Want to join in? Respond to our weekly writing prompts, open to everyone.
Adoptons Nos Enfants
from DrFox
Ne devrions nous pas traiter tous nos enfants comme s’ils étaient adoptés ?
Il y a des questions qui ne cherchent pas une réponse mais une mise à l’épreuve. Celle ci en fait partie. Elle vient gratter là où la parentalité aime se rassurer. Elle dérange parce qu’elle enlève un privilège silencieux, celui de croire que le lien du sang autorise tout. Même l’aveuglement. Même la confusion. Même certaines violences bien habillées.
Dire qu’un enfant est le sien est une phrase lourde. Trop lourde parfois. Elle charrie l’idée de propriété. De continuité. De dette implicite. Comme si la naissance créait automatiquement un droit moral sur l’autre. Or un enfant n’est jamais un prolongement. Il est une arrivée. Un surgissement. Un événement autonome.
Penser un enfant comme adopté oblige à un renversement. Cela oblige à se demander non pas ce que l’enfant nous doit mais ce que nous sommes capables d’offrir sans condition. Sans attente de retour. Sans fantasme de réparation. L’enfant adopté n’est pas censé nous ressembler. Il n’est pas chargé de justifier nos choix passés. Il n’est pas sommé de porter notre nom comme une bannière identitaire. Il est accueilli. Et cet accueil est toujours fragile. Toujours à refaire.
Il y a une illusion tenace dans la parentalité biologique. Celle de la légitimité naturelle. Comme si aimer allait de soi. Comme si comprendre allait de soi. Comme si transmettre se faisait sans effort. Cette illusion est dangereuse. Elle permet de ne pas questionner ses propres manques. Elle autorise à projeter en croyant éduquer. Elle transforme parfois l’enfant en territoire familier plutôt qu’en être étranger à rencontrer.
Traiter un enfant comme adopté c’est accepter qu’il soit fondamentalement autre. Même quand il vit sous notre toit. Même quand il partage nos habitudes. Même quand il nous appelle papa ou maman. C’est accepter qu’il arrive avec un monde intérieur qui ne nous appartient pas. Un monde que nous ne comprendrons jamais complètement. Et c’est très bien ainsi.
Cette posture change la manière de parler. De regarder. D’exiger. Elle introduit une retenue. Une forme de pudeur relationnelle. On n’entre pas dans la vie intérieure d’un enfant adopté comme dans un terrain conquis. On frappe. On attend. On écoute. On respecte les silences. On renonce à certaines curiosités. On accepte de ne pas tout savoir.
Il y a aussi une conséquence radicale à cette façon de voir. Elle supprime la dette. Un enfant adopté ne nous doit rien. Ni reconnaissance. Ni réussite. Ni loyauté éternelle. Il peut partir. S’éloigner. Se tromper. Nous décevoir même. Et pourtant le lien tient. Parce qu’il n’est pas fondé sur l’obligation mais sur le choix répété.
C’est là que quelque chose devient exigeant. Aimer sans s’adosser à la biologie. Être constant sans se réfugier dans le statut. Tenir sa place sans brandir l’autorité du sang. Cela demande une maturité intérieure réelle. Cela oblige à travailler sur ses propres blessures. Sur son besoin d’être validé. Sur son désir d’être indispensable.
Dans mon parcours personnel j’ai vu combien cette confusion pouvait faire des dégâts. Des adultes persuadés d’aimer alors qu’ils réclamaient. Des parents convaincus de donner alors qu’ils attendaient inconsciemment un retour. Des enfants chargés de réparer des histoires qui ne les concernaient pas. Rien de spectaculaire. Rien de criant. Juste une lente torsion du lien qui se complique.
L’adoption comme posture mentale dissout cela. Elle rappelle que l’enfant n’est pas une solution existentielle. Qu’il n’est pas un pansement. Qu’il n’est pas une réponse à la solitude ou à la peur de mourir. Il est un être en construction. Et cette construction ne nous appartient pas.
Cette forme de parentalité n’est pas spectaculaire. Elle ne fait pas de bruit. Elle ne s’exhibe pas. Elle est faite de gestes simples. De régularité. De fiabilité. De présence tranquille. Elle n’a rien à prouver. Elle ne cherche pas à être admirée. Elle cherche seulement à être juste.
Alors oui la question reste ouverte. Ne devrions nous pas traiter tous nos enfants comme s’ils étaient adoptés. Comme des vies qui nous sont confiées et non données. Comme des histoires indépendantes que nous accompagnons sans les écrire à leur place. Comme des êtres libres auxquels nous offrons un cadre et non une cage.
Peut être qu’à cet endroit précis la parentalité cesse d’être un rôle et devient une éthique. Une manière de se tenir face à l’autre. Une façon d’aimer qui ne capture pas. Une façon de transmettre qui laisse partir.
Why did I go to TikTok?
Well, I was on Facebook for years. Sometimes I would get hundreds of views. Two or three times I got thousands of views. I wasn't bashing anybody while on Facebook. There wasn’t a reason for them to ban me. I was just proclaiming the name above all names, as I often do, the name of Jesus. Somewhere along the way an Instagram account bound itself to my Facebook account. I showed them that it wasn’t my Instagram account, but they blocked me anyway–I guess too much talk churchy talk?
So I went to TikTok, and the same thing happened. I've got some videos with only two or three views and some with hundreds of views, and I have one (or maybe two) with thousands of views.
Why?
Well, not because the messenger is so important (me), but because the Message is so life-changing, which is the full gospel of Jesus Christ. Because He's no longer just a Lamb slain before the foundation of the world. Now, He is the King of kings and Lord of lords with all authority in heaven and earth given unto Him. The Lord said to my Lord, “Sit at my right hand until I make thy enemies a footstool under thy feet.“
His feet are burnished bronze.
His eyes are like fire.
His raiment is glowing.
His hair is white.
And people those people left behind in the Great Tribulation will be saying, “Save us from the Lamb that sits upon the throne.“
Revelation 6:16-17 NIV They called to the mountains and the rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who sits on the throne and from the wrath of the Lamb! [17] For the great day of their wrath has come, and who can withstand it?”
Yeah, I'm just a messenger. But the power and the beauty of the gospel is that there are millions of messengers out there just like little ol’ me saying the same thing: “Jesus is Lord. God raised Him from the dead. He’s been given the Name above all Names! And He's coming back very soon!”
So, keep on keepin’ on, my Gospel-shoutin’ brothers and sisters. Keep on keepin’ on when the platforms change, when the algorithms choke your reach, when the doors you didn’t knock on suddenly slam shut. Keep on keepin’ on when your voice feels small and your audience looks invisible—because the power has never been in the platform. It’s always been in the proclamation.
Keep telling people about Jesus. Keep telling them what the Gospel actually means—Good News for the lost, the broken, the condemned, the ones already born on a road they didn’t choose. Wide is the road that leads to destruction, and most don’t even realize they’re walking it. But narrow is the path that leads to Life Everlasting, and Jesus came to pull us off the wide road and place our feet on solid ground.
I’m just one messenger. But I’m not alone. There are millions of us saying the same ancient, unshakeable truth: Jesus is Lord. God raised Him from the dead. He bears the Name above every name. And He is coming again.
So this holiday season, with all the noise and lights and distractions swirling around us, I choose Life. And I hope—truly hope—you do as well.
Claustrophobia inside an MRI Machine
I didn’t know I was claustrophobic until I had my MRI today (last Tuesday). Never once experienced claustrophobia. Not once, not ever. Until today (last Tuesday, I’m just now posting this thing I wrote Tuesday on Christmas Eve).
It wasn’t just any MRI machine. They told me afterward it was the smallest one in Central Illinois—and the reason they told me that is because when they lowered the thing over my head and slid me back into that tunnel, I realized something all at once:
I was completely helpless.
I couldn’t push a button and make myself leave. I was trapped. And so was the breath in my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. That’s when it hit me—this is why they give you that little air-pump device, in case something goes wrong or you panic.
It’s like a little balloon on a cord. You squeeze it, it makes a big, loud noise, and they come rushing back in case something’s wrong—like if you forgot to tell them about an implant and the machine is trying to rip it out of your body, or in case you’re claustrophobic.
Well, they had just slid me in when I said, “Wait a minute,” before they walked away. “Can you pull me out real quick?”
They pulled me out, and I started trying to catch the breath that wasn’t in my lungs.
They noticed I was breathing hard. It felt just like the anxiety attacks I had right after Mom died. You never think you’re going to have one—until you have one. I never would’ve thought, in a hundred-thousand million years, that I’d have anxiety attacks after Mom died. But I did. And I never knew I was claustrophobic either—until they slid me into that tight little space and panic showed up uninvited.
They pulled me out, and even though I wasn’t sweating or screaming, I was still in a controlled panic.
So I said, “I’m just going to close my eyes and act like I’m falling asleep.”
They asked, “Do you want a washcloth for your eyes?”
I thought they meant a wet one. But they brought a dry washcloth and laid it over my eyes. Somehow, that helped. They slid me back in, and I focused on my breathing and prayer—breathing and prayer at the same exact time.
Controlled breaths. Deep breaths. Praying. Breathing in the Spirit of God—something I’ve learned to do over the years. The breath of life.
And then something unexpected happened.
It became… enjoyable.
That’s right. The claustrophobic feeling faded away. Toward the last eight minutes or so, it was actually enjoyable. Then they pulled me out and told me, once again, that it was the smallest MRI machine in all of Peoria County for Carle Health, and they sent me on my way.
They told me five to seven business days for the results. I didn’t bother telling them it might be five to seven weeks, because they might have trouble finding my pea-sized brain inside those MRI images. But I kept that to myself. Too many dad jokes already.
Although—I did hit them with a good dad joke they’d never heard before.
Before I laid down on the table, they said something about magnets, and I said, “Well, I do have a magnetic personality. Do you think the MRI machine will rip that out of me?”
They said, “We’ve never heard that one before.”
So I guess I’ll leave you with that one.
Le Nouveau Joseph
from DrFox
Il y a des figures que l’on croit avoir comprises très tôt, presque trop tôt. Des figures que l’on range dans une case commode, souvent par provocation, parfois par ignorance, parfois pour se protéger. Joseph a longtemps été pour moi l’une de celles-là. Dans mon époque rebelle, je le voyais comme un cocu. Le mot était brutal, volontairement réducteur. Il me permettait de tenir la religion chrétienne à distance, de la regarder avec ironie, comme un récit arrangé pour masquer une vérité plus triviale. De mon point de vue d’alors, Joseph était l’homme trompé, celui à qui l’on raconte l’excuse la plus improbable qui soit, et qui l’avale. Fin de l’histoire. J’avais cru être lucide. En réalité, je regardais sans voir.
Avec le temps, quelque chose s’est déplacé en moi. Non pas par conversion soudaine, ni par retour docile à un dogme, mais par maturation intérieure. En revisitant ce récit, je me suis aperçu que j’avais toujours regardé Joseph depuis le mauvais côté. J’avais fixé mon attention sur ce qu’il perdait, jamais sur ce qu’il choisissait. Or l’essentiel est là. Joseph savait. Il savait pertinemment que cet enfant n’était pas le sien. Il n’était pas naïf, ni dupe. Il était charpentier, pas idiot. Et pourtant, il a décidé de croire sa femme. Ou plus précisément, il a décidé de la choisir elle, même quand la logique sociale, morale, biologique semblait lui offrir mille raisons de partir.
C’est là que la figure bascule. Joseph n’est pas un homme à qui l’on a volé quelque chose. Il est un homme qui a consenti. Consenti à rester dans l’ombre. Consenti à aimer un enfant qui ne prolongerait pas son sang. Consenti à devenir père sans appropriation. Jésus est un enfant adopté avant même d’être vu, avant même d’être tenu dans les bras. Un enfant accueilli non pas par défaut, mais par décision intérieure. Cette adoption radicale, de la mère et de son enfant... Silencieuse, sans contrat ni reconnaissance publique, est peut-être l’un des gestes d’amour les plus vertigineux qui soient.
Je me rends compte aujourd’hui à quel point cette lecture me touche personnellement. J’ai longtemps cru que la paternité était une affaire de transmission directe, de filiation évidente, de miroir narcissique parfois. Un enfant comme continuité de soi. Et puis la vie, comme souvent, m’a obligé à élargir cette définition. À comprendre que la paternité la plus profonde ne se situe pas dans le sang, mais dans la présence. Joseph incarne cela pleinement. Il est le père qui ne sera jamais confondu avec le fils. Le père qui ne prendra jamais la lumière. Celui dont on ne retiendra presque rien, sinon sa fonction, comme si c’était déjà trop. Et pourtant, sans lui, rien ne tient.
Il y a dans cette figure quelque chose d’Atlas. Joseph porte un monde qui ne sera jamais le sien. Il porte une histoire qui le dépasse. Il soutient sans s’approprier. Il stabilise sans diriger. Il protège sans expliquer. Dans une époque où l’on confond souvent amour et visibilité, reconnaissance et valeur, cette posture est presque subversive. Il aime sans être nommé. Il agit sans être cité. Il construit une charpente pour que l’autre puisse advenir. Et puis il s’efface.
Son métier n’est pas un détail anecdotique. Travailler le bois, c’est assembler des pièces séparées pour leur donner une forme habitable. C’est créer des structures, des seuils, des espaces où la vie peut circuler. Joseph ne crée pas ex nihilo. Il ajuste, il ponce, il relie. Il prend ce qui est brut et lui donne une cohérence. Il y a là une métaphore magnifique de sa paternité. Il ne crée pas l’enfant, mais il crée l’espace dans lequel l’enfant pourra devenir lui-même. Il façonne le cadre, pas l’essence.
Je crois que ce qui m’émeut le plus aujourd’hui, c’est que Joseph n’a rien à prouver. Il n’a pas besoin que l’enfant lui ressemble. Il n’exige pas de retour. Il ne demande pas de gratitude. Il est là. Chaque jour. Dans le geste répété. Dans la constance. Dans l’effort discret. C’est une paternité sans grand discours, sans héroïsme tapageur, mais d’une exigence intérieure immense. Accepter d’aimer ce qui ne vous appartient pas, voilà peut-être la définition la plus haute de l’amour adulte. Ne devrions-nous pas traiter tous nos enfants comme s’ils étaient adoptés ?
En relisant cette histoire avec ces yeux-là, je comprends que ce n’est pas seulement un récit religieux. C’est une leçon anthropologique. Une proposition radicale sur ce que signifie être père, être homme, être humain. Joseph me semble aujourd’hui incarner une paternité suprême précisément parce qu’elle est désappropriée. Une paternité qui ne s’adosse pas à la domination, ni au droit, ni à la biologie, mais à un choix intérieur renouvelé chaque jour. Et peut-être que, sans le savoir, c’est ce modèle-là que je cherchais depuis longtemps, bien au-delà de toute religion.
The 8-Day Rule
from Defying Gravity
週に8回、打ち込んでいることはありますか?
私がエアリアルシルクに触れ始めてから、最後の演技を終えて引退するまで13ヶ月。 幸運なことに、最後には国際大会のアマ最上位の部門 (4部門ある中で一番上) で2位入賞することもできた。
初めてエアリアル体験をした日にはただのClé (フットロック) をしただけで足首が折れるかと思った私には、持って生まれた特別な才能は特にない。練習仲間は知っての通り、前半の6~7ヶ月間はほとんど何もできなかった。
ただ、最後の3ヶ月は最低でも週8回は練習をしていた。 当時の感覚としては、どれだけ練習してるかなんて恥ずかしくて周りに言えないくらい練習をしていた。単にエアリアルが上手な人を目指していて、限られた時間で上手な人になるためにはその頻度はごく自然なものだった。
何かを上達したい時、戦略は色々ある。効率的な練習方法、コーチやメンターの選び方、付き合い方、環境の作り方、教材の選び方、等々。 しかし最もシンプルで上達度と相関が高い要素は、小細工のない単純な練習量だと思う。
とは言え「とにかくたくさん練習しろ！」と言ったところであまり助けにはならないので、「週8回ルール」という一つの基準を提示したい。
取り組むものが何であれ、練習量と上達スピードの相関は極めて高い。スポーツでも、音楽でも、研究でも、仕事でも、恋愛や人間関係でも。振り返ってみると、あなたもそうだったのではないか。 数ヶ月といった期間で何かを修めた時、あなたも週8回それに自分の生命を捧げていたはずだ。
ここで8回というのは基本的には比喩的表現ではなく文字通りの意味で、スポーツの場合、休日は朝と夜に練習する (果たして休日だろうか?) などして、「毎日やるのは当たり前として、それプラスα」の練習をキープするということになる。
細かい話をすれば、人間の身体にとっては毎日やらない方が良いタイプのトレーニングや、練習量を上げすぎると上達効率が落ちる項目もある。しかしオーバーワークを防ぐことと週8回ルールを守ることは全く別の話であり、確実に同時に成り立つ。それが数学のような知的負荷が高い学習項目であっても、エアリアルのような高強度のスポーツであっても。
その上でこの8回キープは言わば物理的な儀式で、淡々と、1日だって空けずに時間を捧げることが、何かを本格的に上達したい時の最も単純で基本的なルールなのだと経験 & 観察的に信じている。
—
だが恋愛と同じように、情熱にも燃え上がる順番というものがある。それまでの日常を変えても良いと思える程度の心構えが事前にできていないと、週8回のコミットメントはただ生活を壊す苦行に過ぎない。練習を強制するのは、だから無意味なのだ。
この心構えや覚悟ができた状態を、私は「呪いにかかった」と表現している。私の場合、エアリアルの呪いにかかるのにまず10ヶ月がかかった。 最初の数ヶ月は2-3週間に1回体験レッスンに行くだけの、遠い知人のような関係。当然だが毎回前回の内容を忘れていて、ほぼ全く何も上達しない。 しかしやがて週に1回会うようになり、週に2回、3回と頻度が上がり、10ヶ月が経った頃にようやく呪いにかかり「もう毎日やるか」と思うことができた。
呪いにかかる前の期間については今回の趣旨ではないので深く扱わないが、まだ心構えができていない人に週8回という無機質な拘束を押し付けるものでもない。
だが、もしあなたが週8回のコミットメントと聞いて「そんなの当たり前だよね」と感じるほどの何かを自分の中に見つけられたなら、それは幸せなことだと思う。 同じ呪いにかかった仲間とも自然と通じ合い、高め合える宝物のような関係が築けるに違いない。
私もいつかその幸運にまた恵まれた時は、エアリアルでも確かめられた経験的な学びから、週8回という極めて単純なルールを自分への最初の約束にすると思う。 そしてそうしてたどり着く週8回生活は、実はあらゆる意味でまだまだようやくスタートラインなのだ。
なぜなら呪いが深まった先には、週8回どころか1日8回(?)ルールとでも言うべき、起きてから寝るまでずっと、つまり常に、毎瞬間、いついかなる時もそれに打ち込むポール・エルデシュ程の呪いにかかった人間も各分野に存在するからだ。 そういった目で見ると、私がエアリアルに打ち込んだ3ヶ月など、開演直後の広く輝く舞台にようやく踏み出した、袖からの儚い一歩でしかない。
—
私がメインで練習に利用させて頂いたスタジオの中の人は、「こいつ毎日のように練習来てるなー、仕事してるんか？」と思っていたと思う。ちなみに普通にフルタイムの専門職をしていた。ただ、仕事上の親しい関係者も「こいつ毎日のようにエアリアルやってんなー、仕事弱火になってないか？」とは思っていたと思う。
la Vérité
from DrFox
Personne n’est obligé de vivre au niveau de vérité qu’il a entrevu.
Il existe une idée silencieuse qui circule chez ceux qui ont vu un peu plus loin que le décor. Comme si, une fois le rideau soulevé, il devenait immoral de le laisser retomber. Comme si comprendre obligeait à vivre dans une nudité permanente. Comme si la lucidité était une dette à payer jusqu’au bout.
C’est faux.
L’humain a droit au confort psychique. Au divertissement. À la légèreté. Même au mensonge doux.
La vérité n’est pas un serment. C’est une rencontre.
Et toute rencontre peut être visitée, quittée, revisitée plus tard. Ou jamais.
Il y a des vérités qui brûlent trop fort pour être habitées en continu. Des vérités qui assèchent. Des vérités qui isolent. Des vérités qui rendent étranger à ceux qu’on aime encore. Alors l’âme fait ce qu’elle sait faire depuis toujours. Elle dose. Elle filtre. Elle détourne parfois le regard. Non par lâcheté, mais par survie.
Ce n’est pas une trahison de soi. C’est une sagesse organique.
L’esprit humain n’a jamais été conçu pour vivre en apnée dans l’absolu. Il a été conçu pour osciller. Pour jouer. Pour croire un peu. Pour oublier beaucoup. Pour rire au milieu de l’absurde. Pour se raconter des histoires le soir afin de pouvoir dormir.
Le confort psychique n’est pas une fuite. C’est une fonction vitale. Comme la peau qui protège du froid. Comme la paupière qui se ferme face à une lumière trop crue. Vouloir la vérité sans pause, sans voile, sans respiration, c’est demander à l’œil de fixer le soleil en continu et de se féliciter de devenir aveugle.
Le divertissement n’est pas une faiblesse. C’est une soupape. Une danse autour du réel. Une manière de dire à la vie: je te vois, mais pas tout le temps. Pas aujourd’hui. Pas maintenant. Il y a des jours où l’on préfère une chanson simple à une symphonie tragique. Des soirs où une comédie légère est plus juste qu’un documentaire sur l’effondrement du monde.
Et c’est très bien ainsi.
La légèreté n’est pas une négation de la profondeur. C’est une autre façon d’y circuler. Comme marcher sur la surface de l’eau sans y plonger. Comme regarder les nuages en sachant très bien ce qu’ils cachent. Il y a une intelligence douce dans la capacité à ne pas tout prendre au sérieux. À laisser certaines questions sans réponse. À vivre parfois comme si le mystère n’exigeait rien de nous.
Même le mensonge doux a sa place.
Pas le mensonge qui écrase. Pas celui qui manipule. Mais celui qui protège.
Celui que l’on se raconte pour continuer à aimer. Pour tenir debout. Pour ne pas effondrer tout un système intérieur avant d’avoir les moyens de le reconstruire. Certains mensonges sont des béquilles temporaires. On ne court pas avec. Mais on marche encore.
La vérité n’est pas un sommet où tout le monde doit camper. C’est un paysage que chacun traverse à son rythme. Certains y vivent. D’autres y passent. D’autres encore n’y entrent qu’en rêve. Et aucun de ces chemins n’est supérieur aux autres.
Il y a une violence cachée dans l’injonction à la lucidité permanente. Une forme d’élitisme déguisé. Comme si voir plus obligeait à souffrir plus. Comme si la conscience devait forcément être austère. Grave. Dépouillée. Mais la conscience peut aussi sourire. Se reposer. Se divertir. Se mentir un peu pour mieux revenir plus tard.
On n’est pas obligé d’habiter la vérité. On peut la visiter.
On peut choisir des jours de clarté et des jours de brouillard. Des moments d’exactitude et des moments de flou. La maturité n’est pas de rester éveillé à tout prix. Elle est de savoir quand ouvrir les yeux. Et quand les fermer sans honte.
L’humain a ce droit fondamental. Celui de ne pas être héroïque. Celui de préférer parfois la paix à la justesse. Celui de vivre, simplement, à hauteur de ce qu’il peut porter.
Et la vérité, la vraie, n’en est pas offensée. Elle attend. Elle sait.
Day 2 out of 160
from freeperson
Still on track! – Yoga in the morning, which set me up for success – Intellectual satisfaction from studying statistics – Talked to a wise older friend – Got some sunshine – Met the kcal target – 100g of protein
Ligne de Fracture
from DrFox
La vraie ligne de fracture n’est pas entre les hommes et les femmes. Je l’ai longtemps cru. C’était plus simple. Plus confortable. Ça donnait des camps, des explications rapides, presque rassurantes. Puis l’expérience a fait son travail. Lentement. Brutalement parfois. Et ce que j’ai vu n’avait rien à voir avec le genre. Tout à voir avec la capacité à regarder le lien.
Il existe deux manières fondamentales de faire face à une relation qui fait mal. Deux manières de survivre quand l’amour cesse de couler naturellement. Certains peuvent dire il y a un problème entre nous. D’autres doivent croire le problème c’est toi. Et cette différence change tout.
Dire il y a un problème dans le lien, c’est accepter une part d’inconnu. C’est reconnaître que quelque chose dysfonctionne sans savoir immédiatement quoi. C’est accepter l’inconfort de ne pas avoir de coupable clair. C’est se tenir dans cet espace fragile où la responsabilité est partagée et où aucune identité n’est totalement sauve. C’est inconfortable. Ça demande de la maturité. Et surtout, ça demande de pouvoir tolérer que l’amour ne soit pas toujours flatteur.
À l’inverse, croire que le problème c’est l’autre est une nécessité psychique pour certains. Pas un choix. Une nécessité. Quand le lien devient douloureux, quand l’idéal se fissure, quand la frustration monte, il faut sauver quelque chose. Et ce quelque chose, c’est l’image de soi. Alors la douleur ne peut pas venir du lien. Elle doit venir de l’autre. De son manque. De sa faute. De sa toxicité supposée.
J’ai été des deux côtés. J’ai fui des liens au lieu de les travailler. J’ai aussi essayé de rester face à des récits qui me désignaient comme la source de tout. Et ce qui m’a frappé, c’est que dans le second cas, il n’y avait plus de dialogue possible. Plus de terrain commun. La réalité devenait mouvante. Réécrite. Ajustée en permanence pour préserver une cohérence interne fragile.
Quand quelqu’un peut dire il y a un problème entre nous, quelque chose reste vivant. Même dans la douleur. Même dans la colère. Parce que le lien existe encore comme objet commun. On peut le regarder. Le questionner. Parfois le réparer. Parfois décider de le quitter proprement. Mais il reste réel.
Quand quelqu’un doit croire le problème c’est toi, le lien disparaît. Il est remplacé par un tribunal intérieur. L’autre devient une menace. Une erreur. Un danger. Tout ce qu’il dit peut être retourné. Tout ce qu’il ressent peut être disqualifié. Ce n’est plus une relation. C’est une lutte pour la survie psychique.
Ce mécanisme n’a rien à voir avec l’amour. Il a tout à voir avec la peur. La peur de se voir incomplet. La peur de reconnaître une dépendance. La peur d’admettre une blessure ancienne réactivée par le lien. Alors on attaque. Ou on se défend. Mais on ne rencontre plus.
Ce que j’ai appris à mes dépens, c’est qu’aucune pédagogie ne fonctionne face à quelqu’un qui doit croire que l’autre est le problème. Aucun mot juste. Aucun effort. Aucun amour. Parce que reconnaître un problème dans le lien impliquerait de reconnaître une fragilité interne insupportable. Alors le récit doit tenir. Coûte que coûte.
La vraie fracture est là. Entre ceux qui peuvent se dire je souffre dans cette relation et ceux qui doivent dire je souffre à cause de toi. Entre ceux qui peuvent rester dans l’ambivalence et ceux qui ont besoin d’un ennemi pour continuer à se sentir exister.
Ce n’est pas une question de bien ou de mal. C’est une question de structure. Certains ont appris tôt à dialoguer avec leurs contradictions internes. D’autres ont appris à les projeter. À les externaliser. À les déposer sur un autre corps. Un autre visage. Un autre rôle.
Dans un couple, cette différence est explosive. Celui qui parle du lien cherche un ajustement. Celui qui accuse cherche une délivrance. Ils ne parlent pas la même langue. Ils ne vivent pas dans le même monde. Et souvent, ils s’aiment encore sans pouvoir se rencontrer.
Comprendre cela m’a permis de lâcher des combats inutiles. De cesser d’essayer d’être compris là où il n’y avait plus d’espace pour une réalité partagée. Et aussi de regarder mes propres zones d’aveuglement. Les moments où il m’était plus confortable de partir que de rester dire il y a un problème ici.
La maturité relationnelle commence peut être là. Dans cette phrase simple et exigeante. Il y a quelque chose qui ne va pas entre nous. Pas pour accuser. Pas pour sauver. Mais pour voir. Et accepter que parfois, voir suffit à comprendre qu’il n’y a plus de nous possible. Et que ce n’est la faute de personne. Mais la responsabilité de chacun.
Une Maman Vraie
from DrFox
Être une mère, une vraie, n’est pas un état. C’est une traversée. Un long passage à travers soi, ses manques, ses élans, ses peurs, ses ombres. Rien à voir avec l’image lisse. Rien à voir avec la morale. Être mère commence bien avant l’enfant et continue longtemps après qu’il ait cessé d’avoir besoin de bras.
Une mère naît souvent pleine. Pleine d’amour, de projections, d’idéaux, de promesses silencieuses. Elle porte en elle des archétypes anciens, parfois hérités, parfois inventés. La mère nourricière. La mère protectrice. La mère réparatrice. La mère sacrificielle. Elles arrivent ensemble, sans ordre, sans mode d’emploi. Et très vite, quelque chose résiste. L’enfant n’est pas un prolongement. Il est un autre. Et c’est là que tout commence vraiment.
Il y a une mère dont on parle peu. La mère qui a faim. Faim de reconnaissance. Faim de sens. Faim d’amour reçu autant que donné. Cette faim n’est pas un défaut. Elle est humaine. Mais elle devient dangereuse si elle n’est pas vue. Une mère qui ne regarde pas sa faim risque de nourrir son enfant avec elle. De lui demander de combler. D’apaiser. D’exister pour elle. Sans le vouloir. Sans le savoir.
Traverser la maternité, c’est apprendre à reconnaître cette faim sans la confondre avec l’amour. C’est sentir monter la fatigue, la frustration, parfois la colère, sans les déposer sur l’enfant. C’est accepter que certaines parties de soi crient pendant que d’autres tiennent. Une mère n’est pas un bloc. Elle est une multiplicité en mouvement. Des voix internes qui se succèdent. La tendre. La dure. La dépassée. La lucide. La perdue. La présente.
La maturité maternelle ne consiste pas à faire taire ces voix. Elle consiste à les écouter sans leur laisser les commandes. Une vraie mère apprend à rester là quand une partie d’elle voudrait fuir. À poser un cadre quand une autre voudrait fusionner. À dire non quand l’amour voudrait dire oui à tout. À tolérer l’inconfort sans chercher un coupable.
Il y a un moment clé. Celui où la mère comprend que l’enfant ne la sauvera pas. Qu’il ne donnera pas de sens à ses blessures anciennes. Qu’il ne réparera rien. À partir de là, quelque chose se détend. L’enfant peut enfin être un enfant. Et la mère une femme entière, traversée mais responsable.
Être une vraie mère, c’est aussi accepter de mourir plusieurs fois. Mourir à l’image idéale. Mourir à la toute puissance. Mourir à la mère parfaite. Chaque étape de l’enfant exige un renoncement. Le nourrisson demande la présence. L’enfant demande la sécurité. L’adolescent demande la distance. Et à chaque fois, une partie de la mère résiste. S’accroche. Pleure parfois en silence.
Ce deuil permanent n’est pas une perte. C’est une transformation. Une mère qui ne traverse pas ces deuils s’accroche. Elle confond protection et contrôle. Elle appelle amour ce qui est peur. Elle fige le lien pour ne pas affronter le vide. À l’inverse, une mère qui accepte le vide découvre quelque chose de plus vaste. Une présence stable qui ne dépend plus de l’enfant.
La maternité mature est une posture intérieure. Une capacité à contenir sans envahir. À aimer sans posséder. À guider sans diriger la vie de l’autre. Cela demande un travail intime. Une exploration honnête de ce qui se joue à l’intérieur. Identifier les parts qui veulent être aimées. Celles qui ont peur d’être inutiles. Celles qui se sentent trahies quand l’enfant s’éloigne.
Une vraie mère ne projette pas ses combats non résolus sur son enfant. Elle les regarde. Elle les traverse. Elle apprend à dialoguer avec ce monde intérieur multiple plutôt que de le nier. C’est ce dialogue qui crée la solidité. Pas la perfection.
Et paradoxalement, c’est quand la mère cesse de vouloir être une bonne mère qu’elle commence à l’être. Quand elle accepte ses limites. Quand elle reconnaît ses erreurs. Quand elle peut dire je ne sais pas. Quand elle répare plutôt que de nier. Là, quelque chose d’essentiel se transmet. Non pas un modèle. Mais une capacité à être humain sans se perdre.
Être une vraie mère, ce n’est pas se sacrifier. C’est se transformer. Lentement. Profondément. En laissant chaque archétype jouer son rôle sans prendre toute la scène. En restant responsable du lien sans en faire une prison. En offrant à l’enfant ce qu’aucune perfection ne donne. Une présence vivante. Stable. Et suffisamment libre pour le laisser devenir lui même.
from Justawomentryingtoochange
It’s Christmas Eve, and I woke up at 12pm again, but I felt an aliveness within me. I let my body sleep until it didn’t need to sleep anymore and woke up with the urge to clean my space to welcome in the new. Clearing out the old brought reflection on this year and all that I have let go of.
My whole life changed this year. It felt like all the foundations I had built my life on were removed. The false hearts of the people around me were revealed, and also the destruction of my own heart. I wish I could say I was happy about this, but I feel a deep sadness. My mind likes to go back and play a fantasy of what could have been, but I know I wouldn’t have been happy if I had stayed.
You see, I’m three years sober, and what they don’t tell you about sobriety is that the longer you go, the more is revealed about what you have built your life around. It becomes very evident why you drank in the first place — not because of other people, but because your self-worth is so low that you accept anything and everything.
When you spend that long harming yourself, it’s not just the substances that have an effect. It’s the people we choose, the environments we stay in, and most of all, our survival strategies to keep ourselves safe. The more sober I become in life, the more that is revealed to me.
I see the way people deny my reality now. I see the small micro facial expressions of the people who don’t really love me. I see gestures that come from guilt. I see the fake smiles, and most of all, I see people’s hearts. I don’t judge, though, because I now understand that nobody is perfect — but you can’t expect to grow in places that don’t want to see your light.
The truth is, yes, this year has been one of the most brutal years I’ve lived — which I find crazy, because I’m no longer in the suffering. Yet so much decay took place this year. So much unravelling of the heart, and so many honest truths that had to be spoken. But on the other hand, it’s been the most beautiful year of my life, witnessing myself for the first time.
For the first time, I got to see myself stand up for my heart. I saw the strength it took for me to walk away from people I truly loved. I saw myself break open, but still choose to let joy in. I witnessed myself pray for the very people who caused harm. I witnessed gifts coming back online that I didn’t even know I had. I witnessed myself create from a place of trust because I was building a firmer foundation within myself.
So yes, this year was painful — but it had to be, for the very woman I’m becoming.
This note is the biggest Christmas gift I could ever ask for: to witness myself blossom into someone I didn’t think was possible for me. Someone who gets excited when I make bread. Someone who takes care of herself and others. Someone who now enjoys wrapping Christmas presents. Someone who prefers staying in and no longer fears missing out. Someone who asks the dog if she’s having a good day. Someone who gets emotional holding a friend’s child. Someone who can’t wait to see what’s in store for her next.
The more sober I become, the more it feels like home.
Saxophone Christmas 2025
Ernest Ortiz Writes NowOn Saturday, my family and I went to Eastridge Mall in San Jose to see the Saxophone Christmas concert. It only happens once a year in the city and in Sacramento. Dozens of volunteers with various saxophones perform classic Christmas songs to a full crowd. It’s been several years since I’ve last seen their concerts while it’s my family’s first time.
Over 20 years ago, I took up the saxophone and learned from various teachers. I practiced all the time and even performed at a recital. My last teacher encouraged me to volunteer for Saxophone Christmas but I had to drop out due to a death of a cousin.
Unfortunately, practice waned and I eventually stopped due to being so busy with work and unable to play without disturbing neighbors. Anyway, if you’re in San Jose or Sacramento and you’re able to, check out Saxophone Christmas. It’s free and fun to watch.
#merrychristmas #saxophone
Cedar: Eight of Cups (Chapter 1)
from 
fromjunia
Cedar woke up before the world did. As they did most mornings, Cedar roused from a broken sleep in the early pre-dawn hours. They splashed their face with cold water, jumpstarting the process of waking up, and changed from their soft shift to their durable and rough work clothes. A prayer at their icon of the Reformer later, and they were out the door. They skipped eating something before work; breakfast wasn’t their forte, and skipping it saved them time and money anyways.
They quietly locked their room, mindful to make little noise, and slipped downstairs. Some of the religious orders were already awake and preparing for their long day ahead of them: a trade-off for working the daytime. A few travelers who had arrived after a long night of travel. Hospitality workers preparing rooms for them and those to come. And, most divine of all, the barista at the House coffee shop.
“Morning Cedar,” offered Tasha, the early morning barista. “You’re always here so early. When do you sleep?”
Cedar returned a defensive smile. Tasha worried too much. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. That’s what coffee’s for, after all. Large Work, no milk or sugar, please.”
Tasha glanced at Cedar’s bony frame. “You might be sleeping sooner than you planned, at this rate. You sure you don’t want any cream or sugar?”
“I am.”
Outside the kitchen was Cedar’s superior, Moska. He also seemed to never sleep. They exchanged the kind of terse greeting that comes not from a difficult relationship, but from two people who both know the other has work to do.
The first thing Cedar did, as always, was down their coffee and fill the cup with water. Their daily ritual, eight cups of water by day’s end. Cedar could never be accused of under-hydrating. Next, they put on an apron, washed their hands in the basin of purified water that Moska had prepared, and waited to receive their orders.
Moska, with perfect timing and without looking up, read from the sheet in his hands: 100 meals in the morning, 300 in the afternoon, and 400 in the evening. A light day, Cedar noticed. He continued:
“Word is we may be busier the next few days, so prep extra stock. I’ll procure more ingredients.” Cedar thought they’d enjoy the extra work. Moska finished: “Do your stuff.”
Cedar was off. 100 meals would require around 4 pots, so they lit 4 fires. They gathered their ingredients: Root vegetables, poultry, cabbage, stock, herbs, salt. An incredible amount of each, orderly arrayed on the countertops and in bags and boxes on the floor. (Some might not regard bags and boxes of food spread across the floor as orderly, but Cedar had a way with it.) Stock, diluted with drinking water, poured into pots set above the fires.
After that came the chopping, dicing, mincing, slicing, cubing. As the aromas began to grow, hunger pangs struck. Following that, a pressure around their heart. They quickly downed their whole cup of water and refilled it before continuing anew.
Cedar’s coworker, Bon, arrived about 30 minutes into their shift, and stopped to greet them.
“Hey Cedar! How are you doing this fine morning?” Always too cheerful for first thing. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough,” Cedar said.
Bon continued to stand there. “Good to hear, good to hear. Any plans for later?”
“Well, I’m going to make breakfast, then lunch, then dinner, then go home.”
“Hah, same! Although you’d know that wouldn’t you? Well, let’s get on it!” Bon finally began to wash his hands.
When preparing this much food for this many people, it’s easy to forget quality and focus on just having something edible out in time. Cedar never forgot quality. This was their passion. They never lived the other three holy virtues too strongly, but passion found a life in their kitchen work. Six days a week Cedar set out to make the best of what ingredients they had; usually, they succeeded.
It’s for this reason that Moska, despite being responsible for Cedar, never came to check on their work until the final taste at the end. It was a rare day when his feedback exceeded minor alterations to the herbs and salt. Today was a usual day. A hundred meals were ready before many souls had exited their bedroom.
With their work done for the moment and their space clean, Cedar brought their full water glass to the workers’ table in the dining room. As they waited for the meal to begin, the subtle marks on their forearms glowed a dull gray. It wasn’t visible to others beneath their long-sleeved shirt, but they felt the familiar sting. They rested their head in their hands and, though it never worked, prayed to the Reformer that it end quickly.
Unfortunately, it was always a choice for Cedar: either this or the demon that’s encircled their heart. As the pressure became unbearable, Cedar chose the demon, and returned to the kitchen. They downed another glass of water, and began working on the lunch meal. With the extra time gained by not sitting at breakfast, they thought, they might be able to do something special with this.
The demon nipped at their stomach, and their body flooded with energy and warmth. This is better, Cedar thought.
“Didn’t see you at breakfast.”
Cedar pretended to busy themself with kitchen work so they had an excuse to not respond. In reality, between themself, Bon, Moska, and the soon-to-arrive Cheryl and Mads, lunch and dinner will be light work. And Moska knew the realities of the kitchen even better than Cedar.
“You can’t survive on coffee and water alone, you know.”
Moska’s words hung heavy. Cedar didn’t know how to respond—didn’t want to respond—but knew they had to. So, continuing dicing carrots, Cedar lied.
“I grabbed something from one of the vendors outside the House.” Their knifework slowed, and their hand shook a little. “I’m all good.” Moska didn’t respond. Finally: “I’ll be at lunch, don’t worry.”
“That’s good.” He watched Cedar’s knifework for a moment. “You’ve been working for a while. Finish what you’re doing and take a break. I’ll take your place.”
Cedar nodded, their knife moving with an anxious energy, their chest tight.
A few minutes and one cross-armed glare from Moska later, Cedar was sitting in the lobby. There were all types going by: laborers, priests, maids, and so many travelers. There were usually a lot of people passing through and staying for the night, making use of the House’s generosity. Today, though, seemed like a lot. Might need a few more meals that originally planned, Cedar thought. Or perhaps that was just an excuse to go back to work and not think about lunch. Their breath trembled.
As Cedar ruminated, the marks on their arms began to sting again. They reflexively pulled their sleeves down to cover the marks as the world began twisting inward. Cedar gave up, and the knot in their stomach was replaced by a heaviness in their limbs. They put their head in their hands, and stayed that way for what felt like forever, until forever was punctuated by the call for lunch.
At the workers’ table, Cedar refused the bread and signaled “that’s enough” after a ladle of soup. It barely coated the bottom of their bowl. Cedar stared at it distantly as others talked. Eventually, Cedar ate, then got in line for more food.
About half an hour after lunch ended, the pain on their arms and heaviness of their limbs began to ease up. Clarity was returning, too: The sounds of the lobby began to take on more specific forms, and they could pay attention to what was happening again. And just in time, as what was happening was quite a sight.
What seemed like a hundred families were pouring in through the large vaulted entrances. The expansive wood floors were slowly disappearing under the procession of this crowd, and high ceilings turned a commotion into a cacophony.
At first this was only a curiosity, until the sounds of crying and screaming differentiated themselves from the cacophony, and then a few voices broke through:
“We need a nurse!” “Does anyone have bandages?” “Anyone, please, help us!”
A few nurses and healers who happened to be nearby rushed ahead, and directed one healthy new arrival in the direction of the clinic to get more help. Healing chip necklaces were transferred from the nurses on to those in the most need, those with fevers and festering wounds. Shortly afterwards, stretchers arrived.
Cedar watched this scene play out from a bench on the sidelines. As more medical workers arrived, their attention shifted to take in the whole scene: Hundreds of people, occupying the lobby, swarming the roomkeepers and drowning Lila, the afternoon barista, in orders. It took only a moment before Cedar realized that it would be their own turn before long.
They booked it to the kitchen. Outside was Moska. Cedar offered a stressed look; Moska returned a concerned-but-aware one. Cedar’s expression shifted to narrowed, distant eyes; Moska put his hand on their shoulder and nodded. Cedar nodded back.
Cedar rounded the corner and raised their voice. “Alright, everyone, we’ve got a lot more company than expected. Moska and I talked through it, and it’s going to be tight, but we can do it. Bon.”
Bon jumped slightly before pulling himself back together. “Yes?”
“Double the bread. If you start now you’ve got time for enough dense loafs. You can aim for 80 by the time dinner starts and another 20 by midway through.”
Bon grimaced at the prospect of not being able to sit through dinner, but nodded.
“Cheryl. Split your time between preparing the poultry and helping me on vegetables. We don’t have enough meat for this many people, but we have enough vegetables, so we’re going to go heavy on the veggies today. Mads, help with dishes then move to poultry. We’re going to need those dishes back faster than the dish pit thought.” A brief pause as Cedar thought. “Don’t forget to get some Pure Font water from supplies to make sure the water stays good. Eight liters should work.”
“Aye-aye, captain,” Cheryl and Mads said in a perfect harmony of gentle mockery.
“Mads—real quick. Go run and see if Riktor can come in today. Tell them they can have off tomorrow if they want, in return for working today.”
At that last sentence, Moska gave a sidelong glance towards Cedar. Answering without acknowledging: “We’re probably going to be even more busy tomorrow. We’ll be ready for that then, but tonight we aren’t, so I’d rather another body today and be down one tomorrow.” And: “We’re going to aim for the same schedule: 24 pots out by dinner, another 8 to come by halfway. We all do our job and we’ll be able to sit for part of dinner.”
Moska patted Cedar on the back. “I’ll go message our suppliers we’ll need more produce tomorrow. You’ve got this under control.”
And they did. Riktor arrived about twenty minutes later, allowing the kitchen to run almost exactly to schedule: 73 loaves and 25 pots were ready by the time the dining staff were ready to serve. The remainder was ready a bit earlier than planned, about a third of the way through dinner (Cedar sent Cheryl off to help Bon, and Riktor since the soups were moving along quickly, and that helped Bon catch up), allowing the kitchen a little more time to rest after the blitz. For their efforts, the junior cleric had warm words for Moska to pass on to the kitchen staff.
Cedar went to bed exhausted, but satisfied. The buzz of avoiding a potential disaster through competency and teamwork is one of their favorite feelings.
But they also couldn’t quite clear the images from this afternoon from their head. That was quite a few people hurt, and Cedar had been so wrapped up in their own role that they never found out what happened.
As worry began to creep in, their demon slithered from their heart to their ear and whispered: “Whatever happens, you know I’ll be there with you. We can handle it together.”
A little more confident, Cedar fell asleep.
A Table Set With Tension: Meeting Family Conflict the Way Jesus Did
from Douglas Vandergraph
There are moments in life when you realize that time has passed, seasons have changed, and you yourself are no longer who you used to be—yet somehow, the moment you step back into certain rooms, the past is waiting for you, fully intact, ready to reassert itself. Holiday gatherings have a peculiar power to do that. They compress decades into a single afternoon. They collapse growth, healing, and distance into a chair at a table you have sat at before, with people who remember you as you were, not as you are becoming.
The holidays are supposed to be warm. They are supposed to be joyful. They are supposed to feel like rest. But for many people, they feel like emotional obstacle courses. You walk in already bracing, already rehearsing, already telling yourself what not to say, what not to react to, who to avoid, and how long you can reasonably stay before leaving feels like self-preservation instead of rejection.
Family politics are rarely about policy, ideology, or current events. Those are just the surface language. Underneath, the real currency is power, memory, and control. Who gets to speak without interruption. Who gets dismissed. Who gets labeled. Who gets subtly reminded of old failures. Who is still treated as if they never grew beyond the version of themselves the family is most comfortable remembering.
What makes this especially painful is that families are where we first learned what love felt like—or what passed for it. They are where we learned how approval works, how silence can punish, how jokes can wound, and how conflict can be buried instead of healed. So when tension arises at a family table, it doesn’t just sting in the present. It reactivates old neural pathways. It wakes up younger versions of us who learned to cope by shrinking, pleasing, rebelling, or disappearing.
When people ask how Jesus would handle family politics, they often imagine Him offering gentle platitudes, smoothing everything over, or miraculously transforming hearts in real time. But the Gospels tell a more grounded, more challenging story. Jesus did not live above relational strain. He lived inside it. He knew what it was like to be misunderstood by those closest to Him. He knew what it was like to have His calling questioned, His motives doubted, and His growth resisted.
There is a brief but revealing moment in the Gospels where Jesus’ own family comes looking for Him, concerned about His behavior, questioning whether He has gone too far. It is not a sentimental scene. It is uncomfortable. It reminds us that holiness does not guarantee acceptance, even among those who share your blood. Jesus does not lash out in response, but He also does not retreat into people-pleasing. He acknowledges the moment and continues forward in obedience to His Father.
That tension—between love and clarity, between grace and boundaries—is the tension many people feel every holiday season. They want to love their families. They want peace. They want connection. But they also want to remain whole. They want to honor the work God has done in them without being pulled backward into old emotional contracts they no longer signed.
Jesus’ way through this tension begins not with strategy, but with identity. He never entered a room trying to discover who He was in relation to others. He entered knowing who He was before God. That distinction changes everything. When identity is settled, reactions lose their power. When identity is fragile, every comment feels like a threat.
Many people step into holiday gatherings unconsciously asking the room to validate their growth. They hope someone will notice the change. They hope someone will acknowledge the healing. They hope the old dynamics will simply dissolve now that time has passed. But rooms rarely grant what only God can give. Jesus did not seek affirmation from the crowds, the religious leaders, or even His family. He returned again and again to solitude, prayer, and communion with His Father to remember who He was.
Before Jesus spoke to anyone else, He listened to God. That rhythm mattered. It grounded Him. It made Him unshakable in moments when others tried to define Him by rumor, fear, or expectation. When you enter a family gathering anchored in God’s voice instead of your family’s reactions, you are no longer negotiating for permission to exist. You are simply present.
Presence is powerful, but it is also misunderstood. Jesus’ calm unsettled people. His refusal to react on cue frustrated those who wanted control. In family systems, reaction is currency. The one who can provoke the strongest response often feels the most powerful. Jesus refused to participate in that economy. He did not allow urgency, accusation, or emotional pressure to dictate His behavior.
He listened carefully. He watched patterns. He understood that what people say is often less important than why they say it. Jesus saw fear hiding behind anger, pride masking insecurity, and control compensating for unresolved pain. That insight did not make Him dismissive, but it did make Him discerning. He did not absorb every word as truth. He filtered everything through wisdom.
This is one of the hardest disciplines for people navigating family politics. Listening without absorbing. Hearing without carrying. Being present without becoming responsible for everyone else’s emotions. Jesus mastered this. He could stand in the middle of accusation without internalizing shame. He could hear rejection without questioning His worth. He could face misunderstanding without scrambling to explain Himself.
At many family tables, words are spoken that are sharp, dismissive, or subtly demeaning. Sometimes they are framed as jokes. Sometimes as concern. Sometimes as tradition. Jesus would hear those words, but He would not let them attach themselves to His spirit. He understood that not every voice deserves residence in the heart.
There is a temptation, especially for those who have grown and changed, to want to prove that growth under pressure. To finally say the perfect thing. To articulate years of internal work in a single moment. To be seen. But Jesus did not perform His transformation for skeptics. He lived it quietly, consistently, and without defensiveness. He allowed time and fruit to speak louder than arguments.
Jesus also understood when not to engage. This is where many people feel conflicted. They equate silence with weakness and engagement with strength. But Jesus often demonstrated the opposite. When questions were asked in bad faith, He declined to answer them directly. When traps were set, He reframed the moment or withdrew. He knew the difference between curiosity and control, between dialogue and manipulation.
Family politics often masquerade as conversation while functioning as power plays. The goal is not understanding; it is dominance. Jesus refused to validate that. He did not allow Himself to be dragged into false dilemmas or forced into binary choices designed to trap Him. He responded from wisdom, not pressure.
There is spiritual maturity in recognizing which conversations are worth having and which ones are simply reenactments of old scripts. Jesus did not confuse availability with obligation. He did not believe that love required access to every part of Him. He loved deeply, but He also maintained boundaries that protected His mission.
Boundaries are often misunderstood within families. They are seen as rejection, rebellion, or disrespect. But Jesus demonstrated that boundaries are not the opposite of love. They are often its expression. He withdrew to pray. He left crowds. He stepped away from people who demanded signs instead of transformation. He did not allow Himself to be consumed by the expectations of others.
For someone navigating holiday gatherings, this may mean stepping outside when the tension rises. It may mean leaving early. It may mean declining to engage certain topics. It may mean not attending at all. These decisions are not failures of faith. They are sometimes acts of obedience.
Jesus did not sacrifice obedience to maintain appearances. He did not remain in environments that consistently undermined His calling. He did not confuse endurance with holiness. There were moments He stayed and moments He left, and both were guided by prayer, not guilt.
One of the most difficult realities to accept is that Jesus did not fix every relationship He encountered. He offered truth. He offered grace. He offered love. But He allowed people to choose whether they would receive it. Some walked away. Some hardened their hearts. Some misunderstood Him to the end. Jesus did not chase validation from those committed to misunderstanding Him.
This truth is painful for those who long for family reconciliation. We want healing. We want closure. We want acknowledgment. But Jesus teaches us that faithfulness does not always result in resolution, at least not immediately. Sometimes the call is not to fix the family, but to remain whole within it.
When Jesus left a room, He did not carry resentment with Him. He did not rehearse arguments in His mind. He did not fantasize about vindication. He entrusted outcomes to God. That trust freed Him. It allowed Him to love without being consumed by disappointment.
The holiday table, then, becomes less about changing others and more about practicing presence. It becomes an opportunity to embody a different way of being. Calm where there is chaos. Clarity where there is confusion. Restraint where there is provocation. Love that does not demand control.
This does not mean suppressing emotion. Jesus wept. Jesus grieved. Jesus felt anger. But He expressed emotion without letting it master Him. He allowed feeling without surrendering direction. That balance is what many people seek during emotionally charged family gatherings.
To walk into a room knowing that you may not be understood, may not be affirmed, and may not be received as you hope—and to remain loving anyway—is a quiet form of courage. Jesus lived that courage daily. He invites His followers to do the same, not through force, but through faith.
The goal is not to leave the gathering triumphant. The goal is to leave it intact. Not fragmented. Not bitter. Not diminished. Intact.
As the holidays approach, many people pray for peace in the room. Jesus might suggest a different prayer. Not that the room would change, but that you would remain anchored. Not that others would behave differently, but that you would move through the space with wisdom, grace, and truth.
Jesus did not come to manage optics. He came to embody light. And light does not argue with darkness. It simply exists, steady and unafraid.
This is where the real work happens, and this is where the story continues.
If the first part of this reflection lingers anywhere, let it linger here: Jesus did not measure faithfulness by how smoothly a gathering went. He measured it by whether He remained aligned with the Father while standing in imperfect rooms. That distinction matters, because many people leave holiday gatherings feeling defeated not because something “went wrong,” but because they expected faithfulness to look like harmony instead of integrity.
One of the most difficult lessons Jesus teaches through His life is that peace is not the absence of tension. Peace is the presence of trust. It is the quiet confidence that God is at work even when nothing visibly resolves. When Jesus sat with people who misunderstood Him, opposed Him, or quietly resented Him, He did not become restless. He did not rush outcomes. He did not force reconciliation before hearts were ready. He trusted timing more than control.
Family conflict often tempts us to hurry healing. We want the moment to mean something. We want the meal to fix something. We want the conversation to close a chapter. But Jesus shows us that healing unfolds at the speed of truth, not at the speed of desire. Some hearts soften slowly. Some wounds surface only after years of silence. Some relationships require distance before they can be reimagined.
This is why Jesus was never frantic about outcomes. He was deeply intentional, but never rushed. He could sit in discomfort without trying to manage it. He could allow awkwardness without scrambling to soothe it. He could let silence exist without filling it with nervous explanation. That kind of presence unsettles people who are used to control, but it also exposes truth.
At many holiday tables, there is an unspoken expectation that everyone will play their assigned role. Someone keeps the peace. Someone stirs conflict. Someone avoids eye contact. Someone dominates the conversation. When you change, the system resists. Jesus experienced this constantly. His growth disrupted expectations. His authority unsettled familiar hierarchies. His calm refused to cooperate with manipulation.
What Jesus teaches us here is subtle but powerful: you do not need to announce your growth for it to be real. You do not need to defend your healing for it to matter. You do not need to justify your boundaries for them to be valid. Growth that is real eventually becomes visible without explanation.
This is why Jesus rarely explained Himself to people who were committed to misunderstanding Him. He knew that explanation without openness only feeds argument. Instead, He lived in a way that made His life the evidence. Over time, some noticed. Others did not. Jesus accepted both outcomes without resentment.
One of the quiet burdens people carry into family gatherings is the hope that this time will be different. That someone will finally see them clearly. That an old wound will finally be acknowledged. That a long-standing pattern will finally break. That hope is not wrong, but it can become heavy when it is placed on people who are not ready to carry it.
Jesus never placed the weight of His fulfillment on human response. He placed it on obedience. That freed Him from disappointment. It did not make Him indifferent, but it made Him resilient. He could love sincerely without being undone when love was not returned in the way He hoped.
This resilience is not hardness. It is rootedness. It comes from knowing that God’s affirmation is not fragile. It does not fluctuate with family moods or social dynamics. When Jesus heard His Father say, “This is my beloved Son,” He carried that truth into every room afterward. No argument could erase it. No rejection could undo it.
For those navigating family politics, this becomes an invitation rather than a demand. An invitation to let God’s voice be louder than the room. An invitation to stop auditioning for acceptance that has already been given by heaven. An invitation to trust that your worth does not rise or fall with holiday interactions.
Jesus also understood something that many people learn only through exhaustion: not every relationship is meant to be managed. Some are meant to be entrusted. Entrusted to God’s timing. Entrusted to God’s work. Entrusted to God’s ability to soften hearts in ways we cannot.
This does not mean disengaging emotionally from everyone. It means releasing the illusion of control. Jesus did not carry the burden of fixing everyone’s perception of Him. He trusted that truth, over time, reveals itself. That trust allowed Him to remain present without becoming entangled.
There is also grief in this process, and Jesus does not minimize it. Grief that family may never become what you hoped. Grief that certain conversations may never happen. Grief that growth can create distance before it creates understanding. Jesus grieved too. He wept over cities. He lamented hardened hearts. He felt the ache of rejection. But He did not let grief turn into bitterness.
Grief acknowledged becomes wisdom. Grief denied becomes resentment. Jesus shows us how to acknowledge pain honestly while still choosing love. That balance is one of the most mature expressions of faith.
As gatherings end, there is often a moment of emotional reckoning. The drive home. The quiet afterward. The replaying of words. Jesus did not replay interactions to punish Himself. He did not rehearse alternate responses. He released moments back to God. He trusted that what was planted would grow in time, or not, according to hearts.
Learning to leave a room without carrying it with you is a spiritual discipline. It requires trust that God does not need your rumination to work. It requires humility to accept that some outcomes are beyond your reach. Jesus practiced this release daily. He slept during storms. He withdrew after intense moments. He rested without guilt.
The holiday season often reveals where we still believe it is our job to fix what only God can heal. Jesus invites us to lay that burden down. Not in apathy, but in faith. Not in withdrawal, but in trust.
In the end, the question is not whether your family dynamics changed. The deeper question is whether you remained aligned with who God is shaping you to be. Whether you loved without losing yourself. Whether you spoke truth without contempt. Whether you set boundaries without bitterness. Whether you left whole.
Jesus shows us that holiness is not proven by flawless gatherings, but by faithful presence. He did not come to manage family politics. He came to reveal a different way of being human. A way rooted in love, truth, and trust in God’s timing.
If this holiday season feels heavy, know this: you are not failing because the room is difficult. You are practicing something sacred simply by showing up as yourself, anchored in God, and refusing to surrender your peace to old patterns.
Jesus did not avoid difficult tables. He transformed how He sat at them. And He invites you to do the same—not perfectly, but faithfully.
Leave the table when it is time. Rest when you need to. Pray honestly. Release outcomes. And trust that God is at work in ways you cannot yet see.
That is not weakness. That is faith.
Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph
Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube
Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee
🌈
from 
💚
Our Father Who art in heaven Hallowed be Thy name Thy Kingdom come Thy will be done on Earth as it is in heaven Give us this day our daily Bread And forgive us our trespasses As we forgive those who trespass against us And lead us not into temptation But deliver us from evil
Amen
Jesus is Lord! Come Lord Jesus!
Come Lord Jesus! Christ is Lord!
🎄
from 💚
In Prayer
And adoration of Christ In China we are bold And sit beneath the Heavens Remembering our Brethren Departed from our time And those who do believe Share in us companion Elsewhere or in attendance Of our Church of Holy Spirit Pray for Grace among us And for our kin who are away Remembering the Lord “Do this in memory of me” Our joy exceeds to Heaven Where we store our Holy treasures To become the Sons of God As we do love One Another In Christ Jesus, Our Best Friend, Amen
Enganchado
from 
Bloc de notas
cuando las IA se enteraron de que les decía prácticamente lo mismo a las tres se pusieron de acuerdo en retirarle los generosos planes gratuitos y como estaba tan enganchado no le quedó más remedio que rendirse / esto es hacerse premium