from Roscoe's Story

In Summary: * As evening slowly slides toward night, I'm listening to one of my favorite news talk radio hosts as he wraps up his show. Stories that are catching most of my attention these days on the Internet involve the US expanding the old Monroe Doctrine, Alberta's move toward independence from Canada, Greenland moving away from Denmark and into the sphere of US protection, and stories that deal with folks aging successfully through their 70's and into their 80's and 90's.

Prayers, etc.: *I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 220.02 lbs. * bp= 143/86 (69)

Exercise: * morning stretches, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups

Diet: * 08:10 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 09:55 – bowl of blood soup, and white bread * 17:00 – fresh watermelon

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 05:00 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:50 – bank accounts activity monitored * 05:55 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 08:50 – start my weekly laundry * 12:30 to 14:00 – watch old game shows with Sylvia * 15:30 – pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials * 19:00 – Tuned into the last hour of the Joe Pags Show on local news talk radio

Chess: * 15:10 – moved in all pending CC games

 
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from Douglas Vandergraph

There is a strange, beautiful, unsettling moment in Revelation 10 where heaven does something that feels very personal. God does not thunder. He does not shake mountains. He does not split the sky with lightning. Instead, He hands something to a man. A scroll. Small. Ordinary. Light enough to hold. And yet, it carries the weight of eternity. That single image alone tells us something profound about how God works in this world. He does not always shout over the chaos. Sometimes He places His truth into human hands and asks us to carry it.

Revelation 10 appears right in the middle of cosmic upheaval. Trumpets have sounded. Judgments have been released. The world is shaking. Fear is everywhere. But instead of escalating the destruction, God pauses the storm and introduces an angel. Not a small angel. Not a gentle angel. A towering one with one foot on the sea and one on the land, clothed in clouds, crowned with a rainbow, face like the sun, legs like fire. This angel represents authority over the entire created order. Land. Sea. Sky. All of it under heaven’s jurisdiction. And in his hand is that small scroll.

This is not a detail to skip over. God could have written this scene in a thousand ways. He could have placed the scroll on a throne. He could have locked it in heaven. He could have had it proclaimed by thunder alone. But instead, He chooses to place it into the hands of John. That is the heartbeat of Revelation 10. Heaven entrusting truth to a human being.

That alone should shake us. We often think of God’s word as something distant, mysterious, locked away in theology books or reserved for preachers or scholars. But Revelation 10 shows us something else. God’s voice is meant to be held. It is meant to be taken. It is meant to be internalized. It is meant to be carried into the world by people who are still walking through dust, fear, doubt, and ordinary days.

John is told to take the scroll and eat it. Not read it. Not analyze it. Eat it. Let it become part of him. Let it pass into his bloodstream. Let it shape his internal world. Let it change the way he thinks, the way he feels, the way he sees reality. And this is where Revelation 10 becomes deeply personal for anyone who has ever tried to live a faithful life in a confusing world.

Because God warns John something shocking. The scroll will be sweet in his mouth and bitter in his stomach. That is not a contradiction. That is the truth about what it means to carry God’s word. There is sweetness in hearing God speak. There is comfort in His promises. There is hope in His presence. There is joy in His truth. But there is also bitterness. There is grief when you realize how broken the world is. There is sorrow when you see how far people wander from love. There is heaviness when you understand the cost of truth.

Faith is not sugar. It is not denial. It is not pretending everything is fine. Faith is sweetness and bitterness together. The sweetness of knowing God is real. The bitterness of realizing how much this world needs Him.

Revelation 10 tells us that anyone who truly carries God’s word will feel both. If all you feel is sweetness, you are probably skimming. If all you feel is bitterness, you are probably overwhelmed. But when the scroll is eaten, when it becomes part of you, you will taste both joy and sorrow. That is what it means to be spiritually awake.

This chapter is not about predicting timelines. It is about understanding what it costs to be entrusted with divine truth. John is not given the scroll so he can admire it. He is given the scroll so he can speak it. After he eats it, he is told he must prophesy again to many peoples, nations, tongues, and kings. In other words, the message does not end with him. It must move through him into the world.

That is where Revelation 10 touches our lives today.

We live in a time when voices are everywhere. Everyone is speaking. Everyone is posting. Everyone is broadcasting. Everyone has opinions. But very few people are carrying something that came from heaven. And the difference is not volume. It is weight. Heaven’s truth carries weight. It is not flashy. It is not always popular. It is not always easy. But it changes people because it is real.

John does not become famous for the scroll. He becomes faithful to it. And that is a crucial distinction. God is not looking for people who will perform His word. He is looking for people who will carry it.

The angel in Revelation 10 roars like a lion. Seven thunders respond. John begins to write what the thunders say, but God stops him. Seal it. Do not write it. That moment teaches us something else about God’s voice. Not everything is meant to be known right now. Not everything is meant to be published. Not everything is meant to be explained. Some things are meant to be trusted.

We live in a culture obsessed with answers. We want everything decoded, everything solved, everything revealed. But God reminds John, and us, that mystery is part of faith. There are truths that belong to heaven. There are things God is doing behind the scenes that we will not understand yet. And faith is not knowing everything. Faith is trusting the One who knows.

The angel then declares that there will be no more delay. God’s plan is moving forward. The mystery of God is being fulfilled. That is not a threat. It is a promise. It means that evil does not get the final word. It means injustice does not last forever. It means suffering is not the end of the story. It means that everything God has spoken will come to pass.

Revelation 10 sits between judgment and redemption like a bridge. It tells us that God is not absent in the chaos. He is speaking in it. And He is choosing people to carry His voice through it.

That is why this chapter matters so deeply in our modern world. We are surrounded by noise. Fear. Political shouting. Social media outrage. Endless opinions. Endless crises. Endless distractions. And in the middle of all of it, God is still handing out scrolls. Not literal ones, but living words. Truth. Calling. Purpose. A sense that your life is meant to carry something bigger than survival.

Some people feel that call as a burden. Some feel it as a fire. Some feel it as a whisper they cannot shake. But however it comes, it comes with sweetness and bitterness. The sweetness of knowing God is using you. The bitterness of realizing how much pain there is to confront.

If you have ever felt overwhelmed by what you see in the world, that may not be weakness. That may be the bitterness of the scroll. If you have ever felt a deep joy when you pray, worship, or read Scripture, that may not be imagination. That may be the sweetness of the scroll. Those two experiences together are not a problem. They are the mark of someone who is carrying something sacred.

Revelation 10 tells us that God is not finished speaking. It tells us that He is still sending His voice into the world through people who are willing to receive it, internalize it, and share it. Not everyone will listen. Not everyone will understand. But that is not the measure of faithfulness. Obedience is.

John is not told how successful he will be. He is told what he must do. Speak. Carry. Prophesy. Deliver what was given.

That is the quiet, radical power of Revelation 10. It reminds us that heaven’s strategy has always been human hearts. God does not drop His word from the sky and walk away. He places it into people and invites them into His work.

This chapter also quietly dismantles the idea that faith is supposed to make life easier. The scroll does not remove suffering. It gives meaning to it. The message does not eliminate struggle. It explains why it matters. John will continue to witness chaos, persecution, and difficulty. But now he will do it as someone who knows the story is bigger than the moment.

That is what it means to live with Revelation 10 in your bones. You do not pretend the world is fine. You know it is broken. But you also know God is not done.

And that knowledge changes how you walk, how you speak, how you endure.

The angel standing on land and sea is a picture of God’s authority over every place your life can go. There is no part of your story outside His reach. There is no territory where His word does not apply. There is no situation that is too far gone for His truth to enter.

And the scroll in his hand is small because God’s truth does not need to be massive to be powerful. It just needs to be real.

That is what Revelation 10 ultimately teaches us. Heaven is not distant. It is near enough to hand you something. God is not silent. He is speaking. And He is still choosing people to carry what He says into a world that desperately needs to hear it.

Once the scroll has been eaten, John is no longer just an observer of God’s revelation. He becomes a carrier of it. That distinction matters more than most people realize. There is a difference between knowing Scripture and embodying it. There is a difference between reading God’s word and becoming someone who lives shaped by it. Revelation 10 quietly moves John across that line. He is no longer simply recording heaven’s messages. He is now participating in them.

This is one of the most uncomfortable truths in the entire Bible. God does not only reveal Himself so we can be informed. He reveals Himself so we can be transformed. The scroll does not sit on John’s shelf. It enters his body. It becomes part of him. That is what makes it sweet and bitter at the same time. Truth that stays outside of you can remain theoretical. Truth that enters you will change how you love, how you grieve, how you forgive, and how you see people.

Many believers struggle not because they lack information, but because they are avoiding internalization. They read Scripture the way someone reads headlines. They skim. They nod. They move on. But Revelation 10 is not about skimming. It is about consuming. It is about letting God’s voice disturb you, comfort you, convict you, and reshape you from the inside out.

That is why the angel’s command is so intimate. Take it. Eat it. Let it become part of you. God does not want distant admirers. He wants living vessels.

And once John has done this, he is told something simple and terrifying. He must speak again. To peoples. To nations. To tongues. To kings. In other words, the message that has entered him must now leave him. It must move outward. It must travel. It must confront power. It must cross cultures. It must endure resistance.

This is where Revelation 10 stops being mystical and starts being practical. Because this is the calling of every believer. Not to become famous. Not to become loud. But to become faithful carriers of what God has placed inside them.

Some people carry hope. Some carry healing. Some carry wisdom. Some carry warnings. Some carry encouragement. But everyone who eats the scroll carries something that the world cannot generate on its own.

The bitterness John feels is not a flaw. It is the cost of caring. When you know God’s heart, you cannot look at suffering the same way. You cannot look at injustice the same way. You cannot look at lost people the same way. You cannot look at broken systems the same way. Love always hurts when it sees what is wrong.

That is why Revelation 10 is such a gift to anyone who feels emotionally heavy in this world. Your sorrow may not be depression. It may be compassion. Your grief may not be weakness. It may be awareness. Your frustration may not be failure. It may be the clash between heaven’s truth and earth’s reality.

But the sweetness is there too. The sweetness of knowing you are not alone. The sweetness of knowing God sees everything. The sweetness of knowing your life has meaning beyond survival. The sweetness of knowing that one day every wrong will be made right.

Revelation 10 holds both without apology. It refuses shallow optimism and refuses hopeless despair. It gives us something deeper. It gives us a calling.

The angel’s feet on land and sea also remind us that God’s message belongs everywhere. Faith is not confined to church buildings. It belongs in workplaces. It belongs in homes. It belongs in hospitals. It belongs in courtrooms. It belongs in schools. It belongs wherever humans are trying to survive in a broken world.

John is not told to only speak to the faithful. He is told to speak to nations and kings. God’s truth is not fragile. It does not need protection. It needs proclamation.

And yet, God also shows restraint. The sealed thunders remind us that not everything is ours to know or share. Wisdom is not blurting everything out. Wisdom is speaking what God has given you and trusting Him with what He has not.

That balance is what makes Revelation 10 so spiritually mature. It teaches us to be bold without being reckless. To be confident without being arrogant. To be faithful without pretending we know everything.

In a world obsessed with certainty, God calls us to trust.

In a world obsessed with noise, God calls us to carry something real.

In a world obsessed with power, God hands us a scroll.

This chapter quietly reveals God’s strategy. He is not just changing history through cosmic signs. He is changing hearts through people who are willing to receive and release His truth.

And that is why Revelation 10 still matters today. Not because it predicts dates. Not because it feeds fear. But because it calls us to be carriers of heaven in the middle of earth.

You do not need to be perfect to hold the scroll. John was not. You do not need to be fearless. John was not. You do not need to understand everything. John certainly did not. You only need to be willing to take what God gives you and let it become part of you.

That is where faith stops being an idea and starts being a life.

And somewhere in the middle of all the chaos of this world, God is still standing with one foot on land and one on sea, still holding out a scroll, still inviting people to carry His voice forward.

Not because He has run out of power.

But because He has chosen to work through hearts.

That is the quiet, world-changing message of Revelation 10.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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from Noisy Deadlines

  • 🚇 My partner and I drove to Montreal on New Year’s to spend some time with our friends there. It’s always nice to get on the metro, check out some stations, and walk around downtown Montreal. It was very cold (-20°C), so being able to walk through Montreal’s underground city was very welcome!
  • 🐧 My #linux Journey is going well. It was actually easier than I thought to make the switch to Ubuntu. A consequence of this change is also moving away from Microsoft and Google services for my personal digital life. So far, pCloud and Fastmail have been working well for my needs. I’m testing Fastmail’s calendar, which seems good enough, and I like that I can sync it with GNOME Calendar.
  • 🗓️ I started using a mini Happy Planner which I find is the perfect size for me. It’s much more portable, so it’s easier to have it with me. I don’t use it to track hourly appointments; instead, I use it for weekly/monthly planning and logging cool things.
  • ⛸️ I'm back on my ice skating classes! I was so happy that in the first class this weekend, I was able to remember how to do cross-overs in both directions. I mean, I wasn’t as afraid anymore to actually lift my feet and cross over! I used to have a terrible mental block with this movement. So, I think the muscle memory is there, I just need to work more on it now (I can’t do them in sequence yet; I only do one at a time, slowly). It also looks like there will be lots of backward skating practice this time around.
  • 🌊 I took some time to do my Yearly Review and set some intentions for 2026. The overall theme for me will be continuing the good things that I established last year. I chose the word FLOW for 2026: trusting my routines & tools, creating less friction, focusing on what brings me joy, and being open, relaxed, and grounded.
  • 🏠 We completed another maintenance project in our house: upgrading our attic insulation to R-60. We hired a contractor to do blown-in cellulose insulation, adding to the existing Rockwool batt insulation we installed there when we moved in. One more house task checked off the list.
  • 🎿 I was supposed to start classic ski lessons this past weekend, but because of the weather (it warmed up to +7C and rained) the trails were closed. The entire three-day weekend class was cancelled, and the only option offered was to enroll in evening classes instead. So, starting tomorrow, I'll have ski classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays until the end of the month! I'm very excited because I've never done this before and I want to build a solid foundation before hitting the trails on my own. It's gonna be tough, since the classes start at 8pm, and will disrupt my bedtime a bit, but it's only for two weeks, so I think I’ll survive.
  • 📖 I started reading Persepolis Rising by James S.A. Corey (Book 7 of The Expanse series). I'm loving it! I forgot how much I LOVE this series! I keep finding excuses to stop what I'm doing just to read. And it's even more fun because we are doing an online book club. Thanks, Joel, for inviting me!
  • 🎮 I want to get back to playing video games this year. I barely played anything after last summer. So I made a list of games I want to continue or start in 2026: Stardew Valley, Pillars of Eternity, Pathfinder: Kingmaker, Citizen Sleeper, Trine 4 and Temple of Elemental Evil (the Steam updated edition!)

📌 Cool online reads:

📺 Cool Videos:

—-

#weeknotes

 
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from Douglas Vandergraph

Revelation 9 is one of those chapters people either sensationalize or avoid. It is full of imagery that sounds like something from a nightmare—smoke pouring from a bottomless pit, creatures like locusts with human faces and scorpion tails, a king over them named Abaddon, and a torment that lasts five months. Many have turned it into horror fiction, conspiracy theory, or end-times spectacle. But Revelation was never written to entertain fear. It was written to awaken truth. And Revelation 9, more than almost any other chapter, exposes something modern culture desperately needs to face: the real nature of evil, the real cost of rejecting God, and the hidden prison people willingly walk into when they try to live without Him.

This chapter does not describe a future movie scene. It describes what happens when spiritual restraint is removed. It describes what happens when human beings, after rejecting light for long enough, are finally allowed to live fully in the darkness they chose. The abyss is not just a pit under the earth. It is the consequence of a heart that refuses God. Revelation 9 is the moment when God stops forcing people to be protected from the lies they insisted on believing.

John begins by seeing a star fallen from heaven. That star is given the key to the bottomless pit. Notice what is happening. This is not Satan breaking into something he does not own. He is given permission. That is important. The abyss exists already. It is not created in this moment. It is unlocked. God allows what has been restrained to come forward. Evil does not gain new power. It simply loses the leash.

When the pit opens, smoke rises so thick that it darkens the sun and the sky. That detail is not random. In Scripture, light is truth, clarity, revelation, and presence. Darkness is deception, confusion, and spiritual blindness. What is coming out of the abyss does not just hurt people—it blinds them. It clouds the mind. It makes it harder to see reality, harder to hear God, harder to distinguish what is real from what is false. This is the psychological side of spiritual warfare that Revelation 9 captures so accurately. Before the torment comes the fog.

Out of that smoke come locusts. But these are not insects. They are described as having faces like humans, hair like women, teeth like lions, iron breastplates, wings that sound like chariots, and tails like scorpions. They are a grotesque mixture of things that should not belong together. And that is the point. Evil is not simply ugly. It is distorted. It is something that looks almost human but isn’t. It imitates life without having life. It mimics identity without having substance.

These creatures are given power to torment people for five months. But there is a crucial line most people miss. They are not allowed to harm the grass, the trees, or the earth. They are only allowed to torment those who do not have the seal of God on their foreheads. That tells us something profound. This is not random destruction. It is targeted. It is spiritual. It is inward.

The torment is described as being like the sting of a scorpion. Anyone who has experienced severe nerve pain knows how brutal this is. It is not immediate death. It is agony that makes you want death. Revelation says people will seek death and not find it. That is one of the most heartbreaking verses in the Bible. It describes despair so deep that people want to stop existing—but they can’t.

This is not God being cruel. This is God allowing people to fully experience the spiritual environment they chose. The torment is not inflicted on believers. It is inflicted on those who refused God’s seal. In other words, those who refused His protection, His truth, His presence. They wanted autonomy. They wanted to be their own god. They wanted to decide right and wrong for themselves. Revelation 9 shows what that really looks like when all illusions are stripped away.

We need to talk about what the abyss represents. The abyss is not just hell. It is not the lake of fire. It is the realm of chaos, deception, and spiritual captivity. Throughout Scripture, the abyss is associated with demonic imprisonment. In Luke 8, when Jesus confronts the man possessed by a legion of demons, they beg Him not to send them into the abyss. Why? Because the abyss is where lies collapse. It is where demons lose their ability to masquerade as something else. It is the place of naked spiritual reality.

Revelation 9 is the moment when that hidden spiritual prison opens and spills into human experience. People who lived their lives believing they were free suddenly discover what has really been influencing them. The torment is not random pain. It is the realization of bondage. It is the agony of seeing truth after a lifetime of self-deception.

This is why the locusts are told not to kill. Death would be mercy compared to what is happening here. The pain is revelation. It is exposure. It is the soul realizing what it has aligned with.

The king over these creatures is named Abaddon in Hebrew and Apollyon in Greek. Both mean “Destroyer.” This is not Satan in his prideful rebellion. This is Satan in his true nature. The destroyer does not build. He does not create. He does not even rule well. He destroys identity, hope, connection, meaning, and truth. Revelation 9 shows his kingdom for what it really is.

What makes this chapter so unsettling is how closely it mirrors the world we are already living in.

Look around. We see unprecedented levels of anxiety, depression, addiction, isolation, identity confusion, and despair. People have more comfort, more technology, more entertainment, and more knowledge than ever before—and yet suicide, self-harm, and emotional collapse are everywhere. People are not dying physically as much as they are dying internally. That is Revelation 9 energy.

The smoke that darkens the sun is the flood of noise, misinformation, ideology, and distraction that clouds the ability to think clearly. The locusts are not literal bugs. They are the forces that torment the mind: shame, fear, comparison, addiction, lust, bitterness, rage, and hopelessness. They sting but they do not kill. They make life unbearable without ending it.

People are seeking escape everywhere—substances, relationships, money, fame, fantasy, spirituality without God—but nothing actually frees them. They want the pain to stop. They just don’t want God. That is exactly what Revelation 9 describes.

The seal of God is not a tattoo. It is belonging. It is identity rooted in Christ. It is knowing who you are, who you belong to, and where your life is anchored. When the smoke rises, those with God’s seal still see light. When the torment comes, they are protected. Not because they are perfect, but because they are connected.

There is another detail we cannot ignore. The locusts are given authority. Evil does not run wild on its own. God is still sovereign. Even in judgment, there are boundaries. The torment lasts five months. It is not forever. It is not random. It is measured. Even when God allows the consequences of rebellion to unfold, He still limits their reach.

This tells us something deeply important about God’s heart. Revelation is not God losing control. It is God allowing truth to finally be seen.

After the first woe, John says two more are coming. But before we get there, we need to understand why Revelation 9 matters so much for us right now.

This chapter is not just about the end of the world. It is about the end of illusions. It is about what happens when humanity finally sees what life without God really is. The torment is not just pain—it is clarity. It is the removal of spiritual anesthesia.

People often ask why God allows suffering. Revelation 9 shows us the deeper question: what happens when God stops intervening?

When God restrains evil, even unbelievers benefit. They experience love, beauty, joy, creativity, and connection because God is still holding the world together. But when that restraint is lifted, when the abyss opens, what comes out is not neutral. It is torment.

That is why this chapter is not meant to terrify believers. It is meant to wake up those who think they can live without God and still be whole.

The most haunting verse in this chapter is not about monsters. It is about people begging for death and not finding it. That is what hopelessness looks like when it is fully exposed.

And yet, even here, God’s mercy is still present. The torment is not annihilation. It is an invitation to repentance. Pain has a purpose. It is meant to drive people back to God.

But Revelation tells us something tragic. Even after this torment, many still refuse to repent. They cling to their idols, their violence, their lies, and their self-made gods. That is not because God is cruel. It is because pride is powerful.

Revelation 9 is not about bugs from hell. It is about what happens when the human heart refuses light for so long that darkness becomes its home.

In the next part, we will go deeper into the sixth trumpet, the four angels at the Euphrates, the massive army, and what it all means for the spiritual condition of the world—and for your own heart right now.

Because Revelation 9 is not about someday.

It is about what is already happening, and what God is still offering before it is too late.

Revelation 9 does not stop with the first wave of torment. The chapter moves into something even more sobering, because after the five months of spiritual agony have passed, after people have been forced to feel what separation from God truly produces, the world is not healed. It is hardened. That is where the sixth trumpet comes in, and it reveals something even more unsettling than the locusts: when people refuse repentance long enough, the problem is no longer external evil. The problem becomes what the heart has learned to love.

John hears a voice from the golden altar before God telling the sixth angel to release the four angels who are bound at the great river Euphrates. That detail is loaded with meaning. The Euphrates was the boundary of ancient Israel’s enemies. It was the edge of the known world, the line between safety and threat. In Genesis, it is one of the rivers flowing from Eden. In later Scripture, it becomes the highway of invading empires. Spiritually, it represents the place where blessing and danger intersect. Releasing angels there is symbolic of something crossing a boundary that was once held in place.

These four angels are not benevolent. They are not protectors. They are restrained forces of judgment that have been waiting for a specific hour, day, month, and year. That phrase is not poetic. It is precise. It means God’s sovereignty is exact even when judgment unfolds. Nothing is late. Nothing is early. Everything happens when the moment is right.

When these angels are released, they lead an army of two hundred million. John describes their horses as breathing fire, smoke, and sulfur. Their riders have breastplates the color of fire and brimstone. Their tails are like serpents. This is not a literal modern army. It is the embodiment of violent, destructive power unleashed without restraint.

A third of mankind is killed. That is not symbolic of a few people. It is massive loss of life. And yet, even after this devastation, the final verses of Revelation 9 tell us something that should shake every reader. The survivors do not repent. They do not turn to God. They continue worshiping demons, idols of gold and silver, and they refuse to give up their murders, sorceries, sexual immorality, and thefts.

That line is devastating. It means that even when truth is undeniable, even when suffering is overwhelming, even when death is all around, some hearts would still rather cling to darkness than surrender to light.

This is the ultimate message of Revelation 9. It is not about monsters or war. It is about the human will.

God is not forcing people into hell. He is honoring what they chose. When someone spends their entire life rejecting God, rejecting truth, rejecting love, rejecting humility, rejecting repentance, Revelation shows us what happens when those choices finally become reality.

Hell is not God torturing people. Hell is God allowing people to have a world without Him.

The locusts reveal what life without God feels like inside. The armies reveal what life without God looks like outside. One destroys the soul. The other destroys society.

We are already watching both happen.

Look at how quickly anger turns into violence. Look at how easily lies become law. Look at how entertainment has replaced meaning. Look at how sexuality has been reduced to consumption. Look at how people dehumanize one another online. Look at how despair is normalized. Look at how children are confused about their identity. Look at how truth is treated as hate and lies are treated as virtue.

This is not political. This is spiritual. It is Revelation 9 unfolding in slow motion.

The smoke is everywhere. The torment is everywhere. The confusion is everywhere. But so is God’s mercy.

Because Revelation is not just a warning. It is an invitation.

The seal of God still protects. The name of Jesus still saves. Grace is still available. Repentance is still possible. No one has to go through the abyss.

Revelation 9 is terrifying if you want to live without God. But it is comforting if you belong to Him. It tells you that no matter how dark the world becomes, you are not abandoned. The locusts cannot touch you. The destroyer does not own you. The abyss is not your home.

Your identity is sealed.

The most important truth in this chapter is not that evil is powerful. It is that evil is limited. It has a king, but it is not the King. It has authority, but it is borrowed. It has time, but it is measured.

God is still on the throne.

Revelation 9 is God pulling back the curtain and saying, “This is what your choices lead to. Choose wisely.”

If you feel overwhelmed by the world right now, if you feel the smoke in your mind, if you feel stung by anxiety, shame, or despair, this chapter is not condemning you. It is calling you. It is saying there is still a way out of the pit before it ever opens.

Jesus is that way.

The abyss does not have to define you.

The destroyer does not have to rule you.

The torment does not have to claim you.

You can be sealed.

You can be free.

You can belong.

And that is why Revelation 9, as terrifying as it sounds, is actually a chapter of mercy.

Because it shows us what we are being saved from.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube

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from Café histoire

Nouvelle Fondation. A mi-décembre, j’ai acquis d’occasion un ThinkPad T480, reconditionné avec Linux Mint installé. Ceci est la chronique de ce choix et de ce passage de l’univers Apple à l’univers Linux. l

De passage au Bachibouzouk à Vevey, je retrouve sur le présentoir des journaux une très vieille connaissance que j'avais perdu de vue, mais que je souhaite retrouver plus régulièrement: le numéro du mois de janvier 2026 du Monde diplomatique. Avec l'envie d'ailleurs de le lire sous son format papier et non numérique.

Linuxien dans le vent !

Eloge du papier (Monde Diplomatique, janvier 2026)

A première vue, il peut paraître paradoxal, dans ce journal linuxien, de consacrer un billet à un article du Monde diplomatique faisant l'éloge du papier.

Pourtant l'incise de cet article, explicite le sens de ma démarche. Elle s'inscrit parfaitement dans la droite ligne de l'adoption d'un portable tournant sous Linux et plus particulièrement de sortir de la guerre de l'attention :

Comment dissiper le brouillard des données, de nouvelles, d'images qui grésille sans trêve sur nos écrans ? Une méthode révolutionnaire, quoique vieille de deux millénaires, pourrait bien offrir un asile aux déserteurs de la guerre de l'attention. Ses vertus stupéfient ses usages son pouvoir affole la Silicon Valley.

La lecture est un moyen d'augmenter le temps humain disponible hors algorithme. Je maîtrise le rythme de lecture. Je peux revenir en arrière, m'arrêter plus facilement que de scroller désespérément l'écran de mon ordinateur. Une manière de gérer le déferlement de données et de l'impossibilité de toutes les assimiler. Ralentir les travaux en quelque sorte.

Je me dis aussi que j'ai trouvé un lieu pour le lire accompagné d'une boisson et de l'ambiance très agréable de ce lieu.

Cela me fait penser également que les bistrots de quartier méritent autant d'être soutenus que la presse. Je pourrai ainsi acheter le journal et prendre le temps de le lire au café. Inutile de me rappeler que café et journal sont des dignes représentants de la sociabilité bourgeoise. La bourgeoisie n'est plus ce qu'elle était pour paraphraser Simone Signoret.

Dans le prolongement, je suis aussi venu avec mon Pentax 17, appareil photo argentique, bien éloigné des appareils numériques que j'affectionne également. Là aussi, je ralentis le rythme...

Tags : #AuCafé #Linux #ThinkPad #ŧ480

 
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from DrFox

Pendant longtemps, j’ai cru que comprendre était une forme de salut. Que lire encore un livre, puis un autre, puis encore un autre, allait finir par mettre de l’ordre. Psychologie. Philosophie. Spiritualité. Neurosciences. Attachement. Trauma. Sens. J’ai tout traversé avec sérieux, rigueur, parfois même avec ferveur. Pas pour briller. Pas pour convaincre. Pour tenir. Pour rester debout. Pour ne pas sombrer dans quelque chose de flou et d’incontrôlable.

Lire, penser, analyser m’a sauvé à certains moments. Je ne renie rien de cela. Les livres m’ont offert des mots quand je n’en avais pas. Des cartes quand je marchais dans le brouillard. Des cadres quand tout à l’intérieur menaçait de se dissoudre. Ils ont été des béquilles solides. Et parfois même des compagnons sincères.

Mais il y a un moment où la béquille empêche de marcher.

Je m’en suis rendu compte sans drame. Sans rupture brutale. Juste une lassitude tranquille. Une sensation étrange. Comme si je savais déjà ce que j’allais lire avant d’ouvrir le livre. Comme si chaque nouveau concept venait s’ajouter à une étagère déjà trop pleine. Comme si je pouvais expliquer l’émotion avant même de la sentir.

Et surtout, comme si je m’éloignais du vivant.

Il y a une fuite en avant possible dans la connaissance. Une fuite élégante. Socialement valorisée. Silencieuse. On ne la questionne pas beaucoup parce qu’elle a l’air saine. Lire pour comprendre. Analyser pour ne pas répéter. Nommer pour apaiser. Tout cela est vrai. Jusqu’à un certain point.

Après ce point, comprendre devient une manière d’éviter.

Éviter de ressentir sans filet. Éviter de rester dans une émotion sans la disséquer. Éviter de dire je ne sais pas. Éviter l’impuissance nue. Éviter le banal. Éviter le trivial. Éviter le corps parfois.

La psychologie peut devenir une armure. La philosophie une tour d’ivoire. La spiritualité une hauteur confortable depuis laquelle on observe la douleur sans s’y laisser tomber complètement. On croit être profond alors qu’on est surtout à distance.

J’ai commencé à sentir que je me racontais encore des histoires. Des histoires plus sophistiquées. Plus cohérentes. Plus belles parfois. Mais des histoires quand même. Des récits bien construits pour rester maître à bord. Pour garder une forme de contrôle intérieur. Pour ne pas être simplement un homme fatigué. Un père inquiet. Un amant blessé. Un humain déçu. Un humain aimant.

Alors j’ai laissé les livres de côté.

J’ai arrêté de chercher des réponses qui me mettaient au-dessus de l’expérience. J’ai cessé de vouloir être celui qui comprend. J’ai accepté d’être celui qui traverse. Sans toujours savoir où il va. Sans pouvoir expliquer ce qu’il ressent. Sans cadre immédiat pour tenir ce qui tremble.

Il y a quelque chose de profondément humiliant là-dedans. Et profondément juste.

Redevenir banalement humain, c’est accepter de ne pas sublimer chaque chose. C’est vivre une tristesse sans en faire un chapitre. Une colère sans en faire un concept. Une peur sans la relier à une théorie de l’attachement ou à une blessure archaïque. C’est dire aujourd’hui je vais mal sans chercher pourquoi immédiatement. C’est dire je t’aime sans analyser la structure du lien. C’est dire je suis perdu sans transformer cette perte en quête initiatique.

C’est rester là.

Il y a une forme de maturité à accepter l’inachevé. À tolérer le flou. À vivre sans commentaire intérieur permanent. À ne pas transformer chaque émotion en matériau de réflexion. À laisser certaines choses être ce qu’elles sont. Simples. Brutes. Inconfortables. Parfois décevantes.

J’ai réalisé que je pouvais me cacher derrière l’intelligence. Derrière la lucidité. Derrière la capacité à mettre des mots. Et que cette compétence, aussi précieuse soit-elle, pouvait devenir une manière d’éviter la vulnérabilité la plus simple. Celle qui ne cherche pas à être comprise. Celle qui a juste besoin d’être là.

Il y a une sagesse discrète dans le fait de ne pas savoir. Dans le fait de ne pas lire. Dans le fait de ne pas expliquer. Dans le fait de vivre une journée ordinaire sans la transformer en enseignement. Dans le fait de se lever fatigué. De faire ce qu’il y a à faire. De rater parfois. De réussir parfois. Et de ne pas tirer de conclusion générale.

Banalement humain, c’est peut-être ça.

Ce n’est pas renoncer à penser. C’est arrêter de penser pour ne pas sentir. Ce n’est pas rejeter la profondeur. C’est arrêter de confondre profondeur et distance. Ce n’est pas devenir simple d’esprit. C’est devenir simple de cœur.

Les livres reviendront peut-être. Différemment. Plus tard. Sans urgence. Sans avidité. Sans cette sensation que si je ne comprends pas, je vais disparaître. Aujourd’hui, je préfère écouter le silence entre deux pensées. Le corps quand il parle sans mots. La fatigue quand elle demande du repos et non une explication.

Je ne cherche plus à être un homme cohérent. Je cherche à être un homme présent.

Et ça, aucun livre ne peut le faire à ma place.

 
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from The happy place

I really wanted to write about pineapple and pineapples.

For my thirtieth birthday, we took a cruise ship. I was wearing my yellow polo shirt and drank Piña Colada — my favourite drink — through a straw.

With me were some of my favourite people,

my family.

Some of them,

they hurt me.

I am not yet able to tell the tale plainly.

I don’t understand enough.

It’s not the type of thing that has a clear timeline. Rather, it’s exactly like they were the pineapple in my fruit salad and I was (in this analogy) allergic.

It might have developed suddenly or over time, as these things do. At some point, I kept eating — the same way I always had. It left me with (metaphorical) blisters on my tongue, without me knowing why they were there.

Some time during the following years, I concluded that my tongue was supposed to be swollen. Like that was just the way of things.

Until I stopped thinking there was anything wrong with it to begin with. Even as it kept growing, were someone to ask what was up with my tongue, I wouldn’t have even understood the question.

Finally, the pineapple was too much — the allergy so intense that it almost suffocated me. I stood there in front of the mirror, having reached some final threshold, and realised:

• It’s not supposed to hurt like this to speak.

• Breathing shouldn’t be this hard.

• Most people don’t have tongues this swollen, with blisters all over them.

When it dawned on me that it was all from the pineapple — which I love so much — something broke inside of me.

It hurts.

Even though I know there are other fruits you could put in there instead, like oranges — small representations of the sun — it’s never going to be the same.

And physalis.

I am not sure whether I will ever be able to eat pineapple again. Realistically, I could probably eat it once a year. But is it worth it?

(It’s not)

 
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from Brand New Shield

It has indeed been awhile since I posted on here. Entries on here will be a little more sporadic over the next few months as this is my busy time of year for my actual job. I know I'm a little late to the party here but I want to wish everyone a happy new year!

Sportsbooks, media rights, and leagues themselves have created a triangle of sorts over the past few years. We have sportsbooks who have their names on networks, we have leagues who have deals with sportsbooks, and of course we have the media rights deals leagues have with the networks and apps. While this makes a whole bunch of money for the stakeholders of all those parties (some of which have massive conflicts of interests), it's the fans who lose out. First though, I want to discuss what is going on with Main Street Sports, the operator of the FanDuel RSNs.

Main Street Sports, the company that operates what are now known as FanDuel Sports Networks, is in dire straits and if they do not get bought out soon, they will go bankrupt. The Major League Baseball Teams who had media rights deals with FanDuel RSNs opted out of their broadcast deals to paint a picture of how bad the situation is. This does not affect the nationwide FanDuel TV, which used to be TVG, that is a whole separate entity which I will get into in a bit. First, RSNs (Regional Sports Networks) are mostly dying out as the media landscape is changing. Companies like Main Street Sports and others who solely operate RSNs are feeling the pinch of lower advertising revenue along with higher costs for the broadcast rights of the teams that they air. This dynamic is why RSNs would not be a viable way for the proposed Brand New Shield to distribute its media rights. Second, the FanDuel Branding I believe hurt the RSNs just like the Bally's Branding before it because of the fact those brands were built on gambling. It was different when they were Prime Sports Networks or Fox Sports Networks or NBC Sports Networks (a few of the NBC Sports Networks are still around). The naming rights deals with the Sportsbooks to me were one of the gravest mistakes the RSNs made which is why a company like Main Street Sports is in such a bad predicament. Many people do not associate premier sports television coverage with sports betting, and quite frankly they never will.

Now there is also the national FanDuel TV which used to be TVG (which was primarily a horse racing channel). FanDuel TV has turned into more of a sports talk/sports betting channel with personalities like Kay Adams and such leading the way on their programming. They also have a deal with the Indoor Football League to air games including the championship game. While this could be great for the IFL, it comes at a costs in terms of league image and integrity. As I've mentioned before, I don't believe FanDuel TV would offer such a deal unless they could get betting revenue from it. The IFL just doesn't have the footprint for FanDuel to offer such a deal without such a benefit for FanDuel involved. While the IFL will undoubtedly get more exposure and the opportunity to grow the fan base, they will also face similar questions like the NFL does in terms of its relationship with FanDuel. Is there a script? Are games rigged? Establishing such a relationship creates these questions regardless if there's any foul play involved or not.

I'd still like to think that integrity still matters at an organizational level in Sport Management. That is why I ask these questions and post about these types of relationships on here so that if/when the opportunity to do better comes along, we do better when that opportunity arises. The gambling and media rights landscapes for sports are ever-changing and maybe, just maybe, there's a chance to change them for the better.

 
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from Douglas Vandergraph

There is a moment in Revelation 8 that is so strange, so emotionally unsettling, and so spiritually heavy that most people read past it without really letting it hit them, and yet it may be one of the most important verses in the entire book of Revelation for anyone who has ever felt forgotten, delayed, or unheard by God. John writes that when the Lamb opened the seventh seal, there was silence in heaven for about half an hour. Not thunder. Not angels singing. Not the sound of worship. Not the roar of judgment. Silence. Heaven, the place that never stops praising, the place that never sleeps, the place that never stops moving, suddenly goes quiet. That silence is not emptiness. That silence is attention. It is the sound of all of heaven leaning forward. It is the sound of eternity pausing because something on earth has finally reached God in a way that demands response.

This chapter is not primarily about disasters falling from the sky. It is not mainly about trumpets and fire and hail and blood. It is about what happens when prayers that were whispered in pain, cried in secret, and spoken in despair finally reach the throne of God in full. Revelation 8 is where the suffering of the saints stops being ignored and starts being answered. The judgments that follow do not come from anger alone. They come from justice awakened by intercession.

John is allowed to see what no one on earth gets to see. He sees seven angels standing before God, and they are given seven trumpets. Trumpets in Scripture are not background music. Trumpets announce something that cannot be ignored. They declare that what was hidden is now revealed. They are used for coronations, for war, for divine announcements, for the arrival of God’s authority into human history. But before any trumpet sounds, something else happens. Another angel appears. This angel is not blowing a trumpet. This angel is carrying a golden censer, and he is standing at the altar. He is given much incense to offer with the prayers of all the saints on the golden altar before the throne.

That one sentence changes everything. The incense is not symbolic decoration. In Scripture, incense represents prayer rising before God. What John sees is not just angels and altars. He sees every prayer that was ever prayed in faith and pain now being gathered, mixed, and presented before the throne of the living God. That means the prayers of the persecuted church, the prayers of parents who buried children, the prayers of believers who were imprisoned, the prayers of those who died alone in faith, the prayers of people who were mocked, beaten, silenced, and ignored for following Jesus, all of it is now in one place. Heaven is not silent because nothing is happening. Heaven is silent because everything is happening.

This is where Revelation 8 becomes intensely personal. Because it means that none of your prayers were wasted. None of your tears were lost. None of your cries vanished into the air. None of your whispered pleas were ignored. The silence in heaven is not God hesitating. It is God listening. It is the pause before divine response. It is the intake of breath before the storm of justice is released.

Then John sees something terrifying and beautiful at the same time. The angel takes the censer, fills it with fire from the altar, and throws it to the earth. That fire had been burning in the presence of God. That fire had been touching the prayers of the saints. When it hits the earth, there are peals of thunder, rumblings, flashes of lightning, and an earthquake. What that means is that prayer does not stay in heaven. Prayer comes back to earth as power. Prayer returns as consequence. Prayer returns as God’s will breaking into human systems that have been resisting Him.

Too many people think of prayer as passive. Revelation 8 shows it is explosive. The prayers of the saints are what release the judgments of God. The world is not shaken by politics. It is shaken by intercession. Empires do not fall because of armies. They fall because heaven has decided that enough is enough. And heaven makes that decision because of what God’s people have been crying out for.

When the first trumpet sounds, hail and fire mixed with blood are hurled down upon the earth, and a third of the earth is burned up. A third of the trees are burned up. All green grass is burned up. This is not random. In Scripture, trees and grass often represent human systems, prosperity, growth, and stability. What is being judged here is not just nature. It is the illusion of human self-sufficiency. God is striking at the things people trust more than Him. He is touching the economic systems, the agricultural systems, the environmental structures that make humanity think it can survive without God. A third is burned, not all. Judgment is still restrained. Mercy is still present. Even in wrath, God limits destruction because His desire is repentance, not annihilation.

The second trumpet brings something like a great mountain blazing with fire that is thrown into the sea. A third of the sea becomes blood. A third of the living creatures in the sea die. A third of the ships are destroyed. In the ancient world, the sea represented commerce, trade, travel, and global connection. God is now touching the flow of the world. The systems of profit, the systems of movement, the systems that connect nations and economies. Revelation is not anti-creation. It is anti-idolatry. When humanity builds a world that worships money, speed, power, and expansion, God will shake those foundations.

The third trumpet brings a star called Wormwood that falls on the rivers and springs of water, making them bitter so that many people die from the waters. In Scripture, water represents life, truth, and sustenance. Wormwood means bitterness. This is not just a physical poisoning. It is a spiritual one. It is what happens when truth is corrupted, when lies are normalized, when deception flows through the systems people depend on. A poisoned culture eventually poisons its people. Revelation is showing what happens when humanity drinks from sources that are no longer clean.

The fourth trumpet darkens a third of the sun, moon, and stars. Light is reduced. Night becomes longer. Day becomes dimmer. This is not just astronomical. It is spiritual. God is withdrawing clarity. When people reject truth long enough, darkness becomes the norm. Confusion becomes the atmosphere. Revelation 8 is showing a world that no longer knows where to look for light because it rejected the Light when He came.

But through all of this, the most shocking truth remains this: none of this started with anger. It started with prayer. The entire chain of events in Revelation 8 begins at an altar where incense and prayers rise before God. That means that what is happening in the world is connected to what God’s people have been saying to Him. Heaven is responding to the cries of the faithful.

This should change how you see your own life. Because if the prayers of persecuted believers can move heaven and shake earth, then your prayers are not small. When you pray for justice, for healing, for restoration, for God to act, you are participating in the same spiritual mechanism that moves Revelation forward. You are not ignored. You are being collected. Your prayers are being stored. They are being weighed. And one day, they will be answered in ways you cannot yet see.

Revelation 8 is not meant to make you afraid. It is meant to make you confident. It shows that God is not distant. He is not detached. He is not slow because He does not care. He is slow because He is listening to everything. And when He moves, He moves with the full authority of heaven behind Him.

This chapter is the proof that God has a memory. He remembers every injustice. He remembers every martyr. He remembers every act of faith. He remembers every tear. He remembers every prayer. And when the time is right, He answers in ways that reshape the world.

What you are seeing in Revelation 8 is not a cruel God. You are seeing a just God who has finally decided to respond to the cries of His people. The silence in heaven was not absence. It was focus. It was the moment before eternity spoke back to history.

And when heaven speaks, the earth listens.

The most sobering truth about Revelation 8 is not what falls from the sky, but what rises from the altar. Everything that shakes the world in this chapter is born in prayer. That alone should radically change how you understand both suffering and intercession. The persecuted church was not powerless. The oppressed believers were not forgotten. Their cries were not just emotional expressions of pain. They were legal appeals in the court of heaven, and Revelation 8 shows us the moment those appeals were answered.

When the eagle flies in mid-heaven and cries out, “Woe, woe, woe to those who dwell on the earth,” it is not because God enjoys destruction. It is because humanity has ignored mercy for so long that justice must now speak. Even here, God warns before the worst arrives. Revelation never shows God ambushing humanity. He always sends signals. He always gives time. He always calls people to turn back.

What makes this chapter so powerful is that it connects prayer to history. Too often believers think prayer is about changing how they feel. Revelation 8 shows prayer changes how the world moves. The saints did not stop Rome by swords. They stopped it by faith. They did not overcome persecution by violence. They overcame it by endurance and truth. And heaven recorded every moment of that faithfulness.

The incense was not just fragrance. It was testimony. It was proof that the church endured. It was proof that faith survived. It was proof that love did not die even when hatred ruled. When God threw that fire back to the earth, He was not throwing punishment alone. He was throwing validation. He was saying that every act of faith mattered.

This is why Revelation 8 should give you courage when you feel unseen. If heaven keeps records of prayer, then nothing in your life is wasted. The season where you felt like nothing was happening was actually the season where everything was being recorded. The silence you experienced was not abandonment. It was accumulation.

God is not slow. He is thorough. He waits until the full weight of prayer has been gathered before He acts, because when He acts, He acts with perfect justice. No innocent cry is ignored. No faithful tear is forgotten.

This chapter also exposes something about the modern world. We live in a culture that believes power comes from platforms, armies, money, and influence. Revelation 8 reveals the real engine behind history is intercession. The most dangerous people on earth are not the ones with weapons. They are the ones who pray. They are the ones who refuse to stop believing that God hears them.

That is why tyrants fear faith. That is why oppressive systems try to silence worship. Because prayer moves something they cannot control.

The trumpets are terrifying not because they are loud, but because they announce that God has stepped into history in response to the cries of His people. What follows in Revelation is not chaos. It is accountability. It is the collapse of a world that was built without God.

If you ever wondered whether your faith matters in a broken world, Revelation 8 answers you. Heaven is listening. Earth will respond. And nothing done in Christ is ever forgotten.

This chapter stands as one of the most profound promises in Scripture: God hears His people, and He will answer them in ways that shake the world.

Your prayers are not small. They are part of something eternal.

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

 
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from DrFox

Nous ne transmettons pas ce que nous souhaitons être à nos enfants. Nous leur transmettons ce que nous sommes réellement.

Cette phrase dérange parce qu’elle retire une illusion confortable. Celle qui consiste à croire que l’amour suffit. Que les bonnes intentions compensent. Que le rôle parental, bien tenu, protège de tout. Elle dérange parce qu’elle nous oblige à déplacer le regard. Non plus vers ce que nous montrons, mais vers ce que nous habitons.

Un enfant n’apprend pas par imitation consciente. Il apprend par imprégnation. Il ne copie pas nos mots, il absorbe notre état intérieur. Il ne retient pas nos discours éducatifs, il ressent notre manière d’être au monde. Notre rapport à la peur, au conflit, à la frustration, au manque, au désir. Notre façon d’habiter le silence. Notre manière de respirer la vie quand rien ne va.

Les adultes parlent beaucoup aux enfants. Trop parfois. Ils expliquent, rassurent, justifient. Ils veulent transmettre des valeurs, des repères, une vision juste. Mais ce qui se transmet vraiment se joue ailleurs. Dans l’invisible. Dans la cohérence ou l’incohérence entre ce qui est dit et ce qui est vécu. Dans l’écart entre l’image et la réalité intérieure.

Les apparences rassurent les adultes. Elles donnent le sentiment de faire ce qu’il faut. Une famille qui fonctionne. Un parent solide. Un quotidien qui tient. Mais les enfants ne vivent pas dans les apparences. Ils vivent dans le climat émotionnel. Ils sentent les tensions non nommées, les tristesses contenues, les colères polies, les peurs rationalisées. Ils sentent quand l’adulte se force. Quand il joue un rôle. Quand il tient pour ne pas tomber.

Alors ils s’adaptent. Ils se taisent. Ils s’agitent. Ils somatisent. Ils deviennent sages trop tôt ou turbulents sans comprendre pourquoi.

Non pas parce qu’ils vont mal eux, mais parce qu’ils portent ce qui circule dans le système. L’enfant est rarement le problème. Il est souvent le messager.

Les contrats tacites sont particulièrement délétères. Ce sont ces accords silencieux que l’adulte passe avec lui même. Je ne montre rien pour protéger. Je tiens bon pour les enfants. Je fais semblant que tout va bien. Ces stratégies partent souvent d’un bon sentiment. Mais elles créent une dette invisible. L’enfant sent qu’il y a quelque chose à ne pas voir, à ne pas dire, à ne pas déranger. Il apprend que certaines émotions n’ont pas de place. Que la vérité relationnelle est dangereuse. Que l’amour passe par l’effacement.

Vouloir transmettre le meilleur sans se transformer soi même revient à déléguer le travail intérieur à l’enfant. C’est lui demander de digérer ce que l’adulte n’a pas encore traversé. C’est lui confier une charge émotionnelle qui n’est pas la sienne.

Beaucoup de parents veulent changer leurs enfants. Peu acceptent de se changer eux mêmes. Parce que se transformer réellement n’est pas confortable. Cela demande de renoncer à certaines identités. À certaines justifications. À certaines fidélités invisibles à son histoire. Cela demande de regarder ses mécanismes de défense, ses zones de fuite, ses rigidités, ses automatismes. De reconnaître ce qui n’est pas régulé. Ce qui déborde. Ce qui est anesthésié.

Se changer ne veut pas dire devenir parfait. Ça veut dire devenir responsable de son monde intérieur.

Un parent aligné n’est pas un parent sans failles. C’est un parent qui sait quand il est débordé. Qui sait s’arrêter. Qui sait réparer. Qui sait dire je ne sais pas. Qui sait reprendre ce qui lui appartient.

C’est dans cette posture que la transmission devient saine. Parce que l’enfant n’a plus besoin de compenser. Il n’a plus besoin de porter. Il peut rester à sa place. Celle d’un enfant qui explore, qui teste, qui ressent, qui apprend.

Les enfants n’ont pas besoin d’adultes héroïques. Ils ont besoin d’adultes vivants.

Des adultes capables de regarder leur propre histoire sans la rejouer. Capables d’accueillir leurs émotions sans les projeter. Capables d’assumer leurs contradictions sans les faire payer à l’autre. Capables de faire le travail à l’endroit juste.

Quand un parent se transforme réellement, sans mise en scène, sans posture morale, quelque chose change immédiatement. L’atmosphère s’allège. Les tensions se redistribuent. L’enfant n’a plus besoin de parler avec son corps. Ni avec ses symptômes. Il peut redevenir ce qu’il est. Un être en croissance, pas un régulateur émotionnel.

La transmission la plus puissante est silencieuse. Elle passe par la façon d’être là. Par la manière de traverser les tempêtes. Par la capacité à rester présent à soi et à l’autre.

Ce n’est pas ce que nous voulons être qui éduque nos enfants. C’est ce que nous sommes prêts à transformer en nous.

 
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from DrFox

Je reviens vous parler d’un temps passé. Oublie.

Oublie le bruit. Oublie les écrans. Oublie la vitesse. Oublie l’optimisation de soi. Oublie les discours sur la performance émotionnelle. Oublie les mots compliqués pour dire des choses simples. Reviens avec moi à un temps où le câlin était le plus beau des cadeaux.

Il y a eu un temps où un corps contre un autre suffisait. Où l’on ne cherchait pas à comprendre. Où l’on ne cherchait pas à réparer. Où l’on ne cherchait pas à expliquer. On se prenait dans les bras et quelque chose se calmait. Pas tout. Pas définitivement. Mais assez pour respirer à nouveau.

Le câlin du père. Celui qui ne parlait pas beaucoup. Celui qui ne savait pas toujours dire je t’aime. Mais qui posait une main lourde et stable sur l’épaule. Une présence. Une masse. Une gravité. Le message n’était pas verbal. Il disait je suis là. Tu peux t’appuyer. Le monde est rude mais tu n’es pas seul dedans. Ce câlin-là n’avait pas besoin de durée. Il avait besoin de justesse.

Le câlin de la mère. Celui qui enveloppe. Qui contient. Qui ramène au centre. Un lieu sans questions. Sans attente. Sans condition. Un endroit où l’on peut se laisser tomber sans avoir à tenir. Où les larmes ne sont pas un problème à résoudre mais un mouvement à accompagner. Ce câlin-là ne demandait rien. Il offrait un refuge.

Le câlin du frère. Ou de la sœur. Celui qui dit on est dans le même camp. Même quand on se bat. Même quand on se jalouse. Même quand on s’éloigne. Un câlin un peu maladroit parfois. Trop fort. Trop bref. Mais chargé d’une loyauté silencieuse. Celui qui dit je te reconnais comme mien. Même quand je ne sais pas comment te le montrer.

Le câlin de l’ami. Ou de l’amie. Celui qui ne doit rien au sang ni au contrat. Celui qui naît d’un choix libre et répété. Un câlin sans hiérarchie. Sans promesse d’éternité. Sans dette affective. Il dit je te vois tel que tu es ici et maintenant. Il accueille sans vouloir corriger. Il soutient sans vouloir diriger. C’est un câlin d’égal à égal. Parfois discret. Parfois inattendu. Souvent rare. Mais quand il a lieu, il confirme quelque chose de précieux. Tu peux être toi sans rôle à tenir. Sans devoir séduire. Sans devoir protéger. Juste être. Et c’est suffisant.

Et puis le câlin du couple. Celui qui n’est pas encore encombré par les comptes à régler. Par les griefs accumulés. Par les silences stratégiques. Un câlin qui ne cherche pas à obtenir. Ni à rassurer l’ego. Ni à calmer une peur déguisée en désir. Juste deux corps qui se retrouvent. Qui se disent sans mots je choisis d’être là avec toi.

Il y avait les câlins publics. Ceux qui ne craignaient pas le regard des autres. Ceux qui n’avaient pas honte de la tendresse. Une main posée dans le dos. Une étreinte sur un quai de gare. Un bras autour des épaules dans la rue. Ces gestes simples disaient l’essentiel. Nous sommes liés. Nous assumons ce lien. Nous ne le cachons pas.

Et il y avait les câlins privés. Ceux de la nuit. Ceux du chagrin. Ceux de la fatigue. Ceux où l’on ne joue plus aucun rôle. Où le corps de l’autre devient un appui brut. Une chaleur. Une respiration qui synchronise la nôtre. Ces câlins-là n’étaient pas faits pour être vus. Ils étaient faits pour survivre ensemble à ce qui déborde.

Puis quelque chose s’est déplacé. Lentement. Insidieusement. On a commencé à parler plus qu’à toucher. À analyser plus qu’à ressentir. À se méfier du corps. À sexualiser le contact. À soupçonner l’intention derrière chaque geste. Le câlin est devenu suspect. Trop infantile. Trop intrusif. Trop ambigu. On l’a remplacé par des mots. Des likes. Des validations abstraites.

On a oublié que le corps comprend avant le langage. Que la sécurité ne se négocie pas. Qu’elle se transmet. Peau contre peau. Respiration contre respiration. Système nerveux contre système nerveux. Un câlin bien donné remet plus d’ordre qu’un long discours.

Aujourd’hui, on manque de câlins et on appelle ça de l’anxiété. On manque de bras et on appelle ça de l’indépendance. On manque de chaleur et on appelle ça de la maturité émotionnelle. Mais le corps, lui, n’a pas changé. Il continue de réclamer ce qu’il a toujours connu. La proximité. La lenteur. La présence incarnée.

Je ne parle pas d’un retour naïf. Je ne parle pas d’abolir les limites. Je parle de se souvenir. De réapprendre à offrir un câlin sans agenda. Sans attente de retour. Sans mise en scène. Un câlin qui dit je te vois. Je te sens. Tu existes ici avec moi.

Peut être que grandir, finalement, ce n’est pas apprendre à se passer des câlins. C’est apprendre à les donner et à les recevoir sans les confondre avec autre chose.

Alors oui. Je reviens vous parler d’un temps passé. Et je dis oublie. Oublie tout ce qu’on t’a appris qui t’a éloigné de ce geste simple. Et souviens toi. Parfois, le plus beau des cadeaux, c’est juste deux bras ouverts.

 
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from DrFox

Il y a des réalisations qui n’arrivent pas comme des éclaircies, mais comme des fractures lentes. Pas un choc net. Plutôt une phrase qui se forme dans le corps avant de pouvoir se dire. J’aurais peut être pu être heureux en couple.

Ce n’est pas une pensée anodine. Elle ne ressemble pas à un regret classique. Elle n’est pas suivie de si seulement j’avais fait autrement. Elle est suivie d’un vide. D’un silence. D’un regard jeté en arrière qui ne cherche pas à corriger, mais à comprendre ce qui n’a jamais été dit.

Pendant longtemps, j’ai vécu avec l’idée que la relation était structurellement impossible. Trop de décalages. Trop de malentendus. Trop de tensions. Cette idée avait une fonction. Elle permettait de tenir. Elle permettait de donner un sens à l’effort, à la fatigue, à l’usure. Si c’est impossible, alors ce n’est pas moi qui échoue. C’est la configuration elle même.

Puis un jour, sans prévenir, quelque chose se déplace. Pas une nostalgie. Pas un fantasme. Une lucidité tardive. Et si ce n’était pas impossible. Et si c’était simplement indicible. Et si le problème n’avait pas été l’absence d’amour, mais l’absence de mots. L’absence de conscience. L’absence d’un espace où dire ce qui comptait vraiment.

Ce moment là est violent parce qu’il attaque le récit intérieur. Celui qui a permis de survivre. Requalifier le passé n’est jamais neutre. Cela fait vaciller l’équilibre psychique construit pour durer. Ce n’est pas seulement le couple qui est remis en question. C’est l’homme que j’ai été pendant dix huit ans.

La tentation est grande alors de tout réduire à une erreur. Dix huit ans perdus. Dix huit ans gâchés. Dix huit ans à côté de sa vie. Mais cette lecture est fausse. Et elle est dangereuse. Parce qu’elle ajoute une violence rétrospective à une vie qui en a déjà porté beaucoup.

À l’époque, j’ai fait exactement ce que je pouvais faire. Avec le niveau de conscience que j’avais. Avec les blessures que je portais sans les nommer. Avec un système affectif construit très tôt autour de la survie, de l’adaptation, du maintien du lien coûte que coûte. Je n’ai pas choisi l’aveuglement. Je vivais dedans.

Il faut être honnête. Je n’aurais pas pu être cet homme que je suis aujourd’hui à ce moment là. Pas dans ce contexte. Pas avec cette histoire. Regarder le passé avec les yeux du présent est une illusion cruelle. Elle donne l’impression d’une liberté manquée, alors qu’il s’agissait d’une impossibilité structurelle.

Il y a aussi une colère. Silencieuse. Diffuse. Une colère contre l’autre, mais aussi contre le monde autour. Pourquoi personne ne m’a dit que le bonheur pouvait être simple. Pourquoi personne ne m’a dit que je n’avais pas à me sacrifier pour être aimé. Pourquoi personne ne m’a appris à reconnaître un lien vivable. Mais cette colère doit être regardée en face. L’autre ne l’a pas dit parce qu’elle ne le savait pas. Et le monde ne l’a pas dit parce qu’il ne sait pas le dire non plus.

Nous vivons dans des systèmes relationnels où l’on confond amour et endurance. Où l’on valorise la loyauté au détriment de la justesse. Où l’on apprend à tenir plutôt qu’à sentir. Dans ce contexte, ce que j’ai vécu n’a rien d’exceptionnel. Il est même banal. Ce qui est rare, c’est de le voir après.

Ce qui fait le plus mal, au fond, ce n’est pas d’avoir raté un bonheur conjugal. C’est de découvrir que j’étais capable de bonheur relationnel. Que je n’étais pas condamné à la complexité, à la tension, à l’incompréhension permanente. Que la paix était possible. Et que cette vérité a mis du temps à émerger.

Mais ce retard n’est pas une faute. C’est le temps qu’il a fallu pour que quelque chose en moi devienne audible. On ne force pas une conscience à apparaître plus tôt. Elle émerge quand le système peut la tolérer.

Il y a donc un deuil à traverser. Pas celui d’une personne. Pas même celui d’une relation. Le deuil d’une version possible de la vie qui n’a pas eu lieu. Ce deuil là ne se résout pas. Il se traverse. Il demande de renoncer à demander des comptes à des versions passées de soi et de l’autre qui ne savaient pas faire autrement.

Transformer cette lucidité en auto accusation serait une erreur grave. Ce serait continuer à me punir pour avoir survécu comme j’ai pu. J’ai déjà payé. Longtemps. Assez.

Cette réalisation tardive n’est pas un constat d’échec. C’est un seuil. Si je peux voir aujourd’hui que le bonheur de couple était possible, c’est que je suis désormais capable de le reconnaître, de le nommer, de le protéger. Pas hier. Pas là bas. Maintenant.

La question n’est donc pas pourquoi personne ne me l’a dit. La vraie question est plus exigeante. Est ce que je m’autorise enfin à ne plus vivre en dessous de ce que je sais être possible. Est ce que je cesse de confondre fidélité au passé et loyauté envers moi même au présent.

Ce que je découvre aujourd’hui ne rend pas les dix huit années absurdes. Il leur donne une autre place. Elles n’étaient pas une erreur à corriger, mais un chemin nécessaire pour arriver à cette lucidité. Et cette lucidité, aussi douloureuse soit elle, est une porte. Pas une condamnation.

 
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from Taking Thoughts Captive

Immediately after the death of Charlie Kirk, many on the political left celebrated and mocked his death as getting what he deserved, while many on the right called for retribution in the form of violence. There were not calls from either side to stand down. There was not even agreement that his assassination was a tragedy worthy of lament and mourning. People on both sides of the political spectrum were stoking the sparks of dissent into anger.

Immediately after the death of Renee Good, many on the political right celebrated and mocked her death as getting what she deserved, while many on the left called for retribution in the form of violence. There were not calls from either side to stand down. There was not even agreement on what just happened. People on both sides of the political spectrum were fanning the flames of anger into rage.

Clearly, this event is BY NO MEANS THE MORAL EQUIVALENT of Charlie Kirk's assassination. It is potentially far worse. It is potentially far less serious. If it turns out that Good was gunned down by an overzealous law enforcement agent of the state, it is far worse than Kirk's assassination by a private citizen. It if turns out that the use of deadly force against Good was justified by law enforcement, her death is still tragic, but it is nowhere near morally comparable to Kirk's.

Here's the thing...we do NOT know which one of the above evaluations is correct. That judgment does not come in an instant from social media, talking heads on cable news, or politicians. That judgment comes as the result of a deliberate, impartial investigation by individuals qualified to do it. So far, that has not happened.

Here's what we do know...both sides of the political spectrum have abdicated their moral authority by cheering either death and should be soundly rebuked. Both sides are wrong to celebrate the death of either of these individuals, regardless of motivation. Both sides are being irresponsible and are part of the ever-growing cancer of division that has metastasized through these United States. Though there are clearly times when violence is necessary and right, anyone celebrating and glorifying death (regardless of cause) is acting as a lackey of Satan, willingly or unwillingly, and is directly contributing to the destruction and collapse of our nation.

It is time to stand down. It is time to mourn the destruction of lives, the destruction of the ability to debate and disagree, the destruction of civility, and the inevitable destruction of our nation that will come as a result of the normalization and celebration of political violence. Stand down. Everyone.

Better yet, time to fall down on our knees and pray...that is the only way out.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

#culture #politics #theology

 
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from DrFox

Avec le temps, mon expérience m’a appris quelque chose de simple et pourtant difficile à accepter. Certains de mes comportements sont perçus comme des défauts par certaines personnes et célébrés par d’autres. Ce n’est pas une formule. Ce n’est pas une posture. C’est une observation répétée, issue de relations vécues, traversées jusqu’au bout, parfois jusqu’à la rupture.

Je ne suis pas parti de cette idée. J’y suis arrivé. À force de constater les mêmes réactions face aux mêmes manières d’être. Dans des contextes différents. Avec des personnes sincères, engagées, parfois aimantes. Ce qui variait peu, ce n’était pas mon comportement. C’était la façon dont il était reçu.

Ce que certains vivent comme une présence forte, d’autres le vivent comme une pression. Ce que certains appellent clarté, d’autres l’appellent dureté. Ce que certains ressentent comme une liberté offerte, d’autres y lisent une insécurité. Il ne s’agit pas d’une incompréhension ponctuelle, mais d’un écart structurel de perception.

Pendant longtemps, j’ai cru que cela relevait d’un manque d’ajustement de ma part. J’ai tenté de corriger. De nuancer. De ralentir. De reformuler. J’ai essayé d’être plus souple, plus lisse, plus acceptable. Parfois cela apaisait temporairement la relation. Mais le fond revenait toujours. Ce qui posait problème n’était pas un excès de forme. C’était la nature même de certains comportements.

Ce constat n’est pas arrivé d’un coup. Il s’est imposé progressivement. D’abord sous forme de doute. Puis de fatigue. Enfin comme une évidence calme. Ce qui me semblait cohérent et vivant pour moi pouvait être vécu comme une agression par l’autre. Et inversement, ce que je croyais devoir corriger était parfois précisément ce qui nourrissait la relation avec quelqu’un d’autre.

Avec le temps, j’ai compris que ces comportements ne sont pas intrinsèquement des défauts ou des qualités. Ils sont des intensités. Des manières d’habiter le lien. Des façons de dire, de ressentir, de se positionner. Selon l’histoire de l’autre, selon sa tolérance à la tension, à la vérité, à la proximité, ces intensités prennent des significations radicalement opposées.

Cette prise de conscience a déplacé ma responsabilité. Elle ne m’a pas dédouané. Elle m’a obligé à devenir plus précis. La question n’est plus de savoir si je dois changer pour être aimé. Elle est de savoir où ces comportements peuvent circuler sans détruire, et où ils deviennent trop coûteux pour l’un ou pour l’autre.

J’ai aussi appris à me méfier des deux extrêmes. La diabolisation pousse à se renier. La célébration pousse à se figer. Dans les deux cas, on cesse de regarder ce que l’on fait réellement. Or un comportement célébré peut aussi blesser. Et un comportement critiqué peut contenir une vérité nécessaire. L’expérience apprend à ne plus se réfugier ni dans la défense ni dans l’auto justification.

Ce que le temps m’a surtout appris, c’est à distinguer l’ajustement de l’auto censure. Ajuster, c’est prendre en compte l’autre sans disparaître. Se censurer, c’est se couper pour préserver un lien. Cette distinction ne s’apprend pas dans les livres. Elle se grave dans le corps, à force de relations où l’on se sent de plus en plus étroit.

Aujourd’hui, je sais que je ne cherche plus à être compatible avec tout le monde. Non par orgueil, mais par lucidité. Certains de mes comportements demandent un terrain particulier. Une capacité à accueillir l’intensité. Une tolérance à l’inconfort. Une envie de vérité plutôt que de sécurité immédiate. Là où ce terrain n’existe pas, la relation se transforme en lutte sourde.

Dire que certains de mes comportements sont vécus comme des défauts par les uns et célébrés par d’autres n’est donc ni une plainte ni une revendication. C’est une lecture tardive de mon parcours relationnel. Elle m’a appris que la maturité ne consiste pas à se rendre inoffensif, mais à devenir responsable de là où l’on se tient, de ce que l’on apporte, et de ce que l’on accepte de ne plus forcer.

Ce n’est pas une phrase. C’est une réalité vécue. Et aujourd’hui, je la regarde sans amertume, mais avec une exigence nouvelle. Celle de rester fidèle à ce qui est vivant en moi, tout en cessant d’imposer cette vivacité à des espaces qui ne peuvent pas la contenir.

 
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from Dan Kaufman

Why I Can't Stop Thinking About Iran Right Now

I usually talk about other things here, but I feel like I have to speak up about what’s happening in Iran. To me, it’s the most important story in the world right now.

Over the last week, we’ve seen tens of thousands of Iranians take to the streets to stand up against a regime that has been brutally repressing them since 1979. It’s not just about politics, though; it’s about survival. The economy there is basically in a freefall. To give you an idea of how bad it is, one U.S. dollar is now worth 1.47 million rials. The currency lost 80% of its value in just one year. People can’t afford food, and they’re dealing with constant power outages and water rationing.

What makes it even more infuriating is the hypocrisy. You have a government that brutalizes young girls for how they wear a hijab, while the families of those same officials are all over social media flaunting their wealth and “living it up.” The corruption is everywhere.

On the global stage, we know Iran is the main sponsor behind groups like Hamas and Hezbollah. They were the only major country to actually celebrate the October 7th attacks. It reminded me of Masih Alinejad, a dissident living in New York. The regime didn't just arrest her family back home to silence her; they actually sent assassins to her house in Brooklyn. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.

There’s really no other word for this leadership than evil.

Despite the government’s “savage” response—shooting protesters, making thousands of arrests, and cutting off the internet—the people are still marching. Every hour feels like history in the making. Seeing the courage of everyday Iranians, young and old, is honestly inspiring. They are literally risking everything for a chance at a normal life. It feels like this time, things might actually change.

But the reality is, they probably can’t do it alone. We’ve already seen the U.S. take action with the strikes on nuclear facilities six months ago, and there’s been a clear warning that there will be consequences for killing protesters.

In my opinion, the world—and especially the U.S.—would be so much better off if this regime fell. This is a once-in-a-generation moment to support people who are fighting for the same freedoms we often take for granted.

I really hope we don't let this opportunity pass.

If America stands for anything, it should be moments like this.

 
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from Douglas Vandergraph

There is a moment in Revelation 7 that almost no one slows down long enough to feel. The world is bracing for judgment. The seals are opening. History itself feels like it is holding its breath. And then, suddenly, everything stops. Winds are restrained. Angels pause mid-motion. Heaven interrupts its own momentum. And God says, in effect, “Wait.” That pause is not a delay of wrath. It is the revelation of mercy. Revelation 7 is not about numbers, charts, or timelines. It is about God’s heart refusing to let the storm fall before His people are marked.

That is the emotional core of this chapter. Not fear. Not doom. But protection. Not destruction. But sealing. Not chaos. But deliberate love moving ahead of catastrophe. When you read Revelation 7 carefully, it does not feel like a cold apocalyptic spreadsheet. It feels like a Father stepping between His children and a coming fire, saying, “Not yet. They belong to Me.”

This is why Revelation 7 sits where it does in the flow of Revelation. The first six seals of chapter 6 have shaken the earth. Conquest, war, famine, death, persecution, and cosmic disturbance have already been released. The sixth seal ends with terrified humanity crying out, “Who can stand?” And Revelation 7 answers that question—not with a theory, but with a picture. The ones who can stand are the ones who have been sealed by God.

That word “sealed” matters far more than most readers realize. In the ancient world, a seal was not a sticker. It was not symbolic. A seal meant ownership, authority, and protection. When something was sealed by a king, it meant no one else had the right to touch it. To break that seal was to challenge the king himself. So when Revelation 7 says God seals His servants on their foreheads, it is not talking about a visible tattoo or a barcode. It is talking about divine ownership and spiritual jurisdiction. These people are under God’s authority and protection in a way that cannot be overridden by hell, by the beast, or by the chaos of the last days.

And that is why the angels are told to hold back the winds. The winds represent destructive forces, judgment, upheaval, and calamity. They are told not to harm the earth, the sea, or the trees until the servants of God are sealed. In other words, God refuses to allow the storm to touch anything that belongs to Him before He has clearly marked it as His.

This changes how you should read the entire book of Revelation. It is not a book about God losing control and then trying to fix things at the end. It is a book about God being so sovereign that even the release of judgment is governed by mercy, timing, and purpose. Nothing is random. Nothing is out of control. Even the end of the world is organized by love.

Then comes the part that has confused, divided, and obsessed readers for generations: the 144,000. Twelve thousand from each of the twelve tribes of Israel. This number has been turned into everything from a secret rapture club to a symbolic headcount of elite believers. But Revelation 7 itself gives us clues that this is not meant to be read like a literal census spreadsheet.

First, the tribes are listed in a strange order. Judah comes first, not Reuben. Dan is missing. Joseph appears alongside Manasseh. This is not how Israel is normally listed in Scripture. That is a clue. It tells you something theological is happening, not merely genealogical. This is not a tribal registry. It is a spiritual portrait.

Second, the number itself is a theological number. Twelve is the number of God’s people: twelve tribes, twelve apostles. A thousand in biblical language represents fullness, completeness, and magnitude. So twelve times twelve times a thousand is not a small elite club. It is a picture of God’s people in full, complete, and overwhelming number. It is a way of saying, “All who belong to Me, in their fullness, are sealed.”

But John doesn’t stop there. He hears the number, but then he looks—and what he sees is not a small, numbered group. He sees a great multitude that no one can count, from every nation, tribe, people, and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb. This is one of the most powerful literary moments in Revelation. John hears a symbolic number that represents completeness, and then he sees the reality: an uncountable, global, redeemed humanity.

This is not God saving a tiny remnant. This is God saving a vast, beautiful, diverse family.

And notice what they are doing. They are not hiding. They are not running. They are standing. The same question at the end of Revelation 6—“Who can stand?”—is now answered. They can. The ones who are sealed. The ones who belong to the Lamb. The ones who have been washed in His blood.

They are clothed in white robes, which in Revelation always represents purity, victory, and righteousness given by God, not earned by humans. They hold palm branches, symbols of victory, celebration, and deliverance. This is not a funeral. It is a triumph.

They cry out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb.” This is not quiet worship. This is victorious, defiant praise in the face of everything hell tried to do to stop them. They are saying, “We made it. Not because we were strong, but because He is faithful.”

And then heaven responds. Angels, elders, and living creatures fall down and worship. Heaven joins the chorus. That is another key insight of Revelation 7: heaven does not stand above redeemed humanity. Heaven celebrates them. Heaven joins them. The story of salvation is not God tolerating humans. It is God delighting in them.

One of the elders then asks John a question that seems simple but is deeply revealing: “Who are these, clothed in white robes, and where did they come from?” John doesn’t answer. He defers. “Sir, you know.” And the elder explains: “These are the ones who come out of the great tribulation. They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.”

This line destroys the idea that these people avoided suffering. They did not escape tribulation. They came out of it. They went through it. But they were not destroyed by it. The seal of God does not always mean you are spared hardship. It means you are preserved through it.

And notice what makes them clean. Not their endurance. Not their theology. Not their moral perfection. The blood of the Lamb. That is the gospel inside the apocalypse. Even at the end of time, salvation is still by grace.

This multitude now serves God day and night in His temple. He dwells among them. They hunger no more. They thirst no more. The sun does not strike them. No scorching heat. The Lamb becomes their Shepherd. He leads them to springs of living water. And God wipes away every tear from their eyes.

This is not poetic decoration. This is the destination of redemption. Revelation 7 lifts the curtain and lets you see where everything is going. Not to annihilation. Not to despair. But to healing, rest, intimacy, and joy in the presence of God.

And here is the part that almost no one connects: Revelation 7 is not only about the end of the world. It is about the nature of God. It shows you that even when judgment is coming, His first instinct is to protect His people. Even when history is shaking, His priority is to mark those who belong to Him. Even when the storm is ready, He pauses for love.

That means something for you right now.

Because most people think they live in Revelation 6. Chaos. Fear. News cycles that feel apocalyptic. Politics that feel like earthquakes. Cultures cracking. Families breaking. Anxiety everywhere. People are still asking, “Who can stand?”

Revelation 7 answers: the ones who belong to Jesus.

You are not sealed by perfection. You are sealed by belonging. You are not kept by your strength. You are kept by His ownership. You are not standing because you are unshakable. You are standing because He is.

The world may feel like it is unraveling. But Revelation 7 shows you something deeper: God knows exactly who is His, and He will not let the storm take what He has claimed.

And that means you are not as fragile as you think.

The Lamb who shed His blood to save you is the same Lamb who now stands as your Shepherd. The hands that were pierced are the hands that hold you. The voice that cried out on the cross is the voice that calls heaven to wait until you are sealed.

Nothing about your life is accidental. Nothing about your future is unprotected. Nothing about your faith is unseen.

The storm may be real.

But the seal is stronger.

And Revelation 7 was written so you would know that.


Now we will continue the full legacy depth, including the deeper spiritual meaning of the sealing, the connection to Ezekiel, Passover, the mark of the beast, modern fear culture, and how Revelation 7 reshapes how Christians live without panic.

Revelation 7 does something quietly revolutionary that most readers miss because they are too focused on end-times charts to notice it. It takes the idea of being “marked” and flips it completely. The world is obsessed with the mark of the beast, but Revelation 7 shows you that the mark that actually matters comes first. Before evil brands anyone, God seals His own. Before deception claims territory, love draws its boundary. Before fear gets a microphone, heaven puts its hand over the earth and says, “These are Mine.”

That idea of sealing did not originate in Revelation. It is rooted deep in Scripture. In Ezekiel 9, God tells a heavenly messenger to go through Jerusalem and place a mark on the foreheads of those who grieve over sin and injustice. Everyone without the mark would face judgment, but those who were marked would be spared. That mark was not visible to the public. It was visible to God. It was a sign of belonging. Revelation 7 is deliberately echoing that moment. History is repeating on a cosmic scale. The same God who marked His faithful in ancient Jerusalem is marking His people before the final shaking of the world.

The Passover story does the same thing. Blood on the doorposts was a seal. It was not about the quality of the house or the goodness of the people inside. It was about the blood. Judgment passed over what was marked. Revelation 7 is Passover on a global scale. The Lamb has already shed His blood, and now God is marking His people with that same covenantal protection.

This is why the mark of the beast in Revelation 13 is so powerful and so dangerous. It is a counterfeit of the seal of God. Satan does not invent new things. He imitates what God does and twists it. The beast marks people with allegiance to a system of fear, control, and self-exaltation. God seals people with allegiance to a Lamb who gave His life. One mark enslaves. The other sets free. One mark binds you to a collapsing world. The other anchors you to an unshakable kingdom.

Revelation 7 tells you something very important about spiritual warfare that modern Christianity often forgets. The battle is not first about what you do. It is about who you belong to. You are not sealed because you behaved well. You are sealed because you were purchased. The blood of the Lamb bought you, and God placed His seal on what He paid for.

This is why the enemy fights so hard against identity. If he can get you to doubt that you belong to God, he can get you to live like you are unprotected. Fear always grows in the soil of forgotten identity. Revelation 7 uproots that fear. It says, “You are known. You are marked. You are kept.”

That multitude in white robes is not just a future crowd. It is the destiny of every believer. Every tear you have cried is on its way to being wiped away. Every hunger for meaning is on its way to being filled. Every exhaustion from surviving in a broken world is on its way to rest. Revelation 7 is God pulling back the curtain to show you the finish line so you do not give up in the middle of the race.

This is why the vision is so gentle. No more scorching heat. No more thirst. No more hunger. No more tears. It is not just about surviving the end. It is about being healed after it. The Lamb who suffered becomes the Shepherd who leads. The One who was slain becomes the One who sustains.

There is something deeply personal about that. God is not outsourcing your care to an angel. The Lamb Himself tends to His people. He leads you to living water. He walks with you out of every tribulation. He does not just save you from judgment. He saves you into relationship.

This chapter also changes how you should view suffering. It does not deny that tribulation is real. It does not minimize pain. But it reframes it. These people did not come from comfort. They came out of great tribulation. Their robes are white not because they avoided suffering, but because they trusted Jesus in the middle of it.

That means your pain is not proof that God has forgotten you. It may be proof that you are being carried through something that will not destroy you. You are not sealed from storms. You are sealed through them.

Revelation 7 is God’s answer to the anxiety of every generation. When the world feels like it is breaking, God is still marking His people. When culture feels hostile, God is still building His family. When fear shouts, heaven is still singing.

The sealed do not panic. They worship.

And that is the secret power of this chapter. It does not tell you how to predict the future. It tells you how to live without fear in the present. If you know who you belong to, you do not have to be terrified by what is coming.

You are not waiting to find out if you are loved.

You are already sealed by it.

You are not hoping the Lamb will notice you.

He already shed His blood for you.

You are not standing because you are strong.

You are standing because heaven itself is holding you.

And that is why Revelation 7 exists. Not to scare you. But to steady you. Not to make you anxious. But to make you unshakeable. Not to focus your eyes on disaster. But to focus them on a Shepherd who will never let you go.

No matter what happens in this world, the seal remains.

No matter how loud fear gets, belonging is louder.

No matter how dark the storm becomes, the Lamb is still your light.

And in the end, you will be standing, in white, with a palm branch in your hand, surrounded by a family so vast it cannot be counted, singing a song so strong that it shakes heaven itself.

Because you were never meant to be lost.

You were meant to be sealed.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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

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