Of Rituals: Remere.

The moon hangs high above the cathedralesque stone dwelling and the surrounding fuchsia gardens. Tainted by the earth's shadow, a blue light scatters through the arched glass of the atrium and lands upon a seated figure veiled in black, gold, and crimson. Propped open in their left hand is a book bound in aged leather with obsidian pages foiled ‘round the edges, surface adorned in symbols evocative of the ceaseless cycle of life, death, and rebirth.

It was the eve of Samhain—an ideal time for pondering such things. But that did not solve the problem at hand. What ancestors could they revere if they had no memory? Could they simply refer to those that came before? Or, would it be more simple, and more efficient, to release what belonged to the old year in favor of what would come next? Remembrance, release, renewal… They were such broad terms, and yet all carried a meaning that could be interpreted in a myriad of ways.

How irritating.

They purse their lips and gaze upon the cyclical glyphs on the black parchment, a modified ampoule—no longer than a rose and its stem—levitating beneath their opposite hand. The deep red liquid within glistens with circumfluous magick that pulsates without rhyme or reason, as though synchronizing with the thoughts fluttering about Remere’s mind.

Realization comes with delay, after gazing upon a failed composition scattered across the floor. They set their book face down upon the arm of the chair, and the modified ampoule flitters down before landing upon the stone ground with a soft ‘ting’, rolling until it collides with the nearby anthurium planter.

Music was as old as humankind, and vampire kind as well. Perhaps, in place of a physical offering to some unknown force, they could offer something as timeless as those that came before.

The door opens as they kneel, gloved hands scrambling about the discarded pile. Remere had long since lost track of how long the sheet music had been there. A week? A month? The gardens would still bloom, the moon would still hang overhead, and time would still slip through their fingers like sand.

“What are you doing?” The Groundskeeper asks, features obscured by that unnecessarily large brimmed hat of his. They claimed often that it was to protect them from the branches overhead, but Remere knew dedication to glamour when they saw it.

“I am busy,” Remere answers flatly, in disarray as they attempt to salvage the once-abandoned mess of stray parchment before them.

The Groundskeeper's lips upturn into something of a lopsided smile. Footsteps gradually intensify as they approach and kneel beside the master of the house, removing gloves to reveal the translucent mimicry of skin beneath, bone-like structures glowing from within. The phantom conservator picks up the remaining pages with ease, before standing upright and offering Remere a hand.

They take it and rise, the weight of the night still pressing upon them.

“Allow me to assist. It is my duty to do so.”

Remere releases a noise vaguely akin to a whine in protest, brushing nonexistent dust from their skirt.

“I can do it myself. I want to finish this piece before the sun rises. It is more meaningful if I do it tonight.”

The Groundskeeper gazes upon the cello propped dangerously against the arm of the nearby tufted chair, their head turning slowly to gaze upon Remere. There is understanding in the way their mouth shifts, a pursing of lips—a familiarity that was better left unspoken.

“Then I shall listen, and tend to the fuchsia gardens at a later point in time.”

Remere's opposition is immediate: “They are… temperamental. They could die without your diligent hand.”

“An evening unattended will not kill them. Do you question my capabilities?”

A pause, long and heavy. Remere yields, and shakes their head.

“No. I suppose not.” They return to their seat prior, and adjust their posture instinctively: spine tall but not rigid, shoulders relaxed and level.

“Fetch my bow for me.” Remere says, fingers already curling around the fingerboard. “And then we shall see if the night remembers what the day has forgotten.”

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!

Shenhua

On this stolen wind We saw history and law Defeating angels And apocrypha dead To the East a chimney The source of all our loans To mercy cross The use of us To lonely men Who still and breathe The psychic dust of meaning And columns to the root At six across This fording of all due The mystery as known To carbon and release At mad apparel For symphony and cross And wars of war At distance to the dawn Employed by every fear In rancid Holocaust of then Fortunes to the fear At China and renew For then to owe Our Children’s new And God’s renew The physical at dawn Aiding and the known Why evil spirit In every burn In lonely favour Mixed with you The tales of endurance And living that Alone.

I'm trying to actually make at least one recipe from each cookbook we have. I started with Noma's Guide To Fermentation,

and made lacto-fermented plums. That worked out well, but I didn't realize it would also create some alcohol. A small amount, but unfortunately any amount is a no-no for me, so my fermentation experiments are on ice for now.

In a few moments I will assemble the Mapo Tofu from Kenji López-Alt's “The Wok”: Have to leave out the Chinese cooking wine though...

/edit:

In Summary: * Moving into the night meds and night prayers phase of my evening with the IU / Minnesota game tied 16 to 16 at the end of regulation play and going into Overtime. My goodness.

It'll take me some time to get over the excitement of this game and get ready for bed. At least I don't need to wake up early tomorrow morning. Good thing, that.

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

Health Metrics: * bw= 217.38 lbs. * bp= no readings taken today

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, toe raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:15 – pizza * 11:30 – stuffed omelet, bacon

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:50 – wake * 05:30 – bank accounts activity monitored * 05:45 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, take daily meds, unpack, organize, and nap * 10:30 – Listening to the Texas Tech Sports Network broadcasting the pregame show ahead of today's Red Raiders vs Wildcats Big 12 Conference football game. * 14:10 – turned over to the radio pregame broadcast of the IU game, while still following the score of the ongoing TX Tech game with less than 3 minutes left to play there. * 14:43 – and the Red Raiders win. Final score: TX Tech 43, Arizona 26. * 18:23 – and IU wins: 23 to 16 in OT!

Chess: * 12:35 – moved in all pending CC games

3 October 2026

A couple snippets from Richard D. James in conversation with Tatsuya Takahashi discussing their collaborative development of the Korg Monologue (2017)

RDJ: The first thoughts that I had about tuning in general happened with my early noodlings on a Yamaha DX100, one of the first synths I saved up for. I remember looking at the master tuning of 440 Hz and thinking I would change it, for no other reason apart from it was set by default to that frequency and that it could be changed. I just used to select a single note, adjust the master tuning of it to taste and then base the whole track around that, something I’ve done ever since, just intuition and maybe a bit of rebelliousness. It’s very simple, but do you want your music to be based on an international standard or on what you think sounds right to you?

...

RDJ: What is your worst fear?

TT: Well, doing the same thing over again and then one day realising that's all you can do.

RDJ: Yeah, I think we all have to fight against this, especially as you get older. I’ve really been looking at my habits recently and denying them. It feels great if you can manage it.

سكولار Scolaire.tn: منصّة تونسية ترافق تلميذ السادسة والتاسعة من أوّل درس إلى يوم المناظرة مقدّمة

لا يختلف اثنان في تونس على أنّ السنتين السادسة ابتدائي والتاسعة أساسي مفصليّتان في المسار الدراسي. ففي كلّ منهما يجد التلميذ نفسه أمام مناظرة وطنية تحدّد مستقبله الدراسي القريب. تتحوّل البيوت إلى ورشات مراجعة، ويبحث الأولياء عن مصادر موثوقة تجمع الدروس والتمارين والمواضيع السابقة في مكان واحد، بعيدًا عن تشتّت الملفّات والصور المتناثرة على مواقع التواصل. من هذه الحاجة جاءت منصّة سكولار Scolaire.tn، وهي منصّة تونسية تستهدف تلاميذ السنة السادسة ابتدائي والسنة التاسعة أساسي، وتعتمد البرنامج الرسمي أساسًا لكلّ ما تقدّمه.

في هذا المقال نتعرّف إلى المنصّة وما تحتويه ومن تخدم، وكيف يمكن للتلميذ والوليّ والمربّي أن يستفيدوا منها.

ما هي منصّة سكولار؟

سكولار منصّة تعليمية رقمية تونسية الهويّة واللغة والمحتوى. تقدّم دروسًا مرتّبة حسب البرنامج الرسمي، وتمارين تفاعلية تُصحَّح فورًا، وملخّصات ومسارد للمراجعة السريعة، وامتحانات الثلاثي، والمواضيع الرسمية السابقة للمناظرات، ومناظرات تجريبية بعدد على 20. وإلى جانب التلميذ، تخصّص المنصّة فضاءً للوليّ يخطّط ويتابع، وفضاءً للمربّي ينظّم به أقسامه.

وتوضّح المنصّة في أكثر من موضع أنّها منصّة خاصّة غير تابعة لوزارة التربية، وأنّ المواضيع الرسمية ملك للوزارة وتُنشر للاطّلاع فقط. وهذا وضوح يُحسب لها لأنّه يضع الأمور في نصابها ويجنّب أيّ لبس.

أمّا شعارها فيلخّصه عنوانها الرئيسي: حضّر السادسة والتاسعة بثقة، من أوّل درس إلى يوم المناظرة. أي أنّها لا تكتفي بالاستعداد في الأسابيع الأخيرة، بل ترافق التلميذ طيلة السنة الدراسية.

أرقام تعكس حجم المحتوى

أوّل ما يلفت الزائر ضخامة المحتوى المتاح. تضمّ المنصّة:

437 درسًا 2792 تمرينًا مصحّحًا 402 ملخّصًا 1416 مصطلحًا في المسارد

ويتوزّع هذا المحتوى على المستويين كما يلي. تضمّ السنة السادسة 214 درسًا و1356 تمرينًا. أمّا السنة التاسعة فتضمّ 223 درسًا و1436 تمرينًا. وهو توزيع متقارب يعكس عناية متساوية بالمرحلتين.

مستويان ومناظرتان وطنيّتان

تفتح المنصّة اليوم بابها لسنتين دراسيتين، وكلّ منهما سنة مناظرة.

السنة السادسة ابتدائي وموادّها الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي والعربية والفرنسية والأنقليزية، وتقود إلى مناظرة الدخول إلى المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية.

السنة التاسعة أساسي وموادّها الرياضيات وعلوم الحياة والأرض والعلوم الفيزيائية والعربية والفرنسية والأنقليزية، وتقود إلى امتحان ختم التعليم الأساسي (النوفيام) والتوجيه إلى المعاهد النموذجية.

وتعد المنصّة بفتح سنوات دراسية أخرى قريبًا. ويمكن للزائر أن يترك بريده الإلكتروني ليُعلَم عند توفّر مستوى جديد، من دون أيّ إشهار حسب ما تؤكّده المنصّة.

الدروس: شرح بسيط على وفق البرنامج الرسمي

تُعرض الدروس مرتّبة حسب البرنامج الرسمي لكلّ مادّة. وفي الرياضيات للسنة السادسة، على سبيل المثال، تنقسم الدروس إلى خمس فترات دراسية، فيجد التلميذ ما يدرسه في مدرسته بالترتيب نفسه تقريبًا. وهذا مهمّ لأنّ المنصّة بذلك تكمّل عمل القسم ولا تتعارض معه.

ويقوم كلّ درس على بنية واضحة:

شرح بالأمثلة والرسوم، ليفهم التلميذ الفكرة قبل أن يحفظها. أمثلة محلولة تُظهر طريقة التفكير والحلّ خطوة بخطوة. أخطاء شائعة ينبَّه إليها التلميذ حتى لا يقع فيها يوم الامتحان. اختبار قصير يقيس ما استوعبه فعلًا.

وخانة «الأخطاء الشائعة» جديرة بالتنويه، لأنّ كثيرًا من العلامات الضائعة ليس سببها غياب المعرفة، وإنّما أخطاء متكرّرة يمكن تفاديها متى عُرفت.

التمارين: تصحيح فوري وشرح لموضع الخطأ

هنا تتجلّى قوّة المنصّة. فلكلّ درس سلسلة تمارين تفاعلية في عدّة مستويات من الصعوبة، تُصحَّح فورًا مع الشرح، وتتوفّر منها نسخة PDF للطباعة لمن يفضّل الورق والقلم.

وتصف المنصّة طريقة عملها في ثلاث خطوات:

يحلّ التلميذ التمرين، فيكتب جواب كلّ سؤال كما يفعل في ورقة الامتحان. يُصحَّح فورًا، فإن أخطأ رأى أين أخطأ بالضبط وكيف يصحّح طريقته. يتابع الوليّ التقدّم، فيعرف الدروس المتقنة والدروس التي تحتاج مراجعة ونتائج الامتحانات.

ومن الأمثلة التي تعرضها الصفحة الرئيسية تمرين حسابي بسيط: خيّاطة اشترت قطعة قماش طولها 32 مترًا، واستعملت 3/8 منها للستائر و1/4 للمفارش. فإذا أخطأ التلميذ في حساب الطول الباقي، لا يكتفي النظام بإعلامه أنّ إجابته خاطئة، بل ينبّهه إلى أنّه حسب ما استُعمل بينما السؤال عن الباقي. وهذا هو الفرق بين تصحيح يُعلم بالنتيجة وتصحيح يُعلّم.

الملخّصات والمسارد والقاموس

المراجعة الذكية لا تعني إعادة قراءة الدرس كاملًا في كلّ مرّة. لذلك وفّرت المنصّة 402 ملخّصًا، ملخّصًا لكلّ درس، إضافة إلى مسرد لكلّ مادّة يضمّ المصطلحات الأساسية، ومجموعها 1416 مصطلحًا. وهي أدوات تفيد التلميذ في الأيام التي تسبق الامتحان، حين يحتاج إلى مرور سريع على الأفكار الكبرى.

وتخصّص المنصّة كذلك قاموسًا لكلّ من السنتين السادسة والتاسعة، يساعد التلميذ على فهم المفردات التي قد تعيق فهمه للدروس أو الامتحانات.

امتحانات الثلاثي: اختبار للمكتسبات على امتداد السنة

لا تنتظر المنصّة نهاية السنة لتختبر التلميذ. فهي تضع امتحانات الثلاثي مع الإصلاح بين يديه، وتغطّي في السنة السادسة الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي واللغات الثلاث، وفي السنة التاسعة الرياضيات والعلوم والفيزياء واللغات الثلاث.

وتفيد هذه الامتحانات في أمرين: تعوّد التلميذ على أجواء الامتحان وصيغ الأسئلة، وتكشف له مبكّرًا مواطن ضعفه ليعالجها قبل فوات الأوان.

المناظرات التجريبية: التدرّب بالتوقيت وبعدد على 20

من أبرز ما تقدّمه سكولار المناظرات التجريبية. يحلّ فيها التلميذ موضوعًا كاملًا في وقت محدّد، ثمّ يحصل على إصلاح وعدد على 20. وتُظهر الصفحة الرئيسية مثالًا لمناظرة تجريبية حصل فيها التلميذ على 16,5 من 20.

فالمناظرة تُختبر فيها المعارف والقدرة على إدارة الوقت والتحكّم في التوتّر. ولا يتحقّق ذلك إلا بالتدرّب في ظروف قريبة من الظروف الحقيقية، وهذا ما تتيحه المنصّة.

مناظرة السادسة: سباق نحو المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية

تخصّص المنصّة قسمًا كاملًا لمناظرة الدخول إلى المدارس الإعدادية النموذجية، ويحتوي على:

المواضيع الرسمية السابقة 20 موضوعًا نموذجيًا مصحّحًا مناظرات تجريبية بالتوقيت خطّة مراجعة تمتدّ من سبتمبر إلى جوان نصائح للاستعداد

وتعرض المنصّة أرقامًا تبيّن حجم التنافس، استنادًا إلى ندوة صحفية لوزارة التربية بتاريخ 1 جوان 2026: 62 450 مترشّحًا في 2026 لـ3 850 مقعدًا، أي ما يقارب مقعدًا واحدًا لكلّ 16 مترشّحًا. أرقام تفسّر لماذا يحتاج التلميذ إلى استعداد مبكّر ومنظّم لا يُترك للصدفة.

مناظرة التاسعة: النوفيام والمعاهد النموذجية

وفي السنة التاسعة، تغطّي المنصّة امتحان ختم التعليم الأساسي (النوفيام) والتوجيه إلى المعاهد النموذجية. ويضمّ هذا القسم دروس الموادّ الأربع: الرياضيات وعلوم الحياة والأرض والعلوم الفيزيائية والعربية، إضافة إلى المواضيع الرسمية السابقة مع عناصر الإجابة، ومواضيع نموذجية، ومناظرات تفاعلية بالتوقيت.

ومن أرقام دورة 2026 التي تنقلها المنصّة عن وزارة التربية: 25 301 مترشّحًا حاضرًا، ونسبة نجاح بلغت 63,96%، ووُجّه 6 063 تلاميذ إلى المعاهد النموذجية. وهي أرقام تبيّن أنّ النجاح ممكن، لكنّه يتطلّب عملًا منتظمًا.

فضاء الأولياء: خطّة ومتابعة أسبوعًا بأسبوع

يعرف كلّ وليّ أنّ مرافقة الأبناء في الدراسة ليست سهلة، فلا الوقت دائمًا متاح، ولا من السهل معرفة أين يقف الطفل فعلًا. وقد خصّصت سكولار فضاءً للأولياء يقدّم:

خطّة عمل أسبوعية تقترحها المنصّة حسب نتائج الطفل. ويمكن للوليّ إعدادها بنفسه، كما يمكن لتلميذ التاسعة إعدادها بنفسه. تنبيهات عند التراجع أو التأخّر في إنجاز المهامّ. تقريرًا أسبوعيًا بالبريد الإلكتروني. لوحة متابعة لكلّ مادّة، تُظهر نسب التقدّم في الرياضيات والإيقاظ العلمي والعربية وغيرها.

وتعرض الصفحة الرئيسية مثالًا توضيحيًا بيانه للتوضيح فقط، لتلميذ في السنة السادسة يتقدّم جيّدًا بنسبة 82% في الرياضيات و70% في الإيقاظ العلمي و45% في العربية. ويدلّ هذا المثال على الفكرة: أن يعرف الوليّ بنظرة واحدة أين يحتاج طفله إلى دعم إضافي، فيتجنّب الدروس العشوائية ويركّز جهده حيث يلزم.

وللتلميذ بوّابة دخول خاصّة به، وللوليّ والمربّي بوّابة أخرى، بحيث يجد كلّ طرف ما يناسبه. كما تنشر المنصّة قسمًا بعنوان «نصائح للأولياء» يساعدهم على مرافقة أبنائهم.

فضاء المربّي: أدوات للمعلّم والأستاذ

لا تغفل سكولار المربّين. فقد أتاحت لهم فضاءً مجانيًا يمكّنهم من:

إنشاء أقسامهم داخل المنصّة، تكوين سلاسل تمارين وفروض من بنك تمارين سكولار، متابعة نتائج تلاميذهم.

وهذا يوفّر على المعلّم وقتًا كبيرًا في إعداد التمارين وتصحيحها، ويفتح له نافذة على مستوى تلاميذه الفعلي.

الاستعمال دون إنترنت وعلى كلّ الأجهزة

من الإشكالات الواقعية ضعف الاتصال بالإنترنت أو انقطاعه في بعض الأحيان. ولذلك خصّصت المنصّة صفحة لـالاستعمال دون إنترنت. وهي تعمل على الهاتف والحاسوب معًا، ما يجعلها في متناول أغلب الأسر، إذ يكفي هاتف ذكي ليبدأ التلميذ.

مجانية خلال فترة الإطلاق

تعلن المنصّة أنّها مجانية خلال فترة الإطلاق، وتشمل المجانية الدروس والتمارين والامتحانات والمواضيع النموذجية، مع حفظ تقدّم الطفل في حساب مجاني، ومن دون بطاقة بنكية. ويمكن للتلميذ أن يبدأ التعلّم من دون تسجيل، ثمّ ينشئ حسابًا لحفظ نتائجه. وللاطّلاع على التفاصيل المحدّثة، تحيل المنصّة إلى صفحة الاشتراكات.

كيف تستفيد من المنصّة؟ نصائح عملية ابدأ مبكّرًا. خطّة المراجعة تمتدّ من سبتمبر إلى جوان، فلا تنتظر الثلاثي الأخير. اتّبع تسلسل الدروس. يبدأ التلميذ من الدرس ثمّ يتدرّب على تمارينه قبل الانتقال إلى الذي يليه. تعلّم من أخطائك. اقرأ شرح التصحيح بعناية، فهو أهمّ من العدد نفسه. تدرّب بالتوقيت. خصّص حصّة أسبوعية لمناظرة تجريبية في ظروف الامتحان. استعن بالملخّصات في الأيام الأخيرة. هي للمراجعة السريعة لا للتعلّم من الصفر. أشرك الوليّ. يستعمل الوليّ لوحة المتابعة لتوجيه الجهد نحو المواد الأضعف. نظرة إلى المستقبل

تؤكّد سكولار أنّ مستويات أخرى ستُضاف قريبًا، وهو ما يعني أنّ المنصّة تنوي النموّ لتغطّي مراحل أوسع من التعليم الابتدائي والإعدادي. وإلى حين ذلك، يمكن لأولياء التلاميذ في بقيّة المستويات تسجيل بريدهم ليكونوا أوّل من يعلم.

خاتمة

تجمع سكولار Scolaire.tn بين ما يحتاجه التلميذ من دروس وتمارين وامتحانات، وما يحتاجه الوليّ من خطّة ومتابعة، وما يحتاجه المربّي من أدوات تنظيم. وهي تفعل ذلك بالعربية، وعلى وفق البرنامج الرسمي التونسي، وبروح عملية تضع المناظرتين الوطنيّتين نصب عينيها.

وليس في أيّ منصّة رقمية بديلٌ عن جهد التلميذ ودعم أسرته ومعلّميه، لكنّ الأداة الجيّدة تختصر الطريق وتوضّح الرؤية. فمن كان له طفل في السادسة أو التاسعة، فإنّ زيارة المنصّة وتجربة تمرين أو مناظرة تجريبية على https://scolaire.tn/ لا تكلّف شيئًا خلال فترة الإطلاق، وقد تغيّر طريقة استعدادهم للمناظرة.

Publicat la 11 noiembrie 2017

Pentru mine era o zi oarecare. Așteptam un coleg în apropierea recepției unui hotel, a cărui intrare dădea într-o stradă în pantă (dar câte străzi orizontale sunt în Lausanne?). Era o oră la care cei mai mulți își începuseră deja ziua, așa că atmosfera era de-a dreptul liniștită. Poate prea liniștită!

Mobilierul și amenajarea spațiului de la intrare mă duceau cu gândul la decorurile filmelor din anii ’70. Îmi amintesc că acțiunea din Love and Bullets se desfășoară în Elveția.

Numai că filmele acelea aveau parte de multă acțiune. Așadar, la recepția hotelului aveam câteva elemente care păreau gata să intre în coliziune. Era nevoie doar de un declanșator, iar acesta nu a întârziat să apară.

Ziua aceea de toamnă părea desprinsă din L’été indien, cântecul lui Joe Dassin.

Le Jardin Botanique, aflat în apropiere, părea să-și reverse culorile pastelate prin ferestrele hotelului.




Colegul întârzia să apară. Ceva părea să-l rețină, dar, cum problema pe care o aveam de rezolvat împreună putea suferi o amânare, nu l-am deranjat nici măcar cu un telefon.

Deodată, ușa de la intrare se deschise brusc. Un cuplu încărcat de bagaje își făcu apariția, spulberând liniștea de până atunci. Intrarea lor lăsa impresia că afară era viscol și că abia așteptaseră să găsească un loc călduros în care să se adăpostească.

— Guten Tag! au salutat ei, închizând ușa în urma lor.

— Bonjour! le-a răspuns amabil recepționerul.

Și-au așezat ordonat bagajele într-un colț, după care s-au adresat din nou recepționerului, de data aceasta parcă mai liniștiți. Felul în care vorbeau și puținele cuvinte germane pe care le știam m-au făcut să înțeleg că doreau o cameră dublă.

Recepționerul, amabil și zâmbitor, le-a răspuns în franceză că nu vorbește germana. Cei doi au încremenit pentru o clipă. Privirile lor păreau să întrebe: „Cum adică, în Elveția și nu vorbești germana?”


Combinația de monologuri, incapabile să se transforme într-un dialog din pricina barierei lingvistice, m-a făcut să presupun că turiștii erau nedumeriți: se aflau în propria țară și nu se puteau caza pentru că un concetățean de-al lor nu le vorbea limba. O limbă națională, de altfel. Recepționerul, la rândul său, părea nedumerit de indignarea lor, întrucât vorbea una dintre limbile naționale ale aceleiași țări, într-un canton ai cărui locuitori vorbesc în majoritate, asemenea lui, franceza.

Probabil că tânărul recepționer nu-și pusese niciodată problema învățării unei limbi atât de greu de învățat precum germana. Cu siguranță știa engleza și, poate, italiana.

Dar turiștii continuau să i se adreseze indignați în germană. Problema nu mai era cazarea, ci dreptul de a folosi, într-un canton francofon, una dintre limbile naționale ale Elveției: germana, cea mai răspândită dintre ele.

Nu ridicau glasul, dar se simțea cum atmosfera din jurul recepției se întuneca, de parcă afară s-ar fi înnourat cu repeziciune. Norii negri din interior așteptau parcă o descărcare electrică.

Afară era plăcut. Soarele lumina cald strada și clădirile de vizavi. Mașinile circulau lent și prudent, de parcă toate ar fi ajuns deja la destinație, iar curtea în care urmau să intre era vecină cu hotelul…



Cum s-o fi terminat întâmplarea nu știu, pentru că între timp a apărut colegul și am plecat spre Ouchy.


Un lucru mi-a rămas însă clar: recepționerul, în ciuda amabilității și disponibilității pe care le presupunea postul său, nu avea nici cea mai mică dorință de a încerca măcar să se înțeleagă cu cei doi turiști vorbitori de germană.

În general, când o astfel de barieră coboară, există soluții cinetice: datul din mâini. Dar probabil că această soluție era nedemnă de sobrietatea și rigoarea germană.

Nu știu… sângele meu are altă compoziție.

FICTIONAL WHAT IF: Part II- What if Chuck McGill believed in his brother and supported him?

A Counterfactual History of the McGill Brothers, 2001–2012

In this alternate timeline, one decision changes the course of two brothers' lives, a prestigious Albuquerque law firm, and eventually the largest methamphetamine operation in the American Southwest. The divergence is simple: when Jimmy McGill passes the New Mexico bar examination, Chuck McGill decides that his brother deserves a chance.

Part I: The Younger McGill (2001–2002)

When Jimmy McGill walked into his older brother's office with the news that he had passed the bar examination, Charles McGill was astonished. The younger brother he had spent much of his life rescuing from his own mistakes had accomplished something Chuck had never seriously believed possible. Jimmy had earned his law degree through correspondence courses, studying at night while working in the mailroom at Hamlin, Hamlin & McGill. His education lacked the prestige of Chuck's Georgetown credentials, and his academic record was hardly remarkable, but he had nevertheless passed the same licensing examination as every other attorney in New Mexico. In another life, Chuck would have viewed Jimmy's accomplishment as an affront to the profession he revered. In this one, he saw something else: evidence that the brother he had nearly given up on was genuinely trying to become a better man. Chuck congratulated Jimmy. He shook his hand, then embraced him. More importantly, when Jimmy asked whether there might be a place for him at HHM, Chuck said yes. The decision was not without controversy. Howard Hamlin was enthusiastic, having known Jimmy for years and developed a genuine affection for him, but several senior attorneys questioned whether the firm ought to hire someone whose legal education came from the University of American Samoa. Chuck answered their objections himself. Jimmy would start as a junior associate, receive the same supervision as any other inexperienced attorney, and advance on merit. Chuck would personally oversee his early development. For Jimmy, the significance was almost impossible to exaggerate. He had spent years believing that the legal profession might offer him a way to escape the identity of Slippin' Jimmy, the small-time con artist from Cicero. Chuck's acceptance was the first convincing evidence that his transformation might actually be recognized.

The first two years were difficult. Jimmy lacked the technical sophistication of his colleagues, and his casual approach to professional etiquette occasionally horrified Chuck. He improvised in depositions, made jokes during meetings, and occasionally attempted to negotiate matters that other attorneys considered settled. Yet he also demonstrated an extraordinary ability to connect with clients, particularly those who found the legal system intimidating. Chuck discovered that while Jimmy would probably never become the sort of attorney he himself was, that did not mean Jimmy could not become an excellent one. Their disagreements were frequent, sometimes furious, but they developed a new pattern. Chuck criticized Jimmy's methods rather than his character. Jimmy, for his part, began to distinguish between being corrected and being rejected. It was a small distinction with enormous consequences.

Part II: The Brothers McGill (2003–2005)

By 2003, Jimmy had developed a modest but promising practice representing elderly clients, small businesses, and victims of consumer fraud. He was particularly effective in cases where sympathetic plaintiffs faced large, impersonal institutions. His colleagues occasionally complained that Jimmy seemed to treat litigation as a theatrical performance, but the results were difficult to dispute. Chuck remained concerned about Jimmy's appetite for shortcuts. On one occasion, Jimmy arranged an unusually aggressive publicity campaign for a group of elderly plaintiffs without obtaining the necessary internal approvals. Chuck reprimanded him sharply, insisting that good intentions did not justify ignoring professional obligations. Jimmy responded with his characteristic mixture of indignation and elaborate rationalization. Their argument lasted nearly an hour. Nevertheless, when the matter reached Howard, Chuck defended Jimmy's underlying judgment while acknowledging his procedural mistakes. Jimmy received a formal warning rather than a dismissal. More importantly, he was allowed to continue working on the case. The episode became an important turning point. Jimmy was beginning to understand that he could make mistakes without losing the respect of the people whose opinions mattered most to him.

His relationship with Kim Wexler developed alongside his professional career. The two had known each other since their mailroom days, but now they were colleagues pursuing increasingly complementary specialties. Kim possessed the discipline, precision, and technical knowledge that Jimmy sometimes lacked. Jimmy brought intuition, creativity, and an ability to persuade people who would never be moved by a carefully constructed legal memorandum. Their relationship became romantic in 2003. Unlike the volatile partnership that might otherwise have developed between them, this relationship was built around shared ambitions rather than shared grievances. They still occasionally enjoyed exploiting the pretensions of arrogant businessmen, and Kim was not entirely immune to the thrill of Jimmy's elaborate schemes. But their professional lives did not require them to maintain a private world of dishonesty against an otherwise hostile establishment. In 2004, Jimmy encountered a potentially significant case involving systematic overbilling at Sandpiper Crossing, a retirement-home operator. His initial investigation suggested that hundreds of elderly residents might have been charged for services and supplies they had never received. Rather than conceal evidence or take extraordinary measures to secure the case, Jimmy brought his findings to Chuck. Chuck was impressed. The brothers spent several evenings examining financial records, reconstructing billing practices, and developing a theory of liability. It was the first major legal project on which they worked as genuine collaborators.

When HHM filed suit, Jimmy was given a prominent role alongside more experienced litigators. Howard recognized that Jimmy's relationship with the residents would prove invaluable, while Chuck supplied the technical expertise necessary to transform a collection of billing complaints into a potentially enormous class action. The lawsuit strengthened HHM's reputation and provided Jimmy with the financial security he had spent his adult life chasing. It also began to transform his standing within the firm. He was no longer merely Chuck McGill's younger brother. He was an attorney with a growing practice and a distinctive professional identity. Chuck, despite occasional flashes of jealousy, found that he was proud of him.

Part III: The Decline of Charles McGill (2005–2007)

Chuck's electromagnetic hypersensitivity did not disappear in this timeline. His deteriorating relationship with Rebecca, obsessive tendencies, and increasingly rigid need for control remained features of his life. By the middle of the decade, he was struggling to maintain his professional responsibilities, retreating periodically into his darkened home and avoiding electrical equipment. The difference was how those around him responded. Jimmy, who had become increasingly confident in his own professional abilities, no longer regarded Chuck's illness as another obstacle in a lifelong effort to win his brother's approval. He loved Chuck, and Chuck loved him. That much was no longer in dispute. When Chuck's condition worsened, Jimmy encouraged him to seek medical and psychological treatment. Chuck resisted, sometimes angrily, but he eventually agreed to consult specialists. His recovery was uneven, and he continued to experience periods of debilitating symptoms. Nevertheless, he gradually accepted that his illness could be managed without abandoning his professional or personal life. Howard was relieved. Without a bitter conflict between the brothers threatening to engulf HHM, Chuck's medical difficulties remained a private challenge rather than an existential crisis for the partnership.

During this period, Jimmy began considering a departure from HHM. He had developed an appetite for smaller cases and direct client representation that did not always align with the firm's priorities. Kim, meanwhile, was becoming increasingly frustrated by corporate clients and increasingly interested in representing people who could not afford conventional legal services. In 2007, the two announced their intention to establish their own practice. Chuck was disappointed, though he did not attempt to stop them. He helped Jimmy review the partnership agreement and offered advice about financing. Howard arranged for HHM to refer certain smaller cases to the new firm. Wexler & McGill opened later that year, specializing in elder law, consumer litigation, and selected criminal-defense work. At the opening reception, Chuck gave a brief speech about the importance of professional responsibility. Jimmy interrupted twice with jokes. Howard laughed. Kim rolled her eyes. It was a remarkably ordinary evening. And that, perhaps, was the greatest difference between the two timelines.

Part IV: The Criminal Underworld (2002–2008)

The effects of Jimmy's professional success extended well beyond Albuquerque's legal community. Because Jimmy had never been forced to establish a struggling solo practice, he never staged the elaborate scheme involving the Kettleman family that originally brought him into contact with Tuco Salamanca. He never met Nacho Varga, never became involved in Salamanca family business, and never acquired a reputation as an attorney willing to bend the law for dangerous clients. Mike Ehrmantraut's life followed a somewhat different path as well. Although his connection to Gus Fring developed independently of Jimmy, the two men never formed their unusual professional friendship. Mike retained his distrust of attorneys and preferred to handle his problems without involving outsiders. The most significant divergence concerned Lalo Salamanca. Without Jimmy to arrange his release and retrieve his enormous cash bail payment, Lalo faced much greater difficulty escaping the New Mexico criminal justice system. Gus consequently confronted a somewhat different and potentially more dangerous set of problems, but the long-term conflict between Fring and the Salamanca family remained. By 2008, Gus was positioned to consolidate his drug empire. Gale Boetticher was available to operate the superlab, and Gus had little reason to seek a more talented but unpredictable chemist. His eventual campaign against Don Eladio and the Salamancas proceeded without Walter White's interference. Gus's prospects for surviving and expanding his organization were consequently substantially better.

Part V: The Rise and Fall of Walter White (2008–2009)

In September 2008, Walter White received his terminal lung cancer diagnosis. His decision to manufacture methamphetamine was unaffected by the distant professional fortunes of the McGill family. He was still a frustrated high-school chemistry teacher, still resentful of his perceived failures, and still determined to leave money for his family. He contacted Jesse Pinkman, purchased an aging recreational vehicle, and began manufacturing unusually pure methamphetamine. Their early encounters with Emilio, Krazy-8, and Tuco unfolded much as they did in the original timeline. Walt killed two men, narrowly escaped another violent confrontation, and increasingly convinced himself that he possessed a natural aptitude for organized crime. For several months, his operation expanded. But Walt had neither the experience nor the infrastructure to sustain it. His distribution network depended on inexperienced street dealers, his relationships with Jesse and his associates were unstable, and his methods attracted the attention of the DEA. The critical moment came when Brandon Mayhew, better known as Badger, was arrested while selling methamphetamine to an undercover officer. In the original timeline, Badger's arrest introduced Walt and Jesse to Saul Goodman, a flamboyant criminal attorney who possessed precisely the combination of legal knowledge, flexible ethics, and criminal connections they needed. Saul devised an elaborate strategy to protect Badger's suppliers, arranged for a substitute suspect to accept responsibility for the Heisenberg operation, and subsequently introduced Walt to the network that made his criminal empire possible. In this timeline, Saul Goodman did not exist.

Badger was represented by an ordinary criminal-defense attorney, who advised him to cooperate with prosecutors in exchange for a reduced sentence. The resulting investigation identified Jesse as a significant figure in Albuquerque's emerging methamphetamine trade. Walter initially believed he could distance himself from Jesse. He underestimated both his former student's vulnerability and the DEA's growing interest in the unusual purity of the methamphetamine appearing on Albuquerque streets. By the spring of 2009, Jesse was facing serious federal charges. Confronted with the possibility of a lengthy prison sentence, he agreed to cooperate. His testimony, combined with financial records, telephone evidence, and forensic analysis of the manufacturing operation, established Walter's involvement. Walter White was arrested. The arrest devastated his family. Skyler, who had become increasingly suspicious of her husband's unexplained absences and erratic behavior, learned that he had been manufacturing methamphetamine for months. Hank Schrader was particularly shaken by the discovery that the elusive Heisenberg was his own brother-in-law. Walt attempted to justify his actions as an effort to provide for his family. But without the vast sums he would later earn through Gus Fring, the argument was considerably less persuasive. The relatively modest amount of money he had accumulated could not possibly compensate for the damage he had caused.

Faced with overwhelming evidence and declining health, Walt eventually accepted a plea agreement. He died of cancer in federal custody, with his reputation destroyed but without becoming one of the most consequential figures in the American narcotics trade. Jesse received a reduced sentence in exchange for his cooperation. His future remained uncertain, but he escaped the horrors that would otherwise have defined the remainder of his relationship with Walter White. Hank Schrader continued his career with the DEA. His marriage survived, and he never discovered how close his family had come to destruction. There was no massacre of federal agents in the desert, no neo-Nazi takeover of a methamphetamine empire, and no final confrontation at a remote compound. Walter White's criminal career ended not with a spectacular act of violence, but with the comparatively ordinary consequences of an inexperienced criminal attracting the attention of federal law enforcement.

Part VI: Wexler & McGill (2009–2011)

Back in Albuquerque, Jimmy McGill watched the Heisenberg case unfold with considerable interest. He recognized Walter White as precisely the sort of defendant who might once have attracted his attention: an intelligent, desperate man who had convinced himself that extraordinary circumstances justified increasingly outrageous behavior. Jimmy occasionally wondered whether he could have negotiated a better outcome for White, though Kim was quick to remind him that there were limits to what any attorney could accomplish. By this point, Wexler & McGill had become a successful small firm. Jimmy maintained a thriving practice representing elderly clients and pursuing consumer-fraud litigation, while Kim devoted an increasing portion of her time to indigent criminal defendants. Their finances were sometimes strained by Kim's commitment to low-paying cases, but Jimmy's lucrative civil practice generally compensated. They argued about money, scheduling, clients, and occasionally Jimmy's tendency to promise more than he could deliver. But their disagreements rarely threatened the relationship itself. Kim was particularly pleased that Jimmy had resisted the temptation to turn his professional persona into a commercial spectacle. He still enjoyed advertising and occasionally proposed absurd promotional campaigns, but he had developed a reputation strong enough to generate referrals without resorting to the kind of questionable tactics he once found irresistible.

Meanwhile, Howard Hamlin had assumed greater responsibility for HHM as Chuck gradually reduced his workload. The transition was occasionally difficult. Chuck did not surrender authority gracefully, and Howard found himself increasingly frustrated by the older man's insistence on reviewing decisions that properly belonged to the managing partners. Nevertheless, the firm remained prosperous. Its involvement in the Sandpiper litigation had generated substantial fees, and its established corporate practice continued to provide a stable financial foundation. Chuck eventually accepted a semi-retired position as senior counsel. He continued teaching occasional continuing-legal-education seminars and remained an influential figure in Albuquerque's legal community. His relationship with Jimmy became, for the first time in their lives, something approaching friendship. The brothers still disagreed constantly. Chuck found Jimmy's humor exhausting, while Jimmy considered Chuck's reverence for legal tradition unnecessarily solemn. But their disagreements no longer carried the accumulated weight of decades of humiliation and resentment. On Sundays, Jimmy and Kim sometimes visited Chuck for dinner. Chuck generally insisted on selecting the restaurant. Jimmy generally complained about it. Neither considered the arrangement particularly remarkable.

Part VII: The Life Not Lived (2012)

By 2012, Jimmy McGill was a successful attorney in his early fifties. He was neither wealthy enough to retire nor prominent enough to become a household name, but he enjoyed a comfortable life with Kim and had accumulated something he had once considered almost unattainable: professional respectability. He still occasionally missed the excitement of his earlier life. There were moments when he caught himself imagining elaborate ways to embarrass an arrogant opposing counsel or manipulate an inconvenient witness. He remained extraordinarily good at identifying weaknesses in people and institutions, and he had never entirely lost the thrill that came from exploiting them. But he had learned that possessing a talent did not require exercising it whenever an opportunity presented itself. Kim occasionally worried that Jimmy was suppressing a part of himself, but she also recognized that he was happier than he had been in the years when he had constantly struggled for recognition. Their relationship contained plenty of excitement without requiring the destruction of other people's lives.

Chuck remained an important presence in their lives. His health continued to fluctuate, and he had grown increasingly conscious of his limitations, but he was still intellectually formidable. Jimmy occasionally sought his advice on difficult cases, and Chuck delighted in providing it, even when Jimmy complained that a simple question had become a ninety-minute lecture. Howard remained the managing partner of HHM, and the firm continued to occupy an important place in Albuquerque's legal establishment. The professional relationships among the three men were occasionally complicated, but they were sustained by mutual affection and respect. One evening, after Jimmy successfully concluded a difficult consumer-fraud case, he invited Chuck to dinner. Kim had secured a substantial settlement for a wrongfully accused client earlier that week, and the couple wanted to celebrate. Chuck arrived with an expensive bottle of wine. During dinner, Jimmy recounted how he had persuaded an initially hostile opposing attorney to negotiate a settlement by discovering that the man's client had made contradictory statements in several earlier proceedings. Chuck listened carefully, occasionally interjecting questions about the evidentiary basis for Jimmy's claims. Eventually, Jimmy became exasperated. “Jesus, Chuck. You know, you could just say 'good job' once in a while.” Chuck considered this before replying, “Good job, Jimmy.” Jimmy grinned. “Was that so hard?” Chuck smiled and shook his head. “No. I suppose it wasn't.”

Later that evening, after Chuck had returned home, Jimmy received a telephone call from an unfamiliar number. The caller identified himself as a businessman in need of an attorney who could handle a delicate legal problem. He had been told that Jimmy possessed a reputation for finding creative solutions. Jimmy listened for several minutes. The man's story involved significant sums of money, questionable business dealings, and an obvious willingness to pay handsomely for discretion. There was a time when Jimmy would have considered the opportunity irresistible. Instead, he politely explained that his firm did not handle matters of that nature and recommended another attorney. When he hung up, Kim looked up from her book. “Who was that?” she asked. “Nobody important,” Jimmy answered. She raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Jimmy smiled. “Really.” And that was the end of it.

Epilogue: The Man Who Never Existed

In the original timeline, Jimmy McGill's transformation into Saul Goodman destroyed almost everything he valued. His marriage collapsed, his brother died by suicide, Howard Hamlin was murdered, and Jimmy eventually became an indispensable participant in Walter White's criminal enterprise. His extraordinary talent for persuasion and improvisation, which might have made him a remarkable attorney, instead helped sustain an organization responsible for tremendous suffering. In this alternate timeline, those talents found a legitimate outlet. Chuck never entirely overcame his pride, rigidity, or occasional resentment of Jimmy's natural charisma. Jimmy never entirely overcame his impulsiveness, his appetite for shortcuts, or his instinctive distrust of authority. Neither brother became a fundamentally different human being. What changed was their relationship. By believing in Jimmy's capacity for growth, Chuck gave him something he had spent his entire life seeking: an identity that was not defined by his worst mistakes. And by accepting Jimmy as a legitimate member of the legal profession, Chuck escaped the increasingly desperate campaign to expose his brother as an irredeemable fraud.

The consequences reached people neither brother ever met. Howard Hamlin lived. Kim Wexler continued practicing law without abandoning her career. Mike Ehrmantraut avoided becoming Walter White's adversary. Hank Schrader survived the Heisenberg investigation. Jesse Pinkman never became a prisoner of Jack Welker's gang. Walter White died without building a drug empire. The criminal underworld survived, of course. Gus Fring continued his operations, and the drug trade continued to ruin lives. Chuck's kindness did not save Albuquerque from organized crime. But the particular chain of destruction that connected a small-time Chicago con artist to one of the most violent criminal enterprises in the Southwest never materialized. The most important thing Chuck McGill ever did in this timeline was not win a case, establish a prestigious law firm, or defeat a formidable opponent. It was recognizing that his younger brother was capable of becoming someone better than the person he used to be. And somewhere in Albuquerque, an aging attorney named Jimmy McGill continued practicing law, occasionally bending a rule, frequently telling terrible jokes, and going home each night to the woman he loved.

Nobody ever called him Saul Goodman. And nobody ever needed to.

Chapter 1: The Fear of Hoping Again

The lamp above the kitchen table was the only light still on. A woman had opened a notebook to write down what she wanted to pray about, but her pen had stopped after four words: “Lord, I am hoping.” She sat with those words for a while, then shut the notebook. The last time she had prayed for something with her whole heart, life had gone in a very different direction. She still believed in Jesus. What frightened her was allowing herself to want something again.

There is a kind of fear that does not send us running. It makes us careful about what we expect. We learn to say that we are fine either way, even when we are not. We avoid naming what matters because naming it would mean admitting that we could be disappointed. I speak more broadly about courage in my video about fear and trusting Jesus Christ, but I want to stay close to this quieter struggle here: the fear of hoping when experience has taught us how much hope can cost.

If you recognize that feeling, finding faith when prayers seem unanswered may be a familiar part of your story. Perhaps you asked God to mend something that remained broken, or waited for news that never came. Someone may have tried to help by telling you to have more faith. Yet you were already praying as sincerely as you knew how. The hardest part was not finding the right words. It was facing another morning with the same question.

I think we need to be careful about the way we talk to people who are afraid to hope. We can make them feel as though their hesitation is a spiritual defect. But Jesus never needed people to present a spotless inner life before He would walk beside them. He met people who were confused, grieving, and unsure what to believe about the future.

In Luke 24, two disciples walked toward Emmaus after Jesus had been crucified. They spoke of what had happened, and when Jesus joined them, they did not recognize Him. One of them said, “We had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel.” Those words have stayed with me because they sound like what a disappointed person says when the thing they believed in seems to have ended. They had hoped. Now they did not know what to do with that hope.

Jesus listened and walked with them before they understood who was beside them. He did not begin by making them pretend the past few days had been easy. I cannot promise that your prayer will receive the answer you want. But you do not have to hide the fact that you still want something good. You can open the notebook again and tell Jesus the truth, even if all you can manage tonight is an unfinished sentence.

Chapter 2: The Small Hope We Are Tempted to Refuse

The invitation was tucked under a magnet shaped like a lemon. A woman who once ran a small bakery had been asked to teach a Saturday cooking class at the community center. Her shop had closed two years earlier, and she still felt embarrassed when someone mentioned it. Teaching sounded pleasant until she pictured standing in front of people who might remember that she had failed. She left the invitation on the refrigerator because saying no felt easier than admitting she wanted to say yes.

I understand why we do this. After something important falls apart, we can begin to treat desire itself as dangerous. We tell ourselves that being realistic means expecting very little. If we never let ourselves look forward to anything, perhaps disappointment will not find us again. But that bargain has a cost. We may avoid one kind of pain by quietly refusing the ordinary gifts that are still within reach.

The woman was not being asked to reopen her bakery. She was being invited to spend two hours teaching people how to make bread. Her past deserved an honest look, including the decisions she wished she had made differently. It did not have to decide whether her hands could still do something useful.

I think of the way Jesus spoke to Martha after her brother Lazarus died. In John 11, Martha met Him with grief and a hard truth: if He had been there, she believed, her brother would not have died. Jesus did not demand that she pretend the loss was small. Their conversation made room for both sorrow and belief. Later in the same account, Jesus wept. His love did not require Him to stand at a distance from human pain.

That story includes a miracle that we cannot turn into a promise about every circumstance. We are not told that everything we lose will be restored to us in this life. What I take from the encounter is that Jesus does not ask us to stop caring in order to trust Him. He meets people whose love has made them vulnerable, and He remains present when they tell Him exactly where it hurts.

The woman took the invitation down and called the community center. She asked how many people would attend and whether she could prepare the dough ahead of time. Those were reasonable questions, not signs of weak faith. She did not have to convince herself that the class would change her life. She only had to decide whether this one invitation was worth accepting.

Perhaps your next hopeful act is equally modest. You may not be ready to make a great declaration about what God will do. You can still let yourself care about one good possibility without demanding certainty in return. There is room in a faithful life for cautious hands, a trembling voice, and a quiet yes.

Chapter 3: The Gentle Courage of Trusting Again

The school auditorium was already filling when a father found a seat near the back. He held the folded program in his hands and searched for his daughter's name. She had spent much of the past year struggling to find her confidence again. There had been difficult mornings, canceled plans, and conversations that ended with both of them feeling helpless. Tonight, she had decided to sing with the school choir. He was proud of her, but he was also frightened of getting too excited. He knew how quickly a good day could be followed by a difficult one.

Sometimes we become afraid of happiness because we have learned that happiness can be interrupted. We hesitate to enjoy a good moment because we are already thinking about how much it will hurt if things change. We tell ourselves we are being sensible, but we may actually be allowing yesterday's disappointment to take something away from today.

I think this is one of the quiet places where Jesus invites us to grow. He does not ask us to deny what we have experienced. He understands the difference between a heart that has become cautious and one that has stopped caring. What He offers is a relationship strong enough to hold our uncertainty without requiring us to know how everything will end.

In Matthew 26, Jesus prayed in the garden before His arrest. He knew suffering was coming, and He openly expressed His desire that the cup might pass from Him. Yet He also surrendered Himself to the Father's will. That prayer shows us something important about trust. We can want a particular outcome while recognizing that our relationship with God is not dependent on getting everything we ask for.

There is freedom in learning to pray that way. We can tell Jesus what we hope will happen without pretending we have received a guarantee. We can ask for healing, reconciliation, opportunity, and peace while remaining honest about the uncertainty in front of us. Surrender does not require us to stop wanting good things. It means allowing God to remain God, even when we cannot understand the direction our lives are taking.

When the choir began singing, the father found his daughter among the students. She looked nervous, but she was there. He did not know what the coming months would bring. He knew only that she had found enough courage to stand before an audience that evening. Rather than spending the performance worrying about whether her progress would last, he allowed himself to enjoy hearing her voice.

Perhaps that is something you can give yourself permission to do today. You can appreciate what is good without making promises about tomorrow. You can remain careful where caution is necessary without treating every hopeful moment as a danger. And when you pray, you can bring Jesus the desires you have been afraid to name.

Your heart does not need another guarantee before it is allowed to be grateful. You have already lived through things you never expected, and you may still carry questions that have no easy answers. But those experiences do not mean you must spend the rest of your life protecting yourself from every possibility of disappointment.

Jesus is worthy of your trust even when the future remains unclear. So when something good appears in your life, you do not have to turn away from it simply because you remember what happened before. Receive the moment with gratitude, hold it gently, and allow yourself to hope again.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

Explore the complete Douglas Vandergraph Master Index: https://douglasvandergraph.com/douglas-vandergraph-master-index/

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Another satirical view on today’s social media culture – 🎃

BEFORE – 🎃

AFTER – 🎃

C’est que je n’ai plus de temps.

J’ai terminé de travailler à 22h30. Alors que je m’étais donné comme règle de m’arrêter à 21h quoi qu’il arrive.

Ce qui me rend triste, c’est de ne plus pouvoir lire. Je priorise le sport. Ma santé. Mais la lecture, c’est mon air frais. C’est ce qui m’ouvre à l’ailleurs, au beau, à ce qui m’inspire profondément.

On va dire que c’est passager. Mes livres m’attendent.

J’ai hâte de lire les correspondances de Camus.

Je lis quelque minutes ses carnets quand j’ai un moment le soir. Et j’adore cette idée de pensées fragmentées. C’est un peu ce que je fais là. Un carnet.

Construire ce carnet m’apporte une certaine joie.

Je me rends compte que je n’écris pas comme je parle. Est-ce un problème ? Je ne sais pas. Mais j’aime apporter un beau rythme, de beaux mots. Je ne suis pas sûr de réussir à le faire mais essayer, déjà, est une forme de réussite et de contentement.

Ghosts in Grey & Flying down the road

Dreams, those slippery nocturnal messengers, have long haunted my sleep with two persistent visitors. Are they revelations from the subconscious, harbingers of unresolved strife, or merely the brain’s fanciful recycling of old neural pathways? In my case, they pull me back to the soil of South Africa, its schools, its roads, its half-remembered heartaches, with a fidelity that startles me awake, heart pounding, fully immersed.

The Grey College Reckoning

The first dream begins with a bureaucratic absurdity: I’m summoned back to Grey College in Bloemfontein, not as the pimply adolescent I was, but as the silver-haired man I am now. There I stand in the quad, absurdly clad in those iconic grey pants and striped blazer, the uniform that once chafed my teenage rebellion. “Redo Standard 6,” the decree comes, “and every year after. Improve those marks.” Principals Heyns & Volsteedt, stern figures from memory, greet me without batting an eye, as if geriatric pupils are commonplace. Classes unfold: I still love algebra, history recycles its dates, Afrikaans conjugations tangle like barbed wire. I pour effort into it, but the report cards arrive unchanged. Good but not brilliant like Jan von Delft.

Heyns fires our Maths teacher Truana & Hansie from Smithfield becomes our Maths teacher. He teaches us all we know including instructing Jan.

Yet here’s the dream’s quiet mercy, its subconscious sleight of hand: I never skid off my Western Flyer bicycle into that gravelly oblivion, the crash that left me bloodied & humbled. No bone-crunching rugby tackle snaps my leg mid-scrum, that agony that sidelined me for months. Those traumas, etched in real-life scar tissue, are mercifully excised.

And the girls, ah, the fleeting sirens of youth, parade through like cameo players in a faded film. Elaine Stewart, with her knowing smile; Stephanie Morgan, elusive and electric; the drama queen from Eunice High, a voluptuous ringer for Sophia Loren whose name dances just beyond recall; and that sweet, homely meisie from Van Oranje, a Van Rooyen girl whose plain virtues shone brighter than any spotlight.

What do the dream-weavers say of this? Recurring school dreams, especially as an adult fumbling through failure, are among the most universal, echoes of anxiety, a nagging fear of inadequacy or unpreparedness in life’s endless “exams.” Psychologists link them to self-doubt, unresolved pressures from youth, or even current stresses masquerading as old report cards. The inability to improve marks? A poignant symbol that the past defies revision, no amount of adult wisdom can rewrite a boy’s transcript. But the avoidance of trauma? That’s wish fulfillment at work, the mind’s gentle therapy: re-entering the arena safely, healing old wounds by omission. These dreams remind me I’ve come far, yet some part of me still seeks an elusive gold star.

The Low-Flying Jet Odyssey

The second dream shifts to the skies, or barely above them. I’m aboard a colossal jetliner, vast as a 747, yet hugging the earth at treetop height, no more than a few meters clearance. We don’t soar; we *skim*, in exquisite slow motion, over roads I could navigate blindfolded. First, the New Hanover Road unspools north from Greytown, that sentinel tree standing eternal vigil at the bend. Then the N1 into Bloemfontein, the wind-bent gums bowing us welcome. The road to Stellenbosch unfurls its first gentle curve, Papegaaiberg’s hulking silhouette rising like a faithful hound. On to Durban’s coastal ribbon, salt air almost tangible. Every pothole, every wild fig tree tree, every sign rendered in photographic perfection, hyper-real, as if my mind’s archived high quality surveillance footage.

Notably absent: the road to Johannesburg. That concrete vein to the City of Gold never appears, as if my psyche draws an invisible no-fly zone.

Dream lore paints flying as liberation, freedom, ambition, transcending earthly tethers. But in a plane, low and road-bound? It’s control with a catch: life’s journey on familiar tracks, ambitions grounded in reality, teetering on the edge of peril yet masterfully steady. The slow-motion clarity screams nostalgia, a meditative revisit to memory’s highways, roads symbolizing personal trajectories, transitions navigated with precision. Avoiding Joburg? Perhaps my inner pilot shuns the chaos of that metropolis, the grind of big-city striving, favoring the intimate contours of heartland and haven.

Echoes & Enigmas

These twin reveries bookend some of my nights, the school dream a backward tug to youth’s judgments, the jet a forward glide over life’s mapped miles. Together, they whisper of a man at peace with imperfection, unable to ace the past, yet soaring low and sure over its remnants. Freud might call them repressed desires; Jung, archetypes of the shadow self. I prefer to see them as grace notes in my story: proof that even in sleep, I’m still pedaling those Bloem roads, still scanning horizons for the next bend. And if they recur? I’ll welcome them, old pilots of the psyche, for in their clarity lies the truest map of me.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Poetry by Roald Bartholomew

Far from the clamor of cities, in rural Natal, our connection to the wider world hinged on a simple metal rectangle: P.O. Box 2, New Hanover 3440. A postal box. Our farm lay 15 kilometers outside that one-donkey town, a speck on the map so modest it couldn’t even afford a horse. New Hanover was the kind of place where time moved at the pace of a lazy pofadder in the sun, & the post office stood as its unassuming magical wormhole to elsewhere.

The box itself was one among a hundred, slotted into a steel grid embedded in the wall on the stoep of the red-brick post office building. You’d find it just across the single-lane bridge over the Sterkspruit, right beside the New Hanover Hotel, where locals might gather for a pint or a yarn on slow afternoons, which were most of them. Stepping inside the post office was like entering a bygone era. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of brown paper parcels & coils of brown hessian string, mingled with the faint, acrid tang of old-fashioned sticky glue. On the worn wooden counter sat a reel of Scotch tape in a hefty metal dispenser, its weight a testament to things built to last.

Back then, correspondence was an art, not a haste. We’d sit at the dining room table on the farm, pulling out a blue or yellow Croxley writing pad, and take up a Parker or Schaeffer pen. For fancy pants letters, the ones carrying heartfelt news or formal invitations—we’d uncap a fountain pen, fill it from a bottle of ink, and let the words flow with deliberate strokes. There was no autocorrect, no instant send; each letter was crafted, pondered over, sealed with care. Licked by your tongue on the envelope. You couldn’t rush the post, it demanded patience, and in return, it wove threads of anticipation into our days. A reply might take weeks, but when it arrived in that humble box, it felt like a small miracle, bridging the isolation of our rural life with the voices of distant friends & family.

At Grey my mom would post me letters from the farm and include R10 notes which would be tuck money. A coke & a doughnut would be weeks in the planning and dependent on a letter coming through the post.

Oh, and Christmas! We would send Christmas cards and hang the ones we received on strings and pegs in our living room. It was a ritual. Poof! No more.

These poems by Roald Bartholew are crafted in that same manner as old fashioned mail. The joy of words, & I licked my computer screen!

🌊Waves of the Veld

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

Clan of the Baboons

From a young age, my father would weave tales of evolution into our long road trips, whether we were rumbling along in the bakkie or the lorry, dust kicking up behind us as we headed out on distant journeys. He’d speak of it with such logical enthusiasm, his voice upbeat and steady, painting pictures of ancient creatures adapting over eons. “It all makes sense,” he’d say, his hands gripping the wheel firmly. But he wasn’t one to dismiss the other side entirely. He’d spend quiet hours poring over the Bible, trying to unravel what drew so many to its pages. “It’s Greek, you see,” he’d explain to me. “Their way of writing was poetic, metaphorical—not meant to be taken word for word.” I’d nod along, absorbing it all, feeling like I was part of some grand intellectual adventure.

That foundation set the stage for one particularly memorable afternoon at my grandparents’ house. We were gathered around the lunch table, the air thick with the smell of German sausage and fresh bread, when a Bible puncher joined us. I’m sure it was the infamous Erlo Stegen, a nephew of my grandmother. He was the type who could turn any conversation into a sermon, and that day was no exception. With a mocking chuckle, he declared that some fools out there actually believed in evolution, as if it were the punchline to a bad joke.

I couldn’t let that slide. At less than ten years old, fueled by my dad’s lessons and invoking my inner Mastelek self, I piped up. “Actually, it is true,” I said, my voice probably a bit too earnest for the room. I was ready for a real discussion, maybe even a debate like the ones my dad and I had on those long drives. But before I could elaborate, the pastor leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with that smug certainty. “Do you believe your grandfather was a baboon?” he asked, crossing his arms as if he’d just checkmated me.

The table went quiet. I looked him straight in the eye and, without missing a beat, replied, “Yes. And me too. I’m a baboon.” His smirk vanished like smoke in the wind. For good measure, I added, “I scored 100% on my last Maths test. What were your marks?” It was my childish way of saying, “I’m right, you’re wrong—and here’s proof of my knowledge.” He stared at me, utterly lost for words, before mumbling something about praying for my soul. The conversation sputtered out after that, and many years later, well after my grandfather passed away my dad mentioned the awkward conversation with his dad about that baboon chirp. He sided with me on that one.

Looking back, that exchange captures how so many discussions on religion or politics unfold: charged, defensive, and rarely productive. Someone lobs a gotcha question, and it devolves from there. But vegetarianism? Oh, that’s a whole other beast—far worse than religion, in my experience. People get downright militant about meat, as if your plate choices are a personal affront. Those debates have left more dinners ruined than any talk of God or Darwin ever did.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram