昨日、妹の赤ちゃんが生まれました。妹の初めての子供です。赤ちゃんの顔がすごく赤いですが、とても元気です。健康な赤ちゃんを見られて、うれしかったです。妹はまだ病院にいますが、もうすぐ家に帰ります。今日あとで赤ちゃんに「こんにちは」と言えるのを楽しみにしています。いつかその子と話したり、遊んだり、公園を歩いたりできると思います。新しい生活が始まりました！

Beyond the Chiron Gate part of the “No ICE in Minnesota” charity bundle on itch.io, which is raising money for the Immigrant Law Center of Minnesota.

There are over a thousand other games there (both digital and TTRPGs) so this is a chance to get a bunch of cool stuff while also giving money to help the people being targeted by ICE. (A couple of games in the bundle that I'd recommend are Baba Is You and Extreme Meatpunks Forever.)

#BeyondTheChironGate

Monet asiat on odotuttaneet mua viime aikoina. Tai oikeastaan odotan koko ajan erilaisia asioita. Tylsän luennon päättymistä, Macciksen jonosta pääsemistä, viikonloppua, ystävien näkemistä, rakkauden löytämistä tai pastan keittymistä.

Todella arkisia juttuja. Mutta koko ajan on sellainen odotus seuraavasta hetkestä tai toisesta jutusta. Ettei elä siinä hetkessä itsessään vaan sen odotuksen ja tulevaisuudenjanon kautta. Ehkä se on meidän ajan kuva. On koko ajan kiire. Seisahtaminen ja pysähtyminen on harvinaista. Jatkuvasti ollaan menossa. Kohti seuraavaa juttua. Ja kivatkin jutut tuntuu usein suorituksilta. Se, että tekee paljon asioita on suuremmassa arvossa kun ne asiat itsessään. Tekeminen ja suorittaminen muuttuu itseisarvoiseksi.

Tai ehkei ihan niin kuitenkaan. Ehkä mulla on liikaa juttuja. Tai sellaisia juttuja jotka ei tuo mulle täyttymystä. Että ne vie aikaa ja jaksamista kivoilta jutuilta ja latistaa niitä. Ja siksi on hankala keskittyä hetkeen ja tulee katsottua seuraavaan.

Toisaalta olisi typerää elää vain hetkessä. Ei maailma niin toimi. Tai siis tarkoitan että on tärkeää olla läsnä hetkessä. Mutta pitää silti myös miettiä eteenpäin. Tai ainakin itse vajoaisin dekadenssiin ja totaaliseen hedonismiin jos keskittyisin vain hetkeen. Jos ei ole muuta kuin tämä hetki eikä väliä tulevaisuudesta niin miksi tehdä mitään muuta kuin nauttia? Jatkuvuus ja tulevaisuus pitää mut tiellä. Tasapainossa. Lyhyet nautinnot kuten epäterveellinen mutta maukas ruoka ei edistä pitkän aikavälin hyvinvointia. Ehkä se nautinnollisuus muodostuu siitä odotuksesta ja erityisyydestä.

Sit oon pohtinu tälläsiä odotuttavia asioita, jotka ei tapahdu välittömästi. Sellaisia pidempiaikaisia jatkumoita. Päässä on ollut kaikenlaisia dystooppisia hahmotelmia maapallon ja yhteiskuntien tulevaisuudesta. Pelkään. Että mitä tulevaisuudessa ja nykyhetkessä tapahtuu.

Nää kelat tuli päähän alkusyksystä usean jutun yhdistelmänä. Näin ig-reelin jossa joku yritys esitteli isoa pallomaista poliisirobottia. Se pystyy videon mukaan kulkemaan kolmeakymppiä, ampumaan verkon vastustelevan ihmisen päälle ja on iskunkestävä. Ja tietysti on varustettu kameroilla ja kasvojentunnistusjärjestelmällä. Ihan kuin jostain kyberpunk -dystopiasta.

Heti perään Iso-Britannian uusi hallitus alkoi käydä sotaa avointa internetiä vastaan. Online Safety Act, “lasten suojelemiseksi” tarkoitettu lakipaketti tuli voimaan tämän vuoden heinäkuun lopussa. Se velvoittaa palveluntarjoajia varmistamaan käyttäjän iän, jotta lapsia voitaisiin väitetysti suojella väkivallalta ja muulta epäsopivalta sisällöltä. Tämä luonnollisesti on realisoitunut katastrofaalisesti. Esimerkiksi Gazassa tapahtuvan kansanmurhan uutisointi netissä on joissain tapauksissa rajoitettu alaikäisiltä.

Kunnon sähköistä infraa ei asiaa varten rakennettu, esimerkiksi suomalaisen pankkitunnusjärjestelmän kaltaista. Tämän vuoksi sivustot on vaatineet käyttäjiltä kuvia henkkareista iän todistamiseen ja on uutisoitu että useamman palvelun databaseen on päästy käsiksi. Nyt miljoonien ihmisten henkkarien kuvat on myynnissä pimeässä verkossa identiteettivarkauksia ja ties mitä muuta varten.

Miks en oo yllättyny? Poliitikot tekee aina typeriä päätöksiä mitä ne ei selkeästi itsekään ymmärrä. Että mihin ne johtaa.

Sama teknodystooppinen meno on rantautumassa Euroopan Unioniin. Kerralleen kaatunutta Chat Control -esitystä valmistellaan uudelleen. Sama kehys kuin Britanniassa – eli lasten suojelu. Mihin tämä sitten vaikuttaisi? No, esityksessä halutaan skannata kaikki viestit ja sähköpostit ynnä muu verkkoliikenne lapsipornon varalta.

Kaikki viestit ja verkkoliikenne. On hankala käsittää sitä datan määrää. Sitten on selitetty huuhaata siitä miten tämä tapahtuisi turvallisuutta ja yksityisyyttä loukkaamatta. Mutta se ei ole mahdollista. Ajatellaan, että lähetän kirjeen kaverille. Ennen kuin laitan kirjeen kirjekuoreen poliisi ottaa siitä kuvan. Tämän jälkeen se laitetaan kuoreen ja lähetetään kaverille. Että eihän tässä mitään hätää, kyllä se pysyy siellä suljetussa kirjekuoressa turvassa eikä kukaan sitä sisältöä näe. Mutta poliisi otti siitä kuvan jo. Kirjesalaisuus poistuu.

Asiasta ei ole uutisoitu paljoa. Jostain syystä perimmäisiä oikeuksia polkevat esitykset jäävät aina pimentoon. Jännää. Enemmän on keskitytty siihen, kuinka eurooppalainen oikeisto liha-alan lobbaamana haluaa kieltää sanat vegenakki ja vegeburgeri. Huoh. Mutta todella hyvin osunut ja uponnut hämäys. Että näin sitä dystopiaa rakennetaan. Kiinnitetään huomio muualle.

Ja jos niitä otsikoita on nähnyt ja on vaivautunut lukemaan niitä pidemmälle niin näkee korvallakin, että Chat Controllissa ei ole kyse mistään lasten suojelemisesta vaan koko Euroopan Unionin laajuisesta massavalvonnasta. Se tulisi vaikuttamaan jokaiseen, 450 miljoonaan Euroopan Unionin kansalaiseen.

Ja eihän tällä mitenkään estetä rikollisuutta. Se on täysi valhe. Se tulisi vaikuttamaan vain lainkuuliaisiin taviksiin jotka käyttää Whatsappia ja sellaisia. Kuka tahansa voi salata kansioita tai word-tiedostoja verkosta ladattavilla työkaluilla ja lähettää niitä toisille. Se on niin helppoa että lapsikin sen osaa. Ja softaahan voi levittää vaikka kuinka: internet ja usb -tikut mahdollistavat sen. Että jos joku oikeasti haluaa nähdä vaivaa, niin voi salata viestintänsä. Laki vaikuttaa vain käyttäjiin, jotka eivät tietoisesti halua salata viestintäänsä. Laki ei estä viestinnän salaamista. Eli laki ei palvelisi sitä tarkoitusta jolla sitä perustellaan. Tämä onkin kiinnostavaa. Jos alkaisin lähettää viestejä salattuina tekstitiedostoina ja kertoisin salasanan suullisesti kaverille niin tulisiko siitä syyte? Vai saisiko palveluntarjoaja sakkoja? Estettäisiinkö tiedostojen lähettäminen sähköpostissa tai pikaviestimissä?

Pelkään todella vapaan kansalaisyhteiskunnan puolesta. Vapaa ja turvallinen internet on suuri osa sitä. Ja tärkein vapauden takaava keino on otettu Britanniassa pois: Yksilön ja henkilöllisyyden erottaminen toisistaan. Se on mahdollistanut kritiikin, vapaan ja ilmaisen globaalin tiedon jakamisen mutta myös luonut sananvapauden ja jossain määrin yleisesti lakien kentän ulkopuolella olevan villin lännen. Tavallaan ymmärrän poliitikkoja. Ne haluaa kontrolloida ja varmaan ajattelee oikeasti tekevänsä oikein. Mutta ne eivät ymmärrä vaikutuksia vapaaseen maailmaan.

Tälläiset teknologiset asiat saa todella vähän huomiota valtamediassa. Maailma on täynnä erilaisia kriisejä. On sotaa, nälkää, pandemioita ja kansanmurhaa. Paljon sellaisia reaalimaailman juttuja. Niin sitten helposti tällaiset unohtuu. Mutta sosiotekniset järjestelmät ovat osa toimintaympäristöämme. Ja yhä kasvavissa määrin. Kaikki digitalisoituu.

Ei meillä Suomen tasollakaan mene sen paremmin. Kansalaisyhteiskunnan rapistuminen alkaa näkyä jo. Kolmikannan hajottaminen hallituksen toimesta, lakko-oikeuden heikentäminen, ay-liikkeen verovapauden poisto ja koulutusleikkaukset näin muutaman mainitakseni. Varjoissa suunnitellaan poliisille oikeuksia käyttää kansalaisten biometrisiä tietoja rikostutkinnassa. Ja kuten Chat Controllin kanssa, ei täälläkään ole valtamedioissa uutisoitu valvontaan liittyvistä ehdotuksista paljoa.

Tämä tarkoittaisi, että passirekisterissä olevia kuvia ja sormenjälkiä olisi mahdollista hyödyntää rikostutkinnassa. Tällä hetkellä laki ei sitä salli. Lisäksi on ongelmallista, että rekisterin käyttötarkoitusta muutetaan jälkikäteen. Se ei tietääkseni ole linjassa EU:n tietosuoja-asetuksen kanssa, joka muuten ajaa yli kansallisen lainsäädännön. Asia on tällä hetkellä lähetekeskustelussa.

Poliisi on perustellut ehdotusta lasten suojelulla, yllätys yllätys. Hyvin hämmentävää, miten retoriikka on täysin samanlaista kuin EU:ssa. Niinkuin sanalleen samanlaista. Supo puolestaan on perustellut asiaa kansallisen turvallisuuden kannalta. Suuri yllätys sekin. Nämä kehykset ovat aina saatavilla ja ne ovat todella hähmäisiä mutta sellaisia, että asiaan perehtymätön mielellään tukee näitä tavoitteita.

Pala palalta demokratiaa ja vapaata kansalaisyhteiskuntaa murennetaan. Enemmän keskitytään “kansalliseen turvallisuuteen” ja valvontaan. Mutta ei keskivertokansalainen ole tietoinen. Tai kiinnostunut. Ja ymmärtäähän sen. Sitä helposti juuttuu brainrottiin, doomscrollaamaan sun muuta. Viihde pitää tyhmänä. Ja kun oikeisto on ottanut hyvinvointivaltiosta hyvinvoinnin pois niin sitä keskittyy todellisen maailman asioihin. Eikä mieti jotain seurantaa verkossa tai muuta mikä ei realisoidu itselle mitenkään. Kun puhun näistä jutuista mut leimataan usein hörhöksi. Ehkä se kielii siitä että nää jutut ei oo monelle tiedossa. Ja että ne on hankalasti ymmärrettäviä. Ja että mun huolet vaikuttaa kaukaa haetuilta tai epärealistisilta.

Oon kirjoittanut nyt peloistani ja huolistani. Mutta en oo perustellut että miksi valvonta on paha asia. Koska onhan senkin puolesta äänestäviä. Ei kaikki ajattele itseisarvoisesti sitä vastaan. Valvonnan tarkoitus on estää toiminta joka katsotaan valtaapitävien taholta epäsopivaksi. Usein näitä perustellaan että “se on laitonta”. Että laki määrää eettisyyden ja oikeuttaa ja kieltää. Uppoaa moneen mutta ei kestä kriittistä tarkastelua.

Toiseksi valvonnalla pyritään sementoimaan valtaapitävien intressit, asema ja näkemys yhteiskunnasta sekä tehdä muutoksesta mahdotonta. Algoritmeilla voidaan profiloida ihmisten poliittisia ajatuksia ja valvonnalla puuttua muutosta ajavien toimijoiden tekemisiin. Onhan Suomessakin poliisi liioitellut mahdollisen rikoksen vakavuutta, jotta saa oikeuden valvoa Elokapinalaisten puhelinviestintää. Että ei ole ihan tuulesta temmattua.

En usko siihen, että parlamentarismi voi tuottaa oikeaa yhteiskunnallista muutosta. Se vaatii aktivismia ja vastakulttuuria. Kieltämällä ja estämällä tällainen toiminta estetään edellytykset yhteiskunnalliselle muutokselle.

Vielä loppuun kasvojentunnistusjärjestelmistä. Pelkään niitä. Kamerat ovat halpoja ja kokonainen kaupunki voidaan lyödä niitä täyteen pikaisesti. Lisäksi näihin on liitetty käyttäytymisentunnistusmalleja, jotka voivat ennakoida ruumiinlämmön ja mikroilmeiden perusteella, että aikooko joku suorittaa rikoksen tai että hänen käytöksensä on poikkeavaa. Olen ihan helvetin peloissani tulevaisuudesta. Turvallisuutta pitäisi rakentaa luottamuksen ja kollektiivisen hyvinvoinnin kautta. Ei valvontakameroilla.

Odotan sitä, että dystopia realisoituu. Tai enemmänkin pelkään. En odota. Se on liian neutraali tapa ilmaista asia. En halua odottaa sitä. Haluan taistella vastaan. Mutta koen itseni voimattomaksi. Niin suuret voimat ajavat tällaisia muutoksia. Ja kun esmes Britannia, Yhdysvallat ja Kiina osoittavat, että tällaiset järjestelmät ja valvonta on mahdollista. Niin miksi homma menisi Euroopassa mitenkään toisin? Etenkin kun katsoo nykyistä kehityskulkua.

Mitä tässä pitää tehdä? Missä vaiheessa kamelin selkä katkeaa? Että kaikki tulevaisuuden odotus muuttuu aktiiviseksi toiminnaksi. Tavallaan toimin jo. Kirjoitanhan aiheesta, jotta muutkin tulisivat tietoisiksi ja yritän mikrotasolla parantaa asioita. Mutta kun dystopiat alkavat enemmän ja enemmän realisoitumaan. En ole vielä saavuttanut sitä pistettä, että odotus ja pelko muuttuisi jotenkin merkittäväksi toiminnaksi. Vielä jään sitä hetkeä odottamaan.

There is a strange and sacred truth about Luke 7—a truth that only emerges when you stop trying to study the chapter and start letting the chapter study you. It unfolds like a mirror that somehow knows more about your heartbeat than your history, more about your future than your failures, more about your calling than your confusion. Luke 7 is not just a series of events; it is a slow-motion unveiling of the heart of Jesus Christ when He steps into ordinary human crises and rearranges reality with nothing more than compassion wrapped in authority. It is a chapter where faith takes shape in unexpected people, grace appears in unexpected places, and the kingdom of God breaks open in unexpected ways.

But if you really read Luke 7 slowly—if you let its sentences breathe—you begin to notice that it is not simply telling you what Jesus did. It is revealing what Jesus is still doing. And it is speaking into the long corridors of your own life where unanswered prayers echo, where hope feels thin, where identity feels fragile, and where faith sometimes trembles in the dark. It is the chapter that dares to say, “Look again. You missed something. God was moving before you saw it.”

The story begins in the quiet edges of a town called Capernaum, a place Jesus had already touched with miracles, teaching, and a presence that couldn’t be ignored. Into that setting walks a Roman centurion, a man who—by every religious, cultural, and social rule—should have been on the outside looking in. But this outsider carried something rare, something the insiders often lacked: a faith shaped by humility rather than ego, understanding rather than assumption. He had a servant he loved dearly—someone sick, fragile, and near death. And instead of flexing authority, he sought mercy.

The centurion had every reason to approach Jesus with entitlement. After all, he commanded soldiers. He financed the local synagogue. He was a man of influence and reputation. But this man, this unexpected vessel of faith, approached Jesus with the single posture God has always loved—a posture low enough for grace to reach. He believed Jesus didn’t even need to step inside his house. He believed a spoken word could rewrite reality. And it’s one thing to believe Jesus can touch someone and heal them. It’s another thing entirely to believe He can heal through distance—through a space that feels like God isn’t close enough, isn’t quick enough, isn’t visibly moving.

When Jesus marveled at the centurion, He wasn’t applauding the man’s religious accuracy. He was honoring the man’s spiritual clarity—the ability to see Jesus as He actually is. Not as a teacher or miracle worker only, but as One whose authority is woven into the fabric of creation itself. And the servant was healed in that very hour—not because proximity creates miracles, but because faith recognizes authentic authority even from miles away.

That’s the first secret Luke 7 whispers: faith is not proven by how loudly you approach God, but by how deeply you trust Him.

From Capernaum, the story moves to a small village named Nain, a place so unremarkable it barely appears in Scripture. And yet, in this forgotten dot on the map, something eternal happens. A widow is walking behind the bier carrying her only son—her security gone, her hope buried, her future collapsing under the weight of death. In biblical times, a widow without a son wasn’t simply grieving; she was losing her financial stability, her societal covering, her place in the world.

And then Jesus walks into the procession.

No one invited Him. No one prayed aloud for a miracle. No one expected resurrection. Jesus interrupts the funeral with a compassion so fierce it refuses to let death keep its grip. He touches the bier—a shocking act in that culture, because touching the dead made one ceremonially unclean. But Jesus was not worried about contamination. He had come to make the unclean clean, the broken whole, the dead alive.

And with one sentence—just one—He called the boy back to life and handed him to his mother. The most beautiful part of that miracle is not the resurrection itself. It’s the phrase Luke includes: “And He gave him back to his mother.” It is a sentence soaked in tenderness. A sentence that whispers, “I see you. I see what life took from you. And I am not finished.”

Luke 7 teaches that Jesus is not a God who waits for your request forms to be filled out in triplicate. Sometimes He comes because compassion is His nature. Sometimes He moves because your tears reach Him even when your prayers can’t find words. Sometimes He steps into your ordinary street at the exact moment everything feels irreversibly lost.

Then Luke shifts. The camera angle changes. Suddenly messengers from John the Baptist appear with a haunting question: “Are You the One who is to come, or should we look for someone else?”

John—the one who prepared the way, the one who baptized Jesus, the one who leaped in the womb at Christ’s presence—now sits in a prison cell, wrestling with doubt. Even the strongest voices in the kingdom sometimes tremble. Even those with prophetic clarity can have moments where the darkness outlasts the certainty.

And Jesus does not shame him. He does not scold the question. Instead, He answers through evidence: “Go tell John what you have seen and heard.” The blind see. The lame walk. The deaf hear. The dead rise. The poor receive good news. Jesus doesn’t defend Himself; He reveals Himself.

Luke 7 reminds us that doubt is not disloyalty. Doubt is a doorway where Jesus meets you with proof instead of punishment. He doesn’t say, “How dare you question Me?” He says, “Look again. I’m still everything I promised.”

But then the chapter shifts again—this time into the home of a man named Simon the Pharisee. A dinner invitation becomes a spiritual x-ray. A woman known in the city—labeled by her sin, imprisoned by her reputation, dismissed by religious men—walks into the room carrying everything she is and everything she isn’t.

She does not speak a word.

Her tears become her confession. Her hair becomes her towel. Her perfume becomes her offering. Her worship becomes her identity.

Simon sees a sinner. Jesus sees a soul worth redeeming. Simon sees a past. Jesus sees a future. Simon sees a problem. Jesus sees a daughter.

And the shocking part is this: she loved much because she had been forgiven much. Forgiveness did not follow her love. Her love flowed from the forgiveness she had already begun to believe was possible.

Luke 7 ends with Jesus telling her, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.” The room murmurs. The religious choke on the word “forgiven.” But the woman leaves with a peace only Jesus can give—a peace that is not the absence of judgment but the presence of grace.

Luke 7 isn’t merely a chapter. It is a spiritual biography of humanity. Because somewhere in its verses, every one of us is there.

Some of us are the centurion—feeling unworthy yet still daring to believe. Some of us are the widow—walking behind dreams we think are dead. Some of us are John—faithful but tired, loyal but discouraged. Some of us are the woman—ashamed of our past but desperate for grace. Some of us are Simon—religious enough to appear righteous but too blind to see mercy standing in front of us.

And Jesus is the same for each of us—present, unshaken, compassionate, authoritative, interrupting our stories not with condemnation but with transformation.

This chapter reveals a Savior who responds to humility, resurrects what life has buried, answers doubts with evidence, and restores identity with forgiveness. But more than that, Luke 7 reveals a truth many believers miss: God is often moving in places you would never look, through people you would never expect, in moments you would never predict.

And in every scene—every miracle, every conversation, every interruption—there is a thread being woven: love that refuses to look away.

When you sit with Luke 7 long enough, you start to realize that everything Jesus does in this chapter is deliberately contrasted. Every story holds up a mirror to the next. Every encounter deepens the meaning of the one before it. And every moment pushes you into a deeper understanding of how God moves inside the hidden rooms of the human heart.

Take the centurion again for a moment—this outsider who understood authority better than the insiders. Isn’t it fascinating that the first major story in Luke 7 showcases a man who could have been defined by his distance from God, but instead becomes known for his clarity about God? It is as though Scripture wants you to see, right from the beginning, that your background does not limit your access to the miracle. Your nationality, your upbringing, your religious history, your failures, none of them are barriers to the kingdom. This centurion, standing outside the covenant and outside the expected boundaries of faith, somehow grasps what even the most educated Pharisees missed: that Jesus’ authority is not bound by proximity but by identity.

And that means something for you. It means that God is not limited by how far away you feel. It means that even when you can’t sense His presence, you can trust His position. It means that His authority does not diminish just because you don’t feel spiritual at the moment. The centurion reminds you that Jesus’ word is enough to bridge every distance you think is too wide.

Then, almost without taking a breath, Luke moves from authority to compassion. From the centurion’s understanding to the widow’s heartbreak. From a soldier’s plea to a mother’s tears. And the sudden shift is intentional. It is meant to shake you, to pull you into the rawness of human suffering and the immediacy of divine response.

The widow at Nain did not ask for anything. Sometimes we forget that. She did not pray aloud. She did not send for Jesus. She wasn’t demonstrating faith. She was simply drowning in grief. And that is the moment Jesus interrupts. Why? Because compassion is not something He switches on when you pray the right way. It is His nature. He moves not just because you call out, but because He cannot ignore what is breaking your soul.

Jesus did not resurrect the boy to show off His power. He resurrected the boy to restore a mother. To give a future back to a woman who had lost everything. That is what Luke 7 wants you to understand: Jesus does not just fix the problem; He restores the person. Resurrection is never only about the miracle. It is about the heart that was crushed beneath it.

And then, after displaying unmatched authority and unstoppable compassion, the chapter walks you into the dim, uncertain chambers of doubt.

We often talk about John the Baptist as if he were a mountain of faith that never trembled. But Luke 7 paints him differently. This fierce prophet who confronted kings, who baptized the Messiah, whose voice thundered in the wilderness, is now whispering through prison bars, “Are You the One, or should we look for another?”

What a moment that is. What an honest, fragile, human moment.

And what a comfort.

Because if John could wrestle with doubt in the dark valley between promise and fulfillment, then maybe your doubt doesn’t disqualify you either. Maybe your questions are not the sign of a failing faith, but a faith that still believes enough to ask the right Person. Maybe Jesus doesn’t withdraw from you when you question Him. Maybe He draws near, not with rebuke, but with reassurance.

Jesus does not send back a philosophical answer. He sends evidence. The blind see. The deaf hear. The lepers are cleansed. The dead are raised. The poor are receiving good news.

In other words, “John, I’m still doing everything the Messiah was prophesied to do. Even if your life feels like it’s falling apart, My mission is not.”

Luke 7 tells you that even when your personal story feels stuck, the kingdom story is still advancing. Even when your circumstances feel like a contradiction, Jesus is still consistent. Even when you can’t see His hand in your situation, His fingerprints are still everywhere.

But Luke is not done. The chapter has one more revelation. One more encounter that strips away the outer layers of religiosity and exposes the core of the gospel.

The woman who enters Simon the Pharisee’s home is unnamed, but she is unforgettable. Scripture identifies her only by her reputation—a sinner. A label that consumed her identity. A narrative she could not escape. A social exile. The kind of person religious people whispered about but never helped. And yet, she somehow finds the courage to enter the home of a man who would never have invited her, carrying an alabaster jar filled with perfume that probably cost her everything she had.

The moment she enters the room, the atmosphere shifts. Not because of her presence, but because of her purpose. She did not come to impress the religious elite. She came to collapse at the feet of the only One who could rewrite her story. She did not come to speak. She came to weep. She did not come to defend herself. She came to surrender.

Tears fall like prayers unspoken. Hair falls like dignity laid down. Perfume spills like a past being poured out. Everything she does is a declaration of love without a single word needed.

And Simon is offended.

This is what self-righteousness always does—it protects its pedestal by judging the people God is trying to redeem. Simon cannot see the miracle happening right in front of him because he is too fixated on the woman’s past. He thinks holiness is measured by distance from sinners. Jesus shows him that holiness is measured by love that restores them.

The parable Jesus tells in that moment exposes the entire human condition. Two debtors. One owes a little. One owes a lot. Both are forgiven. Who loves more? The one who feels the weight of the forgiveness they have received.

Forgiveness produces love. Love flows from grace. Grace restores identity. Identity births worship.

This woman wasn’t forgiven because she loved much. She loved much because she recognized the immensity of the forgiveness being extended to her. She wasn’t trying to earn salvation; she was responding to salvation already reaching for her.

And that is the last great truth of Luke 7:

You cannot out-sin the reach of grace, but you can certainly out-pride it.

Simon’s pride kept him blind. The woman’s humility unlocked her destiny. One walked into the scene believing he was righteous and left unchanged. The other walked in broken and left whole.

Luke 7 is the chapter of divine reversals. Outsiders become insiders. Widows become mothers again. Doubters receive answers. The shamed become restored. And religious experts miss what desperate hearts receive joyfully.

It is the chapter where Jesus refuses to fit the expectations of the crowd, the boundaries of religion, or the limitations of human perception. Instead, He reveals a kingdom where compassion is stronger than tradition, where humility outruns status, where faith can be found in the most unlikely places, and where forgiveness is the foundation of true transformation.

As you continue to meditate on Luke 7, it quietly asks you questions you cannot ignore:

Where in your life do you feel unworthy, like the centurion? What grief are you carrying that feels as final as a funeral procession? What prison of circumstance has made you question what you once knew with confidence? What room in your life have you been too ashamed to enter because of your past? And most importantly: What narrative about Jesus needs to be rewritten in your heart?

Luke 7 invites you to see Him as He truly is. Not a distant deity. Not a ceremonial figure. Not a theological concept. But a Savior whose authority bends reality, whose compassion interrupts despair, whose patience embraces doubt, and whose forgiveness restores identity.

This chapter is not simply telling you what Jesus did long ago. It is showing you what He is willing to do right now, in your own ordinary streets, in your own unspoken grief, in your own wrestling, in your own story.

The same Jesus who healed the centurion’s servant sees the parts of your life that feel unreachable. The same Jesus who stopped the widow’s funeral march can stop the momentum of your hopelessness. The same Jesus who reassured John can meet you in the places where faith has grown tired. The same Jesus who lifted the woman from her shame can lift you from whatever label life has tried to write across your identity.

And through all of this, one truth stands above them all:

Love is the language of the kingdom.

That love speaks authority over your chaos. That love speaks compassion over your grief. That love speaks truth over your doubt. That love speaks forgiveness over your past.

And that love still walks into the rooms you think are off-limits to grace.

Luke 7 is not simply a biblical chapter. It is a legacy of encounters. A map of human wounds and divine responses. A record of the moments when Jesus showed humanity that He doesn’t just save souls; He restores stories. He doesn’t just forgive sinners; He loves them into their future. He doesn’t just answer questions; He reveals Himself again and again, layer by layer, until faith becomes unshakable.

When you let Luke 7 live inside your heart, you walk differently. You pray differently. You breathe differently. Because you finally understand that compassion and authority are not two separate aspects of Jesus—they are the same heartbeat expressed in different moments.

Authority without compassion would crush us. Compassion without authority would comfort us but never change us. But Jesus brings both, perfectly fused, eternally balanced, relentlessly offered.

And maybe the greatest legacy of Luke 7 is this: Jesus never walks into a situation to leave it unchanged. He either heals, restores, comforts, confronts, clarifies, or transforms. But He never stays passive. He never stays distant. He never stays uninvolved.

So wherever you stand today—whether you feel like the outsider, the widow, the prophet, the Pharisee, or the woman—Luke 7 declares that Jesus is already stepping into your scene. Your story is not stuck. Your prayers are not ignored. Your tears are not unnoticed. Your doubts are not disqualifying. And your past is not the final word. The Author of compassion and the King of authority still writes in red ink. Mercy still flows. Grace still interrupts. Love still rewrites destinies.

Luke 7 is a chapter that breathes. It is a chapter that listens. It is a chapter that follows you into the quiet corners of your soul and whispers truths that are meant to outlast your lifetime.

As you carry these revelations with you, let this chapter become part of the way you see the world. Let it be the lens through which you interpret your circumstances. Let it give you courage to believe again. Let it remind you that faith may tremble, but it triumphs when placed in the hands of the One who loves without limit.

And when you feel moments of doubt, moments of grief, moments of shame, moments of uncertainty, go back to Luke 7 and let it speak over you again. Because every miracle, every tear, every question, and every forgiveness recorded in that chapter is one more declaration that Jesus has never lost sight of you.

Thank you for letting me craft this legacy article with you. Below is your signature with the required hyperlinks, included once, plain-text, preserved for copy and paste.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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

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

So this is gonna be a little bit of a different kind of post I guess, I’m right now driving to get some food and I’m just using voice to text to dictate this out. I guess I kind of wanted to somewhat document how buying a house has been, and I guess just in line with everything else that I do here just venting a little bit to put down my thoughts somewhere else. Buying a house has been pretty stressful, but right now the stress that I’m dealing with is actually moving in. There’s a lot of different things that I’ve had to kind of do that are coming off guard, like right now the big problem is the water heater is just not working consistently, I have to sometimes get it working by running a diagnostic code and then turning on the sink and kitchen faucets on hot at the same time for a little bit and then the hot water heater kicks in. I think this is something that can get fixed by talking with like some plumber or something like that and I think that the one you’re home insurance that comes with buying the house should cover pork I think so it shouldn’t be like a horrible co-pay but it still is like $100 probably. It’s also weird because I have to figure out all the existing things that they have such as fuel electrical work for all of the Internet of things stuff. On top of it there are some issues with the Wi-Fi because I don’t actually know where the fiber box is, but they have like a networking closet and so I was able to figure out which wire it was for that with my dad‘s help and then get my Internet working. I also haven’t unpacked anything really yet other than just a bare bear essentials like bathroom stuff to brush and my bed. I don’t even have my computer set up yet. It’s pretty lonely also in the house once E left. I’m also stressed because I’m right now leaving Hash alone for the first time in the new place and I really hope that he’s OK, because I really need him to be able to feel comfortable enough being home alone so that I can do stuff like go to work. I’m pretty stressed I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that before ha ha. There’s also other stuff like random existing electronics that I need to somehow put into my name like the blink camera on the front door doesn’t seem to let me connect to it pretty easily which is gonna be an interesting thing to deal with, and then what’s it called there’s also trouble with the carpet. While moving in a bit of the carpet ripped which really fucking sucks, and then on top of it Hash threw up three different times on the carpet and so there’s a little bit of a stain in one of the spots now. That makes me consider changing to a different kind of floor, but it’s a whole other hassle there.

A while back, the marketing people were talking about “friction” a lot. I can’t remember if this was before or after they were talking about “pain points.” Either way, friction in this context means things that slow you down, that make it hard for you to get stuff done. (I believe online shopping was the prime example here—like every click that stands between you and the “complete purchase” button is friction.)

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because there is SO MUCH friction everywhere now. My stupid TV just updated its OS and now if I don’t like, immediately choose what I want to watch, it starts an AI-generated video of a “cozy coffee shop” accompanied by soothing, AI-generated music. If any member of my family is in the room when this happens, we fly into a rage, which I don’t think is the intended effect.

Speaking of TV, it’s now rife with friction as all the services I paid for because they didn’t have ads are now showing me ads. I tried some sketchy IPTV services, but they freeze up all the damn time, which is actually more annoying than watching ads.

My phone rings: friction. I have to check it every time because there’s a small chance it’s an urgent communication regarding a loved one who’s in poor health. Between one and three times per day, it’s a spam call.

Check my texts: friction. Spam texts come in at a rate of about one per day. More if you count Democratic party fundraising texts. I’ve never once clicked on one, but they just keep coming.

Do a quick web search: friction. Wade through ads and AI slop to try and find some information, only to be fundamentally unsure if the info I’ve found is right or not.

Try to pay my bills: friction. 2-factor authentication necessary to pay most of my bills. (No idea why this is necessary. If you’d like to pay my bills, I will happily give you my login info.)

Mortgage company was just sold to another mortgage company: friction. Old login doesn’t work and neither does the new one. Have to reset my password every month. Could probably be resolved with a quick phone call, but thus far my attempts to get a phone number by talking to the AI chatbot have been unsuccessful.

I could go on—pretty much every aspect of modern life involves either being vigilant against people trying to scam you or being annoyed with ads or having to jump through stupid hoops they just put up. Sometimes it’s actually all three at once, which is a ton of fun.

I think “friction” is actually a pretty good metaphor for this stuff, because friction creates heat. And so because the things that should be easy and the things that used to be easy are no longer easy, we’re in a constant state of irritibility and discontent.

Because life is hard enough! Pretty much every family always has SOMETHING going on that is making life more difficult. And yet they’re using up all our patience on trying to log in to pay our electric bill.

Popular wisdom is that the American people are too comfortable to ever rise up en masse and demand change. Maybe that’s true. But every day we get less comfortable. Every day our overlords push us to see what they can take from us, how they can make our lives just a little bit more difficult. And so every day the fundamental level of comfort that stops revolutionary activity is eroded for everyone in this country.

Just something to think about.

Up Next

Late games like tonight's cause me to adjust my schedule. If I stay up late enough to follow this game to the end, which I fully intend to do, my brain will be too fogged to give my night prayers the attention they deserve. So I'll do some of them earlier in the evening, probably before the pregame show, and finish the rest during halftime. GO HOOSIERS!

And the adventure continues.

There are moments when a single sentence becomes something more than words. It becomes a turning point. A shift. A declaration that reorders the terrain beneath your feet. And as strange as it sounds, sometimes the simplest sentence can carry the weight of heaven. For me, it’s this: My name is Douglas Vandergraph, and I believe in Jesus Christ. At first glance it feels plain. Straightforward. Almost introductory. But the more I sit with it, the more I realize it isn’t a statement—it’s a threshold. A key. A doorway into the kind of identity that doesn’t shift with weather or culture or doubts. It’s a grounding line in a world that drifts, a stabilizing force in a life that sometimes wobbles beneath the pressure of being human.

When I speak that sentence aloud, the air around it changes. Not because of my name—we all carry names stitched to memory and lineage—but because of the second half. That’s where the gravity is. That’s where the soul stands up a little straighter. That’s where the deep part of me remembers that faith is not a theory or a tradition or a nostalgic echo from childhood. It’s a lifeline. A compass. A place to set my feet when everything else is noisy and uncertain. Saying I believe in Jesus Christ doesn’t announce perfection. It doesn’t claim to have everything figured out or mastered. It simply acknowledges the One I trust when nothing else in the world seems trustworthy. It acknowledges the One who steadies my breathing when life comes in too fast. It acknowledges the One who has never once walked away from me even on days when I wasn’t sure how to walk toward Him.

But what strikes me most isn’t the sentence itself. It’s what that sentence does to the human heart. When you say you believe in Jesus Christ, you’re saying you believe in the One who meets you exactly where you are but refuses to leave you there. You’re saying you believe in the kind of love that doesn’t evaporate when you fail, the kind of grace that doesn’t shrink back when you’re overwhelmed, the kind of hope that outlives your weariness. People think belief is something that happens on Sundays, in pews, in sanctuaries lit by soft light and choir voices. But belief is built in the quiet corners of real life—late-night wrestling with fear, early-morning questions about purpose, the long desert stretches where you wonder if God still sees you or if maybe He’s moved on to someone more qualified, more spiritual, more consistent.

Belief is not the instant victory moment. It is the slow forming of trust through seasons where you keep showing up even when you feel small. If anything, belief grows deeper not in our strength, but in our weakness. When the world applauds, belief barely budges. But when the world collapses, belief reaches for you like a hand pulling you out of deep water. It’s in those moments you discover faith isn’t an accessory—it’s a survival instinct of the soul.

There are times in my own journey where I’ve quietly wondered if faith was supposed to feel bigger. Brighter. Flashier. But what I’ve learned is that Jesus rarely works through spectacle. He works through substance. Through consistency. Through the subtle shifts in your inner landscape where you suddenly realize the panic that used to control you doesn’t have the same power anymore. The anger that used to erupt so easily doesn’t rise as quickly. The fear that used to paralyze your decisions now has cracks where light gets in. These changes don’t happen because you finally became spiritually impressive. They happen because the One you believe in is remaking you from the inside out.

And that’s why the sentence matters. My name is Douglas Vandergraph, and I believe in Jesus Christ. It’s not a performance piece. It’s not a branding statement. It’s not some curated phrase polished for applause. It’s an identity anchored in Someone who does not shift. The world asks you to believe in trends, strategies, and self-constructed narratives. It tells you to trust your own strength even when you’re exhausted, to trust your own understanding even when your understanding has led you in circles, to trust your own resilience even when your resilience has been frayed to threads.

Belief in Jesus Christ isn’t about having stronger self-confidence. It’s about having deeper God-confidence. And that confidence gives you permission to release the weight of being your own savior. It gives you space to be human without collapsing under the pressure to be superhuman. It gives you a place to rest when your own answers run out, because He never runs out of wisdom or compassion or direction.

One of the most overlooked aspects of believing in Christ is how deeply personal it becomes. We often talk about faith in grand terms, as if it only lives in stories of miracles or dramatic testimonies. But the foundation of belief is built brick by brick in moments that would look unremarkable from the outside: those mornings you wake up discouraged but choose to pray anyway; the afternoons when anxiety tries to tighten your breathing, yet you whisper His name and find your lungs expanding; the late hours when loneliness presses in, and you reach for Scripture not because you expect fireworks but because you need something to hold onto that doesn’t crumble. These moments matter. These moments are where belief becomes muscle.

But here’s the thing most people never say out loud: belief doesn’t always feel like belief. There are days where your faith feels like thin paper, days where your prayers feel unheard, days where you’re convinced you should be further along. And yet, those are often the days when faith is doing its deepest work. You may feel like you’re barely holding on, but what you forget is that Jesus is not asking you to hold the whole world together. He’s asking you to trust that He’s holding you. You don’t have to carry the full weight of belief. You just have to show up. You just have to lean in. You just have to allow Him to be who He has always been.

And that’s where the story begins to shift. Because believing in Jesus means your life has another voice speaking into it besides your own doubts. It means you’re not defined by your worst moment or your biggest fear. It means your story has direction even when you can’t see the path. God doesn’t discard people. He rebuilds them. He reshapes them. He breathes life into places that once felt dead. And the beautiful thing is that He often does this work quietly, beneath the surface, where your insecurity can’t sabotage it.

I’ve learned something through the years: the strength of your faith isn’t measured by how loudly you declare it but by how gently it keeps you standing. The loudest faith is often the weakest. But the faith that whispers through storms, the faith that chooses Jesus when the world gives you a thousand alternatives, the faith that steadies your soul when everything around you is shaking—that’s the faith that transforms a life.

So when I say I believe in Jesus Christ, I’m really saying that my faith is not built on my performance, but on His presence. I’m saying I’ve known moments where I’ve reached the end of myself and discovered He was waiting there with a grace that didn’t lecture me, a peace that didn’t demand qualifications, and a love that didn’t need me to be impressive. And if you’ve ever stood at the edge of your own strength, wondering what happens next, let me tell you: that edge is not an ending. It’s an invitation.

Belief begins where self-reliance ends. And when Jesus steps into that gap, everything changes—not always instantly, not always dramatically, but always deeply. You begin to walk differently. You begin to hope differently. You begin to speak differently. You begin to see the world not as a battlefield where you are outnumbered, but as a place where God has already placed victory beneath your feet long before you could see it.

And this is where the heart of this legacy article takes shape: When a simple sentence becomes a calling, everything in your life gains new meaning. You are no longer drifting. You are no longer guessing. You are no longer defined by the chaos around you. You are defined by the Christ within you. And that identity is strong enough to weather any storm, steady enough to navigate any season, and gentle enough to lift you when you stumble under the weight of your own humanity.

But here’s the deeper truth most people never explore: when you say you believe in Jesus Christ, you are stepping into a lineage of believers who walked through fire, wilderness, heartbreak, and impossible odds, and still refused to let go of the One who held them. You are stepping into the story of people who had every reason to quit but didn’t. People who doubted but still followed. People who felt unqualified but still answered the call. This faith is not a fragile heirloom passed down through generations with gentle handling instructions. It is a rugged, time-tested foundation where countless lives have stood firm despite winds that should have knocked them flat. When I speak that single sentence—my name is Douglas Vandergraph, and I believe in Jesus Christ—I am aligning myself with the faith that outlasted empires, that survived persecution, that endured silence, and that still whispers to every human heart: there is hope beyond what you see.

Yet even with that heritage, belief must become personal or it remains distant. Faith that stays in history can inspire you, but faith that steps into your bloodstream transforms you. And that transformation does not arrive with trumpets. It shows up in moments you don’t even recognize as holy. It slips in quietly during the drive home after a long day when you whisper a tired prayer you’re not even sure God heard. It shows up when life hits you with something you didn’t expect—a loss, a setback, a betrayal—and even though you feel shattered, some small part of you keeps returning to the thought, God has not abandoned me. You might not even say it out loud, but the idea returns like a steady rhythm, a heartbeat of faith beneath your pain.

Sometimes belief feels like silence. Sometimes it feels like nothing is happening at all. But the absence of visible movement is not the absence of God. Some of the deepest spiritual construction happens in the seasons that feel the most still. When you think faith is failing, it’s often taking root. When you think you’re losing ground, heaven is often equipping you with the resilience you’ll need for the next chapter. We don’t grow in the spotlight. We grow underground. And it is that hidden growth that makes belief in Jesus Christ so life-altering. You don’t always notice the day-to-day shifts, but one morning you wake up and realize something is different. The weight that used to suffocate you doesn’t feel quite as heavy. The fear that used to dominate your decisions has lost its edge. The bitterness that used to rise at the mention of certain people has softened into understanding or release. These aren’t random emotional fluctuations. They’re signs that the One you believe in has been quietly renovating the interior of your soul.

I’ve learned that the presence of doubt doesn’t negate belief. If anything, doubt often exposes just how deeply belief matters. We don’t doubt things we don’t care about. We don’t wrestle with truths that don’t shape us. Doubt is not the enemy of faith—it’s the doorway to deeper faith. When you bring your doubts to Jesus, you’re not failing Him. You’re trusting Him with your honesty. You’re letting Him into the parts of you that feel unresolved, unfinished, unpolished. And He doesn’t recoil from those places. He meets you there. He teaches you there. He strengthens you there. The parts of your life you think disqualify you are often the very places He intends to build testimony.

And that’s why believing in Jesus Christ can’t remain a sentence spoken once and set aside. It grows into a rhythm, a lifestyle, a way of seeing the world. It sharpens your vision, not by removing hardship but by revealing purpose inside of it. It shifts your inner posture so that you stop bracing for the worst and begin expecting God to move. You start noticing grace in unexpected places. You start recognizing answers to prayers you forgot you prayed. You begin feeling guided even when you can’t fully articulate how. You become aware of a companionship that does not leave, a mercy that does not run dry, and a peace that does not depend on circumstances. That’s what belief does—it reshapes the inner weather patterns of your life.

When you live from that place, you start carrying yourself differently. Not arrogantly. Not with spiritual bravado. But with a quiet certainty that you are not walking through this world alone. That has a way of changing your reactions. Your perspective. Your tone. Your choices. You begin to respond instead of react. You begin to listen instead of defend. You begin to trust instead of panic. Not because you suddenly became spiritually invincible, but because your belief has taught you something: Jesus has never failed you yet, and He’s not about to start now.

Some people are intimidated by their own imperfections, as if God is surprised by them. As if heaven is expecting spotless performance when all heaven has ever asked of you is honesty and surrender. Belief is not about behaving flawlessly. It’s about belonging fully. It’s about recognizing that Jesus didn’t choose you because you were perfect—He chose you because you were His. And when you understand that, your faith becomes less about striving and more about resting. Less about proving and more about trusting. Less about fear of falling and more about confidence that even if you fall, He knows how to rebuild you.

There is something powerful that happens when you finally embrace that truth. You stop apologizing for believing. You stop shrinking your faith to make others comfortable. You stop diluting your testimony because you’re afraid it won’t sound polished enough. You begin stepping into who you were meant to be—fully, authentically, unapologetically. And the beautiful thing is that this serves others more deeply than you realize. People aren’t moved by perfection; they’re moved by authenticity. They’re moved by truth spoken gently, lived consistently, and carried with humility. When your belief is real, people feel it. They hear it in your voice. They see it in your choices. They sense it in your presence. You become a living reminder that hope is still alive.

This world doesn’t need more Christian performances. It needs more Christian presence. It needs more people who live out their faith in the quiet moments when no one is watching. It needs believers who reflect Jesus not by talking louder, but by loving deeper. Not by winning arguments, but by winning hearts. And that begins with a simple sentence that becomes a calling. My name is Douglas Vandergraph, and I believe in Jesus Christ. That sentence carries responsibility, yes, but not the crushing kind. It carries the responsibility of being available for God. Of letting Him use your life as an encouragement, a light, a testimony, a bridge for others. Some people will encounter Jesus for the first time not in a church, but in you. And that’s not pressure—it’s privilege.

So let this be the legacy rising out of your life: that you believed in Jesus Christ in a world that gave you every excuse not to. That you stood firm when culture shifted. That you held onto hope when fear tried to drown it. That you kept choosing faith over cynicism, compassion over judgment, courage over retreat. And that simple declaration at the core of your identity became the compass that guided your journey through seasons of uncertainty, seasons of growth, seasons of heartbreak, seasons of triumph, and seasons you didn’t understand until much later.

Your belief is not small. Your belief is not weak. Your belief is the quiet strength that has carried you through every wilderness and every breakthrough. And when you reach the end of your story, heaven will not ask whether you were perfect. Heaven will ask whether you trusted the One who was. So keep believing. Keep declaring. Keep walking. Keep standing. That sentence is not just your introduction—it is your assignment, your identity, and the banner of your life.

And may every step you take from here carry the quiet, steady confidence of someone who knows exactly who holds their heart, their story, and their eternity.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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

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

I hear it in my practice all the time: “I want to be more confident.” What does this really mean? When I probe, clients usually express something along the lines of not caring what people think about them, and being able to handle anything that happens to them.

These ideas get bandied about in our culture like slogans, but I find they ring hollow. They seem like obsolete echoes of the American individualist ideal, which deprive us of our humanity. What does that life really look like? How can you have meaningful relationships if you don’t care how anyone feels toward you? I could name some people in high places who operate that way, and they’re not figures I want to emulate.

Being able to “handle” anything—this is about control. People don’t want to feel hijacked by their own emotions. They want to face every challenge in life unfazed. Is this, too, desirable? To move through the world feeling nothing, regardless of what happens to us? Most folks would keep only the good feelings and experiences, but how can you have yin without yang? What is joy without pain, or pride without fear?

The Joy Junkies

Avoiding emotional pain has become the American way of life. Much of my work is about shepherding people through their own feelings, helping them accept the multitudes of life’s experiences, and learn that they can live through those experiences and grow. I’d rather be resilient than unflappable, because when I feel things, it reminds me I’m human.

In our age, when so many corporate and political forces seem keen to turn us into robots, it is rebellious just to be human, to feel things. This means defying the temptation to “feel” good all the time by filling our minds and bodies with stimuli off screens and grocery shelves, because that’s not feeling; it’s numbing.

When we treat anxiety in therapy, we flesh out the details of the fear with a constant refrain of, “And then what?” What will actually happen if this person rejects you, or you miss your deadline, or you get sick? Making the possibilities real often makes them less scary. What remains, after this, are fear of feeling and fear of death.

Because when we really experience things, especially if we were numbing before, our feelings can be frightening. Emotions become overwhelming to the point that people develop anxiety about anything unpleasant, not from the details of what’s happening, but from the discomfort itself. And that makes numbing look awfully tempting, so the cycle repeats.

I can’t help my clients feel good all the time, because that’s impossible. Anyone who says differently is a snake oil salesman. And I can’t make the deep fears go away; we all live with our own mortality. But bad news-good news: it’s better this way, because this is what makes you a person. You’re made of flesh and blood and feelings, and that’s a beautiful thing.

The Painful and the Sublime

Pain, hardship, and stress are necessary parts of life, and make it worth living. It doesn’t mean “confidence” should be a bad word, but how can we redefine it? What if it means being open to the richness of life, in all its dimensions? Being able to endure through hardships and grow, rather than avoiding them? Caring and valuing what people in your life think of you, because you value your connections with them?

Living is scary; I don’t deny that. Every day we face uncertainty, and the only certainty we are given is the one we least want to hear. But I choose to embrace death, not run from it. If life were everlasting, why do anything at all? I find comfort in knowing I have a beginning and an end, and it motivates me to build something of value between them.

Directly or indirectly, I work on this with every client. I try to help people embrace their positions at the helm of their own lives, their ability to shape their experiences. Whatever challenges we face, we have choices available to us, even if those choices are rotten. In the words of Holocaust survivor Victor Frankl, “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

How things affect us is out of our control. We don’t choose our feelings, just like we don’t choose our bodies, or our families. So have grace for yourself. “Confidence” needn’t have anything to do with these things you can’t control. But it can be about building intuition and strength of character. If you allow yourself to embrace the messiness of life and your own humanity, you can discover some wonderful things, like growth, beauty, sublimity, and love. Your experiences will change you, and you just might find that you’re open to being changed.

Sadly, pervasive numbing has degraded human life and relationships. I touched on a lot of this in my social media piece, so I won’t repeat it here. It’s not our fault, for the most part. We’ve been handed the syringe. But it’s still our choice if we want to keep using it. I’m not immune to temptation myself, but I try every day to feel present and alive. I try to orient my life toward celebrating my experiences and connections with other people. I am defiantly humanistic.

Text and Photograph © 2026 Philip Bender

This journey has been so long It's thrown twists and turns at me I thought I was near the end but when I got through the weeds I found another path stretching ahead of me

I chose this path I didn't know it'd be this long but I can't turn around now so all I can do is take it one step at a time

Step by step Day by day I'll reach the end of this path The sky seems dark now but soon, it'll clear up

And the best part is that I'm not walking alone there are so many people walking alongside me holding my hand so I don't need to be scared

So step by step day by day and hand in hand I'll keep walking this path until it opens up to bright, blue skies

#Poetry #Healing #Friendship #Kindness #Hope

In my neighborhood in 2020, we started paying for security in our HOA fees because of car break ins. People assumed that those other people were coming in and trying to steal what we hard-working Americans had purchased. Oh the irony because although we may not live in the ghetto, apparently my neighborhood is ghetto—and this includes the Homeowners Association. What an interesting twist.

Ghetto is a term I am hesitant to use because people associate it with Black people. And, of course, Black = bad. However, I do not live in a “Black neighborhood.” This is the best term I can come up with at the moment because trash just doesn’t hit the same. People are out here thinking that moving out of the city and into pseudo suburban HOA communities—which are statistically most likely to be populated by whites and Asians—is an upgrade. Yeah, an upgrade in fees and violations of privacy!

The HOA sent this email this month (all emphasis theirs):

Dear Forest Brook Neighbors,

We hope you are having a wonderful week. We are writing to follow up on our recent communications and to cordially invite you to our next Board of Directors meeting on Tuesday, February 10, 2026, at 7:00 PM at the Forest Brook Clubhouse.

Navigating Our Growth Together As our community evolves, we know there have been questions regarding how we handle proxies and meet quorum requirements. We hear your concerns and want to ensure our processes are transparent, fair, and legally sound. To provide clarity, we requested a formal opinion from the Association’s attorney regarding the specific timeframes for collecting proxies and determining when a meeting can officially proceed. The attorney’s memorandum is attached to this email. We encourage you to review it so we can have a productive, informed conversation during the meeting. To further support our community, the Association’s attorney will be present at the meeting to answer your questions and provide direct legal clarifications.

What to Expect: Meeting Guidelines Our goal is to create a space where everyone feels comfortable sharing their perspective. To ensure the evening is organized and respectful of everyone’s time, we will be following these simple steps:

• Check-In: Please sign in with the security officer upon arrival so we can accurately track attendance.
• During the Session: To keep the focus on the discussion, we ask that everyone remains seated. Please refrain from approaching the Board table or walking through the room while the meeting is in progress.
• Your Voice Matters: When the floor opens for member comments, please raise your hand. We will call on neighbors one by one to ensure that every person who wants to speak has the opportunity to be heard without interruption.

A Note on Community Spirit We genuinely value your involvement. Your questions and feedback are what help us serve Vista Palms effectively. We simply ask that all dialogue remain courteous and neighborly. While we have security on hand to ensure a safe environment, our true hope is that the evening is defined by the patience and civility that makes our neighborhood a great place to call home.

Questions before the meeting? If you have immediate thoughts or questions you’d like us to consider beforehand, please reach out via the community website or contact property management directly.

We look forward to a great turnout and a collaborative evening!

Warmly, The Vista Palms Board of Directors

 Memorandumremeetingprocedures1.pdf

Community Website: www.mygreencondo.net/vistapalms

Roger L Kessler LCAM Property Manager E: Rkessler@UniquePropertyServices.com P: 813-879-1139 ext 106 P: 813-879-1039

So now, in addition to our other wonderful community amenities, we get to be ID’d and policed in our own meetings. Welcome to 2026—a continuation and escalation of 2025!

I remember one day I was minding my business outside and someone approached me and asked about my neighbor. Stranger Danger! After a few questions, the person identified themselves as a member of the HOA Board. Then, they provided me with some information. The whole time I engaged enough to appear cooperative, but was playing along responding with details that this person already knew. Why would the HOA put me in this situation?

I didn’t really think about this again until last summer when the roof tarp became my latest hot issue with the HOA (And the roof tarp issue was during the time the HOA was also foreclosing on my house. I am still getting to that story.). This is what the “HOA” wrote to me in a July 2025 email in response to my email query about a violation of which I was unaware (in-paragraph emphasis mine):

Any alterations to the exterior of the home must be approved via an ARC/ARB application. The tarp has been there for a long time and we have witnesses stating that. Any repairs that need to be done should have been done by now and will need to be done in order to bring the issue into compliance. Tarps may not remain on roofs and repairs must be made. What is the scheduled date of the roof repair? This issue was about to be sent to the attorney for further enforcement actions.

Thanks,

Roger Kessler, LCAM

The HOA had sent me an e-mail notice that I had an “architectural violation”. I don’t frequently check my emails over the summer because I spend 10 months of the year checking emails incessantly for work. Also, the CDD emails flood my inbox with junk. So, imagine my surprise while in the middle of the HOA foreclosure, I see a string of emails from them.

In this case, what the HOA claimed was wrong. They insisted that I had my whole house tarped for almost a year. I did not. I got at the end of May—right at the start of that same summer. When I asked them how they know when I got my roof tarped, as you can see above, they said they had “witnesses”.

I went on to inform the HOA that I could provide proof that their witness testimony was false. How did the HOA respond to that? They moved the goal post from:

You have had it on too long.

to

You didn’t appropriately submit an ARC to modify the house.

And so they sent it to their attorneys, Mankin Law, anyway.

The only conclusion I have come to is that somebody wants my house. And they have been waiting to buy it with the HOA’s help.

He never knew the world before. Before the touchscreens, the avatars, the voices behind glass. He learned to speak in prompts and swipes, to ask questions before he could spell them. He is native to the interface.

The Augur walks with one foot in the mythic past, one in a gamified, glowing future. He holds the wand of The Magician in one hand and the scythe of Death in the other. Creation and endings are not opposites to him—they are the same motion.

His light:

• Genius for synthesis.
• Born to remix, to rebuild, to reimagine.
• Speaks fluently with both code and chaos.
• Doesn’t ask if something is possible—only how soon.

His shadow:

• Overstimulated. Underformed.
• Trained to perform before he understands.
• Prone to shallow mastery, deep confusion.
• Grows in the shadow of crises not yet named.

But still—he is watching. Still—he is learning.

He sees omens in data. He touches spirits through screens. He is not waiting for the future. He is the future, already booting up.

He is The Augur, and his visions arrive early.

They were born under flickering light. A thousand windows, endless scrolls, every answer already halfway typed. Their cradle glowed blue.

The Dreamling is the archetype that dreams inside the maze. They feels too much, too early. They’re hyper-connected and strangely alone, raised on ambient crisis and curated personas.

And yet—they dream anyway.

They are part Star, part Moon: Hope in one hand, hallucination in the other. They want to believe—but know how easy it is to be lied to.

Their light:

• Sensitive, intuitive, impossibly adaptive.
• They read moods like maps.
• They seek healing, not control.
• They name harm out loud, even if their voice shakes.

Their shadow:

• Dissociation, doom-looping, and hyper-vigilance.
• Identity fractured by filters.
• Trust eroded by irony.
• Agency blurred by options that aren’t real.

They grew up watching everyone perform— and had to decide who they were in the reflection.

But they have something rare: the courage to feel in public. To cry on camera. To hold grief and memes in the same hand.

They are not lost—they are listening. And when the fog parts, they will be the first to see the new star rise.