of anxiety, in surrender instead of striving, in closeness instead of distance, and in transformation instead of stagnation. Hebrews 3 is not a chapter meant to haunt you with warnings but to heal you with awareness. It is an invitation into a deeper life.

And beneath all this theology lies an emotional truth that often goes unnoticed: God desires to be trusted. Not admired from a distance. Not believed in as a concept. Not referenced as a tradition. But trusted. Trusted with your story. Trusted with your fears. Trusted with your wounds. Trusted with your disappointments. Trusted with your timeline. Trusted with your future. Trusted with your heart. When God calls out unbelief in Scripture, He is not scolding like a frustrated parent. He is longing like a loving Father who desires intimacy with His children. Unbelief wounds relationship more than anything else. It builds walls where God is trying to build connection. It creates distance where God is trying to create closeness. Hebrews 3 is showing us that the heart that trusts experiences God differently—not because God changes, but because the experience of Him becomes clearer, richer, deeper, and more transformative when the heart is fully open.

The final message of this chapter, the one that lingers long after the words fade, is a simple but profound calling: guard your heart’s softness. Guard it fiercely. Guard it intentionally. Guard it from cynicism. Guard it from bitterness. Guard it from disappointment. Guard it from fear. Guard it from the slow buildup of unbelief that hides beneath busyness, exhaustion, or spiritual numbness. Softness is the soil where faith grows. Hardness is the soil where faith dies. Hebrews does not say this to frighten you but to empower you. You have the ability, through the Spirit of God, to choose softness. You can choose to forgive. You can choose to trust. You can choose to let go. You can choose to surrender. You can choose to obey. You can choose to listen. You can choose to encourage. You can choose to believe. You can choose the path of the heart that enters God’s rest.

And perhaps the most beautiful truth in all of Hebrews 3 is this: God never stops speaking. Even when we drift, He calls. Even when we resist, He invites. Even when we fear, He reassures. Even when we question, He comforts. Even when we wander, He pursues. Even when we harden, He continues whispering to the heart that has not fully closed. He is not looking for perfection. He is looking for permission. Permission to soften what has hardened. Permission to restore what has drifted. Permission to heal what has been wounded. Permission to guide what has grown confused. Permission to draw near where distance once existed. The God who warned the wilderness generation is the same God who draws near to you today, not with condemnation but with compassion. He says, “Today, if you hear My voice…” because He is still speaking, still loving, still calling, still leading, and still offering the rest your soul longs for.

In the end, Hebrews 3 is not merely a chapter of Scripture. It is a spiritual crossroads. It is the place where every believer must decide whether they will walk with a heart that remains open, tender, willing, responsive, and trusting. It is a reminder that faith is not an event but a posture. It is a reminder that spiritual rest is not passive but intentional. It is a reminder that your heart is sacred ground that must be watched over with care. And it is a reminder that God longs to lead you into a life that is lighter, freer, more surrendered, and more rooted than anything you have ever experienced. The choice is not complex, but it is costly. It costs your resistance. It costs your insistence. It costs your desire to control every outcome. But what you receive in return is immeasurable: the peace that passes understanding, the rest that anchors the soul, the clarity that reshapes identity, and the intimacy with God that transforms everything.

So let this chapter do its work in you. Let it examine the quiet corners of your heart. Let it reveal the places where distrust has grown unnoticed. Let it soften what has become calloused. Let it awaken what has gone numb. Let it strengthen what has grown weary. Let it remind you of who you are, who He is, and what kind of life He is calling you to live. And above all, let it call you back into the present moment—the today where God still speaks, where surrender is still possible, where rest is still available, and where faith still transforms the willing heart. Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your heart. Choose trust. Choose softness. Choose Him.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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Het vrolijke Paflof lied

Altijd als de bel gaat sta ik ogenblikkelijk op en als de stroom uitvalt herstel ik meteen de stop ik weet ieder moment wat mij te doen staat als een vooraf bepaald bericht rond gaat

ik heb iedere dag een hele hoop te doen dankzij regelmatige injectie van de poen komt het middel binnen dan word ik geactiveerd dat is de belangrijkste les die ik jong heb geleerd

Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé hozee en hoplakee

overal heb ik hendels waaraan zal worden getrokken werken niet veel anders dan geslagen worden met stokken ik wil overal zijn zoals alle anderen ook willen zijn zodra ik de tekens ontvang volg ik de uitgetekende richtlijn

Ik wil langs de mijlpalen die ik heb geleerd te herkennen als het startschot gaat meedoen om de race te winnen mijn vrije wil is een exacte replica van die van alle anderen dat moet zo blijven en zal dus nooit in een andere veranderen

Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé hozee en hoplakee

Alle regels die ik moet kennen ken ik uit mijn hoofd ik ben met succes in geen tijd van mijn authenticiteit beroofd altijd ben ik goed, vakkundig, braaf en volgzaam geweest hoera, dankzij des karakters eigenschappen is het leven een feest

Als ik een afstandsbediening zie dan zet ik deze in het drukken op aangeboden knopjes geeft het leven zin mijn bestaan bestaat compleet uit lukraak opgediste verhalen zeg het me een paar keer voor en ik weet hoe ik moet herhalen

Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé hozee en hoplakee

a zo volgzaam b zo gedwee een leven van ja plus eentje van nee het merendeel valt tegen een of twee vallen mee omdat ze minder tegenvallen niet omdat ze goed bevallen fijn om dat van te voren te weten een taak gedaan, steeds herhalen, en nooit vergeten

Ik ga van een open deur naar tientallen dichte deuren op des herren wegen reageer ik juist op de drie kleuren ik ga door bij groen, twijfel voor oranje, stop bij rood en als men zegt dat mijn tijd is gekomen ga ik voor ze dood

Ik ben verslaafd aan het opvoeren van een zichtbare reactie meestal na een voor de zinnen amper waarneembare actie heerlijk om te ageren op god mag weten wat het is super blij dat de bron van die actie uit mijn lijf is gewist

Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé hozee en hoplakee

een half woord gegeven en dan zingt iedereen mee

Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé hozee en hoplakee

zeg nee dan krijg je er, Ik ben een robot een slaaf van god en vaderland dankzij mijn verstand olé ho zee en o wee en dan hoplakee

23 February 2026

Still outside (working title): found a stack of old Polaroids over the weekend that I hadn't looked at in probably a year, and instantly there was a freshness to their format from a painting perspective—the image as a container being contained. Thought of Marisol's 1961 Family Portrait lithograph, of approaching and reacting to the edges of the source. Mine was of a scene of surfaces supporting half-emptied glasses and bottles at Yena's old flat in Vauxhall. Suspended pheromones.

There are moments in life when a truth you thought you understood suddenly reveals itself at a deeper level, almost as if God had been waiting for your heart to slow down long enough to finally hear it. This is one of those truths. Many believers spend years trying to earn what was freely given, trying to behave their way into the love of a Savior who never once asked for performance as the price of admission. The idea that Jesus does not love you because you behave well seems simple on the surface, but when it sinks in, it rearranges everything inside you. The very ground of your faith shifts, the walls you built around your failures begin to soften, the fears you carried about disappointing God begin to loosen their grip, and you discover that the foundation of your worth has never depended on your ability to get life right. It has always depended on the identity of the One who chose you before you ever took your first breath. When love is who He is, not what you earn, the entire journey becomes less about striving and more about becoming someone who can actually receive the love that has been chasing you all along.

When you begin looking back over the arc of your life, you can see the countless ways you tried to earn a place close to God’s heart. You tried to pray harder, serve more, repent better, behave cleaner, and appear stronger, thinking that if you could just get your spiritual act together, then God would finally take you seriously. And yet that entire mindset begins to crumble the moment you understand that Jesus does not respond to you based on your performance; He responds based on His nature. His love does not increase with your obedience or decrease with your mistakes. His love is not calibrated to your behavior at all. It is calibrated to His identity, which means it is steady, unshakeable, unwavering, and eternal. This is the kind of love that cannot be manipulated by guilt or fear. It cannot be destroyed by sin or hardened by disappointment. It cannot be disrupted by seasons of wandering or diminished by seasons of weakness. When love becomes identity, not reward, it becomes something far more powerful than most believers ever allow themselves to accept.

The deeper I walk with God, the more I realize that many believers live with an unspoken dread that God is constantly evaluating them. They fear they have used up too much grace. They fear they have taken too long to change. They fear their failures have tilted the scales against them. They fear that the patience of God is running thin. But this fear is built on a misunderstanding of who Jesus actually is. Jesus does not extend love as a reluctant gesture. He is love in its purest form, which means He does not merely choose to love you; He cannot not love you. Love is not His mood. Love is His being. If Jesus ever stopped loving you, He would stop being Himself, and that is something He will never do. When you fully grasp that, shame begins to lose its authority, fear begins to lose its volume, and you begin walking in a freedom that only comes from knowing that the ground beneath you does not crack when you stumble.

There is a reason so many believers walk through life with a quiet exhaustion in their spirit. They have turned their relationship with God into a long project of self-improvement rather than a long surrender to divine love. They are trying to graduate from brokenness rather than letting grace meet them right in the midst of it. They are trying to be good enough for a God who never asked them to be good enough; He asked them to be honest. They are trying to behave their way into acceptance rather than allowing acceptance to transform their behavior. When you are loved at the core of your imperfection, something sacred happens inside you. You stop running from God and start running toward Him because you finally realize that the places you hide from Him are the very places He is trying to heal. You stop pretending you have everything under control and begin leaning into a relationship that was never built on control in the first place. You stop trying to fix your heart and begin trusting the One who shaped it.

One of the most beautiful patterns in Scripture is how consistently Jesus moves toward the people everyone else avoids. He touched the leper before the leper was clean. He defended the woman caught in adultery before she changed her life. He shared meals with people society labeled as hopeless. He called His disciples while they were still entrenched in their flaws, their tempers, their doubts, and their limited understanding. These are not random moments; they are revelations of the heart of God. Jesus did not wait for people to behave well before loving them. His love was the catalyst for their transformation, not the reward. He stepped into their shame without hesitation because their shame never threatened His holiness. He walked into their darkness without fear because their darkness never intimidated His light. And He still does the same with you and me today. When love is an identity, not a transaction, it moves into places that punishment could never reach and healing becomes possible in places where you once felt permanently defeated.

There are times in life when you look at your own reflection and struggle to see anything God could possibly love. You see your worst decisions. You see your failures. You see the moments when you walked away instead of leaning in. You see the seasons when your faith grew thin and your hope grew tired. You see the days when you treated others out of wounds instead of wisdom. And your instinct is to assume that God sees you through the same lens. But He does not. Jesus does not love the cleaned-up version of you that you imagine someday becoming. He loves the real you, right now, as you are, in this moment. He sees the story behind your reactions, the upbringing behind your fears, the wounds behind your anger, the disappointments behind your doubt. He understands the deeper currents beneath your choices in a way you never could, and He loves you with the fullness of that understanding, not in spite of it. When love operates from identity, it sees beneath the surface, embraces the whole story, and chooses you with both eyes open.

Every believer eventually reaches a point where they must confront the lie that God’s love is fragile. And it is a lie that has deep roots. Some of us grew up in environments where love had to be earned. Some of us lived in homes where affection was conditional. Some of us were surrounded by people who withdrew warmth the moment we disappointed them. Some of us learned early that acceptance was a reward for pleasing others and silence was the punishment for falling short. Without realizing it, we carry those same expectations into our relationship with God. We assume His patience is like theirs. We assume His forgiveness is as limited as theirs. We assume His affection disappears the moment we fail to meet expectations. But God is not a projection of the flawed people who shaped your childhood. He is not an upgraded version of human love. He is love in its original, perfect form. And when you finally let yourself believe that His love is not fragile, you begin to breathe again in places of your soul that have suffocated for years.

When you begin living from the truth that Jesus loves you because love is His identity and not because you have performed well enough to earn it, everything about your inner world begins to be reordered. You no longer wake up every day wondering if today will be the day God finally runs out of patience with you. You no longer carry the weight of trying to prove that you are worthy of being chosen. You no longer fear that one wrong move will undo years of spiritual growth. Instead, your life becomes rooted in the quiet confidence that His presence is not a prize but a promise, not a paycheck but a gift, not a reaction but a revelation of who He will always be. That is when peace begins to settle into your bones in a way you never thought possible. You begin stepping into prayer not as a duty but as a place of rest. You begin reading Scripture not as an assignment but as a conversation with Someone who delights in your voice. You begin serving others not to gain approval but because the love flowing into you naturally begins to flow out of you. When love becomes the foundation, not the goal, you experience the kind of spiritual freedom that transforms the very atmosphere of your life.

The most transformative journeys with God do not begin with discipline; they begin with surrender. And surrender is not the act of giving up on yourself; it is the act of giving up the story you once believed about how God feels toward you. For many believers, the greatest breakthrough comes when they stop trying to behave their way into God’s affection and finally let themselves receive the affection that has always been there. When you finally stop striving, you can finally start healing. When you stop trying to earn love, you can finally be embraced by it. When you stop performing, you can finally be known. And the moment you let love in at that depth, everything else begins to change. You start treating yourself with the same grace Jesus has already extended to you. You start extending forgiveness to others because the love you have received is too big to keep to yourself. You begin to walk with a quiet boldness because you know you belong to Someone whose love cannot be shaken.

If you look back across your life with spiritual clarity, you begin to see that the love of Jesus has carried you through valleys you did not even realize you were walking through at the time. You can see where you should have fallen apart but somehow didn’t. You can see where shame should have swallowed you whole but grace stepped in instead. You can see where loneliness should have broken you, yet presence met you in ways you could not explain. You can see where regret should have hardened your heart, but mercy softened it instead. The consistent thread through all of it is love—a love that acted long before you behaved right, long before you prayed faithfully, long before you understood Scripture, long before you even knew who you were. This is why Scripture says that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. That is not poetic language. That is the absolute evidence that His love is rooted in His identity, not your performance. If His love ever depended on you, it would have collapsed before you even had a chance to begin.

There is something incredibly freeing about realizing that Jesus does not have illusions about you. He knows every moment you wish you could undo. He knows every version of you that you never want the world to see. He knows the battles you hide behind your smiles. He knows the fears you bury under responsibility. He knows the wounds that never fully healed. And yet He loves you with full awareness. Human love often breaks when the truth comes out, but divine love becomes even more powerful because the truth is never a threat to the One who created you. Jesus does not love the idealized version of you that you wish you could be someday. He loves the person you are right now. And His love does not treat your imperfections as disqualifications but as invitations to healing. Every time you are tempted to think that your flaws make you unlovable, remember that your flaws are the very places where His love is most eager to work.

One of the greatest lies the enemy whispers into the hearts of believers is the idea that God is disappointed in them. And disappointment is a powerful weapon because it convinces you that you are not worthy of returning to Him. It convinces you that you have failed too deeply, wandered too long, resisted too stubbornly. But disappointment requires unmet expectations, and Jesus has no illusions about who you are. His expectations are not fantasies about your perfection; His expectations are built on intimate knowledge of your humanity. He draws you in with compassion because He knows where you come from. He extends patience because He knows the weight of your history. He whispers peace because He knows the battles inside your mind. Disappointment is a human response, not a divine one. Jesus does not stand over you with folded arms waiting for you to get it together. He stands with arms open, waiting for you to come home so He can begin the work only love can do.

When you finally accept the truth that love is the identity of Christ, not the reward for your performance, you begin to understand why the Gospel has the power to heal the deepest layers of the human soul. You understand why prayer becomes a refuge instead of an obligation. You understand why repentance becomes a pathway to freedom rather than a chamber of guilt. You understand why grace becomes the language of transformation rather than the permission slip for failure. You understand why intimacy with God becomes possible, because intimacy cannot be built with someone you are constantly trying to impress. Intimacy grows where trust grows, and trust grows where love remains steady. When Jesus becomes the anchor of your identity instead of the judge of your behavior, you start living with a sense of belonging that no storm can steal from you.

What God desires most is not your flawless behavior but your open heart. He is not looking for you to prove yourself. He is looking for you to entrust yourself. He is not waiting for you to arrive at perfection before He draws near. He draws near so that His presence can shape you from the inside out. The believer who learns to live in the constant awareness of Jesus’s identity as love is the believer who becomes unshakeable. Not perfect, but unshakeable. Not flawless, but rooted. Not always confident, but never abandoned. And when people see the way you walk through life with that steady sense of being held, it becomes its own testimony. It becomes a quiet invitation to others who have spent their entire lives believing they had to earn love in order to deserve it. But when they see someone who has finally learned how to receive love without fear, they begin to wonder if that kind of freedom might be possible for them too.

So you keep walking. You keep seeking. You keep resting in the truth that Jesus loves you because love is His nature, not your achievement. You keep reminding yourself that your failures are not stronger than His identity. And as you do, your life becomes a living witness that grace is not the reward for the righteous but the lifeline for the weary. It becomes a reminder that divine love is the only environment where real transformation can take place. And it becomes the story of someone who no longer tries to perform for God but instead allows God to shape a heart that looks a little more like His every day.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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1. When the infinite “I” assumes a point of view, space appears.

2. When the infinite “I” assumes continuity, time appears.

3. When the infinite “I” assumes limitation, object appears.

4. When the infinite “I” prefers this angle over all others, direction appears.

5. When it draws a first faint line of “here” against “not-here,” inside and outside appear.

6. When it repeats that line, boundary appears.

7. When it compares one boundary to another, distance appears.

8. When it counts distances, measure appears.

9. When it strings measures into a rhythm, sequence appears.

10. When it trusts sequence, causality appears.

11. When it lets causality harden into expectation, law appears.

12. When it lets law shimmer as possibility, pattern appears.

13. When it favors one pattern, a ray of light appears.

14. When it rides that ray as “my line,” a path appears.

15. When it imagines countless rays at once, a sky of potential worlds appears.

16. When it chooses one ray to inhabit, a universe-seed appears.

17. When it names that seed “mine,” ownership appears.

18. When it forgets naming was optional, necessity appears.

19. When it gazes at necessity, a witness appears.

20. When the witness longs to act, will appears.

21. When will gathers into a single luminous center, a supreme being appears.

22. When that being reflects itself in many forms, a garland of great beings appears.

23. When one great being is taken as “the main one,” hierarchy appears.

24. When hierarchy is held as beauty, cosmic order appears.

25. When order begins to move, an ocean of mind appears.

26. When mind swells with moods and currents, emotion appears.

27. When emotion folds into deep habit, tendency appears.

28. When tendency repeats itself, karma appears.

29. When karma demands a stage, world-spheres appear.

30. When one sphere is singled out as home, a particular world appears.

31. When the world is stabilized by shared dreaming, consensus reality appears.

32. When consensus is mapped, continents appear.

33. When continents are divided by story, countries appear.

34. When a country is narrowed into belonging, a homeland appears.

35. When belonging becomes terrain, hills appear.

36. When terrain is given life-lines, trees appear.

37. When life-lines mature into outcome, fruits appear.

38. When outcome is condensed into potential, seeds appear.

39. When a seed is taken as the source, a beginning appears.

40. When beginning is believed to be unique, a single fate-line appears.

41. When the fate-line is felt as pressure, gravity appears.

42. When gravity is trusted as “down,” matter appears.

43. When matter is imagined as stable, substance appears.

44. When substance is broken into kinds, elements appear.

45. When elements court one another, chemistry appears.

46. When chemistry repeats with memory, biology appears.

47. When biology seeks persistence, survival appears.

48. When survival needs edges, skin appears.

49. When skin is treated as “me,” a body appears.

50. When the body needs orientation, senses appear.

51. When sensing is arranged into a center, a nervous system appears.

52. When sensations are ranked as pleasant and painful, preference appears.

53. When preference clings, desire appears.

54. When desire fears loss, aversion appears.

55. When aversion imagines threats, an enemy appears.

56. When enemy is projected outward, a world of others appears.

57. When “others” are compared, status appears.

58. When status is defended, identity appears.

59. When identity is narrated, a personal story appears.

60. When story is believed without question, a person appears.

61. When the person seeks continuity, memory appears.

62. When memory is stitched into a line, a lifetime appears.

63. When a lifetime is weighed, meaning appears.

64. When meaning is sought in mirrors, relationship appears.

65. When relationship tightens into roles, family appears.

66. When roles compress into inheritance, lineage appears.

67. When lineage becomes a template, genes appear.

68. When the template needs a doorway, parents appear.

69. When parents are drawn together by unseen vectors, meeting appears.

70. When meeting becomes irreversible union, conception appears.

71. When consciousness accepts a first enclosure, a womb appears.

72. When enclosure becomes nourishment, a placenta appears.

73. When nourishment is buffered by protection, amniotic waters appear.

74. When protection becomes intimate darkness, inner night appears.

75. When inner night pulses with borrowed rhythm, a heartbeat appears.

76. When heartbeat becomes the first clock, prenatal time appears.

77. When prenatal time differentiates sensation, touch appears.

78. When touch seeks orientation, motion appears.

79. When motion meets resistance, limbs appear.

80. When limbs rehearse agency, reflex appears.

81. When reflex is colored by mood, temperament appears.

82. When temperament echoes the mother’s tides, shared emotion appears.

83. When shared emotion condenses into disposition, personality-seed appears.

84. When personality-seed gathers images, dreaming appears.

85. When dreaming repeats themes, a private myth appears.

86. When myth anticipates separation, anxiety appears.

87. When anxiety intensifies into a shove toward form, labor appears.

88. When labor tightens the world into a tunnel, the birth canal appears.

89. When the tunnel is crossed, first light appears.

90. When first light is met by air, first breath appears.

91. When breath is claimed as “I am,” a newborn self appears.

92. When the newborn self is answered by faces, bonding appears.

93. When bonding is stabilized by repetition, trust appears.

94. When trust is organized by sound, language appears.

95. When language labels the flux, objects-as-nouns appear.

96. When nouns are arranged into rules, culture appears.

97. When culture is internalized as “should,” conscience appears.

98. When conscience fears exile, performance appears.

99. When performance is mistaken for essence, ego appears.

100. When ego forgets it was ever the infinite “I,” a world that feels final—“me in a body, facing everything else”—appears.

C'est une tragédie, c'est une parodie.

Il craque de partout, ce vieux Monde fini.

Qu'y reste-t-il, que sa défense justifie ?

Bah, presque rien : la vie. Hé ! Presque tout : la vie !

No good night's sleep the entire week, and now it's even worse with Gastown also pushing to the main branch willy-nilly, causing slight panic. At least I got to hang out with friends in board games and talk to the love of my life in the evening!

The birthday dinner was fun, but I came home to $1200 in expenditures to the company claude account. Goodbye, Gastown.

Our first run in with an attempt at false accusations came in the form of “over $40,000 credit card fraud”.

I am serious. And who did the false accusations come from? My parents. Mind you: our bank fraud had taken place, the reversals on our accounts from clientele, AND then tack on another “$40,000 in credit card fraud”!?

It was enough to make someone want to crawl under a rock and disappear. Here is the thing about this claim though: one of my parents had invested, willingly, into our business. We showed receipts and brought them evidence of every penny accounted for. Slowly but surely, I noticed that these “statements” they fabricated (literally, lol) were not adding up. Not only that, the “statements” from said bank had mismatched dates & charges...

I pointed this out to my parents. I pointed out, loudly, that this was incorrect, especially since my spouse and I had suffered bank fraud at the same exact bank, only a month earlier. So again, I asked myself why would they attempt to frame us for credit card fraud? Was it simply because they were indoctrinated into the program? Or is it because they are the ones funding part of my harassment and stalking? I will never know. But I do remember everything that transpired last year. This was not the first time my parents had falsified documentation in my name for personal gain.

I was in my home last year looking through documentation I had received from one of my parents and found a “Durable POA”. Interestingly enough, I thought it was strange; I had just signed a “revised” copy of the durable POA over my children about a month prior to that (which one of my parents financially exploited me into signing). Legally you are only able to obtain two POAs, not three. Not only that: the date on this document was “signed” about 10 days prior to me marrying my spouse. It made no sense. The only thing I was managing at the time of getting married was a false CPS accusation, chemo, & getting married! I never signed this document, nor had I ever seen it prior to last year.

I know. It's insane. Fraud, forgery, and false accusations, the three big Fs. Oh it doesn't stop there; when I went to my parents with this fake POA, I was met with threats of physical violence (one of my parents said they would break my knees), I was asked if I was jealous of how my parents lived, & recorded for evidence of my looking “crazy” & also for it to be “proof” that I am “unstable”. Completely staged. Which reminds me, I saw my children in January of this year & was videotaped then also. My parent is an evil and vile human being. One of my parents I pity and feel compassion for at the same time. They actively did these things to me though; they made those choices. To their own kid. Unbelievable, yet very much my truth.

I mentioned one of my siblings that works for the government; I have another sibling that studied arts at school I believe. This sibling I personally, was there for through their most difficult times in life. Yet they used my past against me. They ridiculed me, they tried to humble me, and they joined forces with my spouse's ex. Funny, right? So sad though. The need to gangstalk and abuse one individual, shows that cowards move in packs. I am still standing all by myself, with my spouse. It empowers me. I firmly believe this was designed to break me, but I have been bouncing back. I am grateful for the year of revelation, the year of truth, and exposure. This year is the year of momentum.

To the people who are reading to gather information or to stalk: Welcome. I love you very much. To the ones who have no idea that this program exists in their own backyard: Please pay attention. We are hundreds of thousands of us that exist and are being tortured. And most importantly, to my fellow TIs: I see you. I hear you. You are not alone.*

Some information: 15. Further to the above, gangstalkers rely on disbelief and discrediting and as such much of the harassment is designed (at least initially) to mimic mental health issues. They also rely on their abuse being so extreme, so pervasive, so fundamentally immoral, as to be disbelieved and victims subsequently resort to photographing, videotaping, and sound recording their everyday encounters to disprove the countless unfounded claims made against them – especially in relation to gaslighting, which gangstalkers try to turn around and paint the victims as paranoid or irrational. Victims are made to feel helpless as every attempt to defend themselves is used against them and when they seek help they are met with disbelief or open hostility.

Jaide owwt*

1. The Just City (Thessaly #1) by Jo Walton, 368p: This novel begins with an interesting premise: Apollo, trying to understand consent after Daphne escapes him by turning into a tree, joins Athena’s experiment to build Plato’s Just City and chooses to live there as a powerless human child. The philosophical discussions about agency, sentience, and whether robots are slaves are thought-provoking, and Socrates questioning the status of the workers was the highlight for me. In the end, I didn’t really love it. The ideas are interesting, but the whole thing just left me feeling uncomfortable. The sexual assault parts weren’t handled in a way that felt properly addressed, which is especially weird in a story that’s supposed to be about justice and consent. The society often seemed oddly unquestioning and cult-like, I couldn't connect with any of the characters. Overall, it felt more depressing than thought-provoking, and it just didn’t click for me.

2. Persepolis Rising (The Expanse #7) by James S.A. Corey, 622p: It opens with a time jump, where the Rocinante’s crew are older and even beginning to think about retirement. The pacing was excellent, and it kicks off a new arc in the story, introducing a new military force determined to dominate everyone else, as they tend to do. This book has some great action scenes and great character development. The military occupation is somewhat quiet and brutal, very passive-aggressive style, which makes it even more violent. It employs all the fascist propaganda methods of oppression, which makes it unsettling and real. I definitely want to know what happens next.

3. Dreamweaver's Dilemma (Vorkosigan Saga (Publication Order) #9.1) by Lois McMaster Bujold, 26p: This was an interesting short story in the Vorkosigan universe. As per the author's note, it is her first draft of what has become the “Vorkosiverse” or the “Vorkosigan Saga”. It takes place around 600 years before the first in the series Cordelia's Honor. It's about a “feelie-dream” composer who is asked to compose a particularly bizarre dream from a mysterious and eccentric client, who is offering a big sum of money for it. The “feelie-dream” is a kind of 3D-sensory-virtual reality experience that people plug-in to experience, kinda like a very immersive Virtual Reality experience. The story is mysterious and exciting, with noir-like tension in the way the composer tries to understand who this man really is and why he wants this particular dream created.

4. Falling Free (Vorkosigan Saga (Publication Order) #4) by Lois McMaster Bujold, 237p: I loved that this book if full of engineers problem-solving with whatever resources and tools they have available. There are fun references to typical engineer quirks. But on top of that, it deals with genetically altered humans subjected to a big corporation's greed. It takes place 200 years before Miles Vorkosigan was born. The “Quaddies” are genetically modified people who have four arms: instead of legs, they have a second pair of hands, which makes them very efficient in zero gravity. However, the Quaddies are legally considered corporate assets, used as space labor, and we see their struggles for autonomy and recognition. I read this after finishing the Brothers in Arms / Mirror Dance / Memory / A Civil Campaign sequence. It's a nice addition to the Vorkosigan Saga world-building, especially since the Quaddies are referenced again in the next book in the series, Diplomatic Immunity.

5. Do You Want to Start a Scandal (Castles Ever After #4) by Tessa Dare, 384p: This one was a funny and light read. The mother's sex education dialogue was hilarious, I'll remember it every time I see aubergines and peaches from now on. I liked that there was a bit of a mystery to the story and Charlotte was playing amateur detective with Piers. The mystery resolution was nothing extraordinary, and I missed some more spy action from Piers.

—

#readinglist #books #reading

I remember wanting to have friends. Wanting connection.

But unfortunately, that has changed. And here’s the thing: we aren’t meant to do life alone. I have a spouse I can confide in and talk to about anything, regardless of their reaction. I trust that for just a nano second, I can be completely vulnerable.

I’ve mentioned that this program has indoctrinated my neighbors/former neighbors and this is absolutely true. Let me explain:

In 2024, that’s when all of our “friends” started to fall off the map. Dropping us like a bad habit, without explanation. Setting the tone for what was to come. We had a specific set of “best friends”, a married couple. They seemed to be down to earth & very understanding.

Well, the last time we spoke to them was May 2024, and quite literally after we’d hung out that night, we never heard from them again. Quite literally. And I’ll be completely honest: I am glad they exited the way they did. Other people (which I’ll get into here shortly) exited loudly, causing harm.

I firmly believe that these former acquaintances were paid to exit our lives. Why else would everyone ditch us like that? You know what I mean? Many people said things such as, “I just don’t agree with the meds you’re taking” etc. but really? They were compensated for their time to watch, learn and essentially sell us out to whomever is in charge of our gangstalking.

It’s very heartbreaking. The pain of grieving people who are still alive. But, God has swept in and carried me through. It’s a miracle honestly. Now, remember I mentioned that others exited loudly? In 2024 we befriended our neighbors. It was what I called a pathological alliance (“best friends” extremely fast). It mainly started due to my spouse wanting to befriend them due to our lifestyle, as they’re both in that community. Prior to us opening up about ourselves and being vulnerable with these two individuals, I could sense something off with one of them. I could sense mean energy, envy, and false pretenses. But we proceeded to befriend them.

Side note: I understand I was hurt because I trusted these people, including my own blood. It’s the continued abuse that I cannot accept.

Now, we became completely enthralled with each other, my spouse and I even started our own dog training business that year & they participated, willingly, in volunteering and eventually becoming paid employees. Well, from mid 2024 to early 2025 we made a killing. But little to our knowledge, these two neighbors had joined forces with my spouse’s ex. Remember that I mentioned they might be my handler? They reside in a different state btw, and they’re pulling strings to isolate us.

Well it worked! Once we had our bank fraud issue in Feb of 2025, these two neighbors not only started to stalk us (compensated for their time), but they publicly humiliated us as well. Yup. A giant smear campaign. One that we’re still recovering from today. I’m not sure about any other TIs state laws, but where we reside it’s illegal to use photos/videos of another individual with malicious intent. And that’s exactly what these two did, along with our neighborhood.

They didn’t stop there: on multiple occasions these individuals called our local agency to our property to try and get me on animal abuse, welfare checks, etc. Our local agency was called about 40x to our property. (lol) I cannot make this up.

I learned a term recently called, “Swatting”, which means the action or practice of making a prank call to emergency services in an attempt to bring about the dispatch of a large number of armed police officers to a particular address. Essentially, it’s false reporting. Well, I got a copy of the call log to our property address & saw the names of individuals that were actively swatting us.

One of my parents KNEW about all of this. And continued to maintain a relationship with our former neighbors, acquaintances. My own blood willingly decided to continue being in contact with people who were actively hurting us/had hurt us. To this day, they maintain said relationships.

I have a particular parent that enjoys watching me suffer. They actively protect a family member that sexually abused me as a child. They support people who smeared my name, they speak positively about the wrongdoings of others to me, as if it’s something to boast about. Now, those former neighbors of ours have been secretly envious of us, me, my spouse. They convinced our clientele we had that we were “abusive” people, and every client that had ever made a payment to our company, reversed all of their payments. At this time our bank fraud had happened, we lost about $12k in that, and on the reversals another $9k to $10k. Mind you, I reported the bank fraud to our local agency and that’s when my gangstalkers made it obvious that I was being surveilled, stalked, and harassed.

No big deal. More evidence of this horrendous program for me.

So essentially, all these people were able to steal from me & my spouse to make themselves be comfortable and harm me. My sibling actually works for the government, & I believe they accessed all of my accounts because that’s what they do.

Our former neighbors shared private photos with my spouse’s ex & one of my parents. My parent proceeded to say that my spouse was a derogatory term….no joke. See here’s the thing: all of these people have dirty laundry I could air out, and I have done some of that on my platform. But the REAL dirt? I won’t share. An eye for an eye doesn’t work that way. It comes back around. Always does and God has promised to vindicate me and mine. I pray He has mercy on them.

I’ve come to the conclusion that regardless of what I say, where I say it, they will show up. So I’m just going to speak my truth and pray it helps the next TI.

I had one of the perps at the rehab I was at last year say this to me, & it has stuck with me ever since then: “Don’t let them take your freedom.”

Man. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Is fight for my right as an American & a person who wants to make a difference. The more we stick together, the more we shed light on this f*cked program.

Jaide owwt*