A Santa sighting was confirmed at an East Bay Pre-K/Kindergarten school on December 10th, approximately 2:40 p.m. Witnesses saw Santa as he and a female helper elf left the school in a gray Mercedes Benz S350 after taking pictures with the students.

Assistant Principal, Shelly Stubert, made an official statement and said, “Santa is on a goodwill tour to meet, greet, and take pictures with our students. Nothing more.”

Parents were split about the meetup. Aliya B. said, “I think it’s great to have Santa visiting our schools despite his busy schedule.”

W.B. spoke out of anonymity for fear of backlash said, “Everyone knows Santa isn’t real. Why are we allowing some stranger in a Santa suit playing pretend to our kids?”

Santa and his helper declined an interview after being asked about his car, Mrs. Clause, and why they were working alone together.

#news #parody #santa

Lydia's Weekly Lifestyle blog is for today's African girl, so no subject is taboo. My purpose is to share things that may interest today's African girl.

This week's contributors: Lydia, Pépé Pépinière, Titi. This week's subjects: Sleigh the Season. Accra’s corporate Christmas fashion is all about balance, Surprises at a later age, Ghana not only grows cocoa in the north, but olives as well? Starch, carbohydrates, and Bella Afrik Italian restaurant

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Sleigh the Season. Accra’s corporate Christmas fashion is all about balance: A little sparkle, a little tradition, a little professionalism, and a whole lot of personality. The key is to dress like the promotion you’re manifesting — but with enough festive energy to shout, “Sister, we’ve survived the year. Let’s shine small!” Go forth and sleigh, corporate queen. This Christmas, the boardroom is your runway. Glitter… But Make It “Office Holiday Meeting at 10am” We’re in the season of shine, but this is corporate Christmas — not a nightclub in Osu. Acceptable sparkle levels include: Shiny brooches Metallic-thread blouses Subtle sequin trims Gold-button blazers If your outfit jingles when you walk, it’s a sign you’ve gone too far. Step back. Reassess. The Corporate Christmas Accessory Edit: Accessories? The real holiday spirit. Pearl earrings (soft girl energy) Gold hoops (controlled baddie vibes) Structured handbags that say “I sign important documents”. Festive nails in deep wine, cocoa, or emerald green. And the crown jewel? A flawless, harmattan-proof matte makeup look. Hydration is your co-pilot, darling. Shoes That Sleigh (Pun Very Intended): Harmattan dust is disrespectful — choose footwear accordingly. Block heels Square-toe pumps Festive-but-corporate mules Metallic low heels for Friday Christmas jams And for the love of Detty December, moisturize those ankles. Friday Is for Corporate Detty: Fridays in December? Say less. This is when the fun corporate Christmas outfits step out: Flowing satin co-ords. Ankara suits with personality Glimmering tops styled with tailored pants Flared midi dresses that swish with every step Meetings end early. The office party is loading. You’re already glowing. Surprises at a later age. Here's a sad one. She met her future Ghanaian husband in Ukraine where he studied, they married, and now have 3 kids, oldest is working, middle one is in university, youngest is 12 years old. They moved to the UK where he got a job with one of the big accounting firms. They bought a house with a mortgage. She got the UK nationality. He moved to Nigeria for the accounting firm. But was home at any occasion like Xmas and summer holidays. Then, last week, boom, out of nowhere a letter from his lawyers that he is seeking a divorce in the Ghana courts. No reasons given. She doesn't have money to spare on lawyers or tickets to Ghana. The house has not been fully paid for and is probably in his name. She's 53.

Ghana not only grows cocoa in the north, but olives as well?. Friend of mine is French and grows olives in his garden. The quantity is small and to make oil out of it he has to have a minimum quantity or the local olive oil presses won't take it. So he is looking at pressing the olives himself and was wondering if the olive kernel should be taken out first. AI then is your friend with all the answers. Yes, the kernel has to be taken out, and olives are a favourite snack in Ghana. In case you didn't know. Careful, AI sometimes just makes up stories, like children can do. Don't believe what you don't understand.

Starch, carbohydrates. That's our staples, rice, fufu, yam, acheke, kokonte, banku, kenkey, akple, waakye, gari, gob3, and plantain. Unfortunately that's not the best, but your budget may direct you there. All these things are turned into sugar, and that's exactly what cancer needs to grow. Moreover, an overdose of sugar eventually leads to diabetes. Also your intestines have problems with that much carbohydrates, it disturbs a healthy balance. About half of your food should be carbos, not the 80 % and more we are doing. Less carbos and more veggies please, and beans are also very good, though you may have to introduce that slowly, some people create a lot of wind afterwards. Veggies expensive? Yes, some of them, but others not.

Bella Afrik Italian restaurant Presidential Drive, near the Jubilee House/Liberation Road, Afrikiko compound, Accra. This place is very popular and we went after a heavy rain, knowing that less people will be out and we'd probably find a place to park and a free table. It's a nice place, good to impress a guest. Service is good. Unfortunately the food is a different matter, maybe we should have ordered pizza, I'll test that next time. The spaghetti carbonara came with cream, whilst boiled-in egg yolk is supposed to give the spaghetti the lubrication it needs to flow. This is a very common cooking laziness, and typically that's what I order when I come to an Italian restaurant that I do not know. Cream in the spaghetti carbonara? Good bye. On top of that the bacon was burnt rather than soft fried with onions and garlic and then cooked in dry white wine, which gives it much of the flavour. And one does not use bacon but guanciale, spek from the pigs 's cheek, but that is difficult to get here so can be forgiven, but then the bacon should be from a young pig. My friend had a chicken alfredo, which again came with a lot of cream and half cooked mushrooms, and the chicken was dry. We also had beef carpaccio which was tasteless. No, popular place, but not for me. By the way, careful with the prices which are almost hidden on the menu, and make sure you bring money.

Lydia...

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It’s tough for us horror weirdos when Halloween ends and we start getting bombarded with treacly Christmas entertainment. Fortunately, there’s always some weirdo who puts out a nasty Christmas horror movie, and may Satan bless them for their efforts.

On a recent episode of the Tomb of Terrors podcast, host Old Man Brad extolled the virtues of the new Silent Night, Deadly Night. I had never seen the original, so I decided to correct that before seeing the new one.

The only thing I really knew about the original was that Siskel & Ebert absolutely lost their minds about it when it came out. (yes, I was watching Siskel & Ebert in 10th grade. Wasn’t everybody?) I mean, they hated slashers in general, but they seemed profoundly offended by this one, clutching their pearls about THE CHILDREN and how evil it was to have a killer in a Santa suit. (Had they seen Christmas Evil in 1980?).

Now look—there are certainly slashers that are soulless exploitation films, but this isn’t one of them. This is a movie that makes a strong case that trauma and abuse make monsters. It’s pretty clear that if Billy had been treated with compassion and understanding rather than abuse, he probably wouldn’t have snapped and started killing everybody. (Great kills in this movie, by the way, and the gore is there, but pretty tame even by 80’s standards).

Anyway, great atmosphere, psychological realism, and great kills. What else do you want from a slasher movie? (SPOILER: for the evil mother superior to get the axe, but I guess you can’t have everything.)

Went to the movies to see the new one, and it is an utter delight. There’s no need to see the original to appreciate the new one, by the way. There are some homages to the original in this new one, but it in no way depends on any knowledge of the original.

When I saw the recent Nosferatu, I complained that there seemed to be no point in this new version becuase there wasn’t any new vision for the story or the characters. Well, director/writer Mike P. Nelson definitely has a different vision for his Silent Night, Deadly Night. He plays up the comic elements without ever making it a full-on comedy, and he introduces a supernatural element absent from the original which changes the whole thing thematically. Oh yeah, and also a love story that feels credible, which you almost never see in a slasher movie (It’s a Wonderful Knife is the only other one I can think of).

And, once again, there’s gore, but it’s not a splatterfest by any means. The story is extremely clever, and the fact that I saw the final twist coming did not make it any less satisfying. Oh yeah, and it features an incredibly satisfying sequence in which a whole lotta Nazis are killed. It’s not quite at the level of The Bride vs The Crazy 88 from Kill Bill 1, but much, much more satifying. Anyway, this is an absolutely delightful movie that rocketed right into my top 4 Christmas Horror movies. (Along with Black Christmas, It’s a Wonderful Knife, and Christmas Evil, all of which you should also see.)

This week's goals were:

1. Finish audio production and get most of the visual elements done for the super-secret project
2. Create audiobook account and finish production on audiobook for Death In Transit

Unfortunately, I didn't complete either. The super-secret project is still manageable but I may have to scale down some elements. There's two things impacting the audio production. The first part is that I can't produce the audio on my main computer because Audacity is having constant issues. The second part is personal stuff I couldn't have anticipated. Nothing truly bad, just a hectic week at the Barret household.

I've managed to squeeze a little writing time in this week and that makes me feel like a writer again. 😹

Next week's goals

Big thing is the super-secret project.

#ProgressUpdate

JOURNAL 19 décembre

En direct du kotatsu : Ma princesse termine un rapport. Théoriquement elle est déjà en vacances, mais c’est pas comme ça que ça se passe au Japon. 😓 On a acheté nos billets, normalement on part dimanche tôt mais toujours pas d'autorisation. Ils la feront chier jusque au dernier jour décidément. Elle est de plus en plus belle ma chérie je me fatigue pas de la regarder elle a mis ses lunettes elle a l'air sérieux belle et sérieuse oh je l'aime Je peux pas imaginer ma vie sans elle I prefer not to On se fait des bisous de loin ( on est face à face) c'est mimi. J'ai hâte d'aller me coucher. On dort pas assez puis j'ai froid.

Le 2 novembre dernier, j'ai participé aux élections municipales en tant que secrétaire de scrutin. En 2022, j'avais déjà exercé la même fonction aux élections provinciales, mais la élections municipales sont à la fois plus complexes (quatre candidats par district, donc quatre bulletins de vote) et plus absurdes (qui connaît son conseiller d'arrondissement ?).
Ce jour-là, j'ai passé quinze heures assis à une table avec une vieille dame de 78 ans. À la fin de la journée, la pauvre s'est avérée incapable d'assumer ses fonctions, tellement elle était fatiguée. J'ai dû assumer le rôle de scrutateur en plus de celui de secrétaire pour boucler l'étape – très longue et assez procédurière – du dépouillement. Sans faire de l'âgisme, il y a peut-être une limite à faire travailler les petits vieux des résidences. À la sortie des bureaux, j'ai raccompagné la pauvre dame à son RPA. Elle était complètement désemparée, ayant de la difficulté à marcher. Visiblement, c'était trop pour elle, cette longue journée à expliquer aux gens la procédure du vote, répétant inlassablement le même discours jusqu'à la fermeture du bureau de vote à vingt heures.

Nous avons été mal préparé : aucun vade-mecum nous a été remis au préalable, aucun document auquel nous aurions pu nous référer pour mieux nous préparer à l'exercice de la démocratie locale. Certes, nous avons reçu deux formations, toutes deux virtuelles, toutefois, et il est vrai que, lors d'une de ces formations, nous avons pu télécharger deux ou trois PDF. Mais il aurait fallu les imprimer – vous êtes nombreux à avoir une imprimante à la maison ? – compte tenu que nous n'avions pas droit ni à un téléphone ni à une tablette, et encore moins un ordinateur. Autre absurdité : même la liseuse nous était interdit, comme si nous pouvions communiquer des résultats du vote par une liseuse ! Cela témoigne d'une méconnaissance étonnante de ces appareils.

Je suis rentré à la maison un peu avant vingt-trois heures. Une journée vécue dans un gymnase, assis sur des chaises en plastique sans aucun confort, sans voir la lumière du jour. Une journée vécue sans aucune boisson chaude aussi. Je pense que c'est ce que j'ai trouvé le plus difficile, et je regrette de ne pas avoir apporté un thermos de thé. Aux élections provinciales de 2022, le responsable des lieux nous avait offert du café et des beignes, la moindre des choses à offrir à des gens qui passent, pour un salaire dérisoire, quinze heures dans un local fermé. Franchement, l'organisme chargé d'organiser ces élections – Élections Montréal – ne mérite pas de félicitations pour le souci qu'il a démontré envers ceux et celles qui ont travaillé pour lui. Combien ça aurait coûté, une machine à café ? À la rigueur, en commander chez Tim Hortons n'aurait pas été la mer à boire. Un geste humain, quoi, qui leur a fait défaut. Ce défaut d'humanité, c'est sans doute ce que je leur reproche le plus, à ces organisateurs d'élections. Il me semble que la démocratie parlementaire n'est pas juste une affaire de goujats…

Malgré tout, je ne regrette pas l'expérience. Vivre une longue journée en vase clos, sans possibilité de communiquer avec le monde extérieur, a quelque chose de fascinant. Je dois même avouer que, dans un certains sens, j'ai aimé ça… et que je comprends mieux mon ami Pierre R. – et Amélie Nothomb ! – de vivre sans téléphone mobile à portée de main. Cette expérience m'a rappelé les cinq semaines que j'ai passées à travailler aux Jeux olympiques de 1976. Cinq semaines dont les deux dernières se sont déroulées hors du monde, une suite ininterrompue de quatorze jours à raison de quatorze à seize heures par jour où je n'ai pu communiquer avec aucun de mes amis. Au moins, nous avions du café… Et puis j'étais un tout jeune homme à l'époque.

Je n'irai pas jusqu'à la prêcher la déconnexion totale, mais je compte m'offrir, de temps en temps, une journée déconnectée. Avant même cette élection du 2 novembre 2025, j'avais déjà ralenti, laissant mon téléphone dans ma poche au lieu de l'avoir toujours à la main, comme une extension corporelle. En 2026, je vous le dis, les urgences attendront...

*** Daniel Ducharme : 2025-12-19 Mots-clés : #existence #tranchedevie

I was going to post this to my blog (here), but I couldn’t remember the password so I’m going to post it here (Facebook). I didn’t want to post it here (on Facebook). But now I’m afraid if I don’t post it somewhere I’ll lose it forever. (After I woke up this morning, I was able to get to my laptop and delete it from Facebook and post it here to my blog.)

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Dear Lord, I turn the page by falling asleep to this day.

Period.

This day is almost behind me as I lay in bed.

Period.

Thinking about my MRI tomorrow. Thinking about what it may or may not hold, discover, expound upon, scratch out.

Forgetful?

Yes, I'm forgetful. My old best friend who is not my best friend anymore because I'm a Christian, Rich, would say, “Don't worry about dementia. You've always been absent-minded.”

And I am forgetting things, but when I get behind the pulpit, I remember things, and I can feel God's grace.

I've heard so many preachers talk about having the flu, having a temperature, using a cane, and when they get behind the pulpit, they don't need the cane. They don't feel the fever. They don't have the flu. But when they walk away from the pulpit, it comes back because the anointing wasn't for them. It was for you.

And so as I write this, I pray that my anointing is never for me, but any gift that I have from the Great One above is always for you, because I love you like you'll never know.

A dream of desire fulfilled

There are places the waking mind cannot build—
only the dreaming soul can raise them.
And that night, the unconscious built her house.

Not a house of brick and lumber, but the one she keeps behind her breastbone—
the great hall of her spirit, open and sun-washed, lined with long alcoves carved like rib vaults in a cathedral made intimate by breath.

At the end of each alcove a window blazed, and autumn poured through them
in great sheets of gold— warm, weighted light that pressed against the skin like a held gaze.

Beyond the glowing glass, trees bowed and waved, brilliant with chattering hammered coins, their leaves whispering against one another as if sharing a secret meant only for us.
The air was hushed, ripe, heavy with the pause before winter’s exhalation.

She appeared clad only in light and warmth— no seam, no boundary,
as if desire itself had learned her shape. Bare feet kissed with plum stepped across polished stone, and when she looked at me
those mica eyes did not search— they claimed. They saw my truth. They accepted my end.

Like a song I remembered before language, she said, “Fill the basin.”

A wide stone bowl surfaced beside me, smooth, cool, receptive. As my hands traced its hollow, the water rose— pure, alive—
sliding over my wrists, up my forearms, as if it recognized me.

When the basin brimmed, she leaned closer—
close enough that her warmth altered my breathing— and whispered.

A flame bloomed above the water, hovering, eager, flickering like a pulse that had learned to glow.

It broke the laws of the real. But this was not the place for reason. This was the place for offering.

I cupped water and lifted it toward the flame, letting it spill between my fingers.
The fire did not retreat. It licked higher. Water and flame teased one another—
touch without surrender, heat without harm.

She smiled then— slow, knowing, ancient— a smile that began in her mouth and finished somewhere deep in her hips.

She gathered pillows into the sunlit corner, their fabric sighing as they shifted,
and lifted a long flowing cloth woven in colors that do not exist in waking life— saffron deep as breath held too long,
wine-purple like skin pressed hard, molten bronze that shimmered with promise.

It was a ceremonial wrap, a shroud, a blessing— undressed by intention.

“Come,” she breathed.

Not an invitation. An invocation.

Her hand closed around mine— warm, sure— and the world narrowed to the contact of our palms, the shared rhythm forming there, the gold humming through the windows like approval.

We lay together on the pillows, and the alcove brightened— the flame-water bowl spilling its impossible union, becoming a river of fire and glass that pulsed beneath us, slow and insistent, like a second heartbeat.

The light grew electric. Alive. And then the walls dissolved into tall golden grass, each blade a filament of sun, brushing skin, catching breath.

When our bodies met, the world answered.

Trees swayed above us, casting moving sigils of light across her skin— runic, ancient, as if the first dawn were writing itself again. Her breath broke, and the grass broke with it, the whole dream inhaling her pleasure.

We moved through one another the way constellations move through the night sky— inevitable, ancient, burning.

Time loosened its grip. Stretched. Forgot what it was for. Only sensation counted now— the slide of skin, the sound she made when I learned her rhythm, the way the world leaned closer to watch us remember.

And when desire finally softened— as tides always return to the sea— what remained was the truest thing.

Her curled into my chest, heat lingering, my arm heavy around her waist. Her fingers traced slow shapes on my forearm— not idle, not unconscious— but deliberate, as if blessing me in a language older than speech.

Cicadas sang their resurrection hymn. The wind stroked the grass like a mother’s hand. She looked at me then— not with hunger, but with recognition.

With worship.

With the gaze that forgives a thousand lifetimes and chooses you anyway.

She told stories— joyful, ridiculous— her tongue forming Latin, ancient and holy, and though I did not know the words, I knew the laughter against my chest, the warmth of her thigh, the golden pulse of her skin.

I understood everything that mattered.

And as the dream curled its arm around my shoulders, I knew—

This was not a fantasy of flesh.

This was a remembering.

A place we return to in some old corridor of the soul where fire balances water, where bodies are not shameful, where love outlives time.

The golden alcove still holds us—
even now— lit by a flame that cannot drown, fed by a river that cannot burn, in the season where everything tender is allowed to be true.

#NSFW

This post is NSFW 19+ Adult content. Viewer discretion is advised.

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In Connection With This Post: Sana Mashiro .00 https://hustin.art/sana-mashiro-00

In the history of Japanese pop culture, the so-called “innocent-glamour” (清楚系巨乳) type, which once defined an entire cultural trend for a generation, is now approaching a state of oversaturation. From roughly 2010 to 2020, JAV solidified the “innocent-glamour” archetype into a near-genre of its own, rendering the formula of “innocence contrasted with lewdness” no longer novel.

AV performers with appearances indistinguishable from mainstream idols have proliferated, and the “innocent idol” type has been repeated to the point of excess. As a result, the contemporary audience no longer experiences “eroticism hidden behind innocence” as a plot twist. In other words, today, the narrative of “innocent yet erotic” functions more as a precondition than a surprise, resembling a cliché that has long since grown stale.

To properly understand Sana Mashiro, debuting in July 2025, it is first necessary to examine the character landscape of existing JAV actresses. Traditionally, “innocent idol-type” characters in Japanese AV can be broadly divided into two categories.

+ Of course, individual actresses may overlap these categories or serve as exceptions; this is not an absolute classification, but rather an analytical framework to survey the overall landscape. Additionally, apart from the internal differentiation within the “innocent idol” category in JAV, there also exists an exceptional category of characters who do not take innocence as their point of departure at all—namely, the “sexy” type. They often foreground Westernized features and sharp, feline eyes, and such sexy characters almost invariably appear in the form of “sexy glamour” (Anri Okita). This type is also rarely labeled as “idol,” because the attribute of sexiness structurally conflicts with the notion of innocence that underpins the idol concept.

The first is the so-called “cheerful–bright–active” innocent character. This type is generally defined by health, vitality, freshness, sociability, positivity, and sexual assertiveness. While externally classified as “innocent,” these actresses typically display active sexual signals and preheated erotic gazes toward the audience from the beginning. When combined with relatively large breasts, this type often transitions into the so-called “innocent-glamour” position. In practice, most idol-type JAV actresses fall into either the slender or standard body type (Mihiro, Yua Mikami, Nana Ogura) or plumper, fuller-bust glamour type (Yuma Asami, Sora Aoi). This segment of the market is already fully saturated.

The second is the so-called “naive-dazed-passive” innocent character. This type is generally characterized by harmlessness, innocence, purity, docility, calmness, dullness, vacuity, lethargy, delayed reactions, evoking protective instincts, low self-expression, passivity, and sexual reticence. Emotional responses are often summarized as “Eh? Uh…” with blank or minimal facial cues. The compact facial features of a young sister image, petite busts, short stature, and slender bodies create erotic tension, paradoxically enhancing sexual allure (Bunko Kanazawa, Maiko Yuki, Airi Suzumura, Marin Mita). This type has now become relatively common. Occasionally, even tall and slender figures appear with the same blank-slate innocence (Konomi Nishimiya, Saika Kawakita), and the archetype can also be found in voluptuous, glamourous body types (Azumi Kawashima, Yui Kasumi, Yua Kuramochi, Satomi Tsubakiori).

Both categories—“cheerful–bright–active” and “naive-dazed-passive”—include actresses with mainstream idol-level appearances. That is, JAV already features numerous performers who combine the “naive-dazed-passive” character with top-tier idol-like faces. Yet, Sana Mashiro somehow appears singularly special, as if carrying a certain additional quality.

Standing 165 cm tall with a B93(H cup)-W57-H86 figure, she slightly deviates from the idealized standard body expected in contemporary AV. Overall, she carries a touch of fleshiness without entering the realm of plumpness. This subtle imperfection and naturalness evoke a striking realism, as if one were encountering the radiant nudity of a living woman offline. It is not the manicured, mannequin-like perfection of artificially sculpted bodies but the palpable texture of living skin that conveys intimate vitality, giving a sense of familiarity and tangible presence. Her slim waist (57 cm) contrasts with pronounced hips and H-cup tits, visually emphasizing fullness and maturity. The boobs, crowned with a pair of neatly flat, light-brown nipples, boast insanely soft, yielding flesh—almost translucent and milky-pale—that sways with a languid grace, as if melting gently into a swirl of whipped cream. The curvaceous contours of her entire body exude the abundant vitality of natural flesh and impart a serene comfort.

Viewed purely in terms of her physique, Sana Mashiro falls squarely within the well-trodden “innocent-glamour” category repeatedly seen in JAV. Yet her facial expressions, mental disposition, and behavioral patterns reveal the “naive-dazed-passive” currents of the innocent archetype with unusually strong intensity. Her eyes and expressions respond slowly, and even her smiles appear less like conscious self-expression and more like reactive utterances stemming from innate disposition. She seems strikingly devoid of the self-restraint or caution typical of an adult woman, as though she does not fully comprehend what she is doing in the moment—imbuing her with the “harmlessness unique to a young girl.” This peculiar blankness feels pristine, like a natural phenomenon untouched by design. (Screenshot: MIDA-210, Debut)

In Connection With This Post:

#JAV #PornAesthetics #SanaMashiro #debut2025

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E and J got me a christmas tree. I am genuinely speechless. The only thing that comes to my mind is I cannot wait to marry this girl (E).

lejos o cerca / arriba o abajo el yo / el otro el problema es que no tenía problemas

Let's say we have a simple project with the following structure:

.
├── deps.edn
└── src
    └── example
        └── core.clj

Our deps.edn file contains:

{:paths ["src"]
 :deps {org.clojure/clojure {:mvn/version "1.12.0"}}}

And core.clj defines a simple -main function:

(ns example.core)

(defn -main [& args]
  (println args))

There are several ways to run this function from the terminal. Let's explore each one.

Using -M with -m

The simplest option is to combine the -M and -m flags:

$ clj -M -m example.core 1 2 3
;; => (1 2 3)

The -M flag tells the Clojure CLI to run in clojure.main mode, which gives us access to the -m flag. The -m flag loads the specified namespace and executes its -main function, passing any additional arguments as strings.

Using -X

Another option is -X, though it requires changing how your function receives arguments. Unlike -M, which passes strings directly, -X always passes a single map:

$ clj -X example.core/-main :args '[1 2 3]'
;; => {:args [1 2 3]}

This means your function needs to destructure its arguments from that map:

(defn -main [{:keys [args]}]
  (println args))  ;; => [1 2 3]

This approach is more verbose for simple scripts, but becomes useful when defining aliases with default arguments.

Using deps.edn Aliases

Rather than typing long commands each time, we can define aliases in deps.edn.

For the -M approach:

{:paths ["src"]
 :deps {org.clojure/clojure {:mvn/version "1.12.0"}}
 :aliases
 {:run {:main-opts ["-m" "example.core"]}}}

Now we can simply run:

$ clj -M:run
$ clj -M:run arg1 arg2  # additional arguments are passed through

For the -X approach:

{:paths ["src"]
 :deps {org.clojure/clojure {:mvn/version "1.12.0"}}
 :aliases
 {:run {:exec-fn example.core/-main
        :exec-args {:args [1 2 3]}}}}

$ clj -X:run                   # uses default :args [1 2 3]
$ clj -X:run :args '[4 5 6]'   # overrides with [4 5 6]

Using -e for Inline Evaluation

Lastly, the -e flag lets us evaluate any Clojure expression directly. We can require a namespace and call a function in one go:

$ clj -M -e "(require 'example.core) (example.core/-main 1 2 3)"
;; => (1 2 3)

A cleaner alternative is requiring-resolve, which combines the require and lookup into a single step:

$ clj -M -e "((requiring-resolve 'example.core/-main) 1 2 3)"
;; => (1 2 3)

This is handy for quick one-off calls without modifying any files.

---

Note that -main is just an example throughout this article, these techniques work with any function in your codebase.

into the soft grey, awaiting (they are swans) fields flocked, golden straw a scent beyond the scarlet dawn

—and here! found! something glimmers a crack in the chest

would that the ink and rosewater (a flavour beyond despair) soak seeds without potential instead, invite

how then? the ripeness and depth? not clutched but brushed —

an open passage, sailed (they are starlings and robins) while fibre and bark mix threads to warm the hidden cover

[#2025dec the 18th, #wander]

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS

Power and resilience shine through in the dynamic duo leading 'The Morning Show,' ready to face the bustling challenges of media life.

My Rating: ⭐ (1/5 stars)

Episodes: 1-10 | Aired: September 17, 2025 through November 19, 2025

I thoroughly enjoyed Season 1, found Season 2 to be decent, and thought Season 3 was lackluster but bearable. However, Season 4 was a disappointment, and I struggled to finish it. I didn't find it engaging and thought the plot was forced and unrealistic. I'm hesitant about watching Season 5, if it happens. Also, my free month of AppleTV has just expired.

#review #tv #streaming

The Ride Back

#nsfw #glass

Rayeanna's voice drops to a firm huskiness, soft but sharp enough to slice through the sticky summer air under the park's cracked gazebo. “You're coming with me. Right now. We're going to that room you did this in – that shrine, whatever the hell you made it. If you try to run, if you lie to me – if you hurt me, I swear I'll gather every spirit my grandmother ever taught me to banish and I will take your soul myself. You understand?”

Meredith's lips tremble. Her legs are trembling too – the wet trickle sliding down the inside of her thigh leaves a glossy stain on the seat slat under her. She knows she should wipe it away, close her legs, do something to hold the shame in. But she can't. She just nods – a tiny, broken bob of her head.

“Yes. Yes. Please. I want to live,” Meredith whispers. And in the same breath – a raw confession for no one but the spirit between her legs could hear: And if I die by your hands… that's worship too.

They walk back to Meredith's SUV together. Rayeanna watches the way the Karen mask tries to settle over Meredith's face again – the prim little lip purse, the stiff spine. It's laughable. She looks like a hot mess having an identity crisis. The stale scent of lavender body wash can't hide the real scent now blooming from her core and leaking down her leg: warm, floral, sticky-sweet arousal that shouldn't smell like that at all. Her mark. Her curse. Her death imminent if this continues.

Rayeanna almost says ‘girl, you are leaking like an offering bowl,’ but she swallows it. She's focused now – battle mode, the same calm she carries on her worst nights at the hospital.

The car is spotless inside – leather scrubbed, air freshener dangling, HOA meeting notes still stacked in the passenger door. But the second Meredith turns the key, the porn feed in her tablet tries to reconnect to the car's Bluetooth.

A soft, leftover moan crackles through the speakers before she fumbles to kill the connection. Rayeanna raises an eyebrow. Meredith ducks her head so fast her pearls rattle.

Rayeanna takes the wheel; Meredith sheepishly slides into the passenger seat. Unfamiliar with this side of her car, but trusting of this strange alluring golden goddess who came to her rescue. They drive mostly in silence. Meredith's eyes flick to the mirror every few seconds – watching her own reflection, pale face haloed by the afternoon sun. Next to her, Rayeanna radiates calm force: Her purse open and out of sight; Mace and taser armed and ready.

About halfway there, Meredith's thighs squeeze tight on the seat. She can feel the slick bloom of her sweet arousal forming a puddle in her perfectly detailed leather seat. Her skirt is beyond damp now. Just a wet dirty garment whose only purpose at this point is to provide public decency. Nothing more.

This type of constant arousal shouldn't feel this good, but it still does. Meredith knows this isn't normal. Now she knows that she has put her soul in danger – thanks to her golden goddess. This type of constant extreme arousal is starting to have a slow draining effect on her. The novelty of this feeling has been replaced with a simple knowing: A knowing that this cannot continue no matter how good it feels.

As her pussy continues to throb and leak, she steals a glance at Rayeanna's soft belly under her seatbelt. It takes all of her willpower to keep her hands from between her legs. She just trembles and lets out a soft whimper from primal and otherworldly need. In between her throbs and gasps, she guides Rayeanna through the city and to her neighborhood.

This is the first time anyone has crossed the line into her private world – her perfect, sterile fortress – not as a fantasy on a screen but real. Warm. Breathing. And through all odds, it was a beautiful black woman. Even though she's a complete stranger, Meredith would worship her if Rayeanna commanded.

This type of constant arousal shouldn't feel this good but it still does. Meredith knows this isn't normal. Now she knows that she has put her soul in danger now, thanks to her golden goddess. This type of constant extreme arousal is starting to have a slow draining effect on her. The novelty of this feeling has been replaced with a simple knowing: A knowing that this cannot continue no matter how good it feels.

As they pull into the driveway – the big white house on its perfect cul-de-sac – Meredith's hands shake. Rayeanna kills the ignition. She looks at Rayeanna, eyes huge, voice so small it sounds like a child. “You're the first... to ever... come inside. That... knows my secret... I never let... never let anyone... like you…”

She doesn't mean it how it sounds. But it does sound like that – worship, guilt, terror all braided together.

They get out of the car, Rayeanna cautious and ready for anything. Her eyes flick to the prim hedges, the spotless front step, the dead flowerpots. She feels the spirit's weight before they even open the door – a vibration behind her throat, a warmth prickling her scalp.

The sweet smell hits her again when Meredith shifts in her seat and steps out of the car. Rayeanna hears an audible slurp noise. Her skirt is visibly soaked through. Fluid wet and making an audible plop down onto the concrete. Her almost non-existent ass cheeks clinging to the faint hint of curves she was almost blessed with. The woman can barely stand.

“Oh, poor woman,” Rayeanna says to herself. “This demon will literally drain her dry from her pussy.”

They walk into the house, and Meredith hesitates – trembling so badly her keys jingle against the knob. “This is... my sanctuary,” she whispers. “My shrine. My—” Rayeanna cuts her off with a single look. Open it.

Meredith obeys. The door swings wide on squeaky hinges.

Inside, it's exactly what Rayeanna expected – and worse. Blackout curtains pinned tight, candles half-melted down to scorched stubs. An oversized monitor glows with a dozen open clips: black bodies moving and fucking themselves silly, fucking each other – very perverted sexual act bouncing off cold beige walls. Sound echoing into the room.

But at the center, over the low dresser where Meredith first spread her legs and whispered her curse, there's the eye. And it certainly was not there before: a chalk shape scrawled on the mirror, rough but alive, lines pulsing just beneath the silvered glass like veins under skin. It's not a drawing anymore. It's a vortex. A pupil that breathes. The air hums with sugar and wet flowers – cloying, rotten, sweet.

Rayeanna stands in front of the eye. She maintains her resolve. The room is heavy and all of the weight is coming from that one otherworldly symbol. She feels her grandmother's old warnings slip into her ribs, anchoring her spine. Taking slow, deep, focused breaths. She knows what must be done, even if she doesn't know how – she knows.

“Strip,” Rayeanna says, calm as if she's reading blood pressure.

Meredith shudders. She peels off her blouse, her skirt, her bra – until she's nothing but small, pale skin and trembling thighs slick with the demon's nectar of fate. Her pussy is engorged. Lips puffy and red. Her clit sticking out proud and prominent. Pointing forward leading the way.

“Open your legs,” Rayeanna says. Meredith obeys, stepping wide, pussy bare and glistening to the eye scrawled on the wall.

Rayeanna thinks for a second – then moves on instinct. She pops the buttons on her blouse, slides it off, peels her bra away. Her breasts are soft, brown, perfect.

Meredith's eyes snap to them, her clit twitching so hard she gasps. Her pulse rises. Her hips buck the air uncontrollably.

“Look at me,” Rayeanna says. “Not the porn. Me. You keep your eyes on me the whole time. You're going to rub it out. You're going to push it back where it came from.”

Meredith's mouth drops open. She whimpers. “I – I'll do anything.”

Rayeanna points to the eye. “Face it. Crotch open. Rub. And say 'Demon be gone until you believe it. Until you feel every last drop leave your body.'”

Rayeanna's breast sway and jiggle. Meredith's eyes never leave her chest. This is her dream come true.

She masturbates furiously. However, this time, her orgasm won't come. Clearly the demon wants to root itself until it's done feeding.

Meredith's fingers slam against her clit so fast they slap. Her clit unyielding to the sudden onslaught. She literally feels her whole uterus convulse. As if her own womanhood wants to leave her body. Her engorged pussy envelops her hands like a glove, as if it has grown three times its size instantly.

Meredith smells it: The unnaturally sweet, warm, flowering supernatural scent. Meredith finally crossed the veil through her cursed pussy. This smell is not hers. Now she understands Rayeanna's concern. Real fear creeps in.

“Don't you stop now,” Rayeanna barked.

She stares at Rayeanna's tits, tears rolling down her cheeks. Her voice cracks into a high squeaky moan: “D-demon be gone… demon be gone...”

“Say it like your life depends on it,” Rayeanna says, starting to pinch her nipples. Trying to trigger Meredith to focus.

Rayeanna stands tall over her – the nurse, the keeper, the reluctant priestess. The eye on the wall quivers, as if tasting the nectar leaking from Meredith's core. There is also a knowing that it's time in this realm may be coming to an end. It watches, It feeds. It tries to keep roots.

The porn loops on the screen start to flicker, stuttering in pixel static. Their digital presence warped by the spiritual pressure building in the room. Meredith continues to focus on Rayeanna's bare breasts. She knows it's a distraction. She knows she has to obey her golden goddess.

This may be their only chance to banish the demon and undo Meredith's foolish ritual. Then the lights start to flicker.

Meredith's hips buck – her thighs slap together – the sweetness gushes in warm waves that catch the light like glittering nectar. But her went slick womanly fluids do not hit the ground. They float.

Little droplets lift off her slick folds, drift into the room's stale air like pollen in spring sun. They swirl toward the mirror, pulled to the eye's black pupil like iron filings to a magnet.

The chalk lines hiss – the pupil swells, Meredith's levitating flood of arousal binds itself in a sticky coat of her unnatural bloom. Meredith screams – a wordless cry that shreds into another chant: “Demon be gone… demon be gone…” Finally the orgasms break free.

She cums once, twice, three times – each wave pushing more of the fake sweetness out of her and into the wide and now fearful eye. She doesn't stop rubbing. This is life or death.

Rayeanna says “good girl” unblinking with a cold hard stare. She maintains control of the situation and monitors closely. She's still touching her nipples. Meredith's gaze continues to lock onto Rayeanna's perfect topless body.

The eye fades. The chalk smears. The sweet flower scent curdles, then goes thin – gone.

Meredith's thighs quake. She keeps rubbing – mindless now. Her gaze distant and unfocused. She's drooling… chasing a final echo she can't find.

Rayeanna watches her, chest bare, sweat prickling between her breasts. The mirror is clean but the woman isn't. She sees the truth: the demon's gone – but its hook is still lodged somewhere deeper, a curse that leaves the cage door open.

Meredith turns to Rayeanna, naked and afraid. “Help.” She's still rubbing her pussy raw. “What have I done to myself?”

Rayeanna's shoulders drop. She feels the fight drain into her bones – half dread, half pity. The spirit is gone but it left its echo. It may be gone but it took away all of Meredith's impulse control. The woman is spiritually broken and this is what filled the void.

Slick wet slurping sounds fill the room.. with the other hand, Meredith grabs her remote and turns up the volume on her screens. Porn begins to drown out Meredith's mindless uncontrollable rubbing.

Rayeanna knows she can't walk away. She also knows she can't do this alone. Her grandmother's words, her friend on standby – this is bigger than porn and shame. This is ancient. Meredith is not healed yet.

There is a quiet tension that most believers carry but rarely articulate. We want to belong, to be understood, to be welcomed into the world we live in, and yet we also want to be faithful, uncompromised, and obedient to God. Somewhere between those two desires, many of us feel stretched thin. We sense that faith is supposed to change us, but we are unsure how far that change is meant to go. Should it alter our relationships? Our habits? Our ambitions? Our tone? Our boundaries? Or is faith meant to be something we carry privately while we move through the same patterns as everyone else?

Second Corinthians chapter six presses directly into that tension. It does not do so gently, and it does not apologize for the discomfort it creates. Paul writes with urgency, with pastoral concern, and with a clarity that refuses to allow faith to remain theoretical. This chapter is not about abstract doctrine. It is about alignment. It is about timing. It is about identity. It is about the cost and beauty of being set apart in a world that constantly pulls us toward blending in.

One of the most overlooked aspects of this chapter is its opening plea. Paul does not begin with commands or warnings. He begins with grace. He reminds the Corinthians that they have received something extraordinary, something unearned, something freely given by God. And then he delivers a statement that should make every believer pause: do not receive the grace of God in vain. That phrase alone is heavy enough to sit with for a long time.

Grace, in Paul’s framing, is not merely forgiveness after failure. It is not a theological safety net. It is a living, active gift meant to shape how we respond, how we walk, and how we endure. To receive grace “in vain” is not to lose salvation, but to miss transformation. It is to accept the gift without allowing it to do the work it was meant to do within us. Grace that never changes our direction eventually becomes grace that we misunderstand entirely.

Paul follows this statement by quoting Isaiah, reminding the reader that there is an appointed time, a day of salvation, a moment when God’s invitation is not theoretical but immediate. Then he makes it uncomfortably personal: now is that time. Not later. Not after more preparation. Not after circumstances improve. Now. There is an urgency here that clashes sharply with modern spiritual procrastination. We are very good at postponing obedience under the banner of discernment. We say we are waiting on God when, in truth, we are waiting for comfort.

Paul is not dismissive of suffering or complexity. In fact, he immediately transitions into a description of his own life that dismantles any illusion that obedience leads to ease. He speaks of afflictions, hardships, distresses, beatings, imprisonments, labors, sleepless nights, hunger. This is not the resume of a man who found faith convenient. This is the testimony of someone who discovered that grace carries weight.

What is striking is not just what Paul endured, but how he frames it. He does not present suffering as evidence of failure or divine absence. He presents it as the environment in which faith proved itself real. His life became a paradox, marked by sorrow and joy, poverty and richness, having nothing and yet possessing everything. These are not poetic contradictions meant to sound spiritual. They are lived realities. Paul is describing the strange economy of the Kingdom of God, where value is not measured by comfort, applause, or control.

In this section, Paul also speaks about integrity. He emphasizes purity, knowledge, patience, kindness, the Holy Spirit, genuine love, truthful speech, and the power of God. These are not traits cultivated in isolation. They are formed under pressure. They are revealed when the world watches how a believer responds to injustice, misunderstanding, and loss. Paul’s concern is not image management. It is authenticity. He wants the Corinthians to see that the message he preaches is inseparable from the life he lives.

Then the tone of the chapter shifts again. Paul opens his heart to the Corinthians, telling them plainly that his affection for them has never been restricted. If there is distance, if there is coldness, it is not coming from him. This is one of the most human moments in the letter. Paul is not simply a theological voice. He is a wounded pastor, a spiritual father who feels the ache of relational strain. He invites them to widen their hearts, to respond with the same openness he has shown them.

This relational appeal sets the stage for one of the most quoted and most misunderstood passages in the New Testament: the call not to be unequally yoked with unbelievers. Too often, this line is reduced to a single application, usually marriage, and even then, it is often wielded without nuance or compassion. But in the context of Second Corinthians six, Paul is speaking more broadly about alignment and partnership.

The image of a yoke is important. A yoke binds two animals together so that they move in the same direction, at the same pace, under the same burden. To be unequally yoked is not merely to associate with people who do not share your faith. Jesus Himself ate with sinners, spoke with outsiders, and entered spaces that religious leaders avoided. Paul’s concern is not contact. It is control. It is not presence. It is partnership.

When a believer binds their direction, values, and decisions to systems or relationships that do not share allegiance to Christ, tension is inevitable. One will always pull against the other. Over time, that strain does not usually resolve in holiness winning out. More often, it results in compromise that feels subtle at first and justified later. Paul is not warning against loving people who believe differently. He is warning against allowing what does not honor God to shape what does.

Paul then asks a series of rhetorical questions that drive the point home. What partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? What fellowship has light with darkness? What harmony has Christ with Belial? These are not questions meant to shame. They are meant to clarify. Paul is drawing clear lines where the Corinthians had allowed blur. He is reminding them that faith is not an accessory. It is a foundation.

The climax of this argument comes when Paul declares that believers are the temple of the living God. This is not a metaphor meant to sound lofty. It is a theological earthquake. In the Old Testament, God’s presence was localized, bound to specific places, guarded by rituals and boundaries. Now, Paul says, God dwells within His people. That reality changes everything.

If believers are the dwelling place of God, then faith cannot be confined to certain hours or behaviors. It cannot be segmented into religious and secular compartments. It permeates all of life. Paul reinforces this by weaving together several Old Testament promises, emphasizing God’s desire to dwell with His people, to walk among them, to be their God, and to claim them as His own.

Then comes the call that often makes modern readers uncomfortable: come out from among them and be separate. Touch no unclean thing. This language can sound harsh or exclusionary if read without care. But Paul is not calling for isolation. He is calling for distinction. He is not advocating withdrawal from the world but resistance to its patterns.

Separation, in biblical terms, is not about superiority. It is about purpose. It is about recognizing that certain ways of living, certain compromises, certain alliances erode the clarity of our witness and the health of our souls. God’s promise attached to this call is not abandonment but intimacy. “I will welcome you,” He says. “I will be a father to you.” Separation is not loss. It is exchange.

What makes Second Corinthians six so challenging is that it refuses to let believers remain comfortable in ambiguity. It insists that grace leads somewhere. It demands that faith have consequences. It does not allow us to claim identity without addressing alignment. And perhaps most unsettling of all, it reminds us that God’s nearness is not only a comfort but a responsibility.

This chapter confronts the modern tendency to redefine holiness as personal preference rather than covenant faithfulness. It challenges the idea that sincerity alone is enough. Paul is not questioning whether the Corinthians believe. He is questioning whether their lives reflect the weight of what they believe.

There is also a tenderness beneath the firmness of Paul’s words. He is not issuing ultimatums from a distance. He is pleading as someone who has suffered, loved deeply, and remained faithful under immense pressure. His authority is not theoretical. It is tested.

Second Corinthians six invites believers to examine not just what they believe, but what they are yoked to. It asks uncomfortable questions about influence, compromise, and identity. It challenges us to consider whether we have received grace as a living power or reduced it to a comforting idea.

And it does all of this without promising ease. Paul does not say that separation will make life simpler or more admired. He says it will make it faithful. He says it will make it aligned. He says it will make room for God to dwell without competition.

For those willing to listen, this chapter becomes less about restriction and more about clarity. Less about fear and more about freedom. Less about withdrawal and more about purpose. It is an invitation to live fully aware that grace, once received, calls us forward.

This is not a call to perfection. It is a call to direction. It is not a demand for isolation. It is a plea for integrity. It is a reminder that the God who saves also shapes, and the grace that rescues also refines.

In the second half of this reflection, we will press even deeper into what it means to live set apart in a world that constantly negotiates values, how this chapter speaks to modern believers navigating work, relationships, and culture, and why the promise attached to separation is not loss but intimacy.

When Holiness Becomes a Way of Walking, Not a Wall You Hide Behind

Second Corinthians six does not end with a warning. It ends with a promise. That detail matters more than most people realize. Paul is not trying to frighten the Corinthians into obedience, nor is he threatening them with abandonment if they fail to draw the right boundaries. He is showing them the direction in which grace naturally leads and what God eagerly gives to those who follow it there.

Too often, holiness is framed as subtraction. Less fun. Fewer options. Narrower choices. Reduced freedom. But Paul frames holiness as presence. God drawing nearer. God walking among His people. God claiming them not as employees or servants, but as sons and daughters. The separation Paul speaks of is not about distance from people; it is about closeness with God.

This is where many modern believers struggle. We live in a culture that celebrates blending in. We are encouraged to smooth out sharp convictions, soften moral clarity, and avoid appearing “too serious” about faith. Even within the church, there is pressure to make Christianity feel lighter, more palatable, less demanding. Second Corinthians six quietly but firmly refuses that version of faith.

Paul’s argument hinges on identity. If believers truly are the dwelling place of God, then neutrality is no longer an option. A temple is not casual space. It is consecrated space. Not because of arrogance, but because of purpose. The value of a temple comes from who inhabits it, not from its outward appearance.

This reframes the entire conversation about separation. Paul is not saying, “Stay away from everyone who doesn’t believe what you believe.” He is saying, “Do not give authority over your direction to anything that does not honor the God who lives within you.” That distinction is everything.

Many believers misapply this chapter by retreating socially or emotionally. They pull back from friendships, workplaces, or conversations out of fear of contamination. That was never Paul’s intent. Paul himself lived deeply embedded in a pagan world. He reasoned in marketplaces. He engaged philosophers. He worked alongside unbelievers. His separation was internal before it was external. His allegiance was settled long before his environment changed.

The danger Paul addresses is not exposure; it is entanglement. When your values are slowly negotiated away for acceptance. When your conscience is dulled for convenience. When your witness becomes so diluted that it no longer costs anything. Those shifts rarely happen through dramatic rebellion. They happen through small, repeated compromises that feel reasonable in the moment.

Second Corinthians six speaks directly to that slow erosion. Paul does not list forbidden activities. He does something far more confronting. He asks questions that force clarity. What does light share with darkness? What harmony exists between Christ and what opposes Him? These are not questions meant to produce fear, but honesty.

Honesty is uncomfortable because it exposes where we have tried to live in overlapping loyalties. We want the peace of God without the tension of obedience. We want the promises without the pruning. We want intimacy without surrender. Paul gently but firmly reminds us that divided devotion always produces divided strength.

The promise that follows the call to separation is deeply relational. God does not say, “I will tolerate you.” He says, “I will receive you.” He does not say, “I will manage you.” He says, “I will be a Father to you.” That language matters. It speaks to belonging, not performance. To care, not control.

In Scripture, God’s fatherhood is never passive. A father shapes. A father protects. A father disciplines. A father delights. When Paul uses this promise, he is reminding believers that holiness is not a test they must pass to earn love. It is the environment in which love is most clearly experienced.

This is where modern application becomes unavoidable. Second Corinthians six presses us to ask hard questions about our partnerships. Not just romantic relationships, but business alliances, creative collaborations, financial dependencies, and even internal agreements we make with cultural narratives. Who sets the pace of your life? Who defines success for you? What voices carry the most weight when decisions are made?

Being unequally yoked is not always obvious. Sometimes it looks like building a future on values you did not choose but slowly adopted. Sometimes it looks like silence when truth would cost too much socially. Sometimes it looks like spiritual exhaustion that comes from constantly resisting pressure rather than resolving alignment.

Paul’s call is not to burn bridges indiscriminately. It is to stop letting misaligned structures steer your soul. Faith, in his vision, is not a weekend accessory. It is a governing reality. Grace does not hover over life like a protective cloud. It enters life and rearranges it.

This chapter also speaks to suffering in a way that challenges shallow spirituality. Paul’s earlier list of hardships is not disconnected from his call to holiness. It is evidence that faithfulness often leads through difficulty rather than around it. Separation does not guarantee ease. It guarantees clarity.

Clarity is costly, but it is stabilizing. When you know who you belong to, decisions become simpler even when they remain painful. When your identity is anchored, rejection does not carry the same power. When your direction is settled, storms do not define you.

Second Corinthians six does not romanticize suffering, but it normalizes it. Paul shows that joy and sorrow can coexist, that weakness and power can inhabit the same life, that being misunderstood does not mean being misaligned. This perspective is desperately needed in a culture that equates blessing with comfort.

There is also a communal dimension to this chapter that is often overlooked. Paul is not addressing isolated individuals pursuing private holiness projects. He is speaking to a church. Holiness, in Scripture, is never merely personal. It is relational. The choices of one believer affect the witness and health of the whole body.

This raises important questions for modern communities of faith. Are we encouraging one another toward clarity or enabling each other’s compromises? Are we creating spaces where holiness is pursued with humility and grace, or avoided for fear of discomfort? Paul’s words challenge not only individual believers, but entire communities to consider what kind of presence they are cultivating.

What makes Second Corinthians six so enduring is that it does not offer a checklist. It offers a vision. A vision of a life fully inhabited by God. A vision of grace that transforms rather than excuses. A vision of faith that costs something but gives far more in return.

The chapter leaves us with a simple but profound invitation. Live as though God truly dwells within you. Let that reality shape your boundaries, your partnerships, your endurance, and your hope. Do not receive grace as a momentary comfort. Receive it as a lifelong calling.

Grace, Paul insists, is not meant to be admired from a distance. It is meant to be lived.

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