1.

Da jeg gik på universitetet havde jeg, naturligvis, flere bekendtskaber. Ingen af dem startede i fredagsbaren, som ellers er fordommen, selv om nogle af dem sluttede her. I stedet startede de på læsesalen. Jeg var en flittig studerende og min kærlighed til filosofien var nogle gange svær at adskille fra mit begær i det hele taget. Med en vis forsigtighed vil jeg dog påstå at det er sådan det bør være, at man må anerkende at Sokrates havde ret ved at lade et vist erotisk element spille en rolle for det at lære noget. Jeg lærte i hvert fald i løbet af årene at gennemskue hvem der egentlig var flittige og dygtige, og både ubevidst og bevidst har jeg undgået eller skåret folk fra, fordi de ikke gad læse lektier eller var værd at føre samtaler med. Det er en sans jeg nu har udviklet til så højt et niveau at jeg kan se på folk om de tænker godt. Ved at se på deres manerer eller på den måde de rent fysisk holder om en tekst på – og hvis der er noget, jeg er blevet overbevist om på netop universitetet, så er det at det ydre også er det indre.

Som altid er det de episoder der aldrig blev til noget, som man husker bedst. Eksempelvis husker jeg at gå en hel vinter og kigge efter en meget smuk kvinde som jeg tror læste kunsthistorie, og som jeg overvejede at give mit nummer, indtil jeg en dag gik forbi bag hende på læsesalen og opdagede at hun skrev sine noter i et dårligt opsat Microsoft OneNote, hvilket gjorde at jeg mistede interessen. Omvendt havde jeg et årelangt crush på en historiker fordi jeg en dag havde lagt mærke til at vedkommende brugte de smukke Faber-Castell highlighters i luksuriøse, let knækkede farver og med en harmonisk runding i plastikhylsterets kanter. Da jeg var ung og dum, havde jeg stor foragt for highlighters som jeg syntes var for meget: teatralske og unødvendige. I takt med at jeg blev mere moden og begyndte at tage tingene alvorligt, skiftede jeg dog mening. Nu forstår jeg at det teatralske er nødvendigt, for hvis ikke jeg har lyst til at skrive noter eller highlighte – hvis ikke man begærer at holde sin pen i hånden – så får jeg det ikke gjort. Jeg husker en medstuderende jeg engang gjorde nar ad (undskyld Mathies!) fordi han bruge lineal til at sætte helt lige streger under citater. I dag ejer jeg selv tre forskellige linealer til det formål.

2.

På et tidspunkt bragte min iver mig til Université de Sorbonne i Paris. Det hører til midt i den del af byen der ligger på Seinens venstre bred, rive gauche, som jeg havde lært at kende på forhånd fra vaskemærket på vintage Yves Saint Laurent-skjorter, og hvis betydning jeg havde googlet indgående. Selvom selve universitetet har ligget der i århundreder, foregår ca. halvdelen af undervisningen på Centre Universitaire Clignancourt der ligger i den nordlige ende af metrolinje 4, lige akkurat indenfor grænsen af selve Paris’ 20 arrondissementer. Et sted jeg ikke havde googlet, og hvor koncentrationen af sælgere af illegale cigaretter ved Metrostoppet er en af de største i Paris. På ægte fransk maner skal man overleve to års undervisning i denne Corbusier-inspirerede betonbygning før man får lov at komme ind til terazzogulvene på det gamle Sorbonne. Som udvekslingsstuderende havde man dog en mere fri adgang til undervisningen, og jeg havde derfor nogle dage om ugen hvert sted. Det gjorde at jeg arbejdede skiftevis på læsesalen begge steder, og jeg kunne ikke lade være med at hænge mig i forskellene. På det gamle Sorbonne sidder man vitterligt nedenunder et fresko af videnskaben – malet som en kvinde med bare patter – omgivet af tre lag stuk. Man læser ved gamle træborde belagt med linoleum, og alle håndtag er guldbelagte i de håndskårede døre. Det var selvfølgelig en stor oplevelse at læse franske klassikere fra Descartes i den slags omgivelser, og jeg udviklede hvad jeg forventer bliver en livslang fascination af René Descartes her.

På trods af dette endte jeg med at holde mere af La bibliothèque Clignancourt med dens den rå beton og de med vilje blotlagte vandrør – tænk et lidt tættere og mere hyggeligt Centre Pompidou – fordi lysindfaldet og indeklimaet trods alt var bedre i denne nyere bygning. Efter undervisning og en espresso fra møntautomaten (1 euro, serveret i en 1 dl stor hvid plastikkop) gik jeg en dag op mod en af de pladser jeg foretrak, på anden sal i den nordlige ende. Her så jeg lige ved hovedtrappen en meget smuk kvinde skrive noter til nogle bøger om hvad der så ud til at være statistisk metode for sociologi. Hun var en af den slags kvinder man ønsker sig at se når man vælger at tage på udveksling til Frankrig. Cool, og med vintage jeans der sidder på den der helt rigtige nonchalant måde, ikke for stramt og ikke for løst, som kun franske it-girls kan ramme helt rent. Løst hår, som jeg husker det, og en oversized striktrøje. Det mest tiltrækkende ved hende var dog hendes noteapparat. To farver highlighter og par ark notepapir liggende lidt skødesløst omkring sig. Som næsten alle franske studerende skriver hun noter på dobbelte ark hvor et A3-ark er bukket på midten og der er trykt linjer så man som et ark fra en hæftet bog reelt kan skrive på fire A4-sider på ét stykke papir, de såkaldte copie double. Og selvfølgelig en pæn skråskrift der slap ved hver 3-4. bogstav:  hot girl stuff. Men det var trods alt ikke så meget det hun skrev der gjorde størst indtryk på mig, men hvad hun skrev med. Måske på grund af hendes skønhed i øvrigt var det her jeg første gang lagde mærke til den lille grønne pen hun skrev med – en opdagelse som siden har haft en stor betydning i mit liv. Det var en limegrøn plastikpen i et meget særegent design, med et aflangt hul i midten og et formstøbt greb der gør at man kun kan holde den én vej. Jeg forstod at det var noget specielt, og i de følgende dage begyndte jeg at lægge mærke til at mange af de andre studerende havde samme model, og samtidig forstod jeg at jeg selv måtte skaffe mig sådan en.

Det lykkedes at finde den lille grønne pen nogle dage senere. Det var en af de dage hvor jeg havde fået lov at komme ind i de gamle haller nede i byen og kunne overvære Maitre Romano forelæse i et rum udelukkende af mørkt træ, stående foran et andet, enormt freskomaleri, dette med motiv af en enlig munk i et goldt middelhavslandskab. Claude Romano, som han hedder, er selv ret tør, men ikke desto mindre en ekstremt dygtig fænomenolog, og han forelæste med et kursus som slet og ret hed la verité, altså „Sandheden“, hvilket var det første jeg valgte at følge. Her forklarede han os at det sjældent er særligt gavnligt at spørge hvad en ting er, og han foreslog i stedet at spørge hvor tingen er. Denne anbefaling har tjent mig godt gennem årene, og selv med det erotiske begær har jeg haft bedre held med at spørge hvor tiltrækningen er, frem for hvad den består af.

Om eftermiddagen i vinduet i en lille butik med fine skriveredskaber på Boulevard Saint-Michel, en typisk parisisk boulevard med grønne løvtræer, ser jeg en lille udstilling i vinduet med det jeg leder efter. I en række kulørte farver ligger den genkendelige pen som jeg på skiltet kunne se,  er plastikfyldepennen Lamy Safari. Inde i butikken bliver jeg ekspederet af en meget tjenstvillig men frastødende ældre bretonsk udseende herre, med sine hornbriller hængende i en snor nedover den brune pullover. I dag kan jeg stadig se for mig hvordan han instruerede mig venligt og tålmodigt i, hvordan man sætter blækpatron i og skifter mellem fin og medium spids. Jeg blev dog nødt til at skynde på ham fordi han havde dårlig ånde og lange, klamme negle der gjorde det svært for ham at håndtere de fine dele i fyldepennen. Ud over det rent fysiske ubehag blev jeg ekstremt irriteret over hvor underligt det var, at manden kunne leve af at være ekspedient og skulle fremvise relativt eksklusive varer – Lamy Safari var klart en af de billigste modeller – og så samtidig have så ulækre hænder. I forbindelse med at jeg skulle skrive dette kiggede jeg efter stedet på Google Maps for at finde butikkens navn, men jeg kan se at den er lukket. Jeg forestiller mig at han altså ikke havde stor succes.

3.

I dag har jeg har jeg lært at man i Frankrig tvinger eleverne til at bruge fyldepen i skolen frem for blyant eller kuglepen. Det er årsagen til at de fleste franske studerende bruger dem: det er en vane som hænger ved. Jeg ved ikke helt hvad de franske undervisningsmyndigheders argument for det dogme er, men hvis det stod til mig gjorde man det samme herhjemme fordi fyldepennen simpelthen er det bedste skriveredskab. Der findes et helt nøgternt nytteargument her – nogle ville sige „rationelt“ – som går ud på at fyldepennen kun kan skrive hvis man holder den rigtigt. Det lærer naturligvis børn at holde pennen rigtigt. (At skrive med den krampagtige klo-hånd er simpelthen frastødende for mig.) Derudover kræver det mindre tryk at skrive med fyldepen, og det betyder at man ikke kramper så meget i hånden når man skal skrive stil, diktat og opgaver. Det er pudsigt hvordan man, når man først har prøvet en fyldepen, forstår hvor hårdt man egentlig trykker ned med en kuglepen.

Men det er ikke disse „rationelle“ argumenter som jeg finder afgørende. Det er de æstetiske kvaliteter. En fyldepen føles bare lækkert når den trækkes hen over papiret. Prøv selv. Og så er der stregen. Stregen! Det afgørende er stregen! Man skal ikke have tegnet meget for at forstå at nogle streger er smukke, mens andre er flade og ligegyldige. Som regel kan man allerede føle det mens man sætter den, og før man overhovedet kigger, om stregen er sat uden fokus og intensitet. Erfarne tegnere giver tit nybegyndere det råd at de skal trykke hårdere med blyanten fordi man i starten ikke tør sætte en ordentlig streg. Det er ikke fordi man nødvendigvis skal trykke hårdt for at tegne en smuk streg, men det hjælper én til at sætte sig igennem. Man kan simpelthen ikke tegne en smuk streg hvis man fedtspiller. Det skyldes at bly har en vis organisk kvalitet som er afhængig af hvordan man trykker, og som netop gør at man kan kan variere udtrykket, og altså lader stregen udtrykke noget om den der har tegnet den . Denne kvalitet findes ikke i dårlig blæk, eller i hvert fald ikke på samme måde, og slet ikke i kuglepenne som jeg er kommet til at hade proportionalt med at jeg har lært at elske fyldepenne.

Kuglepennen er på sin vis en genial opfindelse, det anerkender jeg, for man kan skrive nemt på næsten alle overflader uden at grisse, og den virker som regel. Den kan det hele, kunne man sige. Men her ligger også problemet: kuglepennen er lidt god til alt, men ikke bedst til noget. Måske det bedste valg til at skrive på avispapir der suger meget blæk, og som er for porøst til at bruge stiftblyant. Men selv her har jeg fundet ud af at en tør tuschpen – specifikt en Pilot Frixion – fungerer bedre. Jeg har dog en vis svaghed for kitsch, og jeg synes at der er noget fantastisk skønt over vellykket industrielt design, som eksempelvis de berømte BIC-penne af skiftevis blåt og gennemsigtigt plastik, både den med den sekskantede krop og den runde med clipsen hvor modhagen kommer ud i siden. Men som regel er kuglepenne bare en del af verdens plastikoverforbrug. På mit arbejde står der flere kasser med ligegyldige sponsor-kuglepenne med organisationens logo på som ingen bruger, mens chefen synes at det er for dyrt at købe ordentlige penne som medarbejderne kunne få glæde af. En praksis som vist er normen de fleste steder. Det er ikke fordi jeg er ekstrem her, jeg mener blot at der er enorm forskel på en skod 5-kroners pen med firmalogo og en Uni Mitsubishi eller en Zebra til omkring de 35 hvilket burde være indenfor budgettet på en almindelig dansk arbejdsplads. Problemet er ikke så meget plastikhylsteret men at kravet om billig produktion betyder at blækket også er billigt. Kuglepenne fyldes af et voksagtigt blæk der gør at spidsen aldrig tørrer ud, og som gør at stregen aldrig flyder ud på papiret. Et træk som gør kuglepennen idiotsikker. Til gengæld er det det som gør at man skal trykke hårdt fordi blækket ligesom skal gnides ud på papiret. Det voksagtige bindemiddel sætter også store begrænsninger for hvilke slags pigment der kan indgå i blækket til en kuglepen, og det er forklaringen på kuglepennens ligegyldige streg. Det gør det simpelthen umuligt at sætte en god streg med en kuglepen. Min position på dette område er radikal, det er jeg klar over, men jeg mener helt alvorligt at der aldrig er lavet en smuk tegning med kuglepen – jeg har i hvert fald aldrig set en. Aldrig set en håndskrift i kuglepen jeg blev betaget af. Jeg har aldrig kunnet begære nogen jeg har set bruge en bruge en billig plastikkuglepen, jeg får the ick som med voksne der går rundt i smækbukser eller med store Garmin-ure. Jeg bliver både frastødt og forundret over at møde voksne mennesker med flotte jobs som bor i huse til mange millioner, og som går op i deres udseende og livets øvrige detaljer, men som alligevel er tilfredse med at bruge en eller anden ligegyldig sponsorkuglepen de har fået på en konference engang for to år siden. Der er ekstremt mange mennesker som skriver i hånden hver dag, men som ikke er parat til at bruge bare 40 kr. på en ordentlig japansk rollerball med gode skriveegenskaber og farvedybde i blækket.

En fyldepen bliver, som navnet antyder, fyldt med blæk af én selv løbende. Denne blæk er vandbaseret og flyder nogle gange ud og grisser lidt. Til gengæld har man nærmest uendelige muligheder for at variere farverne, både hvad angår selve farens valør og dybde, men man kan også lave farver der changerer eller har glimmer og den slags i hvilket jeg dog ikke er så interesseret i. I stedet interesser det mig mest at læse om og prøve de forskellige udgaver af sort blæk. Det skyldes at en vandbaseret blæk med gode pigmenter kan have mindst lige så meget spil som en god blyant. Det gør at man kan sætte en smuk streg, lige meget om man tegner eller skriver noter.

4.

Jeg mødte aldrig denne kvinde igen fra biblioteket. Men jeg har selvfølgelig tænkt på hende. Bruger hun stadig sin grønne Lamy Safari? Hvor ville jeg gerne røre ved den. Men jeg tænker også på andre skriveredskaber. Jeg forestiller mig en sen aften på læsesalen tilbage på Amager, vi er efterhånden kun to tilbage,  og jeg ser hvordan hun skriver på en opgave om bronzealderkunst med sin Platinum Preppy i lilla – tænk Gameboy Color-plastik – og retter på sine kawaii hårspænder. En kvinde som forstår at kvalitet ikke nødvendigvis skal koste, og at æstetik er noget man kan lære at se i alt hvis man sætter sig for det. Hun bærer en top med bare arme. Vi kommer til at smile til hinanden. Eller jeg forestiller mig at jeg mødes med en mørkhåret arkitekt i Milano, hun kommer gående fra tegnestuen et sted i nærheden, vi drikker Campari Spritz et lokalt sted mens hun fylder sin Caran d’Ache 844 med bly-stifter i HB2. Klassisk skønhed, kontrolleret men organisk, tilgivende. Vi konverserer og hun griner af mine vittigheder, mens en scooter kører forbi, inviterer hun mig hjem til aftensmad. Eller jeg forestiller mig at jeg møder en kvinde på et hotel et sted i Centraleuropa, måske i München eller Strasbourg. Jeg er på forretningsrejse, hun bærer Phoebe Philo og bemærker min fyldepen, mens jeg skriver i min kalender i hotelbaren. Jeg bestiller cocktails til os mens hun finder sin Platinum Curidas i smoke grey frem, en pen med en elegant plastikstøbning og en sofistikeret lukkemekanisme. Moderne, selvsikkert og sexet. Hun spørger om jeg har overskydende blæk, vi går op på mit værelse for at finde det til hende…

Jeg drømmer om at sidde på en københavnsk fortovscafe og læse avis mens jeg venter på min kæreste. Hun kommer cyklende, vi får et glas hvidvin, hun giver mig en gave. Det er en flaske Iroshizuku-blæk – den bedste – i mørk blommefarve. Jeg fylder den i og laver krydsord mens hun taler i telefon. Vi behøver ikke at tale sammen. Hun lader mig se hende, se hende låse cyklen, se hende tage elevatoren, se hende åbne en mælkekarton og drikke, se hende skære sig i fingeren på dyrt japansk notepapir, se hende leve. Og vi er lykkelige.

There are moments in life when you realize something sacred is being quietly rewritten right in front of you. Not with a red pen or a loud announcement, but with subtle shifts in tone, softened edges, and well-intentioned adjustments that promise peace while slowly draining truth of its power. Galatians 1 is written into that kind of moment. It does not whisper. It does not negotiate. It does not ask for permission. It confronts, disrupts, and restores all at once. And if we are honest, it does something even more unsettling—it refuses to let us domesticate grace.

Paul’s opening words to the Galatian churches feel almost abrupt. There is no warm buildup, no extended thanksgiving, no gentle easing into the issue. He moves straight to the fracture. Something has gone wrong, and it has gone wrong fast. The gospel they received—freely, fully, without conditions—is being replaced by something that looks spiritual, sounds responsible, and feels safer to those who prefer systems over surrender. Paul calls it what it is: not another version of the gospel, but a distortion of it. That word matters. A distorted gospel is not a weaker gospel; it is a dangerous one. It carries familiar shapes while quietly rearranging the center.

This chapter matters because it speaks to every generation that has ever felt the pressure to make faith more acceptable, more manageable, more aligned with the expectations of religious culture or social order. Galatians 1 exposes the temptation to improve the gospel by adding guardrails God never installed. It reveals how quickly grace offends those who believe righteousness should be earned, monitored, or measured. And it reminds us that when grace is altered—even slightly—it ceases to be grace at all.

Paul’s astonishment is not theatrical; it is pastoral. He is shocked not because the Galatians asked questions or wrestled with obedience, but because they were abandoning the very foundation that called them into life. The phrase “so quickly” carries weight. It tells us how fast fear can move when certainty feels threatened. These believers did not wake up intending to reject Christ. They were persuaded, likely by voices that sounded authoritative, biblical, and deeply concerned about holiness. But concern for holiness without trust in grace always leads to control. Paul recognizes that immediately.

What makes Galatians 1 uncomfortable is that Paul refuses to soften his language for the sake of harmony. He says that even if an angel from heaven preaches a different gospel, let them be accursed. That is not poetic exaggeration; it is theological triage. Paul is drawing a line not around personality or preference, but around the very nature of salvation. If grace depends on anything beyond Christ, then Christ is no longer sufficient. And if Christ is not sufficient, faith becomes a burden rather than a refuge.

This chapter forces us to confront a truth we often resist: sincerity does not protect us from distortion. The Galatians were not malicious. They were not rebellious. They were trying to be faithful. That is what makes this warning timeless. The most dangerous shifts rarely come from open denial; they come from well-meaning additions. Paul understands that once the gospel becomes something you must complete, manage, or maintain through performance, it stops being good news. It becomes another law wearing religious language.

Paul’s defense of his apostleship is not about ego or authority. It is about source. He wants them to know where this gospel came from, because origin determines authority. He did not receive it from men. He did not learn it through institutional training. It was revealed to him by Jesus Christ. That matters because a gospel born from human systems will always reflect human priorities—status, control, hierarchy, and fear of losing order. A gospel revealed by Christ does the opposite. It dismantles hierarchy, levels status, and replaces fear with freedom.

Paul’s own story reinforces the point. He was not an obvious candidate for grace. He was zealous, disciplined, respected, and violent in his certainty. His transformation did not come from gradual improvement or moral refinement. It came from interruption. Christ met him, confronted him, and redirected his entire life. Paul does not present his past to inspire admiration; he presents it to prove that grace is not negotiated. If God saved Paul without prerequisites, then no one gets to add requirements now.

There is something deeply relevant here for anyone who has ever felt like they had to clean themselves up before approaching God. Galatians 1 insists that the gospel does not begin with self-improvement. It begins with surrender. Paul’s authority comes not from his résumé but from his obedience to revelation. He did not consult with flesh and blood. He did not seek approval from those who were apostles before him. He went where God sent him and let time, faithfulness, and fruit testify to the truth of his calling.

That detail matters more than we often realize. Paul is not rejecting community or accountability; he is rejecting permission-based obedience. There is a difference. Permission-based faith waits until everyone agrees before moving. Revelation-based faith moves because God has spoken. Galatians 1 exposes how easily spiritual environments can become gatekeepers of grace rather than witnesses to it. Paul refuses to allow the gospel to be held hostage by tradition, status, or fear of controversy.

This chapter also challenges our modern tendency to confuse peace with truth. Paul could have avoided conflict by staying quiet. He could have allowed the Galatians to “work it out” gradually. But love does not always look like silence. Sometimes love looks like clarity. Paul’s words are sharp because the stakes are high. When the gospel is compromised, people do not just get confused; they get crushed. Performance-based faith always leads to exhaustion, comparison, and despair.

What Galatians 1 ultimately confronts is our addiction to control. Grace cannot be controlled. It cannot be rationed or regulated. It cannot be distributed based on merit. That is why it offends religious systems that depend on hierarchy. Paul understands that the moment grace is fenced in, it stops being grace and starts being currency. And currency always creates winners and losers. The gospel was never meant to do that. It was meant to free captives, not rank them.

There is a personal dimension to this chapter that often goes unnoticed. Paul says he is not trying to please people. If he were, he would not be a servant of Christ. That statement is not bravado; it is confession. Paul knows how tempting approval can be. He knows how easily mission drifts when acceptance becomes the goal. Galatians 1 is not written from a place of detachment; it is written from experience. Paul has lived both sides—approval from people and obedience to Christ—and he knows they are rarely the same path.

This chapter quietly asks every reader a hard question: whose approval shapes your faith? When the gospel offends cultural sensibilities, do you soften it? When obedience costs influence, do you delay it? When truth disrupts comfort, do you reinterpret it? Galatians 1 does not allow us to pretend neutrality. It insists that the gospel either remains intact or it doesn’t. There is no middle version.

Yet even in its severity, Galatians 1 is deeply hopeful. Paul is not writing to condemn the Galatians but to reclaim them. His astonishment is fueled by love. He believes they can return because grace has not changed. That is the beauty of this chapter. It does not suggest that the gospel is fragile; it suggests that people are. And because people are fragile, the gospel must be protected—not from scrutiny, but from distortion.

As Paul recounts how God set him apart from his mother’s womb and called him by grace, he is not elevating himself. He is magnifying the initiative of God. Before Paul did anything right or wrong, God already had a purpose. That truth dismantles both pride and shame. Pride dies because calling is not earned. Shame dissolves because calling is not revoked by failure. Galatians 1 plants us firmly in the reality that grace precedes effort and sustains obedience.

This is why the chapter ends not with triumph but with worship. Those who heard Paul’s story glorified God because of him. That is always the correct outcome of true grace. When grace is authentic, it does not draw attention to the recipient; it points back to the Giver. Distorted gospels produce impressive personalities. The real gospel produces worship.

Galatians 1 leaves us with a choice that every generation must face anew. Will we guard the gospel as it was given, or will we reshape it to fit our fears? Will we trust grace enough to let it offend our instincts for control? Will we believe that Christ is enough, even when systems tell us more is required?

This chapter does not let us stay comfortable. But it does offer us something better—freedom that does not depend on performance, identity that does not collapse under pressure, and faith that rests not in our consistency but in Christ’s sufficiency.

One of the most overlooked tensions in Galatians 1 is the collision between divine calling and religious expectation. Paul does not describe a smooth transition from persecutor to apostle. He describes isolation, obscurity, and misunderstanding. After his encounter with Christ, he does not immediately step into prominence. He goes away. He waits. He grows. This matters because it dismantles the myth that obedience is always rewarded with affirmation. Sometimes obedience looks like silence while God does work that no audience can validate.

Paul’s withdrawal into Arabia is not escapism; it is formation. Grace does not merely rescue us from guilt—it reshapes us from the inside out. The gospel Paul defends in Galatians 1 is not shallow permission to remain unchanged. It is radical transformation that begins with grace and continues through surrender. That nuance is critical. Paul is not arguing against obedience; he is arguing against prerequisites. Obedience flows from grace, not toward it.

This distinction is where many believers quietly stumble. We know grace saves us, but we often live as though growth is maintained by effort alone. Galatians 1 refuses that separation. If grace is sufficient to save, it is sufficient to sustain. The moment we believe we must supplement grace with performance to remain accepted, we have already stepped into another gospel. Paul’s warning is not theoretical—it addresses the daily posture of the heart.

Notice how Paul frames his past again and again. He does not deny his zeal. He does not minimize his discipline. He does not excuse his violence. Instead, he places all of it under the authority of grace. This is crucial for those who come from deeply religious backgrounds. Galatians 1 does not mock discipline or commitment; it reorders them. It insists that even the most impressive devotion means nothing if it is disconnected from Christ.

There is something profoundly liberating about Paul’s refusal to sanitize his story. He allows the tension to remain visible. He was advancing beyond many of his peers. He was respected. He was confident. And he was wrong. Galatians 1 gives permission to admit that sincerity does not equal accuracy. That truth is uncomfortable, but it is also freeing. It means being wrong does not disqualify you from grace; it positions you to receive it.

Paul’s encounter with the apostles years later reinforces another essential truth: unity does not require uniformity of origin. When Peter, James, and John recognize the grace given to Paul, they do not demand replication of their path. They acknowledge difference without suspicion. That moment is quietly revolutionary. It shows us that the gospel produces unity not by forcing sameness, but by anchoring identity in Christ rather than method.

This is particularly relevant in an age obsessed with platforms and legitimacy. Galatians 1 dismantles the idea that calling must be validated by proximity to power. Paul’s gospel was not less authentic because it did not originate in Jerusalem’s inner circle. God’s authority does not flow through popularity; it flows through obedience. That truth frees those who feel unseen, overlooked, or unsupported. The gospel does not need your résumé to be real.

Another uncomfortable reality emerges here: distorted gospels often gain traction because they offer clarity where grace requires trust. Rules feel safer than relationship. Systems feel more predictable than surrender. Galatians 1 exposes how easily fear disguises itself as wisdom. The pressure placed on the Galatians was not framed as rebellion; it was framed as responsibility. But responsibility without grace always becomes control.

Paul’s insistence that he is not seeking human approval cuts sharply into modern faith culture. Many distortions of the gospel today are not driven by malice, but by the desire to avoid offense. Galatians 1 reminds us that the gospel will offend—not because it is cruel, but because it removes our leverage. Grace eliminates boasting. It levels status. It removes bargaining power. That is deeply unsettling for any system built on hierarchy.

Yet Paul does not present grace as chaotic or careless. The freedom he defends is not lawlessness; it is alignment. When Christ becomes the center, obedience no longer functions as currency—it becomes response. Galatians 1 teaches us that the gospel is not fragile, but it is precise. Change the center, and everything else collapses.

One of the quiet tragedies Paul addresses is how quickly joy disappears when grace is replaced with obligation. The Galatians were not becoming more holy; they were becoming more anxious. That is always the fruit of another gospel. When faith becomes something you must maintain through vigilance, peace evaporates. Assurance shrinks. Comparison grows. Paul’s urgency is pastoral because he sees where this road leads.

Galatians 1 also speaks powerfully to those who feel disqualified by their past. Paul does not argue for grace despite his history; he argues for grace because of it. His transformation becomes evidence of God’s initiative, not his improvement. That matters for anyone who believes they missed their chance, went too far, or stayed away too long. Grace does not operate on expiration dates.

As the chapter closes, we are left not with instructions, but with orientation. The gospel Paul defends is not a set of behaviors—it is a declaration of what God has done in Christ. Everything else flows from that. When that declaration is altered, faith collapses inward. When it remains intact, faith expands outward in freedom and worship.

Galatians 1 ultimately asks us whether we trust grace enough to let it stand alone. Not grace plus discipline. Not grace plus tradition. Not grace plus approval. Just grace. Christ alone. That is the gospel Paul refuses to negotiate. That is the gospel the Galatians were tempted to abandon. And that is the gospel every generation must decide whether it will protect or replace.

Grace does not ask permission. It does not wait for consensus. It does not bend to fear. Galatians 1 stands as a warning and an invitation—guard what you have received, and let Christ remain enough.

—

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#Galatians #GraceAlone #FaithNotPerformance #ChristianWriting #BiblicalReflection #NewTestament #ChristianEncouragement #FaithAndFreedom #ScriptureStudy #GospelTruth

Reading Slump Over

This review includes references to sexual assault and human trafficking. It is #NSFW

Medium Used: 100% ebook

Ratings out of 5

Overall Rating:
💜💜💜 (3/5)

Sweetness Level:
🍫🍫 (2/5)

Steam Quality Level:
🔥🔥🔥🔥 (4/5)

Steam Quantity Level:
🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ (5/5)

FMC Likability:
😈😈😈 (3/5)

MMC Likability:
👨‍💼👨‍💼👨‍💼 (3/5)

Plot Engagement:
⛓️🔒 (2/5)

At least 1 bad dad (pass/fail):
💯 (pass)

Spoiler Free Review

Make Me, Sir is a spice heavy suspense romance. The female protagonist, Gabi, is an FBI social worker who volunteers to support an investigation by being a decoy (bait) for a human trafficker targeting bratty submissive at BDSM clubs in Tampa Bay, FL. Undercover, Gabi becomes the latest sub “trainee” at Tampa's premier lifestyle club, The Shadowlands. Unfortunately for Gabi, Trainees at the Shadowlands are instructed by Master Marcus, whose no bullshit tutelage makes being the worst behaved sub in the Shadowlands a bit of a challenge.

I liked this book, but I felt that it suffers from a problem a lot of books in this sub genre¹, the first half+ of the book is practically PWP² despite this the suspense/plot is enjoyable but more or less abandons the spice while the plot runs it course. It would have been a smoother read for me if it had been a bit more of a balance of a plot and spice throughout.

Overall it's a fairly decent read and one I'd recommend for people who particularly like high spice BDSM books with this dynamic. If you need a balance of plot and kink throughout or prefer love stories that aren't almost 100% set inside of a kink club there's probably better books to pick up.

^{1 what I'll call “dim” contemporary romance set in BDSM night clubs i.e. not quite “dark” contemporary romance
Plot? What Plot? https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/PWP}

What I liked about this book
* Spice had a solid variety of scenes. * This was part of a series but it actually did some scenes from the perspective of the MCs of an earlier book. This was done well, I didn't feel like i was missing much not having read the previous books but I also felt like the side character relationships were more meaningful with these other perspective scenes.
* Gabi is a Social Worker at the FBI not an agent/officer. It was cool how Sinclair made her skills as a social worker her strength in the investigation and the general “undercover” premise but with somebody who wasn't in law enforcement I found intriguing.

What I did not like about this book
* Early on Gabi's inner monologue keeps comparing Marcus to her dad. No Thanks!
* Dragged in the middle a bit.

Spoilers Review

Click to show Spoilers

What I liked Spoilers
* Sassy banter between Marcus and Gabi. Gabi learning she actually is sassy and Marcus learning he likes it worked for me. I could see them together and it made sense with their lives outside the club and backstories.
* Couple scenes where Gabi goes into Subspace and is then snuggled and they made me melt. So hot and romantic.
* Gabi is revealed to have been on the streets for a bit as a child and a pick pocket. This comes back around in the climax in a perfect way and I loved it. Kind of made it worse for me though that Sinclair didn't balance plot and smut pacing more. She can clearly weave a story.

What I didn't like Spoilers
* Awkwardly talking about BDSM kink in front of grandma and grandpa at lunch is not cute. No thanks. * Gabi volunteers to decoy because her friend was kidnapped. This book doesn't close that thread. Idk if later books do but wow, that really salts the HEA a bit.

This Book Reminded Me of:

• Natural Law by Joey W. Hill as it has a similar premise and setting.
• Servicing The Target by Cherise Sinclair which is also from this series.
  ^{Both of these have a dominant FMC and submissive MMC}
  

Get the book

The Sequels book take what the 1st built and deliver action packed, contemporary fantasies, with Veronica Mars meets X-Men vibes.

Content Warning: These books and this review include references to gun violence and car crashes.
This review is: #SFW

Medium Used:
* 80% paperback 20% audiobook via Hoopla {White Hot by Ilona Andrews}
* 100% paperback {Wildfire by Ilona Andrews}

Ratings out of 5

Overall Rating:
💜💜💜💜💜 (5/5) ¹

Sweetness Level:
🍫🍫🍫🍫 (4/5)

Steam Quality Level:
🔥🔥🔥🔥 (4/5)

Steam Quantity Level:
🌶️🌶️🌶️ (3/5)

FMC Likability:
🕵️🕵️🕵️🕵️🕵️ (5/5)

MMC Likability:
🐉🐉🐉🐉 (4/5)

Plot Engagement:
🔍🔍🔍🔍🔍(5/5)

At least 1 bad dad (pass/fail):
0️⃣ (fail)

BONUS audiobook narration:🔉🔉🔉🔉🔉

^{1 the rating I gave book 1 {Burn for Me by Ilona Andrews} was a 4/5 in 2022. I did not revisit it as part of reading the sequels.}

Spoiler Free Review of the first trilogy in the Hidden Legacy Series

Each book in Ilona Andrews' The Hidden Legacy series is an action/adventure mystery set in an alternative history modern day Houston. The first three books are told from the perspectives of Nevada Baylor, a mid twenties private investigator. In Nevada's world the most important part of the genetic lottery is magical prowess. The resulting society is a caste system based on the magical strengths of each family.

Nevada and her family get by in this society by keeping their heads down and their rare magics hidden. Nevada is the primary bread winner and does her best to follow a strict code in her work as a private investigator. Work that is widely aided by the fact that she is a human lie detector – an incredibly rare and feared form of magic.

In book one Nevada's work drags her into the world of Houston's upper elite. Here she encounters one of the most powerful mages in the world Connor 'Mad' Rogan. A war hero, telekinetic, billionaire who is a crazed paranoid asshole.

The first trilogy in Hidden Legacy is exactly the slow burn I prefer in a serialized romance story. Connor and Nevada's love develops over the three series with time passing on page. They face multiple external conflicts together that forces them to see the good and the bad in each other. It does not deliver the meltiest gush or the sweatiest spice but the raw chemistry (with plenty of sassing) that develops over the series places them among my favorite book couples.

At the end of the day, the number one thing that sets this series apart (particularly book 2 and book 3) is the quality of the plot, action, and humor. I did not want to put White Hot nor Wildfire down. Plenty of time is set aside to establish side characters and Nevada's relationships with them. The individual mysteries/client jobs Nevada works gives each book its own beginning, middle, and end but the trilogy also fits together as an overarching story.

** What I love about this trilogy**
* The side characters are all interesting and loveable in unique ways. Each character adds something to the world.
* The sass between Nevada and Connor is excellent through the whole series. They feel right for each other in so many ways.
* Action, mystery, sappy sweet scenes, and steamy tension with an unrushed payoff.

What I do not like about this trilogy
* Book 1 starts off with a bit of some odd vibes (see spoilers).
* The series shifts to other member's of Nevada's family after book 3. I haven't read anything but the transition Novella yet but I kind of love Nevada and am sad to have the story move on.
* There is an excessive amount of car violence / crashes. It does not bother me but I know people who this would be a massive deal breaker for who I'd otherwise like to recommend this series to.

Spoilers Review

Click to Review Spoilers

^{I decided to finish this review that I had started 2.5 months ago when I read White Hot and Wildfire these books so below spoiler section is lighter than my typical reviews.}

Some of my favorite parts of this trilogy.
* Anytime Nevada calls Rogan “Connor” when he is emotionally distraught or distant.
* “Love makes you helpless. You think about the object of your affection all the time. Your happiness or misery depends on another person’s mood. You give up all power over yourself, hand it to the person you love, and trust that they will be gentle with it.”

The Book 1 vibe that is my taste but I forgive because I love this trilogy.
* Connor kidnaps Nevada in the first book. Kidnapping is not endearing. I forgive him but I do not like this.

This Book Reminded Me of:

• Veronica Mars
  
• {Kate Daniels by Ilona Andrews} – same authors w/ similar action packed serial romance vibes.
  
  

Who should read this book?

I think most romance fans who like contemporary sci-fi/fantasy settings with lots of action will love this trilogy.

Get the books

Lord, thank you for giving me time to rest, worship you, and spend time with loved ones. Please give me your strength and wisdom as I continue to be the best husband and father you and St. Joseph want me to be. Amen.

#God #sunday #rest

There is a particular kind of pain that does not announce itself loudly. It does not always come with tears or dramatic breakdowns. It often shows up quietly, subtly, almost politely. You keep functioning. You keep working. You keep showing up. But somewhere along the way, you realize something has changed inside you. Not in a way you can easily explain. Not in a way you can point to with one clear moment or one clear cause. You just notice it one day, almost accidentally, when you catch your reflection or hear laughter around you and feel strangely disconnected from it. And the thought forms, not as a cry, but as a quiet confession: I have forgotten how to smile.

This realization can be more unsettling than obvious grief. When you are crying, at least you know you are hurting. When you are angry, at least you feel alive. But when you stop smiling, when joy feels distant or foreign, when even good moments fail to reach your heart, it can feel like something essential has gone missing. Not broken dramatically. Just… gone quiet. And many people carry this silently, because it feels difficult to explain without sounding ungrateful, dramatic, or spiritually weak. You may still believe in God. You may still pray. You may still show kindness to others. But internally, joy feels muted, like a song you used to know by heart that you can no longer remember the melody to.

One of the most important truths to understand in this place is that forgetting how to smile is not a spiritual failure. It is not proof that your faith is weak or that you have somehow disappointed God. It is often evidence of endurance. It is what happens when a person has been strong for too long without rest. When they have absorbed disappointment after disappointment without fully processing it. When they have kept going because stopping felt impossible. Smiles do not disappear because a person stops believing. They fade because the heart has been carrying weight for longer than it was designed to carry alone.

Scripture is surprisingly honest about this. The Bible does not present joy as a constant emotional state that faithful people maintain at all times. It presents joy as something God gives, something He restores, something that sometimes disappears for a season and then returns. David, a man described as being after God’s own heart, openly wrote about seasons where his soul felt crushed and his strength felt dried up. Jeremiah wept so deeply over the weight of what he carried that his sorrow became part of his identity. Elijah, after extraordinary demonstrations of God’s power, collapsed under despair and asked God to let him die. Even Jesus Himself was described as a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. These are not examples of weak faith. They are examples of honest humanity meeting a faithful God.

When someone says they have forgotten how to smile, what they are often saying is that they have been living in survival mode. Survival mode is not dramatic. It is practical. It focuses on getting through the day, meeting responsibilities, managing crises, protecting others, and keeping life moving forward. Survival mode does not leave much room for joy. It is not designed to. It prioritizes endurance over delight. And while survival mode can carry you through emergencies and seasons of intense pressure, it is not meant to be permanent. Over time, it dulls emotional range. It narrows focus. It quiets the parts of the soul that feel wonder, playfulness, and ease. Smiles are often one of the first casualties.

The danger is not that survival mode exists, but that many people never realize they are still living in it long after the original crisis has passed. The body keeps bracing. The mind stays alert. The heart remains guarded. And joy feels unsafe, unnecessary, or unreachable. In this state, smiling can feel like pretending. Laughter can feel out of place. Even moments that should bring happiness can feel strangely hollow. This can be confusing, especially for people of faith who expect joy to be a natural byproduct of belief. When it does not show up, shame often follows. People begin to ask themselves what is wrong with them instead of asking what they have been through.

God does not respond to this state with disappointment. He responds with nearness. Scripture repeatedly emphasizes that God draws close not to those who appear strong, but to those who are honest about their weakness. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” is not a poetic exaggeration. It is a description of how God positions Himself. Nearness is His first response. Not correction. Not pressure. Not demands to feel differently. Nearness. This matters, because healing does not begin with effort. It begins with safety.

Joy cannot be forced back into a guarded heart. Smiles do not return because someone tells themselves to be more grateful or tries harder to feel positive. Real joy grows in an environment of gentleness and patience. It grows when the nervous system begins to relax. When the soul realizes it is no longer alone. When the heart senses that it no longer has to hold everything together by itself. God understands this process because He designed us. He does not rush it. He does not shame it. He walks it with us.

One of the most misunderstood aspects of healing is the assumption that restoration looks like returning to who you were before the pain. Many people long to feel the way they used to feel, to smile the way they used to smile, to experience joy the way they once did. But God’s pattern of restoration is rarely a rewind. It is almost always a transformation. He does not simply give you back what you had. He gives you something deeper, stronger, and more resilient than before. The joy that returns after sorrow is not naïve joy. It is informed joy. It knows what loss feels like. It knows what endurance costs. And it is anchored not in circumstances, but in presence.

This is why the process often feels slow. God is not rushing you back to happiness. He is rebuilding your capacity to receive it. There is a difference. A heart that has been overwhelmed needs time to expand again. A soul that has been guarding itself needs repeated experiences of safety before it relaxes. God works in these small, quiet ways that are easy to overlook. A moment of calm you did not expect. A breath that feels deeper than the ones before it. A verse that suddenly feels personal instead of distant. A laugh that surprises you because you forgot you were capable of it. These are not random. They are signs of restoration beginning at the edges.

The return of a smile often starts long before the smile itself appears. It starts with reduced tension. With slightly better sleep. With moments of peace that last a few seconds longer than they used to. With the realization that the heaviness is not as constant as it once was. God rebuilds joy from the inside out, not the outside in. He does not paste a smile onto a hurting face. He heals the heart beneath it until the smile emerges naturally, without effort or performance.

There is also a profound spiritual truth in the fact that joy is described in Scripture as a fruit, not a command. Fruit grows. It develops over time. It responds to environment. It requires nourishment. You cannot yell at a tree and demand fruit. You cultivate the conditions that allow it to grow. God cultivates joy in us by providing love, presence, truth, and grace. Our role is not to force the outcome, but to remain connected to Him through the process. This connection does not require emotional enthusiasm. It requires honesty. God can work with honesty far more effectively than He can work with pretending.

Another important truth is that joy and sorrow are not opposites in the way we often assume. They can coexist. A person can still carry grief and yet smile again. They can remember pain without being consumed by it. They can feel sadness and hope in the same moment. Mature joy is not the absence of sorrow. It is the presence of God within it. This is why the return of a smile does not mean the past no longer matters. It means the past no longer controls the present.

For many people, the fear is not that they will never smile again, but that smiling again somehow betrays what they have been through. As if joy would minimize the pain, invalidate the struggle, or dishonor what was lost. God does not see it that way. In His eyes, restored joy is not denial. It is redemption. It is evidence that pain did not have the final word. That suffering did not get to define the rest of the story. That life, though wounded, was not destroyed.

When God restores joy, He often does so in ways that also make you more compassionate. People who have walked through seasons of quiet sorrow tend to notice others who are hurting. They recognize the absence of a smile in ways others miss. They become safer people, gentler people, more patient people. Their smiles, when they return, carry depth. They are not loud or performative. They are steady. Real. Grounded. They communicate understanding without words.

This is part of why God allows the process to take time. He is not only restoring you for your sake. He is shaping you into someone whose healing will eventually serve others. Your journey back to joy will become a source of hope for someone else who thinks they are alone in their quiet struggle. Your smile, when it returns, will not just be a personal victory. It will be a testimony that God does His best work in the long middle, not just in dramatic beginnings or sudden endings.

If you are in the place where smiling feels unfamiliar, it is important to know that God is not waiting for you on the other side of healing. He is with you in it. Right now. In the numbness. In the confusion. In the quiet. He is not standing at a finish line expecting you to arrive stronger. He is walking beside you, adjusting His pace to yours, carrying what you cannot. The absence of a smile does not mean His absence. Often, it is the very place where His presence is most active, though less obvious.

Healing rarely announces itself. It unfolds. It layers. It accumulates. One gentle moment at a time. And one day, without planning it, without forcing it, you will realize that something has shifted. You will catch yourself smiling at something small. Not because life is perfect. Not because all questions have been answered. But because hope has quietly returned. And when that happens, it will not feel fake. It will feel earned. It will feel honest. It will feel like grace.

And perhaps most importantly, you will realize that you did not forget how to smile forever. You were simply walking through a season where God was doing deeper work than surface joy. A season where He was strengthening roots, not displaying fruit. A season where survival gave way, slowly, to restoration. That season does not define you. It prepared you.

There is something sacred about the moment when a person realizes they are healing, not because the pain is gone, but because it no longer owns every thought. That realization often comes quietly. It does not arrive with celebration or clarity. It shows up as a subtle noticing. A little more air in the chest. A little less tension in the jaw. A little more patience with yourself than you had before. These are not small things. They are signs that the soul is beginning to trust again.

Trust is the hidden foundation of joy. When trust has been shaken—by loss, betrayal, exhaustion, or disappointment—the heart closes ranks. It becomes cautious. It learns to brace instead of receive. In that state, smiling can feel risky, as though joy might invite another blow. God understands this instinct. He does not criticize it. Instead, He slowly rebuilds trust by proving, over time, that He is gentle with wounded things. That He does not rush healing. That He does not demand emotional output on a schedule. That He stays consistent even when feelings fluctuate.

One of the reasons joy feels distant in seasons of deep weariness is that the soul has learned to equate joy with vulnerability. Smiling means opening. Laughing means relaxing. Enjoying a moment means letting your guard down. And when you have been hurt, guard-down moments can feel unsafe. God does not force those walls down. He waits until love makes them unnecessary. He shows Himself faithful in small, repeated ways until the heart realizes it does not need to protect itself quite so tightly anymore.

This is why so many people are surprised by how joy actually returns. They expect it to feel dramatic, overwhelming, or obvious. Instead, it feels almost ordinary. Natural. Unforced. It slips back in through everyday moments rather than spiritual milestones. It might arrive while making coffee in the morning, noticing the warmth of the mug in your hands. It might come during a quiet walk, when your shoulders drop without you realizing they were tense. It might surface during a conversation where you feel seen instead of managed. These moments matter. They are not distractions from healing. They are the evidence of it.

There is also an important distinction between happiness and joy that becomes clearer in these seasons. Happiness depends heavily on circumstances. Joy, in the biblical sense, is anchored in meaning, presence, and hope. Happiness says, “Things are good.” Joy says, “God is with me.” When someone forgets how to smile, it is often because happiness has been disrupted. Plans did not work out. Relationships changed. Dreams were delayed or lost. But joy, though quieter, remains available because it is not rooted in outcomes. It is rooted in connection. God restores joy by restoring connection—to Himself, to others, and eventually, to yourself.

Many people underestimate how disconnected they have become from their own inner life. Survival mode narrows attention outward. You focus on tasks, obligations, and needs. Over time, you stop checking in with your own emotions because there does not seem to be room for them. God gently reverses this process. He invites reflection. Stillness. Honest prayer that is less about words and more about presence. He allows feelings to surface that were previously suppressed because there was no space for them. This can feel uncomfortable at first. Even frightening. But it is necessary. You cannot heal what you do not allow yourself to feel.

God is patient with this unfolding. He does not rush emotional awareness. He creates safety first. He steadies the ground before inviting deeper exploration. And as you begin to feel again—sadness, relief, gratitude, longing—you also begin to regain access to joy. Smiling becomes possible not because pain disappears, but because emotions begin to flow again instead of remaining frozen.

There is also a moment, often overlooked, when a person must give themselves permission to smile again. Not permission from others. Permission from themselves. This is especially true for those who have experienced significant loss or long-term struggle. Somewhere inside, there can be an unspoken belief that smiling again means forgetting, minimizing, or betraying what mattered. God does not ask you to forget. He asks you to live. He does not ask you to erase the past. He redeems it. Smiling again is not an act of disrespect toward pain. It is an act of trust in God’s ability to bring life out of what was broken.

Scripture consistently frames restoration as something God does, not something we achieve. “He restores my soul” is not a metaphor for self-improvement. It is a declaration of divine action. Restoration is not a reward for endurance. It is a gift given to those who have been willing to keep walking, even when joy felt absent. God restores the soul gently, thoroughly, and personally. He does not follow formulas. He knows exactly where joy was lost and exactly how to lead you back to it.

One of the most beautiful aspects of restored joy is that it tends to be quieter than before. Less flashy. Less dependent on external validation. It is not the joy of excitement alone, but the joy of peace. The kind that does not need to announce itself. The kind that settles into the body and says, “You are safe now.” This joy does not disappear at the first sign of difficulty. It remains steady because it has already survived absence. It has been tested by silence. It has been rebuilt with intention.

When your smile returns—and it will—it may surprise you how different it feels. It will not be the smile of someone untouched by pain. It will be the smile of someone who has learned endurance, compassion, and patience. It will be the smile of someone who knows that feelings can ebb and flow without threatening identity. It will be the smile of someone who trusts God not because life is easy, but because He has proven Himself faithful in the hard parts.

This is why the season where the smile went quiet matters. It shaped depth. It cultivated empathy. It refined priorities. It stripped away illusions and replaced them with truth. God does not waste seasons like this. He uses them to form people who can carry joy without being crushed by it and carry sorrow without being defined by it.

If you are still in that season, still waiting, still wondering if joy will ever feel natural again, know this: the absence of a smile today does not predict the absence of joy tomorrow. Healing is already in motion, even if it feels invisible. God is already at work, even if progress feels slow. You are not behind. You are not failing. You are not forgotten. You are in process.

And one day, perhaps sooner than you expect, you will notice yourself smiling without effort. Not because you decided to. Not because you forced positivity. But because something inside you has softened, steadied, and opened again. That smile will be honest. It will be grounded. It will be evidence of grace. And when it appears, you will understand that you never truly forgot how to smile. You were simply learning how to survive without it until God could safely restore it.

That is not weakness. That is faith lived in real time.

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Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

#faith #healing #hope #christianencouragement #mentalhealthandfaith #spiritualgrowth #restoration #godisnear

GO HOOSIERS!

Listening now to B97 – The Home for IU Women's Basketball ahead of this afternoon's NCAA women's basketball game between the Western Carolina Catamounts and my Indiana Hoosiers. Yes, of course I'll try to stay here for the radio call of the game.

And the adventure continues.

[21.xii.25.b : dimanche / 27 November] Now (it seems) that V.W. & I are out of sync, this is my fault … what can she do about it? timing is (if not everything) of the essence :: or perhaps I could read her words differently. Oh yes ! reading & writing go on !! apace !!! but that’s not all !!!!

A few days ago, I unearthed from a pile of books next to my reading chair in my study the copy of Mysticism by Simon Critchley that I’d picked up on one of our tours to Beacon … it’s a most fascinating book and not at all what you’d think. Critchley dispenses with (dispels) misconceptions of mysticism, but also provides a hint about the production and dissemination of mystical literature. We moderns worship in the cult of the One Author Text, we believe in the pure authorized version, that authentic text and regard variants with contempt … when I say “we” I don’t mean me or you since we (you & I) are the sort of pirate readers who read with knives clenched between our teeth as we swing across to commandeer and bring back the booty. And here we are, back on Pirate Island with our loot, our treasure and we’re cutting it up, reassembling and like Brother Robin, good Sir Robin, we’re going to give it all to the poor. I couldn’t help but think of my little assembly line with the hot little Nova Letter buns popping off :: those maximally heterogeneous texts where anything goes and stuff the Reality Show rules, I don’t want any of those rules.

It’s true, maybe … or : almost certainly I am not a novelist or I’m a bad novelist in the spirit of Simon Critchley being a bad philosopher : we’re bad boys, yessiree ,,, why do we do it? Haven’t you noticed, we’re inventing a high-power, super-strength de-icing solution & we have to produce enough for mass distribution.

For this day, I wanted to implement swipe gestures to edit or delete a list entry. More complex than initially thought but doable within this day.

There were 3 packages to install: a gesture handle, an animation lib, and expo-haptics. After creating a swipeable row, I needed to implement the actions for edit and delete some hooks and was mostly done. After writing this all down, it sounds less complex than it felt when I implemented it. 😅

While testing the app, I saw a caching bug after switching users. User2 saw the data of User1 after a sign-out and new sign-in because the cache was not cleared on user change.

👋

---

79 of #100DaysToOffload
#log #AdventOfProgress
Thoughts?

¿Te gusta el horror primigenio? ¿Las historias clásicas de testamentos, traición y casas encantadas? Círculo íntimo renace de una hibernación de años para traerte todo eso. ¡Por dos euros de nada!

#lodelrol

https://www.drivethrurpg.com/es/product/549831/circulo-intimo

https://proyecto-arcadia.itch.io/circulo-intimo

Cuatro herederos, el albacea, una mujer traicionada, un fantasma desesperado y la voz dentro de un cristal maldito. Todos ellos se juntan para pasar una noche tan horrorosa como entretenida.

Apta para ser jugada en una mesa de juego o como rol en vivo, en Círculo íntimo vuelan los cuchillos, el veneno y los esqueletos.

Desde un comienzo misterioso hasta un final apocalíptico, esta aventura incluye historia previa del señor La Croix, hojas de personaje con la opinión que tienen unos de otros, ayudas de juego, mapas de planta y transversal, y consejos para anfitriones.

Stay entertained thanks to our Weekly Tracker giving you next week's Anticipated Movies & Shows, Most Watched & Returning Favorites, and Shows Changes & Popular Trailers.

Anticipated Movies

• Father Mother Sister Brother
• The Plague
• ☆ Anaconda
• Song Sung Blue
• La Grazia
• The Testament of Ann Lee
• Murder at the Embassy

Anticipated Shows

• Out of the Shadows
• Made in Korea
• A Homeless Billionaire Husband for Christmas
• Sunny Nights
• Cashero
• ☆ The Copenhagen Test
• No King Stands Alone

Returing Favorites

• ☆ Shoresy — Season 5

Trending Shows Status Changes

• The Last Frontier — Returning Series → Canceled
• Ranma1/2 — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• +1 Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery
• -1 The Running Man
• new Now You See Me: Now You Don't
• new Sisu: Road to Revenge
• +5 Home Alone
• -2 Predator: Badlands
• new Avatar: Fire and Ash
• -1 One Battle After Another
• -6 TRON: Ares
• -4 Hunting Season

Most Watched Shows this Week

• = Pluribus
• +2 IT: Welcome to Derry
• -1 Landman
• new Fallout
• -2 Stranger Things
• = Tracker
• = Mayor of Kingstown
• +2 Percy Jackson and the Olympians
• -4 South Park
• -2 FBI

Popular Trailers

• he's got a point. — Ella McCay
• Season Two – This Season On — Fallout
• Grandma's Christmas Dinner — The SpongeBob Movie: Search for SquarePants
• Every Moment — Avatar: Fire and Ash
• The Housemaid is…NOW PLAYING only in theaters! — The Housemaid
• Official Trailer — Dreams
• Final UK Trailer — Anaconda
• Selected UK Cinemas Boxing Day, Cinemas Everywhere January 1st — Marty Supreme
• Survivor — Send Help
• Just three more days till DAVID is on the big screen — David

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Hi, I'm Kevin 👋. I make apps and I love watching movies and TV shows. If you like what I'm doing, you can buy one of my apps, download and subscribe to Rippple for Trakt or just buy me a ko-fi ☕️.

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I just keep hearing the music in my head. I know that I’m going to smoke the fuck out of her on this christmas present. I just want to make her happy.

pensó que la carne era dulce / dulce y fresca como gotas de miel y rocío pero cuando la telaraña del sufrimiento lo atrapó aunque quiso seguir volando no pudo

We don't open for visitors until two, they said.

So I wait.

Counting the minutes in the long corridor framed by windows like a cloistered passage, dappled light falling onto the old Linoleum floor through tinted glass in uniform increments.

Others wait too; checking their watches, their phones, swallowing hard against the immensity of what's to come. For the man stood beside me, his eyes so heavy and tired, it triggered an anxious dance. Rhythmically shifting his weight from one foot to the other; a silent shuffle soundtracked by the clatter of porters and the mundanity of passing visitors.

For us, waiting to enter the solemnity of the ward, there is no chat, no small talk, no smiles. Just the impatient beat of our hearts

The future does not exist beyond these walls.

There is only now, only the corridor, only the waiting.

At two, we file in silently.

Our anxious chorus removed our coats, hanging them on worn metal pegs, shedding our outside skins. We take our turn to wash our hands in the tiny sink, scrubbing away the germs in a miniature font of cleanliness; the ritual to allow us to cross the threshold. We dry our hands on blue paper towels. Each of us, in turn, realising our hands are shaking. A faint tremor of uncertainty and expectation, our bodies betraying us.

Your surgery took ten hours.

They removed so much.

They hollowed you out. Taking the core of you, the private geography of your body, repositioning what remained. But they also took the tumour and lymph nodes. The silent malignancy that survived the sustained attack from prescribed chemical and radioactive warfare. Weakened by it, but stubbornly refusing surrender, despite the onslaught.

The surgery went on far longer than they expected.

They needed four, separate surgical teams.

You lost so much blood.

Your body giving way under the knives and sutures, as if you were being unmade and remade all at once.

I kept ringing the hospital for an update, listening to that endless dial tone.

“Call again in an hour,” they said.

And when I did, “call again in an hour,” came their response. Time slowed to a crawl, it became thick and viscous, something to wade through. Each minute stretched thin as gauze.

When we were finally able to speak on the phone, as you came around in recovery, it sounded like we were talking between universes. The delay on the line insurmountable, our words traveling through deep space. Your mind, warped and distorted from the drugs, attempted to make sense of what I was asking, what I needed to tell you. That I love you with every fibre of my being. But few words came back, bent by morphine and trauma into something unrecognisable.

I pull the elastic straps over my head and lift the blue and white mask to cover my nose and mouth. My hot breath steaming my glasses, fogging the world.

A nurse buzzes me in.

The critical care ward is a square room, beds against the walls like watchmen standing vigil. In the centre, a nursing station that looks like a manager's desk in that call centre we used to work in years ago; the mundane machinery for the management of miracles. The nurses hum around the room, busy as worker bees tending to their helpless hive, moving with such practiced grace between the monitors, the computers and the resting bodies.

The lighting is dim here. The world outside has been softened to a barely a hush and brightness would be an unwelcome intrusion.

And there you are.

In the corner of the room, covered in wires and tubes, surrounded by monitoring equipment that beeps, chimes and buzzes. A drip feeds you with water, a drain carries it away; the ins and outs of staying alive, laid bare.

You look small, like a sleeping child, your body diminished by the violence it has endured.

The relief of seeing you, so fragile yet so resilient, expands in my chest like the first vital breath after resurfacing from deep water.

I rub your hand, your fingers dry as old paper. You stir and look at me, smiling through the fentanyl-laced fog. We barely speak, our eyes deciphering the code, reading each other in the language we've spoken for years.

It really is you.

The man in the next bed is a talker. He fills the silence with words, because silence is where his fear lives. A nurse fills a chipped and scratched beaker with water. “I hope it's gin and tonic,” he says. Again. The nurse musters a smile, kind but tired. She tells him to drink, that he's been through a lot.

He talks to avoid the caller on his internal other line. It is the caller that brought him here, the caller that waits in the pauses between his sentences.

Your physio arrives.

She wants to get you moving, less than a day after they took away so much. They help you to your feet, another nurse carrying a heavy shoulder bag of fabric covered equipment, its wires coming from your chest like the strings on a marionette. I carry bags of urine, bags of blood and liquids draining from your wounds; the very viscera of your survival.

You shuffle slowly around the quad of beds, like a slow motion Great Court Run at Trinity College, each step a Pyrrhic victory against the pain. It's an ultramarathon done in five minutes.

Exhausted by your efforts, they help you back into bed, sending chills through me as your face contorts with every turn and twitch.

I want to take this pain from you.

I want to carry it myself.

A woman comes in with a dog, leading him to a bedside already surrounded by weeping relatives, a gathering of witnesses.

“They allow pets?” you ask, your voice filled with wonder. “You could bring Sid to see me!”

I think they're saying goodbye, I reply, my voice breaking as I absorb the magnitude of the conclave. Love made truly visible only in the presence of the whole family. A curtain is closed.

This is not a moment for us. But for them.

The next day, everyone in and around the bay is gone, replaced by a elderly woman lost in a dreamless sleep; the players reset, the drama continuing.

I offer you water but you struggle to swallow, your lips chapped from hours without so much as a sip. Even drinking now requires negotiation with your body.

You're so tired, you tell me, in a voice barely above a whisper.

I hold your hand, and softly stroke your hair as you drift back to sleep.

I bring our arms together, skin to skin, the contact we both crave. The words that were pushed into our skin just the week before, small black letters, speaking the wor

ds we are both unable to say: this too shall pass.

And I believe it.

I have to believe it.

JOURNAL 21 décembre 2025

Ça y est, on va monter dans la camionnette du konbini ! Elle est prête avec les chaînes. Il y a beaucoup de neige, peut-être qu’on devra finir à pied en raquettes. Ha ha c’est l'aventure ! On va essayer d'arriver avant la nuit, il y a pas de lune, de toute façon trop de nuages, peut-être pas de réseau partout à cause de la neige. On est super heureuses, ici on respire pureté et liberté. On y va ! . . .

Il neige. On s'arrête là, le chauffeur craint de pas pouvoir redescendre. Il va faire nuit. On connaît le chemin. On a une heure de marche environ. On est bien équipées, on arrivera pour dîner. Tadaaaa c’est l'aventure… . . .

On est dans notre chambre on a déballé nos sacs avant le bain, je vous raconte un peu. On s'est levées à 6 h ce matin on avait mis le réveil, une bonne douche et petit dèj plus préparer les bento et en route. métro train changement train jouet On roule dans la neige, c'est tellement beau. On monte au milieu des forêts blanches. On arrive finalement au village vers 15 h. La camionnette ne pouvait pas partir tout de suite, il fallait mettre les chaînes pour monter. Finalement la neige s'est mise à tomber à peu près au milieu du trajet, on a fini à pied en raquettes sous la neige et la nuit est arrivée. C’est pas vraiment la nuit tout de suite dans la neige, il y a comme une clarté au sol. On connaît le chemin même si la route est couverte de neige, on suit bien le tracé. On a des lampes frontales de toutes façons, mais on les a à peine allumées. La lumière des voyageurs était visible de loin ça nous a guidées. On est arrivées pour la soupe !

Olala les effusions ! Mamie et papi ne nous attendaient plus, ils pensaient que vu le temps on resterait dormir en bas. Il y a trois clients venus pour le ski de fond. Alors c'était la fête trop d'affection ici On a offert les petits cadeaux. On était couvertes de neige, comme des ours ! On s’est fait gentiment gronder, forcément, puis honshu¹ bien chaud avant de passer à table.

¹ honshu ou nihon shu : le nom du sake… quand on le boit

On est super heureuses, ici c’est la vraie vie. On a dormi dans le premier train alors pas trop fatiguées. On va maintenant se faire ce dont on rêvait depuis des mois : onsen privé sous la neige comme les singes du hokkaidô !

J'ai pas pu me revoir cette nuit du hokkaidô où je voulais me coucher pour toujours dans la neige. Cette fois j’ai pas eu les pieds gelés mais c’est redoutable ces souvenirs. J’ai failli y croire puis j'ai senti la main de A dans la mienne et je suis revenue. Faut que je fasse gaffe. La marche comme ça dans la neige, la nuit, c’est hypnotique vous savez ?

On a passé les yukata et les haori doublés on va au bain…

. . .

On a regardé la neige tomber dans la vapeur du onsen en rêvant d’une autre vie ici, c'est génial. Juste la lumière de la petite lampe au pétrole pour percer la nuit, on s'est presque endormies. On n’a même pas froid quand on sort de l'eau, c’est dingue. On s'est frottées de neige pour faire une jolie peau. On riait comme des enfants, heureusement le bain est un peu à l'écart, pas la peine de réveiller tout le monde.

On est les dernières couchées, maintenant dodo. Demain on déneige les toits.