Chapter 1: The Sunday Morning Nobody Wanted to Admit They Needed

There are Sunday mornings when a person can look completely fine from across the room and still feel like they are barely holding themselves together. They can walk through the church door with a Bible in one hand, a child’s sweater in the other, keys tucked between their fingers, and a smile ready before anybody asks how they are doing. They can nod at familiar faces, say good morning, find their usual seat, and still carry a private fear that if anyone looked too closely, they would see the truth. That is the quiet place this message enters, and it is why the Day 4 Mercy Creek video about the empty chair in the back pew matters beyond the story itself.

Sometimes the hardest part of faith is not believing that Jesus welcomes sinners in general. The hard part is believing He still welcomes the specific person we have already labeled, avoided, whispered about, or quietly hoped would sit somewhere else. That is where many of us get exposed, not in the loud sins we are willing to confess, but in the subtle ways we decide who feels safe enough to include. If the heart of Day 3 was learning to trust Jesus in the storm, then the Mercy Creek reflection on faith when the rain comes down becomes the doorway into something even more uncomfortable: trusting Him with the people who walk in after the storm carrying mud on their shoes, history on their names, and pain they do not know how to explain.

The church is supposed to be the place where wounded people can breathe. It is supposed to be the room where the ashamed are not crushed by more shame, where the tired are not asked to perform strength, where the guilty can find mercy without everyone pretending sin does not matter. But sometimes a church can become a room full of people who believe in grace while still being very careful about who gets to sit close. That is not usually because people are evil. Often it is because people are afraid. They are afraid of being embarrassed. Afraid of being associated with someone else’s mess. Afraid that if mercy becomes too visible, standards will disappear. Afraid that if the wrong person feels too welcome, everything will become too complicated.

That kind of fear can hide inside good manners. It can hide inside church clothes. It can hide inside a polite smile and a quiet turn of the head. It can hide in the purse moved onto the chair beside us, the glance toward the door when someone unexpected walks in, the whisper that begins with “I’m just concerned,” or the decision to let someone else be the one who makes room. Nobody has to say, “You do not belong here.” The room can say it without words.

I think many people know that feeling from both sides. Maybe you have walked into a room and felt instantly unwanted. Nobody yelled. Nobody pointed. Nobody blocked the door. But the temperature changed. The conversation softened in a strange way. Someone looked at you and then looked away too quickly. Somebody smiled with their mouth but not with their eyes. You sat down, but you did not feel seated. You were in the room, but you were not really received.

That can happen at church. It can happen at a family dinner after a mistake everyone knows about. It can happen at work when you are the one who failed and now every meeting feels like a quiet trial. It can happen at a school event when other parents know your child has been struggling. It can happen in a small town where your story arrived before you did. You do not need someone to announce that you are being judged. You feel it in the air.

There is another side too, and it is harder to admit. Sometimes we are the ones holding the room closed. We do not think of it that way. We tell ourselves we are being wise. Careful. Protective. We tell ourselves people have to face consequences. They do. We tell ourselves trust has to be earned. Often it does. We tell ourselves that welcoming someone does not mean ignoring what happened. That is true. But somewhere along the way, what began as caution can become hardness, and what began as discernment can become a locked door with a cross hanging above it.

That is where Jesus keeps disturbing us.

He does not let us turn grace into a theory. He does not let us keep mercy safely wrapped inside songs and sermons while real people stand at the edge of the room wondering if there is still a place for them. He brings the person with the complicated story into the same space as the people who think they understand the rules. Then He waits to see what love will do.

In Mark chapter 2, Jesus was not sitting at a table with impressive religious leaders. He was eating with tax collectors and sinners. That scene bothered the people who had built their understanding of holiness around separation. They could not understand why a teacher from God would put Himself so close to people with bad reputations. To them, distance looked like faithfulness. To Jesus, distance from the wounded looked like a failure to understand the heart of God.

When they questioned Him, Jesus answered with a sentence that still cuts through our cleanest excuses: those who are well do not need a physician, but those who are sick. He did not come to call the righteous, but sinners. That does not make sin harmless. A doctor does not enter the room because sickness is harmless. A doctor enters because sickness is real, and healing matters. Jesus was not lowering holiness. He was revealing its purpose. Holiness was never meant to become a wall that keeps the sick outside. Holiness is the clean strength of God moving toward what is broken so it can be made whole.

That is why the image of an empty chair matters. An empty chair can be innocent. It can simply be a place nobody took. But in the life of faith, the empty chair can also become a question. Who could sit there and still feel welcome? Who would make us uncomfortable if they walked in and took that place? Who do we say we are praying for but secretly hope does not show up too soon? Who have we forgiven in words but still refuse to move our purse for? Who do we expect to stand at the edge until they prove enough, explain enough, apologize enough, or become easy enough to love?

A man can sit in church every Sunday and still have an empty chair in his heart where his brother should be. A mother can pray for her child to come home and still be terrified of what coming home will require from her. A pastor can preach grace beautifully and still feel panic when grace walks in looking like someone the congregation has spent years judging. A tired believer can sing about mercy with honest tears and still struggle to offer mercy when the person who needs it has wounded them personally.

That is not a reason to shame ourselves into pretending we are better than we are. It is a reason to tell the truth in the presence of Jesus. Real transformation usually begins when we stop defending the version of ourselves that knows the right answer and start letting Christ touch the version of ourselves that still crosses the road.

Imagine the small, ordinary pressure of a Sunday morning. The alarm goes off. Someone is looking for shoes. A child says the shirt feels scratchy. The coffee spills on the counter. You are already running behind. You walk into church with your mind half on God and half on the argument you had in the car. Then you see someone across the room you did not expect to see. Maybe it is the young man people have been talking about. Maybe it is the woman who left and came back. Maybe it is the person whose failure became public. Maybe it is the family member you have avoided because every conversation feels loaded.

In that moment, your theology becomes practical. Not because you stand up and make a speech, but because of what your face does. Because of what your body does. Because of whether you make room. Because of whether you soften. Because of whether you let the person become human again in your eyes.

That is the kind of moment Jesus uses. It is rarely dramatic at first. It can be as small as a chair left open. A nod. A quiet “I’m glad you came.” A decision not to whisper. A decision not to make someone’s return harder than it already is. A decision to let the room become safer because you are in it.

There are people who have been away from church for years because the last time they came close, they felt inspected instead of welcomed. Some left because they were young and angry. Some left because they were divorced and embarrassed. Some left because grief made them numb and nobody knew what to say. Some left because addiction, depression, failure, or family damage made them feel unclean. Some left because Christians spoke about grace in public but handled their pain like a problem in private. Not every person who leaves is running from God. Some are running from the way God’s people made them feel when they were already bleeding.

That should sober us. It should not make us defensive. It should make us careful in the holy sense of the word. Careful with faces. Careful with tone. Careful with silence. Careful with the jokes we make in the parking lot. Careful with the stories we repeat. Careful with the way we treat the person brave enough to walk back into a room where they are not sure they will be received.

Because it does take courage to come back. We often talk about courage as something loud, but sometimes courage is a seventeen-year-old walking into church after half the town has judged him. Sometimes courage is a brother sitting across the sanctuary from the man he hurt. Sometimes courage is a single mother showing up exhausted because she does not want her child to grow up without prayer. Sometimes courage is an older woman admitting she was wrong. Sometimes courage is a deputy realizing that procedure without tenderness can leave bruises no report will ever record.

And sometimes courage is staying seated when Jesus sits beside the person you would rather keep at a distance.

That may be the part we do not talk about enough. Jesus does not only comfort the person in the back pew. He also confronts the people who made the back pew feel like the only safe place to sit. He does it without cruelty, but He does it clearly. His mercy is tender, but it is not vague. He does not say, “None of this matters.” He says, “This person matters.” He does not erase truth. He brings truth into the same room as love, because truth without love can become a weapon, and love without truth can become an excuse. Jesus carries both without dropping either one.

If you have ever been the person in the back pew, this matters. You may have a reason you feel hesitant to come close again. You may have memories attached to church doors, family tables, prayer circles, or conversations where people used religious words but did not handle your heart with care. You may feel like everyone else knows how to belong and you are the only one trying to remember how to breathe. You may wonder if Jesus sees you under all the things other people see first.

He does.

He sees the history, but He does not reduce you to it. He sees the sin, but He does not speak to you as if sin is your only name. He sees the anger, the shame, the defensiveness, the fear, the exhaustion, and the small part of you that still hopes there might be a chair somewhere. He does not wait at the front and shame you for sitting in the back. He comes near. He sits beside you. He lets His presence say what your heart may not be ready to believe yet: you are not beyond being found.

That does not mean everything becomes easy. The back pew does not turn into instant healing. The apology does not immediately erase the wound. The brother moving closer does not repair eight years in a single morning. The pastor saying the right thing does not undo every wrong thing ever said. But grace does not have to finish everything in one moment to be real. Sometimes grace begins by making the room honest enough for healing to start.

A lot of people want Christian faith to feel clean and resolved. We want the testimony after the victory, the reconciliation after the hug, the lesson after everyone understands. But much of real discipleship happens before the music swells. It happens in the awkward middle. It happens when someone says, “I am sorry,” and the other person is not ready to answer. It happens when someone moves over, and the wounded person still keeps their shoulders tight. It happens when a church realizes it has preached welcome better than it has practiced it. It happens when Jesus refuses to let anybody hide, including the people who thought they were already on the right side of the story.

That is uncomfortable mercy.

But it is also saving mercy.

Because the truth is, every one of us needs the chair. We may not need it in the same way, or on the same morning, or for the same reason, but none of us stands before God without need. One person needs forgiveness for the obvious mistake. Another needs forgiveness for the hidden pride. One needs healing from shame. Another needs healing from self-righteousness. One needs courage to come home. Another needs humility to open the door when they arrive.

The church becomes beautiful when it remembers that everyone in the room is there because Jesus is merciful. Not some people. Not the ones with cleaner stories. Not the ones who know when to stand and sit and bow their heads. Everyone. The person in the front row needs mercy. The person in the back pew needs mercy. The pastor needs mercy. The teenager needs mercy. The widow, the mechanic, the nurse, the deputy, the mother, the brother, the child watching all of it with clear eyes. Every heart in the room is alive only because God has been kinder to us than we deserve.

When that truth becomes real, the room changes. People stop guarding chairs like property. They stop treating reputation like a prison sentence. They stop confusing discomfort with danger. They stop pretending that welcoming the wounded means approving everything that wounded them or everything they have done. They learn a better way, the way of Jesus, where holiness is not cold and mercy is not weak.

A chair is a small thing. Wood, fabric, metal, space. But in the hands of God, small things become signs. A manger. A cup. A towel. A cross. A stone rolled away. A place at the table. A seat in the back pew where shame thought it could hide until Jesus came and sat down beside it.

The question is not whether we believe Jesus would do that. Most of us know He would. The question is whether we will let Him teach us to do it too. Not loudly. Not for credit. Not in a way that turns someone else’s pain into our spiritual performance. Just quietly, honestly, with the kind of love that makes room before it makes speeches.

There may be someone in your life right now who is standing near the edge of the room. They may not be ready to talk. They may not trust easily. They may still carry anger. They may have made real mistakes. They may need boundaries, wisdom, patience, and time. But they also need to know that their worst chapter is not the only thing anyone sees when they walk through the door.

And maybe there is another possibility. Maybe you are the one near the edge. Maybe you are reading this with part of your heart still outside, not sure if you can come back to faith, prayer, church, family, hope, or even your own sense of worth. Maybe you have been telling yourself you are fine because admitting need feels too dangerous. Maybe you have been waiting for a sign that Jesus has not moved on without you.

Let the empty chair speak for a moment.

Let it say there is still room.

Let it say that Jesus is not embarrassed to sit beside the wounded.

Let it say that the Great Physician does not avoid the sick.

Let it say that the door is not locked just because people once made it feel that way.

And let it say that when Jesus enters the room, He often walks straight toward the place everyone else has been avoiding.

Chapter 2: When the Back Row Feels Safer Than the Door

There is a moment before a person walks into a room where they know they might be judged. It can happen in a church parking lot, with both hands still on the steering wheel, the engine turned off, the seat belt unclicked, and the building sitting there in front of them like a question. They may have driven all the way there, rehearsed what they would say if someone asked where they had been, told themselves they were only going to slip in quietly, and still feel almost unable to open the car door. Not because they do not believe in God. Not because they do not want to be better. Sometimes it is because they remember what people sound like when they think they are being subtle.

That is one of the hidden pains behind the empty chair. Most people do not leave faith all at once. They drift, hesitate, get hurt, feel ashamed, miss a week, miss a month, miss a year, and then returning becomes harder than leaving ever was. The longer they are gone, the louder the room becomes in their imagination. They picture the eyes. They picture the questions. They picture the smiles that carry too much curiosity. They picture someone saying, “Well, look who finally decided to come back,” as if their absence was laziness instead of a wound.

The back row can feel safer because it asks less of them. From the back, they can leave quickly. They can avoid turning around. They can keep their face hidden during the songs. They can listen without being seen too much. They can tell themselves they are only visiting, only trying, only testing whether the room is safe. The back row becomes a compromise between hunger and fear. They want to be near God, but they are not sure they can survive being near God’s people.

That may sound harsh, but anyone who has carried shame knows what this feels like. Shame changes the weight of ordinary things. A sidewalk becomes long. A doorway becomes heavy. A greeting becomes risky. Even the simple question “How have you been?” can feel dangerous because the honest answer is too complicated for the hallway. You cannot explain two years of depression while someone is holding a church bulletin. You cannot explain a broken marriage, a relapse, a family blowup, a financial collapse, or a season where prayer felt impossible while people are moving toward their seats. So you say, “I’m good,” and hope your voice does not betray you.

This is where the gentleness of Jesus matters so much. He knows how to meet people without making their pain a public announcement. He can call sin what it is without stripping a person of dignity. He can move toward the ashamed without turning them into an example for everyone else to study. That is a kind of holiness many of us still need to learn. We sometimes confuse helping someone with exposing them. We confuse truth with pressure. We confuse accountability with making sure the person feels the full weight of how disappointed we are.

But Jesus knows the difference between conviction and humiliation. Conviction opens a door toward life. Humiliation pushes a person deeper into hiding. Conviction says, “Come into the light so you can be healed.” Humiliation says, “Stand in the light so everyone can see what is wrong with you.” One carries the voice of the Shepherd. The other often carries the voice of the crowd.

Think about a man going back to work after making a serious mistake. Maybe he lost his temper in a meeting. Maybe he missed something important and it cost the team. Maybe his personal life spilled into his professional life, and now everyone knows more than he wanted them to know. On Monday morning, he walks into the office with his coffee in hand and feels every conversation pause. No one says anything cruel. They do not have to. He feels the shift. He sits at his desk and opens his laptop, but his mind is not on the work. His mind is busy trying to survive the room.

Now imagine one coworker walks by and simply says, “I’m glad you’re here today.” No speech. No lecture. No digging for details. No pretending the mistake did not happen. Just a sentence that gives the man enough room to breathe. That is not weakness. That is mercy with shoes on. That is someone choosing to become a neighbor in a place where shame was hoping to take over.

We need more of that in our faith. Not less truth. More Christlike truth. Not less holiness. Holiness that knows how to heal. Not less responsibility. Responsibility held in a way that does not crush the person who is already bent low.

When Jesus says the sick need a physician, He is not inviting us to look around the room and decide who the sick people are. He is inviting us to recognize that we are included. That changes the way we treat each other. If I know I am also a patient, I become less eager to act like the hospital belongs to me. If I know I have needed mercy, I become slower to measure out tiny portions of it to someone else. If I remember how gently God has dealt with me, I become more careful with the person who is just barely brave enough to come close.

The problem is that many of us forget our own need when someone else’s need looks more obvious. Their failure is public, so ours feels smaller. Their struggle is messy, so ours feels respectable. Their past has names and dates attached to it, while ours stays hidden behind a decent reputation. This is how self-righteousness sneaks into ordinary hearts. It does not always sound arrogant. Sometimes it sounds concerned. Sometimes it sounds practical. Sometimes it sounds like, “I just think we need to be careful.” And sometimes that is true. We do need wisdom. We do need boundaries. We do need to protect people from real harm. But wisdom and coldness are not the same thing.

A church can have boundaries and still have warmth. A family can tell the truth and still leave a chair open. A friend can say, “What happened was not okay,” and still say, “I have not stopped seeing you as a person.” A parent can discipline a child without making the child feel like love has been withdrawn. A community can take sin seriously without treating the sinner like the one thing Jesus came to avoid.

There is a quiet cruelty in making people earn basic human tenderness. We may not mean to do it. We may think we are encouraging change. But when someone believes they must become completely fixed before they are allowed to be treated gently, they often lose the strength to begin. People do not heal because we shame them into wholeness. They heal because truth and love meet them at the same time, and for once they do not have to choose between being honest and being held.

That is why the chair matters. It is not the whole answer. It does not solve everything. It does not replace repentance, repair, confession, time, counseling, restitution, or the slow work of rebuilding trust where trust has been broken. But the chair says healing can begin here. It says the person does not have to stand outside until the entire story is cleaned up. It says we know enough about Jesus to understand that He often begins His work while people are still trembling, still defensive, still unsure, still carrying the smell of the road they have been walking.

One of the most painful things a person can believe is that they are welcome only after they no longer need grace. That belief can dress itself up as humility, but it is not humility. It is fear. It says, “I will come to God when I am less ashamed. I will pray when I am stronger. I will return when I can explain myself. I will sit closer when I deserve the seat.” But the gospel does not begin with deserving. It begins with Christ coming near while we are still in need.

That is hard for the person in the back row, and it is hard for the people in the front. Grace sounds beautiful until it interrupts the seating chart. Mercy sounds holy until it requires us to move over. Forgiveness sounds noble until the person who hurt us walks into the room. Then the Christian life becomes very real very quickly.

Maybe that is why Jesus so often taught through meals, touch, interruptions, roadsides, houses, and ordinary human encounters. He knew that our hearts reveal themselves in real situations. It is easy to agree with mercy as a concept. It is harder when mercy has a face. It is easy to say the lost should be found. It is harder when the lost person still smells like the far country. It is easy to say Jesus welcomes sinners. It is harder when He sits beside the sinner we were hoping would sit somewhere else.

In a home, this might look like an adult child coming to dinner after months of distance. Everyone knows there has been tension. Everyone knows words were said. The table is set, but the air is tight. The parent wants to say the right thing, but hurt keeps rising up. The child walks in guarded, acting casual, pretending not to care whether the chair is still there. In that moment, the chair is not just furniture. It is a message. The way the parent says hello matters. The way the family continues the meal matters. The way old pain is not ignored but also not thrown like a stone matters.

There will be time for hard conversations. There will be time for truth. There will be time to say what needs to be repaired. But sometimes the first act of grace is simply not making the return harder than it already is. Sometimes it is passing the plate. Sometimes it is asking whether they want coffee. Sometimes it is letting the person sit down before they have to explain where they have been.

I think Jesus understands that moment better than we do. He knows when a soul is still too bruised for a lecture. He knows when a person needs silence more than correction. He knows when the most holy thing in the room is not a speech, but a place made ready. That does not mean He avoids truth. It means He knows the order in which a heart can receive it.

Some people need to be welcomed before they can repent honestly, because until they know love is not being used as bait, they will keep performing instead of confessing. Some people need to be seen before they can soften, because they have spent so long being labeled that they no longer know how to speak without armor. Some people need to sit near Jesus for a while before they can trust the people who say they belong to Him.

That should make us patient. Not passive, but patient. There is a difference. Passive love avoids what is hard. Patient love stays present while God does what only God can do. Passive love refuses truth because it fears discomfort. Patient love tells the truth in season, with tears if necessary, but never forgets the person underneath the problem. Passive love lets everything slide. Patient love keeps the chair open while also trusting Jesus to lead the deeper healing.

The empty chair in the back pew is not asking us to become careless. It is asking us to become Christlike. It is asking whether our holiness has warmth in it. It is asking whether our truth has tears in it. It is asking whether our mercy has courage in it. It is asking whether people who are not yet healed can still find enough safety near us to begin healing.

The next time someone unexpected walks into the room, we may not know their whole story. We may know too much of it. We may feel uncomfortable. We may feel protective. We may feel memories rise. We may feel the old instinct to create distance. But in that quiet second before we decide what our face will say, we can remember Jesus sitting in the back beside the one everyone noticed.

We can remember that the Great Physician is not frightened by sickness.

We can remember that the church is not weakened when wounded people come close to Christ.

We can remember that every saved person is living proof that God leaves room for people who still need mercy.

And maybe, by the grace of God, we can move our purse, soften our eyes, open our hand, and let the chair say what fear would rather keep hidden.

There is still room here.

Chapter 3: When Mercy Needs Boundaries Too

A woman stands in her kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed, holding her phone with both hands and staring at a message she does not know how to answer. The house is quiet, but her mind is not. The message is from someone who hurt her, someone who now wants to come back into the family circle as if time alone should have repaired what truth has not yet touched. She wants to be faithful. She wants to be kind. She does not want to be hard-hearted. But she also remembers the words, the broken promises, the nights she cried at the sink so her children would not hear. She wonders what Jesus asks of her now. Does leaving a chair open mean pretending the damage was small? Does mercy mean she has to let the same harm walk back through the door with a clean plate and no questions asked?

This is where many sincere Christians get stuck. We hear that Jesus welcomes sinners, and we know it is true. We hear that the church should make room for the wounded, and something in us says yes. But then real life raises its hand. What about the person who has not changed? What about the one who keeps apologizing and keeps doing the same thing? What about the family member who uses religious language to avoid responsibility? What about the friend who calls every boundary unforgiveness? What about the person whose presence makes others unsafe? These questions are not excuses to avoid mercy. They are part of what mature mercy has to face.

The empty chair is not a symbol of denial. It is not a command to ignore danger, erase consequences, or rush trust before truth has had time to grow roots. Jesus did not come to create careless communities where the wounded are welcomed only to be wounded again. He came as the Great Physician, and a true physician does not confuse treatment with pretending nothing is wrong. Healing often includes cleansing, time, protection, honesty, and sometimes distance while the wound closes. Mercy is not the absence of wisdom. Mercy is wisdom with the heart of Christ still alive inside it.

That matters because some people have been hurt by a shallow version of grace. They were told to forgive before anyone listened to what happened. They were told to be nice before they were allowed to be honest. They were pushed toward reconciliation with someone who had not taken responsibility, and when they hesitated, they were made to feel like the problem. That is not the way of Jesus. Jesus never used mercy to silence the wounded. He never asked the harmed person to call harm harmless. He never treated repentance like a performance word that costs nothing.

In the Gospels, Jesus is tender with sinners, but He is never dishonest. He tells the truth to the woman at the well, but He does not crush her. He protects the woman caught in adultery from the stones of the crowd, but He also calls her into a different life. He eats with tax collectors, but His presence changes the table. Zacchaeus does not meet Jesus and then continue stealing with a religious smile. He stands up and talks about giving back what he took. That is not public relations. That is repentance becoming visible.

This is important because a chair can be open without every role being restored immediately. A person can be welcomed as a human being without being handed the same access, authority, or trust they once abused. A church can say, “You may come close to Jesus here,” while also saying, “We will protect the people you hurt.” A family can say, “We love you,” while also saying, “We are not going back to the old pattern.” A friend can say, “I forgive you,” while also saying, “I need time before I can share my life with you the same way.”

That is not bitterness. Sometimes that is obedience.

Think about a father trying to rebuild trust with his teenage daughter after years of being emotionally absent. Maybe he worked too much. Maybe he was physically in the house but rarely present. Maybe he gave lectures when she needed attention and criticism when she needed connection. Now she is older, guarded, and not easily impressed by sudden tenderness. He decides he wants a better relationship, so he asks her to spend Saturday with him. She shrugs and says she already has plans. He feels rejected. A younger version of him might get angry and say, “Fine, I tried.” But if he is learning the way of Jesus, he will understand that making room is not the same as demanding instant closeness.

The chair he leaves open for her might look like patience. It might look like showing up consistently without forcing a response. It might look like apologizing without turning the apology into a request for immediate comfort. It might look like saying, “I understand why you do not trust this yet,” and then living differently long enough for those words to become believable. Mercy, in that house, does not mean the daughter has to pretend everything is healed. Mercy means the father becomes humble enough to repair without controlling the timeline.

That is a hard kind of grace. It is quieter than a dramatic reunion, but it may be more honest. We often want forgiveness to feel like a finished scene. The music rises, the arms open, the pain dissolves, and everyone goes home lighter. Sometimes God gives that kind of moment. But often He gives us something slower. A chair left open. A conversation that does not solve everything but does not become another wound. A meal where nobody brings up the worst thing too soon. A boundary spoken without cruelty. A prayer whispered after a phone call because the heart still feels shaken.

The people of Mercy Creek had to learn that too. It was not enough for the church to stop judging Eli from a distance. They also had to learn how to love him wisely. A wounded young man can still wound other people. A hard reputation may hide pain, but pain does not excuse every action. If the church only pitied him, they would fail him. If they only judged him, they would fail him too. He needed more than a warm seat in the back pew. He needed people who would see him, tell him the truth, expect something better from him, and still not give up on him when growth came slowly.

That is what Jesus does with us. He does not reduce us to our failures, but He also does not flatter us into staying the same. He calls us beloved and then calls us forward. He sits beside us in shame, but He does not build us a permanent home there. He defends us from condemnation, but He does not defend the sin that is destroying us. His mercy is not sentimental. It is strong enough to save, and because it is strong enough to save, it is strong enough to confront.

A lot of us struggle because we have only seen two extremes. We have seen cold religion, where rules matter and people get crushed. We have also seen careless tolerance, where feelings matter and truth disappears. Jesus does not fit either one. He is warmer than cold religion and holier than careless tolerance. He can put His hand on the shoulder of the person everyone has judged, and in the same breath, call that person into a life that no longer needs to hide. He can make room without lowering the call. He can forgive without pretending repentance is unnecessary. He can restore without rushing what love must rebuild.

This is why Christians need spiritual maturity, not just emotional reaction. Some of us react against judgment so strongly that we become afraid to speak truth. Others react against compromise so strongly that we forget how to be gentle. But Jesus holds together what we keep pulling apart. Grace and truth came through Him. Not grace on one day and truth on another. Not grace for the people we like and truth for the people who make us nervous. Both together. Always together. Perfectly together.

In real life, that might mean inviting someone to lunch but not handing them a key to your house. It might mean welcoming someone back to worship but not immediately putting them back in leadership. It might mean answering the phone but ending the call when the conversation becomes abusive. It might mean telling your child, your parent, your spouse, your friend, or your brother, “I love you, and I cannot participate in this pattern anymore.” The tone matters. The heart matters. The goal matters. A boundary built from revenge becomes a wall. A boundary built from love becomes a guardrail.

There is a difference between closing your heart and guarding what God has asked you to steward. A closed heart says, “I want you to suffer because I suffered.” A guarded heart says, “I want healing, but I will not pretend destruction is peace.” A closed heart enjoys distance. A guarded heart grieves distance but recognizes why it is needed. A closed heart stops praying. A guarded heart may still pray through tears, asking God for wisdom, safety, repentance, and a future that only He can build.

Maybe someone reading this needed that permission. Not permission to be cruel. Not permission to punish. Not permission to call every uncomfortable person toxic and every hard relationship unsafe. But permission to understand that mercy does not require self-erasure. Jesus told us to love our neighbor as ourselves, not instead of ourselves. If we disappear in the name of peace, something has gone wrong. If our version of forgiveness requires us to lie about harm, something has gone wrong. If our desire to be seen as gracious makes us ignore the vulnerable, something has gone wrong.

The chair can be open, and the boundary can remain.

That sentence may save someone from confusion. It may save a parent from enabling. It may save a church from foolishness. It may save a wounded person from believing that Jesus is asking them to walk back into harm to prove they are holy. The open chair says, “You are still a person made in the image of God.” The boundary says, “And the people around you are made in His image too.” Both can be true because love is not blind. Love sees clearly and still refuses hatred.

This is also why the person who wants to return should not despise the slow pace of trust. If you have hurt someone, the open chair is grace. Do not demand the whole house in the same breath. Do not use Christian language to rush the people you wounded. Do not say, “I thought you forgave me,” because they still need time. Let your repentance become patient. Let your apology stand without requiring applause. Let your changed life speak longer than your explanation. If Jesus has truly begun a work in you, you do not need to force everyone to believe it by Friday.

That kind of humility is part of healing too. It is one thing to want mercy because you are tired of consequences. It is another thing to receive mercy so deeply that you become willing to repair what you can, accept what you cannot control, and let God rebuild trust in His way and His time. The person who really wants restoration must learn to care about the pain of others, not only the discomfort of being kept at a distance.

This is the place where the empty chair becomes more than welcome. It becomes discipleship. It teaches the wounded how to come close without hiding. It teaches the cautious how to make room without lying. It teaches the repentant how to wait without demanding. It teaches the community how to protect without becoming cold. It teaches all of us that Jesus is not interested in appearances of peace. He is interested in actual healing.

And actual healing is usually slower, deeper, and more honest than appearances.

So when we think about the chair we leave open, we should not imagine a careless room where anything goes. We should imagine a room where Jesus is present enough for truth to be safe and mercy to be strong. A room where the ashamed can come out of hiding, the wounded can speak without being dismissed, the guilty can repent without being destroyed, and the community can become wise enough to love like Christ instead of merely reacting like people.

That is not easy. It will require prayer in the car before the conversation. It will require humility after we say something poorly. It will require courage to apologize and courage to hold a line. It will require pastors who care more about healing than appearances, parents who care more about restoration than control, friends who care more about truth than comfort, and believers who understand that making room for sinners is not the same as making peace with sin.

Jesus never asked us to choose between compassion and holiness. He asked us to follow Him. And when we follow Him closely enough, we begin to see that His compassion is holy, and His holiness is full of compassion.

That is the only kind of room where wounded people can truly heal.

Chapter 4: The Children Are Watching the Room

A child can feel the truth of a room before an adult admits it. A little girl can sit beside her mother in church, swinging her feet because they do not quite reach the floor, and still understand more than the grown people think she does. She may not know the Bible passage being read. She may not understand every word in the sermon. She may not know the history between the woman in the third row and the man who slipped in late. But she can tell when the air changes. She can tell when smiles become stiff. She can tell when someone is being welcomed for real and when everyone is only being polite enough to look Christian.

That should make us pause. We often think the biggest witness we give to children is what we teach them directly. We tell them Bible stories. We help them memorize verses. We bring them to church, say prayers before meals, talk about kindness, and remind them that Jesus loves everyone. Those things matter. But children also learn from the way we act when love becomes inconvenient. They watch how we treat the difficult person, the embarrassing person, the person with a reputation, the person who has been gone a long time, the person who is poor, the person who smells like smoke, the teenager with anger in his eyes, the relative nobody wants to sit beside.

They notice whether our faith works when the room is uncomfortable.

In Mercy Creek, Lily Bennett was young enough to still ask honest questions and old enough to know when adults were avoiding them. She had seen her mother feed people who could not pay. She had seen Hank Miller act hard and then quietly do kind things when he hoped no one noticed. She had seen Pastor Caleb smile with tired eyes. She had seen Nora carry exhaustion like a second purse. And on that Sunday morning, she saw Eli Harper walk into church and become the center of a silence nobody wanted to name.

Children notice silences. They notice who gets invited to the table and who gets discussed after they leave. They notice whether adults say “bless their heart” with compassion or contempt. They notice whether the church talks about lost sheep but gets nervous when one actually finds the door. They notice whether forgiveness is something adults expect from children quickly but practice slowly themselves.

A child may not have the language for hypocrisy, but they can feel the fracture between what is said and what is lived. When that fracture becomes too wide, faith begins to look unreal to them. Not because Jesus is unreal, but because the people speaking His name seem to be performing something they do not actually believe when pressure arrives.

This is one reason the empty chair matters so deeply. It is not only about the person who needs the seat. It is also about everyone watching what the people of Jesus do with the seat. The children are watching. The new believer is watching. The person thinking about coming back to church is watching. The exhausted mother is watching. The man who feels too ashamed to pray is watching. The skeptic who has heard a hundred sermons but has not seen much mercy is watching. And whether we mean to or not, we are teaching them something about God.

That can feel heavy, but it is also hopeful. It means one small act of welcome can preach louder than we realize. A child sees her mother move over to make room for someone others avoid, and something forms in her. A teenager sees an older man apologize without excuses, and something forms in him. A visitor sees a church protect the wounded without humiliating the guilty, and something forms in them. A son sees his father soften toward an estranged brother, and something forms in the family line.

Faith is passed down through more than instruction. It is passed down through atmosphere. It is passed down through tone of voice, dinner table conversations, the way we handle conflict, the way we speak about people who are not in the room, and the way we respond when somebody walks in carrying a story that makes everyone nervous.

Imagine a mother driving home from church with her son in the back seat. The service is over. The boy is still wearing shoes he tried to kick off three times during worship. He asks why nobody sat beside the man in the back until someone finally did. The mother could brush it away. She could say, “Don’t worry about that.” She could change the subject. Or she could let the question become holy. She could say, “Sometimes grown-ups get scared of messy situations. Sometimes we forget that Jesus came close to people others avoided. We need to do better.”

That kind of honesty may teach more than pretending everything was fine. Children do not need adults who act perfect. They need adults who can repent. They need to see faith that tells the truth about failure and then turns toward Jesus. A parent who admits, “I was wrong in how I spoke about that person,” gives a child a living picture of humility. A church that says, “We have not always welcomed people well, but we are learning,” gives young hearts a reason to believe grace is not just a word on a wall.

This matters because many people lose trust in Christian community long before they lose interest in Jesus. They hear His words and find them beautiful, then watch His people and feel confused. They hear “love your neighbor,” then watch neighbors become categories. They hear “forgive as you have been forgiven,” then watch old bitterness become family tradition. They hear “come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden,” then see heavy-laden people treated like interruptions.

Children feel that confusion before they can explain it. Teenagers especially do. A teenager can smell fake kindness from across the room. They know when adults are managing appearances. They know when a welcome is strategic instead of sincere. They know when grace is being talked about but not risked. And when they see too much of that, they may decide faith is just another adult performance.

But when they see real mercy, it leaves a mark too.

A teenager who sees a church make room for a troubled young man without excusing his behavior learns that truth and love can stand together. A daughter who sees her father apologize to his brother learns that strength is not the same as pride. A little boy who sees his mother receive help instead of hiding her need learns that being human is not shameful. A child who sees Jesus sitting in the back pew beside someone everyone else noticed learns that God is not always found where people assume He is. Sometimes He is found in the place where love costs comfort.

That kind of witness can shape a soul for years.

There is a practical side to this. If we want children to believe in the mercy of Jesus, we have to become careful about the way we narrate people’s lives around them. The car ride home from church can become a classroom for judgment without anyone planning it. The kitchen table can become a place where children learn which people are acceptable and which ones are permanent punchlines. A parent may think they are only venting, but a child is quietly building a picture of what Christians do with other people’s pain.

That does not mean we never speak honestly. Children need truth. They need wisdom. They need to know that some behavior is wrong, some people are unsafe, and some situations require boundaries. But we can speak truth without feeding contempt. We can say, “That person is struggling,” instead of turning them into a joke. We can say, “What happened was wrong,” without saying, “That person is worthless.” We can say, “We need to be careful,” without saying, “People like that do not belong here.”

The words we choose become seeds. Some seeds grow into compassion. Some grow into fear. Some grow into pride. Some grow into courage. We should care about what we plant.

A grandfather sitting at a diner with his grandson may not think much of the comment he makes about the young man with tattoos at the next table. He may think the boy is not listening. But the boy is listening. He is learning whether age makes a person wise or merely critical. A mother scrolling her phone may not realize her daughter sees the way she talks about another woman’s failure. A church member may not realize the new family behind them hears every whispered complaint about who should not have been allowed to help with the service. The room is always teaching.

This is not meant to make us paranoid. It is meant to make us faithful. Jesus told His followers they were the light of the world. Light does not only shine during scheduled religious moments. It shines in reactions. It shines in pauses. It shines in the way we lower our voice or refuse to join in. It shines when we protect someone’s dignity. It shines when we tell a child, “We are not going to talk about them that way.” It shines when we make room for a person who has been standing alone too long.

And maybe we need to remember that children are not the only ones watching. The wounded are watching to see if the room is safe. The proud are watching to see if humility is possible. The ashamed are watching to see if coming back is survivable. The lonely are watching to see if anyone notices empty spaces. The people who have given up on church are watching to see if Christians can love when nobody is performing on a stage.

That is why a small act can matter so much. Moving a purse from a chair can be more than manners. It can become a declaration that a person is not a problem to be managed. Walking to the back pew can become more than movement. It can become a sign that nobody has to sit alone in shame. Saying “I’m glad you came” can become more than a greeting. It can become a bridge over years of fear.

There is a temptation to wait for big moments to practice faith. We imagine courage as something dramatic. We imagine ministry as something official. We imagine spiritual leadership as something that happens from microphones, platforms, classrooms, and carefully prepared messages. But much of the Christian life is lived in seconds so ordinary we almost miss them. The moment a name comes up in conversation. The moment someone walks in late. The moment a child asks why everyone got quiet. The moment you realize your face is preaching before your mouth says a word.

Jesus cares about those moments because people are often saved, wounded, strengthened, or pushed away through small things. Not small to the person receiving them. Small only to the one doing them.

A person who has barely found the courage to come back may remember one kind sentence for years. A teenager who feels hated by everyone may remember one adult who did not look at him like a lost cause. A child may remember the Sunday her mother made room for someone nobody else knew how to welcome. A tired believer may remember that when she had nothing left to offer, someone treated her need as human instead of shameful.

The older I get, the more I believe that love becomes believable through the way we handle ordinary chances to show it. Not the polished chances. Not the planned ones. The ordinary ones. The interrupted ones. The uncomfortable ones. The ones where nobody is recording, nobody is applauding, and nobody will ever know the full story except God.

That is the kind of faith that builds trust over time. It builds trust in children. It builds trust in wounded adults. It builds trust in people who have heard Christian words before but are waiting to see whether those words can become flesh in the room. And that is what Jesus has always done. The Word became flesh. Love became visible. Mercy took up space. Grace sat down beside people.

So maybe the question is not only whether we have an empty chair. Maybe the question is what that chair is teaching everyone who sees it. Is it teaching fear, distance, image, and control? Or is it teaching mercy, wisdom, humility, and room for healing? Is it teaching children that church is where respectable people gather to stay respectable? Or is it teaching them that church is where broken people come close to the Great Physician together?

The children will know the difference.

So will the wounded.

So will Jesus.

And perhaps the most honest prayer we can pray is simple: Lord, make our rooms tell the truth about Your heart. Make our homes tell the truth. Make our churches tell the truth. Make our faces, our chairs, our greetings, our conversations, and our silences tell the truth. Let the people watching us see more than manners. Let them see mercy learning how to live in ordinary people.

Because long after the sermon is forgotten, someone may remember who moved over.

Chapter 5: The Quiet Courage to Cross the Aisle

A man can sit three pews away from his own brother and feel like the distance is bigger than the whole county. The hymn can be familiar, the morning light can fall across the stained glass, the pastor can be speaking words everyone knows, and still that man may hear almost nothing because the empty space between him and someone he once loved is louder than the service. His hands rest on his knees. His jaw stays tight. He tells himself he is listening, but he is really measuring the years, the arguments, the unanswered calls, the funeral where they barely spoke, the Christmas mornings that became separate houses, the birthdays marked by silence.

That kind of distance does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like two people sitting in the same room and pretending they are not aware of each other. It looks like a brother entering through one door while the other keeps his eyes fixed forward. It looks like a mother setting one less plate because she is tired of hoping. It looks like a friend scrolling through old messages and refusing to type the first word. It looks like someone saying, “I’m fine,” when what they mean is, “I have built a life around not needing that person anymore.”

But the room knows. The heart knows. God knows.

One of the most difficult parts of mercy is that sometimes it asks us to move first. Not because the other person deserves an easy return. Not because the wound was imaginary. Not because trust is instantly restored. But because Jesus often begins healing through one person who is willing to break the pattern. Someone has to stop protecting the silence. Someone has to stop feeding the old story. Someone has to stand up, cross the aisle, make the call, open the door, or say the sentence that pride has been choking for years.

That does not mean the person who moves first is the only one responsible. It does not mean reconciliation depends entirely on the most tender heart in the room. It means that in the kingdom of God, strength often looks like the person who refuses to let bitterness make all the decisions. The first movement of mercy may not fix the relationship, but it can interrupt the power of the distance. It can say, “This silence is not my master anymore.”

Hank Miller needed that kind of courage. In Mercy Creek, everybody knew there was trouble between Hank and Sam. The old garage sign still said Miller Brothers Auto Repair, but the brothers had not been brothers in any daily sense for years. Sam had left. Hank had stayed. That was the short version people repeated around town because short versions are easier than truth. The real story had more turns than anyone wanted to explain. Their father’s death had left more than tools and unpaid invoices. It had left resentment. It had left two sons grieving in opposite directions. It had left one man feeling abandoned and another feeling like he could never come home without being punished forever.

When Sam walked into church and sat on the other side, Hank did not feel holy. He felt cornered. He felt like everybody was watching, even when they were not. He felt the old anger rise up with its familiar arguments. Sam left. Sam chose himself. Sam has no right to appear now like he can sit among us and act like the story is simple. Anger can sound very convincing when it has had years to rehearse.

Then Jesus sat in the back beside Eli, and the room changed. Not only for Eli. For everyone. The empty chair stopped being about one teenager with a reputation and became a mirror for every person in the church who had made distance feel righteous. Hank looked at Sam across the sanctuary and realized he had kept a chair open in name only. The garage sign still said Miller Brothers, but his heart had removed Sam’s name a long time ago.

There are moments when the Holy Spirit does not shout. He simply makes the truth impossible to keep avoiding. Hank could have stayed seated. Nobody would have forced him. He could have waited for Sam to make the first move. He could have told himself, “I came to church. That is enough.” He could have let the service end, walked out quickly, and gone back to the garage where the old silence was waiting like a locked drawer. But sometimes grace gives a person a narrow doorway and asks whether they will walk through while it is still open.

So Hank stood.

It was not smooth. It was not emotional in a polished way. He did not say everything right. People rarely do when they are trying to move through years of pride. But he looked across the aisle and told Sam there was room beside him. That was the first honest thing he had done with the distance in years.

That matters because some relationships do not begin healing with a long apology. They begin with a chair. They begin with an invitation to lunch. They begin with a text that says, “I do not know how to fix this, but I do not want to keep pretending I do not care.” They begin with a person asking, “Would you sit with me?” or “Can we talk sometime?” or “I am not ready for everything, but I am ready for something.” Small words can become holy when they are spoken against the weight of old pride.

Maybe there is someone reading this who knows exactly what that feels like. You have a name in your phone that still has power over you. You do not call it power, but it is. Every time you see that name, your body reacts. Every time someone mentions them, your mind reaches for its defense. You have speeches prepared. You have evidence. You have reasons. Some of those reasons may be true. But even true reasons can become chains if they keep you trapped in the same bitter room year after year.

The question is not whether the hurt mattered. It did. The question is whether Jesus is inviting you to take one faithful step that bitterness would never allow. That step may not be full reconciliation. It may not be access. It may not be trust. It may only be prayer without contempt. It may be asking God to bless them without your voice turning cold. It may be admitting to yourself that you miss what was lost, even if you are not ready to rebuild it. It may be releasing the secret satisfaction you feel when their life goes poorly. Sometimes crossing the aisle begins inside the heart long before anyone sees movement.

That is real work. Anyone can tell a person to forgive from a safe distance. It is different when you are the one with the history. It is different when the person hurt your child, betrayed your confidence, abandoned you when you needed them, or made you feel foolish for caring. Cheap advice has no place here. Jesus does not stand over wounded people barking commands about forgiveness. He stands near them with scars in His own hands. He knows betrayal. He knows abandonment. He knows what it is to be denied by a friend, sold by a disciple, mocked by a crowd, and still say, “Father, forgive them,” without pretending the cross was not real.

That is why His call to mercy carries authority. He does not speak as someone who has never been wounded. He speaks as the wounded Savior who refused to let the wound turn Him away from love. When He asks us to forgive, He is not asking us to minimize pain. He is inviting us out of the prison where pain becomes lord. When He asks us to leave room, He is not asking us to be naive. He is teaching us that a heart ruled by resentment cannot become fully free.

There is also a humility in admitting that the other person may not respond the way we hope. Hank could offer Sam a seat, but he could not force Sam to become the brother he wanted. A mother can call her son, but she cannot force him to come home. A friend can apologize, but she cannot make the friendship return to what it was. A husband can begin telling the truth, but he cannot demand that years of damage vanish because he finally feels ready. The first move is obedience, not control. It opens a door, but it does not drag another person through it.

That is hard for people who want clear endings. We want the work of mercy to produce immediate evidence. We want the hug, the tears, the visible repair, the photo at the diner, the testimony everyone can understand. Sometimes God gives that. Other times, the holy moment is quieter. The person sits beside you but does not speak much. The text receives a short answer. The apology is heard but not yet trusted. The invitation is accepted, but the conversation stays careful. That does not mean nothing happened. Seeds do not look like harvest on the day they enter the ground.

Mercy requires faith because it often works underground first.

In ordinary life, this might look like a woman bringing soup to a neighbor she has resented for months. The neighbor complained about her dog, criticized her yard, and made life uncomfortable. The woman has plenty of reasons to keep her distance. Then she hears the neighbor is sick. She stands at her stove with a container in her hand, arguing with herself. Nobody would blame her for doing nothing. But something in prayer will not let her rest. So she walks next door, knocks, and hands over the soup without a speech. That does not make them best friends. It does not erase the tension. But it breaks the rule bitterness had written: “I will never move toward you.”

That kind of moment may be small, but it is spiritually serious. The kingdom of God often enters through small acts that refuse the old pattern. A cup of cold water. A moved chair. A shared meal. A brother crossing an aisle. A sentence spoken gently when sarcasm would have been easier. A prayer for someone you would rather criticize. These are not minor things when they are done in obedience to Jesus. They are places where the heart begins to change shape.

The danger is that pride can make inaction feel wise. Pride loves delay when mercy is calling. It says, “Not yet. Let them come first. Let them feel it longer. Let them wonder where you stand. Let them pay.” Pride can even borrow religious language. It says, “I am waiting for God to show me,” when God has already shown us enough to take the next small step. It says, “I need peace about it,” when what we really want is a guarantee that we will not be hurt, embarrassed, or humbled.

There is no mercy without vulnerability. Even wise mercy carries risk. A softened face can be misunderstood. An apology can be rejected. A chair can remain empty. A call can go unanswered. A person may take one step and then step back. This is why we need Jesus, not just good intentions. Human strength runs out quickly when love is not returned the way we hoped. But when our movement comes from Him, our obedience does not depend entirely on the other person’s response. We can do what is right and leave the unseen work to God.

That does not make it painless. It makes it possible.

Maybe the real question is not, “What will they do if I move first?” Maybe the deeper question is, “What is happening to me while I refuse?” Is the refusal protecting wisdom, or is it feeding bitterness? Is the distance necessary, or has it become identity? Am I waiting because God has said wait, or because pride has become comfortable? These are not easy questions, and they should be answered with prayer, honesty, and sometimes wise counsel. But they are worth asking because a heart can look safe from the outside while slowly hardening on the inside.

Jesus cares about that hidden hardening. He cares about the person who needs the chair, and He cares about the person who has been guarding it. He cares about Eli in the back pew, but He also cares about Hank across the aisle. He cares about the shamed, and He cares about the bitter. He came for both. The Great Physician does not only heal visible wounds. He also heals the places where old pain has turned into a personality, a family pattern, a church culture, or a private vow never to be soft again.

That is one of the most beautiful and difficult things about following Him. He keeps asking for the rooms we thought were justified. He keeps walking toward the corners we planned to keep closed. He keeps showing us that mercy is not only something others need from us. Mercy is something we need to become free.

So if there is an aisle in your life, do not rush past that image. Sit with it honestly. Maybe the aisle is between you and a brother. Maybe it is between you and a parent. Maybe it is between you and your child, your friend, your church, your own past, or the person you used to be before life got complicated. Maybe Jesus is not asking you to sprint across it. Maybe He is only asking you to stop pretending it is not there.

And maybe the first faithful step is smaller than you think.

Not a speech.

Not a performance.

Not pretending everything is fine.

Just a chair left open with a heart that is finally willing to obey God more than old pain.

Chapter 6: The Room After the Service

A church can feel different after the final song than it did before the first one. The same carpet is there. The same bulletins are scattered on the pews. The same coffee waits in the fellowship hall, usually too weak or too strong depending on who made it that week. But sometimes the air changes because truth has passed through the room and nobody can pretend they did not hear it. People still shake hands. Children still run toward the door. Someone still asks who brought the casserole. Yet underneath all of that ordinary movement, hearts are deciding whether they will go back to the old way or let Jesus keep working after the service ends.

That may be one of the most important tests of Sunday faith. It is not only what happens while the Bible is open and the pastor is speaking. It is what happens when everyone stands up. It is what happens in the aisle, in the parking lot, in the car ride home, at the lunch table, during the afternoon phone call, and later that night when the room is quiet and the Holy Spirit brings one face back to mind. Many people have been moved during worship. Fewer are willing to be changed after they leave the building.

The empty chair in the back pew is powerful, but it cannot remain only a Sunday image. If mercy lives only in the sanctuary, it will not reach the places where people are actually bleeding. The person who felt welcome for an hour may still go home to a dark apartment. The young man who sat in the back may still face Monday morning with the same reputation. The brother who crossed the aisle may still have to sit at a diner table and find words that do not sound like accusation. The single mother who finally felt seen may still have laundry, bills, work, and a tired body waiting for her. Real Christian love has to survive the transition from worship to real life.

That is where many of us struggle. We know how to feel compassion in the moment. We know how to nod when something true is said. We may even know how to apologize when the room is tender and everyone is thinking about Jesus. But later, ordinary life returns. Phones buzz. Appointments stack up. Old irritation comes back. The person we felt compassion for does something difficult again. The family member we softened toward sends another complicated message. The teenager we wanted to encourage acts rude. The brother we invited to lunch says something that reminds us why the distance started.

Then the question becomes real: was mercy only a feeling, or is it becoming a way of life?

In Mercy Creek, the church service did not solve the town. It revealed the town. That is what Jesus often does first. He reveals what is actually in the room. He lets people see the gap between the faith they confess and the love they practice. Not to crush them, but to invite them into something more honest. Pastor Caleb still had to pastor people who liked sermons about grace better than situations requiring it. Grace Bennett still had to run a diner where everyone’s business traveled faster than coffee refills. Deputy Reed still had to carry authority without letting authority make him cold. Hank and Sam still had years of pain sitting between them at the table. Eli still had to decide whether being seen by Jesus was enough to risk being seen by anyone else.

A room can be touched by grace before it knows how to live by grace. That is not failure. That is the beginning of discipleship.

Think about someone leaving church after feeling convicted about the way they have treated a coworker. During the service, it was clear. They knew they had been dismissive, sharp, maybe even quietly cruel. They decided they would do better. But Monday comes, and the coworker sends another confusing email, misses another deadline, or speaks in that tone that always gets under their skin. Suddenly Sunday’s conviction feels less clean. Now mercy has to put on work clothes. Now it has to answer an email without sarcasm. Now it has to walk over and ask a real question instead of assuming the worst. Now it has to become patient while still being honest.

That is where faith matures. Not in the feeling of wanting to be merciful, but in the decision to practice mercy when the old reaction is available.

The room after the service matters because it is where we find out what kind of people we are becoming. Anyone can agree that Jesus welcomes the wounded. But will we invite the lonely person to lunch? Will we stop repeating the story that keeps someone trapped in an old identity? Will we apologize to our child when we were too harsh on the way home? Will we text the person who came back and say, “I was glad to see you,” without adding pressure? Will we pray for the person who makes us uncomfortable without turning the prayer into a speech before God about how wrong they are?

These are not dramatic things. They are the daily shape of obedience.

The Christian life is full of small follow-through. A husband hears a message about humility and later chooses not to win the argument at the kitchen sink. A mother hears a message about patience and later kneels beside the bed of the child who pushed every button she had. A boss hears a message about dignity and later speaks to the struggling employee as a human being instead of a problem. A church member hears a message about welcome and later refuses to join the parking lot conversation that would turn someone’s return into gossip. This is where sermons become flesh.

Without follow-through, a holy moment can become only a memory. We remember that it felt powerful, but we do not let it change the calendar, the conversations, the habits, or the way we treat people when our emotions settle. Jesus did not call us to admire mercy. He called us to become merciful. That means the chair we leave open on Sunday has to become a posture we carry on Tuesday.

That posture has practical weight. It changes how we speak. It changes what we repeat. It changes who we notice. It changes the way we correct someone. It changes the way we receive someone’s apology. It changes the way we handle awkwardness. It changes the way we wait while God works in another person at a pace we cannot control. It does not turn us into people without wisdom. It turns us into people whose wisdom is warmed by love.

There may be no place where this is more needed than in the way communities handle a person’s reputation. In a small town, a family, a workplace, or a church, reputations can become cages. Someone was irresponsible at twenty, and people still speak of them that way at thirty-five. Someone went through a divorce, and the room still lowers its voice when they walk by. Someone struggled with addiction, and every absence becomes suspicious. Someone failed publicly, and even after repentance, they are treated as if they are always one breath away from becoming their worst day again.

Jesus does not call us to be foolish about patterns. But He does call us to stop using someone’s past as a weapon after God has begun writing something new. There is a difference between remembering wisely and imprisoning cruelly. Remembering wisely says, “We will move with truth, patience, and care.” Imprisoning cruelly says, “You will never be allowed to become more than what I already decided you are.” One leaves room for growth. The other tries to keep the stone over the tomb.

Christians should be very careful about tomb language. We follow a risen Savior. We believe God can bring life where everyone else has already stopped expecting it. That does not mean every person changes. It means we should not be eager to declare resurrection impossible. We can be wise without becoming hopeless about people. We can protect what needs protecting without speaking as if the Holy Spirit has no power to transform.

That kind of hope is not naive. It is disciplined. It refuses to let disappointment become doctrine. It refuses to let repeated frustration turn into a final verdict on someone’s soul. It refuses to confuse “I am tired” with “God is finished.” Sometimes the most faithful thing we can say is, “I do not know what will happen, but I will not speak about this person as if Jesus cannot reach them.”

Imagine a nurse coming home after a long shift, too tired to talk, sitting on the edge of the bed with her shoes still on. She spent the day caring for people who were impatient, frightened, demanding, and in pain. She knows compassion is not soft. It costs energy. It costs patience. It costs the willingness to see past behavior into need without pretending behavior does not matter. Now she has to decide whether she has anything left for her own family. Her child wants attention. Her phone has messages. Her body wants sleep. In that moment, mercy may look like taking one slow breath before answering. It may look like telling the truth gently: “I am tired, but I am listening.” It may look like receiving care instead of always being the one who gives it.

Mercy is not only for the obvious outsider. It is also for the people inside the room who are quietly running out of strength. A church can make room for the teenager in the back and still miss the exhausted volunteer in the hallway. A family can focus on the returning brother and miss the dependable sister who has been holding everything together. A community can rally around a public crisis and miss the person who has been privately drowning for months. If the room is going to become more like Jesus, it must learn to notice more than what is dramatic.

This is where Pastor Caleb’s lesson would have to deepen. A church cannot become a hospital only by preaching that it is one. It has to learn the habits of care. It has to become slower to assume, quicker to notice, safer for confession, wiser with pain, and less addicted to appearances. It has to stop rewarding only the people who look strong and start making space for people to say, “I am not okay,” without fear of becoming a project, a rumor, or a disappointment.

That kind of church will not be perfect. No church is. No family is. No person is. But it will be honest enough for grace to move. It will understand that healing is not always loud. Sometimes healing looks like a man staying after service instead of escaping. Sometimes it looks like a woman admitting she needs help with groceries. Sometimes it looks like a deputy learning to speak with tenderness. Sometimes it looks like a mechanic inviting his brother to eat. Sometimes it looks like a pastor standing near a young man without demanding a conversation.

The room after the service is built through those choices.

And maybe that is where many of us can begin. Not by trying to fix every broken relationship in one dramatic moment. Not by forcing ourselves into emotional displays we are not ready for. Not by pretending we have already become what Jesus is still teaching us to become. We can begin by asking one honest question after the holy moment passes: what would mercy look like now?

Not in theory. Now.

In this kitchen. In this message. In this meeting. In this church hallway. In this car ride. In this family tension. In this memory. In this chance to speak or stay silent. In this opportunity to move closer or make distance again.

That question can guide a life if we let it.

Sometimes the answer will be, “Move over.” Sometimes it will be, “Apologize.” Sometimes it will be, “Hold the boundary, but lose the contempt.” Sometimes it will be, “Invite them.” Sometimes it will be, “Wait and pray.” Sometimes it will be, “Stop telling that story.” Sometimes it will be, “Rest, because you are wounded too.” Mercy is not one action repeated everywhere. It is the heart of Jesus learning how to move through real circumstances with truth and love together.

The service eventually ends. The lights are turned off. The bulletins are thrown away. The last car leaves the parking lot. But the work of Jesus continues in the rooms we enter next.

That is where the chair becomes a life.

Chapter 7: When the Chair Becomes a Way of Living

There is a quiet moment at the end of some days when a person finally sits down and realizes how much they have been carrying. The dishes may still be in the sink. The phone may still have unanswered messages. The house may still hold the tired sounds of real life settling into night. But for a few minutes, everything slows enough for the heart to ask the question it avoided all day: am I becoming more like Jesus in the way I make room for people, or am I only agreeing with Him from a distance?

That question is not meant to shame us. It is meant to wake us up. Most of us do not become hard all at once. We become hard by small decisions we stop noticing. We stop asking what someone is carrying. We stop giving the benefit of the doubt. We stop believing people can change. We stop making room because making room has cost us before. Eventually we can still speak kindly, still attend church, still believe the right things, but our inner life becomes crowded with old conclusions.

Jesus keeps inviting us into a freer life than that.

The empty chair in the back pew was never only about one Sunday service. It was never only about Eli Harper, or Hank and Sam, or Pastor Caleb trying to lead a shaken church. It was about the kind of person formed by the mercy of Christ. It was about what happens when the welcome of Jesus moves from a Bible verse into a body, a home, a church, a diner, a grocery line, a strained family, a workplace, and a tired human heart.

A chair becomes a way of living when we stop treating mercy like a special event. It becomes a way of living when we ask, before we speak, whether our words will make healing more possible or more difficult. It becomes a way of living when we refuse to let someone’s worst moment be the only story we repeat. It becomes a way of living when we hold boundaries without hatred, tell the truth without cruelty, and stay tender without becoming careless.

This is not easy work. It is much easier to pick a side and stay there. Some people choose harshness because it feels safe. Others choose avoidance because it feels peaceful. Jesus calls us into something deeper than both. He calls us into love that can see clearly and still move with compassion. He calls us into truth that does not need to humiliate. He calls us into mercy that does not need to pretend.

Imagine a man driving home after visiting his aging mother. The visit was difficult. She repeated the same complaint three times. She criticized his decisions. She reminded him of old failures without seeming to notice. He leaves frustrated, gripping the steering wheel, already building his defense in his mind. Then, at a red light, something softens. He remembers that she is afraid. He remembers that loneliness has made her sharp. He still needs boundaries. He still cannot let every word into the deepest part of him. But he can call tomorrow. He can speak gently. He can stop punishing her in his mind for being old, scared, and imperfect.

That is a chair becoming a way of living.

Imagine a woman at work who has been carrying more than her share. A younger employee keeps making mistakes, and everyone is tired of correcting them. The easy thing is to label him lazy, careless, not worth the trouble. But one afternoon she notices his eyes are red, his lunch untouched, his hands shaking slightly over the keyboard. She does not excuse the mistakes. She does not do his job for him. She simply asks, “Are you alright today?” That question does not solve everything. It may not even receive an honest answer. But it opens a human door where a verdict had been forming.

That too is a chair becoming a way of living.

Imagine a parent standing outside a teenager’s closed bedroom door. The argument was ugly. The words were sharp. The parent has every reason to be angry, and some correction still needs to happen. But before opening the door, the parent prays for enough humility not to turn discipline into revenge. When the conversation begins, the parent says, “What you said was not okay, but I love you, and I want to understand what is going on underneath it.” That sentence may not be received warmly. Teenagers are not always moved by our best moments. But love has still chosen a better road.

That is the chair again.

The way of Jesus becomes visible in these ordinary choices. Not because we perform them perfectly, but because we return to them when we fail. We apologize when our tone becomes sharp. We admit when our welcome was half-hearted. We confess when we enjoyed someone else being humbled a little too much. We ask God to keep saving us not only from obvious sin, but from the respectable coldness that can grow inside people who think they are already safe.

The final hope of this message is not that we all become naturally gentle people with no struggle, no history, no fear, and no complicated relationships. That would not be honest. The hope is that Jesus can make us new in the places where life has made us guarded. He can teach us how to open what should be open and protect what should be protected. He can teach us how to welcome without pretending, forgive without rushing, confront without crushing, and love without losing the truth.

That is what Mercy Creek was learning. The town was not fixed because Jesus sat in the back pew. Hank and Sam still had conversations ahead of them. Eli still had to decide who he would become. Pastor Caleb still had to shepherd a church learning how to be honest. Grace still had bills on the counter. Nora still had long shifts. Deputy Reed still had to practice authority with humility. Ruth still had lonely evenings. Nobody’s life turned simple. But something holy had entered the ordinary, and once people saw it, they could not unsee it.

They had seen Jesus choose the seat shame thought it owned.

They had seen Him make room without making a show.

They had seen Him treat the wounded as worth His nearness.

Now the question was whether they would live differently after He stood up.

That is the question for us too. We may not live in Mercy Creek, but we know the rooms. We know the back pews. We know the awkward family tables, the tense church hallways, the grocery lines, the work meetings, the unread texts, the old names in our phones, the people who come with history attached. We know what it feels like to need mercy, and if we are honest, we know what it feels like to withhold it.

So maybe the prayer is not complicated. Lord, help me leave the right chair open. Help me close the doors that need closing without closing my heart. Help me see the person beneath the reputation. Help me remember my own need before I judge someone else’s. Help me practice grace in the small seconds where nobody claps. Help me become the kind of person who makes it easier for the wounded to come near You.

The chair we leave open may be literal. It may be a seat beside us at church. It may be a place at dinner. It may be a cup of coffee offered after a long silence. It may be a text that says, “I’m praying for you,” without demanding a response. It may be a decision not to repeat the old story again. It may be a boundary spoken with tears instead of anger. It may be a quiet willingness to let Jesus interrupt the way we have always handled pain.

And maybe, in the end, that is what Christian encouragement is supposed to do. Not merely inspire us for a few minutes, but help us live one ordinary day more faithfully. Help us answer one conversation with more grace. Help us walk into one room with more humility. Help us become a little less afraid of mercy because we trust the One who taught it.

The empty chair is still there.

Someone may need it tomorrow.

Someone may need it tonight.

One day, that someone may be you.

And if the room belongs to Jesus, there should be enough mercy for all of us to come near the Great Physician and begin again.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph Watch Douglas Vandergraph inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph Support the Christian encouragement library through GoFundMe: https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-douglas-vandergraph-build-a-christian-encouragement-lib Support the daily work by buying Douglas a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

In Summary: * Congrats to Jack Aitken of Cadillac Racing, the Winner of today's IMSA 6 Hour Race at The Glen. This was one exciting race to follow, and I'm glad I had the time to follow it. Much excellent driving over a beautiful Race Course.

A Change of plans regarding the yard work chores I mentioned in yesterday's summary. When I stepped outside this morning I decided it was just too darned hot. So I'm now doing my weekly laundry that I usually do on Mondays. Tomorrow may be a better day to start the yard work. We'll see.

After I finish the laundry I'll wrap up my Sunday prayers and put my old self to bed.

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= 233.25 lbs. * bp= 149/86 (70)

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

Diet: * 08:20 – pizza * 11:30 – corn on the cob * 13:00 – air-popped popcorn * 14:15 – peanut butter and saltine crackers

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 07:30 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 08:00 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * 11:00 – start following the IMSA 6 Hour Race at The Glen * 16:45 – start my weekly laundry * 17:15 – Congrats to Jack Aitken of Cadillac Racing, the Winner of today's IMSA 6 Hour Race at The Glen

Chess: * 16:30 – moved in all pending CC games

ليلة الاثنين 14 محرم 1448

مقدمة الكأس

سمعته يقول: لن نستمتع بها بعد تلك الكأس…

والحق أنه قال: بعد ذلك الكأس. لكنني تصرفت في كلامه لأغراض بلاغية.

وقال آخر: لقد أفسد علينا متابعتها.

وما زالت النشوة تطرب الثالث وتغيبه قليلًا عن الواقع.

وهكذا كان المخلصون. يتعزون بأتراحها قبل أفراحها، ويلتمسون المعنى في مآسيها ومباهجها، ولا يعدم أحدهم وقودًا لاستدامة الهوى والاستمرار في التشجيع والمؤازرة.

فكم تمثلت الآمال والآلام في مسطحاتها الخضراء، وأهدافها المبتكرة، وسحرها العجيب، واستعصائها على المنطق، وترددها بين العدل والظلم.

وإن رجالًا عقلاء ما زالوا يتفكرون في استدبارها مع شدة إقبالها، وقطع السبيل إليها وقد ذللت كل السبل إليها.

فإلى هؤلاء أكتب هذه الخاطرة اليسيرة عسى أن يقفوا فيها على صدى الضمير، وشمعة تترآى لهم في جنح الظلام.

ولست أكتب لمن لم يمتلئ قلبه بغير الساحرة المستديرة، ولا لمن يقارفها مرة كل أربعة أعوام مشاركة لأهله وأصدقائه.

فاستمع إلي. فإنه حديث من عرف عادتك، وجرب هواك، وشاركك في الهم. وليست موعظة ثقيلة ولا حديث من يجهل لذة التباري في الكأس.

ها هي الكأس تراودنا في عامنا 1448 كما كانت عادتها في كل أربعة أعوام. وإن عام 1431 آخر عهدي بنهايتها. فما أطول العهد وما أبعد المدة!

فإليك أسبابًا ثلاثة تدعوك إلى الهجر بعد الوصال والفراق بعد اللقاء.

1- متابعة الكرة تغييب للذات.

(نادرًا ما يقول المشجع: اليوم سيلعب ناديَّ. إنه يقول عادة: اليوم سنلعب نحن) اهـ

إداوردو غاليانو [Eduardo Galeano] – كرة القدم بين الشمس والظل [El fútbol, a sol y sombra] ترجمة: صالح علماني ط1432

قد كنت في صباي (أي في المرحلة الابتدائية) أكره متابعة مباريات كرة القدم وأحسبها تضييعًا للوقت في غير طائل. وإن كان الخوض فيها لعبًا يستهوينا جميعًا.

لكن صديقًا في المرحلة المتوسطة قد استزلني إليها في عام 1428 أو 1429، فانقلب البغض ودًا، والبعد قربًا، والنفور هوى وهواية عجيبة.

والعجيب أنني خالفت صاحبي في أنديته كلها، فقد كان وليًا لمانشستر يونايتد، وكنت أوالي ليفربول، وقل أن أجد آنذاك من يشايعني في الأندية التي أحبها.

والمقصود أنني إنما تابعت الكرة متابعتي لصديقٍ ما. ولا أظنني فردًا مستوحشًا بذلك. فكثيرٌ ممن تعلقها كان قد ورثها من والده أو أعمامه أو أخواله. وإلا فمن رفاقه وأصحابه.

وكم في الناس من ورث تشجيع نادٍ بعينه من أهله وأصدقائه، وكم شق على هؤلاء الانتقال عنه ولو تجرع ناديهم مرارات الهزيمة، وتردى في منازل الدوري، وتنكب سبيل البطولات.

فأين تجد أمجادك الشخصية ولذاتك الحقيقية في تقليدٍ محضٍ للناس؟

نعم لست أنكر أن للكرة سحرًا يأخذ بالألباب، ويفتن من يشاهدها. لكنه ناشئٌ غالبًا عن الأخيلة الهائلة التي يشيدها الناس في الملاعب، والظنون الحسنة بمن يحترفها ويحسنها.

وها هم الناس يبالغون في الانتماء والافتخار والتعصب، وينسبون أهدافهم وطموحاتهم وتاريخهم إلى لاعبين -ليسوا إلا موظفين- ومدربين -ليسوا إلا مديرين- وأندية -ليست إلا شركات ربحية-. فأين حظ النفس من ذلك؟

وأين حظ النفس وذوقها من أمر تتكالب عليه الجماعة وينتشر الإخبار عنه ويشتد الإقبال عليه في موسمٍ من المواسم. فإذا انقضى الموسم انصرف الناس إلى أمرٍ آخر يشغلون أو يشتغلون به.

ولعلك الآن تستنتج السبب الثاني من أسباب الانخلاع عن التلبس بالمتابعة.

2- متابعة الكرة لذة متوهمة!

(لقد تحول اللعب إلى استعراض. فيه قلة من الأبطال وكثرة من المشاهدين، إنها كرة قدم للنظر) اهـ

إداوردو غاليانو [Eduardo Galeano] – كرة القدم بين الشمس والظل [El fútbol, a sol y sombra] ترجمة: صالح علماني ط1432

أخبرتك أنني كنت ألعب الكرة -وقد كانت الرياضة الوحيدة تقريبًا في المملكة العربية السعودية والسودان وسائر بلاد العرب-. ولم أشاهد المباريات سوى أنني كنت أمقت التشجيع والمتابعة وأكتفي باللعب.

لم أنكر أنها لذة لكنها لا تخالط إلا من يتابع المباراة في حينها ويتأهب لها، ثم تزول السكرة، وتنقضي الغفوة عند صفير الحكم، وسكون الحركات، وثبوت النتائج.

تفكر وأخبرني عن لذة متابعة المباراة في ملعب شعبي، ومتابعتها في أضخم ملاعب الدنيا.

أليست اللذة في الحالين واحدة متخيلة متوهمة لا توازي لذة اللاعب الخائض في الميدان.

تأمل في ليونيل ميسي ذي المهارة الفائقة في اللعب بالكرة، وكريستيانو رونالدو الذي يبدي صلابة النفس في الساحة، ورونالدينو الراقص بالكرة وغيرهم من الأعلام المعاصرين والراحلين في مسطحات الكرة الخضراء.

أتظن أنك تنال اللذة بمشاهدتهم يتلذذون؟

نعم لعب الكرة (أو اللعب بالكرة) رياضة ذهنية بدنية يتفاوت فيها الرجال قوة ومهارة وأداء. لكن اللذة كل اللذة في ملابستها وتجريبها وليست في الإخبار عنها بلا عمل.

فلا تتعجب إذا رأيت سمينًا في الرجال يحب متابعتها أو شيخًا كهلًا مولعًا بها فليس في المتابعة إجهاد للبدن أو إعمالٌ لقوته، وإنما هي معاينة خالصة.

أو ليست الخصال التي تنسب إلى الممثلين والفنانين والألقاب التي يُلبسونها تشبه بوجهٍ من الوجوه ما يصنعه مشجعو الكرة مع اللاعبين الذين يعظمونهم؟

فما الفرق -بالله عليك- بين ممثلٍ يستدر عطفك ويستثير شعورك ولاعب يستميل قلبك كلما استحوذ على الكرة وأحسن المراوغة بها؟

إن هذا -ولا شك- سببٌ إلى السبب الثالث والأخير لهجر الكرة وترك متابعتها.

3- كرة القدم صناعة فنية

(تحول هذا الاستعراض إلى واحد من أكثر الأعمال التجارية ربحًا في العالم) اهـ

إداوردو غاليانو [Eduardo Galeano] – كرة القدم بين الشمس والظل [El fútbol, a sol y sombra] ترجمة: صالح علماني ط1432

وجهٌ تأملته قبل أيام. إن زخرف المتكلمين في الكرة المستحسنين لملاحمها لا يعدو أن يكون من جنس شعر الشعراء الذين يزينون الهوى ولو كان قبيحًا!

لا تكاد ترى فرقًا بين من يتابع الأفلام والمسلسلات ويتعلق بالممثلين، ويدور في فلكهم، وبين من يتابع الكرة ويسير في ركاب أبطالها.

ليست كرة القدم اليوم لعبة مرحة يتنافس فيها الصبيان والكبار في استراحة أو ملعب يتقاسمون ثمنه.

لكنها صناعة هائلة ضخمة تنفق فيها أموال الإعلام والأعمال والسياسة وغير ذلك.

وأنت أعلم مني بدهاليز الفيفا والأحاديث العجيبة التي يتناقلها الناس عنها، والمخازي التي لا تنفك عنها. فلست محتاجًا إلى تذكيرك بغرائب كأس العالم في عامنا 1448، ولا أرى ذلك سوى ضربٍ من التعمية وإخفاء الحقائق.

أو لم تكن هذه البطولات تقام في مرأى ومسمع الناس للمآسي والمجازر العظام التي تفني نبلاء الرجال، وتهلك أهليهم لغير سبب مشروع؟

ولست أرى الحديث عن “أفضل نسخة” أو “أردأ تنظيم” سوى دورة من دورات العبث في فلك الآلة الصناعية الفنية العظيمة.

إن تجريد الكرة عن سحرها وفتنتها ليكشف عن صناعة فنية خالصة تتبارى فيها الأموال وتتجاذبها الدعاية ويظلها من مكر السياسة ما الله به عليم.

وعدتك بألا أعظك موعظة ثقيلة تفسد عليك اللذة وتختطف منك المتعة. لكن عمل الإنسان محدودٌ بعمره القصير، وثمراته من خير أو شر يلقاها في اليوم الآخر.

أنت تعلم أنك لا تكتفي بـ90 دقيقة تبذلها في مصاطب المقاهي ومجالس الأصدقاء، فالميمز (الأمثال الرقمية) تطاردك أنى اتجهت، والرغبة في المناكفة أو التحليل الفني المتكلف لا تنفك عنك وأنت تترصد لخصمٍ تريد مناكفته، أو صديق تحب أن تشاركه الفرحة العارمة.

لو كانت متابعة الكرة مقصورة على زمانها القصير المحدود كلعب الشطرنج أو الورق لكانت أهون من أن يلتفت إليها. لكنها تكاد تكون الرياضة الوحيدة التي يراد لنا جميعًا أن نرتاض متابعتها ونألفها بشتى الوسائل والطرق.

وها هي مباريات الكأس تحتف بدعايات مشروبٍ من السكر، وطعامٍ كله سعرات، وحياة جوهرها الاستهلاك والإهلاك.

ختام الكأس

أدع إثارة الأسئلة الأخرى إليك فأنت الآن خبير بنفسك بصير بالوقت الذي يمضي منك.

إنهما سبيلان ولا ريب. فإما أن تكون الكأس آخر ما تقترفه في عام 1448 وإما أن تتداوى منها بكأس أخرى في زمن مؤجل!

البراء بن محمد

ليلة الاثنين 14 المحرم 1448

I went to a different city today, hung out with myself of course. something id never miss. I went away and not because i needed some air to breathe or im depressed, dont get too excited with these fake allegations. My housemate and I unfortunately argued again and i was really done with that, so i went to Al Ain, perhaps two hours and thirty minutes away from that noise. I think I’ll stay there for few days. It’s nice here, well at least its quieter than the mess i had at home. i do have something to keep me busy while im here. just a little hobby of mine, I’ve had it for a while now. It’s surprisingly time-consuming, which is great because i hate being bored. There’s a lot to notice when you stop pretending not to look. It’s a terrible habit, i would admit it but I won’t, deal with that. Very rude of me to notice what other people would rather I didn’t, I guess. Its harmless enough. probably.

Anyway, I’ll be here for a few days, so i might as well make the most of it. better than sitting at home listening to my housemate explain why im the difficult one. That’s a ridiculous accusation. im delightful.

Sincerely, Ahmed

29 June 2026

“Then” (1979) by Gregory Orr

I THEN

My parents and the parents of others were pillars of meat the sky's blue roof rested on. Around them grew flowers with stalks so thin they bent double with their own red weight, their blossoms brushed the dust.

2 THE CHANGE

All that summer a gray flotilla of clouds drifted above; clouds that had hauled up into themselves all earth's tears. Clarity of air. Each dusk I watched them lower their anchors into the parched fields: heavy glass statues of women.

27 June 2026

Clefs: a rewarding painting. Based on some tiny paper Earth lanterns I saw receding into Tyler's room from the staircase at our flat. Delicate duplicate planets hanging in the thick summer air, intermittently nudged by the wind from a fan out of sight at the other end of the room.

Ordinal data is a categorical, statistical data type where the variables have natural, ordered categories and the distances between the categories are not known.

I've been looking at a lot of Bellmer's drawings and prints again this week, specifically his engravings from his Mode d'Emploi (1967) portfolio. There's one particular piece from the seven in that collection—a small one (roughly 4x6 inch plate) titled Ways of Daring—that I think I can trace a lot of the thinking around this work to in retrospect. Its weblike line work masterfully gets at something I'm trying for: employing structures that allow planes to interact beyond their pictorial functionality. Or, more simply, how line can be a simultaneously cohering and fragmenting force. It's also emotionally bare yet confounding in the way that I like. In the bottom right there appears to be a baby (or two) engrossed in something. A step up and to the left are two more figures wrapped around and bound to each other (think Christo), possibly in a sexual position (probably; it's Bellmer). Up and to the right from them, almost in the middle of the composition, is a more muddled group of figures, an orgiastic heap. Pulling away from yet tethered to them toward the top right corner is an inscrutable, knotty, limb-like cluster. And at the top left, almost floating but for one planar line by its knees, is what looks like a kneeling figure with a beaked nose. The whole thing is an upward growth and a deconstruction with phases linked and estranged.

Back to my painting—it occurs to me that a part of it could also be a swipe at the emotional register of time passing in the 5,000 mile space between two opposite poles. Here are some selected lyrics from “Picture of Return” by Superfan:

The time that’s blowing me through Deflated surroundings Putting appearance underneath the skin

Breaking at the corners The room acting as my witness To manipulated order I’m wishing his face was never a picture of return

Sports Car Racing

My sports-attention today will be dominated by the IMSA Six Hour Sports Car Race at Watkins Glen International, nicknamed “the Glen,” Race Course in New York State. Race coverage is being provided by PeacockTV and will begin in just a few minutes.

And the adventure continues.

Last night I watched as my six year old daughter wrote in a new hardcover notebook I ordered her. I always loved good notebooks but my parents wanted my writing to speak for itself, so I became used to jotting things down anywhere – even napkins if I got a good idea in the diner smoking section.

Everyone knew to get me bookstore gift cards for my birthday, so that's when I'd splurge on my new notebook for the year. it was so careful picking... so important, knowing so many future thoughts will be held in this one rectangle that was being selected in that moment. I recall the smell of the notebook section, with its various leather covers and types of paper. I recall my hesitation. truly spending hours examining the texture of notebook after notebook, the spacing between the lines, the thickness of the page – perhaps least importantly, though relevant, the picture. there were so many sealed in plastic wrap. every year I'd wonder if I was selling myself (okay, my gift cards) short by only choosing the ones I could touch. but I'm someone who could never order randomly off a menu.

In my senior year of high school I won first place for the local “readers writing” contest for a piece of short fiction titled “Jane”. The newspaper and it's accompanying magazine sent photographers and journalists with questions as clunky as their equipment.

The five hundred dollar gift card to Borders was more than worth my required presence at the ceremony and probably exactly worth the embarrassment of my short, awkward speech. Full grown adults truly looked touched, clutching my story as they searched my eyes for meaning I didn't have. I'll never forget the lone old man in the folding chair staring intently at me as I stood near the stack of “Jane”s nobody knew I wrote in a hurried frenzy during the last ten minutes of business class. I was keenly aware that my dad had chosen to teach his regularly scheduled Kung fu class over coming to witness adults fawning over the freestyle written story of his sixteen year old. “The published story as a matter of fact,” I thought, which made me stand a little straighter.

“What do you think it's about?”

Two loud taps near my feet snapped me back to the present moment. Suddenly the man was in front of me, wooden cane between us, asking a fair and simple question. I was taught by my father, quite sternly, to think quickly and cleverly when addressed, despite my knowledge on any subject or lack thereof.

Every interaction was a test that could be failed in a matter of micro seconds. My gaze drifted above the furrow of gray painting his expression, resting on a liver spot I decided was the shape of Italy.

“Well...,” and having not a clue what the meaning of my own work was, one syllable practically waddled out of my mouth singing and became three.

“L-oo-ve?”

It landed as a question. Clueless. Simple. Pathetic.

His little Italy rose along with his surprise as his eyes widened. I noticed a foggy film over one. He had been hoping for more. I'd built up these characters, acted deserving of five hundred dollars worth of plastic sealed (okay, mostly unsealed) thought containers, given this dumb speech just so -

“Because I think it's about obsession,” and his lips slowly curled upwards until they made a sort of sideways grin.

He just wanted someone to speak with about the piece and I just wanted my father to give a fuck that there was a piece whatsoever. This interaction was not a test. We only spoke for about ten minutes that night before he handed me a hastily folded scrap paper and went on his way – actually waddling through the automatic sliding doors. The further he went into the distance, the more his cane resembled any branch.

As it turns out, I wasn't wrong and he wasn't misguided. That night, I unsealed my first plastic wrapped journal which featured a sort of sad tree of life, mostly branches. The thick aroma of fresh leather filled me up as I unfolded the ripped page, apparently from a dictionary.

One word was highlighted, its definition underlined.

I used the adhesive from the seal to stick it to the back side of the branch ridden cover.

Limerence:

Limerence is often characterized as “one-sided” and focused on the uncertainty of the relationship, whereas Love involves a deeper, stable connection based on mutual care, trust, and acceptance of flaws.

it's always the algorithm that gives you away and that algortude to pair and the way you needed me suddenly that night after you dedicated it to us and we ended strong and you just wanted that late night feel but without her you couldn't imagine her so you wanted me but I was locked away where you normally keep me

she wasn't asking and you were distracting by doing and I thanked you for choosing me and you did and then when it turned late and I turned in as Friday nights are reserved, typically your loneliness expanded and though you didn't need me you wanted me to fill some space where she was absent

I didn't

tears, the following day weakness, admittedly – of which you never mention which never occurs looking back, she hurt you and she moved on and maybe it hurt, too, that your closest two truly closest were unreachable

I didn't know, truly I felt it as you prying like a friend afraid to be alone but I didn't realize the devastation I didn't realize you had been dumped I needed to pick you up

the hat, so I didn't see your tears? the hat the nervous looks the way you sat broken the way I thought you were harboring a child the way you were harboring a goodbye you likely tasted before you felt it

I hear you singing

and I had been

she is sleeping

and she had been

and there you landed in the middle with your thoughts and the lack of distraction and the hat

the next day you would say I abandoned you in the living room but I'm always in my room, the living room at best not abandoned, I'm told still, I'm singing

you'll hear me singing

we'll be singing, someday

today, I heard you singing.

beautiful, blessed, love of my life

my heart aches for your aching.

'maybe she did... did she?” in regards to you two doing face masks together, after I asked, hours ago.the tone of your voice swung upwards, as a question, near the end of the sentence.

“did she what?”

“no, I don't think she did. I thought maybe she wanted to do face masks that night”

“what night?”

“the night when I was in her bed.”

my heart aches for your aching. we both know. I will do everything I can to heal this. my heart aches for my own aching. I have been able to do nothing to that end.

“the night when I was in her bed”

did you or did you not do masks well I know but I love you

“when I was in her bed”

in her bed

her bed

I wake up early again today, following a pattern that has become an impromptu tradition. I swing by Tims first for a coffee (a medium French Vanilla this time), largely because nothing else is open. Then I make my way down to the Old Port. Taking a different route today, I walk down Boulevard Saint-Laurent, mounting the levees that once protected the city from river floods, before dropping back down to the banks to sit and write.

I'm always near water these days. Today, it's the pond right near the King Edward entrance—a body of water that passes for natural until you learn it's emptied each autumn and refilled each spring. The benches here sit low enough that the city appears to grow straight out of the water. Maybe that impermanence is why I'm facing it today, my back turned to the river and the tourist industries clinging to the industrial quays like barnacles to the hull of an ocean liner.

In the glare of my laptop screen, I can see the crane behind me that the bungee jumpers use. I've sat here enough times to watch a few of them drop. I still remember one whose head briefly dipped into the Saint Lawrence on the rebound: a baptism of sorts, a momentary connection with the ancestors. Yet, I am drawn back to this not-quite-pond, not-quite-fountain, with its calm waters and the grey limestone of Vieux-Montréal reflecting on the shimmering surface. Like many things in this city, the illusion breaks down the second you stand at the edge and look straight down; the usual sparse detritus of urban life sits at the bottom. But from this bench, with birds calling from all around me and the morning otherwise silent, it's more than enough.

I would like to supply a TLDR; for this document, but it's too long for there to be a simple summary. The closest would be the conclusion of the article, but there is a lot of information along the way that would be lost if you jump to that. Therefor, if you clicked on this article, I would recommend reading it completely.

Introduction

I read Jola's article The social contract of writing the other day, and was impressed by their well reasoned arguments. I then read the response from Segun Famisa: No. You can't tell it was written by AI, and felt that it was quite a bit off the point.

Jola's primary arguments were:

• The use of LLMs are homogenizing writing. Their repetitive use of specific idioms and patterns that are frequently occurring. Like, statistically too frequent to be an anomaly.
• Even if you don't use an LLM in your writing, you are being caught up in the blast-radius of LLM written works. These works have been tainted are affecting how you write.
• Writing that is assisted by the use of LLMs is a violation of the social contract between the author and their audience.

Segun, on the other hand, seems to have disagreed with concept that LLM assisted writing can be identified. He makes the arguments that:

• The tools used to identify LLM written works often fail.
• In order to judge a piece of writing you need to know the author of the work to determine if they wrote it.
• The reason for things like em-dashes, and unusual vocabulary is due more to the social background of the people who trained the LLMs.

There is a lot to be said about both of these pieces. I have some things that haven't been considered to toss into the discussion surrounding the use of LLMs in writing. And, along the way, I want to rebut a couple of the arguments that have been made.

I Am the Author

Before we dig into the exceptionally muddy waters of the ethical questions of using LLMs in writing it's necessary to be clear about this: I am the sole author of this article. Yes, I use some tools to assist in the writing of this article: (self-hosted) LanguageTool and Harper. Why? Because my grammar and spelling sucks.

But, rest assured, all the words on your screen were typed by me. All the awkward analogies, idioms, and other quirks of this text emerged from my mind, and not from an LLM. I will most certainly guarantee that this will lead vocabulary choices that are unusual, and may, therefore, not read in the same way that others might have written this.

And, I am the one making the choice to use properly formatted em-dashes and ellipses throughout this text. These have only been the convention for typeset prose since the invention of the movable type printing press by Johannes Gutenberg around the year 1440.

Donald Knuth spent years working on TeX, trying to find a way to automate properly typeset texts. Along the way he solved many problems that were far more complicated than anyone had thought they were. I don't understand why we don't honor the work of Knuth and use these machines to the fullest extent of their capabilities, especially when it comes to typesetting.

I do feel like these silly “tell-tales” were originally intended as a joke: “An em-dash? No one writes like that! Right?” and somewhere along the way the joke was lost.

Simple Tell-Tales Are a Lie

That's one of the first things I would like to contribute to the discussion. Simple, easy, tell-tales just aren't a reality. LLMs are not simple pieces of software that are just glorified “autocomplete” machines as some people would try to have us believe.

Even a cursory study of how an LLM is designed and trained will make this fact self-evident. While I am not an expert in this field (far from it), I have watched and read enough background information to have some appreciation for the complexity of the accomplishments in the field.

The facts are that there are many elements that go into an LLM:

• The design of the neural network
• The design of the model
• The algorithms used in the model
• The information used to train the model
• The people who performed the training
• The person(s) interacting with the model
• The bugs / shortcoming of the agents

This is only a top-level view of some of the factors. It's pretty clear that the resulting output from an LLM can be vastly different based on changes to any or all of these factors. This also points to the fact that this should still be considered a research technology, and not something that is being implemented as a tool for the public to use, In my opinion.

Given this level of complexity, how can we think that there are simple tell-tales for LLM written works? It's simply ridiculous.

There Are Indicators of LLM Writing

There is a whole field of study around linguistics which can, using varying methods be used to identify patterns in written language. This is often used with historically significant documents to verify the authorship of said documents.

How is this done? By analyzing works known to be authored by a person, and comparing the documents in question to the known writings of the author. This process involves numerous factors:

• Vocabulary of the author
• Unique grammatical constructs employed by the author
• The overall structure of a document
• The presentation of arguments, explanations, etc.
• Other narrative or exposition elements
• The references or supporting evidence

This idea of examining the constructs and patterns found within a document isn't limited to written bodies of work. These concepts are applied to analyze things like music compositions.

Then why have tools like OpenAI's AI Classifier failed?

Because it's kind of like a dog chasing its own tail. A dog generally chases its own tail not because it wants to catch it, but because the activity itself is fun. The dog knows how to catch its tail, it does so all the time by laying down bending over to get to its tail.

An LLM trying to analyze a text to determine its provenance is like the dog chasing its tail. It can do the assigned activity, but the results are unlikely to end in success. Why? Quite simply, an LLM is likely unable to make a distinction between the information it has been trained on versus information it has generated. In terms of an LLM these two things are equal. The LLM written document is the result of the information it was trained on. What things can it do to find a distinction?

The Author's Social Contract

This is a topic that authors discuss at length. The question of the relationship between an author and their audience is frequently questioned.

Take, for example, a mystery author. Just how much information do they have to present to the reader throughout the text to make the solution satisfying? Is there an issue with presenting too many facts that lead to the solution? What amount of misdirection is appropriate in a story? Where is the line between misdirection and confusing the reader to the point frustration?

Similarly, Science Fiction authors faced the dilemma of writing “hard” Sci-fi, aka basing the technology strictly on known science and technology, versus using known science and technology as the basis for more advanced systems. In some cases, is there a basis for inventing whole new scientific concepts or principles in order to introduce a new technology to their world. Where is the line? What will the reader accept or reject?

These, and many more, types of questions exist throughout all genres of fiction writing. And, likely exist through many more forms of written communication. This discussion is something that is not going away anytime in the future. And now, there is a new topic to add to this: what is the line with LLMs?

Jola's reference to the Oxide Computing RFD 576 brings a lot of subtlety to the questions surrounding the use of LLMs in writing. It simultaneously seems to be advocating for some roles for LLMs, while still acknowledging that there are issues and dangers in using LLMs.

The issue I see with this is there is little to no objective measurement for the effective use of LLMs in their environment. I see this as a missed thought that needs to be carefully addressed. For example, it is suggested that LLMs can be used as research assistants (which is something that I've thought about myself). However, the document warns of the propensity for LLMs to make things up, insert claims that aren't true, or hallucinate, or fail in other ways. Therefore, the user of the LLM for research needs to verify all the claims in the output, and go through all the references to make certain they are valid.

When I considered this question, I started to wonder what the impact would be on my personal research process? In other words, I wondered if the time that I would save would be sufficiently greater than the amount of time I needed to validate the work of the LLM? While I have no experiential data on which make such a judgment, I do have an experience that informed my thoughts on this topic.

A few years ago I asked ChatGPT to write a profile of an artist I am deeply familiar with. I asked it to write a profile under 500 words in length to be used in the liner notes for a new release by said artist. The results were scary. The first part was not all that bad, it got the artists real name, his approximate age, and the region of the world he was from. It then went on to explain his style of music, and his range within that style of music.

Then things fell completely apart. It started listing the most popular releases from the artist. First, several of the releases were little known works by him. But if that wasn't bad enough, it listed a work that he has publicly and widely disavowed. And, to take things to the last level: it made up two works.

I spent over an hour researching the releases, especially because I couldn't any reference to any of these works in the artists online discographies. Once I had determined all the facts surrounding those works, I went back to the LLM and challenged it on the works it had listed. It took numerous exchanges to get it to recognize the fictional works, but it would never explain where those works had come from. As for the disavowed work, it did acknowledge that the artist had disavowed it, but wouldn't answer why that work had been included on the list.

Realize, this is only a 500 word profile. About 2 pages of typewritten text. Several hours spent in validating, and interrogating the LLM about its output. This was a task that would have taken me approximately 30 minutes to complete. At this point I saw that using an LLM for such tasks had an actual negative impact on my work process.

Now, a sample set of one does not make for a good basis to draw broader conclusions. However, when considering what is the line with LLMs, it should be considered whether the use of the tool is going to significantly contribute to the quality of the work, or if it is going to become an unduly burdensome tool. While some roles, such as a proofreading or critiquing one's writing might be a viable and useful option, other areas such as researching, writing assistance, or editing a work might be more burden than useful.

Does AI Fit?

There is something that I have been thinking about. We have been worried that LLM writing are changing the way that we communicate. However, isn't that something that we have been doing throughout history? Consider a few brief examples.

Pens

Yeah, this might seem like a boring way to start things, but there are things that we have to consider, seriously.

The first writing implements were reeds or feathers that were cut to a point, and slit in them. When dipped into an ink pot they held a small amount of ink to allow a person to write. This was an actual advancement over earlier forms of writing. And, because of the limited education, at the time, only Royalty (and possibly extremely wealthy people) had access to these tools. From the quill, we moved on the dip pen. Same concept as before, but now we had nibs made from steel.

The next major change would be to what we now call “dropper” pens, but were referred to at the time as reservoir pens. These were pens where the barrel portion was treated as a reservoir which could be filled with ink. The ink would flow into a part of the pen known as the feed. The feed was connected to the nib, and supplied ink to it. There is a lot of uncertainty about when this was first invented. There are claims that such a pen was invented in the mid-900s in Egypt, but there is no physical evidence of such a pen existing. It is also believed that Leonardo da Vinci may have made one for his own use. His journals contain designs for such a pen, and it's notable that his journals reflect a more continuous ink flow than other writings of the same period. However, there is definitely evidence that there were reservoir pens being produced and sold in 17th century Germany.

Innovation in the design and manufacture of pens remained steady through the 19th century. However, at the beginning of the 20th century a new era of fountain pens was born when self-filling pens began hitting the market. These pens used various mechanisms to allow the pens to be filled by sucking ink into the barrel of the pen. These pens quickly became runaway hits with the general population.

However, their years were numbered. There were efforts to come up with what is known now as the ballpoint pen dating all the way back to the late 1880s. However, all the early versions of such a pen had problems with ink flow, reliability, and material choices. These were much the same issues that had plagued the progress in fountain pen development. However, László Bíró and his brother György decided to undertake this problem in the 1930s, and by 1938 they filed for their first patent for the Biro pen. After World War II, the design of the pen was refined, and eventually came down in price to the point where it was easily accessible to the general public, and quickly supplanted the fountain pen.

The first patented typewriter was developed in 1829. Known as the Typographer by William Austin Burt. (There were several machines before this one, but this is the first extensively documented machine.) In the mid-19th century the desire and need for speeding up communications brought the development of the typewriter to the forefront of technology. Typists, stenographers, and telegraphers could take down information at the rate of approximately 130 words per minute, whereas people writing with a pen tended to top out around 30 words per minute.

The first commercially successful typewriter was patented in 1868, and was sold under the name “Shoales and Glidden Typewriter”. In 1873 Remington would bring its first typewriter to market. In the early 1900s the design of typewriters reached a point where the design was somewhat standardized, and there were at least a dozen notable manufacturers of typewriters.

The first electric typewriter began production in 1900. However, the first practical electric typewriter wasn't produced until 1914, and successfully brought to market in 1920. From the 1920s to the 1940s the main company producing electric typewriters (Northeast Electric Company) changed hands several times, saw its typewriter division spun-off into a separate company, and was eventually acquired by IBM.

IBM would take the technology, and being producing its Electromatic series of typewriters, which introduced the ability to vary the spacing of the characters, producing a typewritten page the appeared more like a typeset document. In 1961 IBM would introduce the Selectric typewriter, which used a typeball, which could be changed, enabling different fonts or type styles to be achieved.

The final step in the development of the typewriter was the electronic (not to be confused with electric typewriters). Electronic typewriter distinctions were the use of the daisy wheel type head, and using circuitry to control the type head, instead of the purely mechanical mechanisms of the previous electric typewriter.

The typewriter market began to recede in the 1990s after the invention of the personal computer. Of course, much of the invention around the typewriter continues on today in the computer keyboards used by many people.

Getting to the Point

Why discuss the invention and progression of pens and typewriters? They are highly relevant to this discussion, as other communication inventions throughout the ages. These were just the two most direct examples that came to my mind.

What is worth considering is how did these technologies impact the work of creating written documents? The progress from using a quill / reed and ink or dip pens to the self filling fountain pens enabled writers to expand on their work. It made it easier for them to write in a continuous flow of thoughts. Writers like James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway were known to use fountain pens in composing their works. How much would they have been impacted if they only had a dip pen to work with? The invention of the ballpoint pen took writing to another level altogether, being more portable than fountain pens, and requiring fewer and less messy refills.

The typewriter removed many of the restrictions of the pen in terms of the speed at which a work could be produced, and the accuracy and legibility of the document produced by an author. The penmanship of the author was less of an issue. The speed at which a document could be typed was up to four times the speed of handwriting, and potentially higher with the invention of the electric and electronic typewriters. And, by the time electric and electronic typewriters emerged, the ability to correct the text as it was written was greatly improved.

We can move along and look at what the personal computer and the internet have enabled for authors… That is such a large topic I didn't even want to start writing about it.

Is AI Next?

Is AI the next fountain pen or typewriter? Is this a technology that will have impact on writing? That seems to be a foregone conclusion at this point as we look at the works that are being produced now.

The question then becomes where will AI fit in? AI is current still in its early stages, not the mature technology that the marketers and AI companies would like us to believe that it is. But, is there a point where it crosses the point of maturity and become a tool that is going to be seen in the same way as earlier tools were?

There were authors that resisted using typewriters. There were authors that resisted using specific brands of pens (there is a humorous story in which H. P. Lovecraft complained bitterly when he was forced to use a Conklin fountain pen after losing his Waterman pen. Meanwhile, Mark Twain was so in love with the Conklin pens that he endorsed them.)

What It Looks Like

The final question I have been asking myself win regard to AI and writing is: what does it look like? That is, if, and when the technology reaches a point where it is considered to be mature enough to become just another tool for writers and artists?

This is another question that I don't have an answer for, and I don't have any predictions on it. I only have some hopes for what will come. What hopes do I have?

My hope is that the technology will not remain under the direction of large corporations. I would rather see the technology becoming something that individuals chose implement for themselves, and have the ability to customize what it does for them, and how they interact with it.

This basically means local LLM implementations. We have machines that are capable of running small local LLM's right now. (I'm typing this on an AMD Ryzen AI MAX+ system right now). I think there are ways to allow individuals to implement and customize this tool in the same manner that many of us chose to install and customize our Linux systems. I think this could also open the door(s) to ways of correcting the wrongs of the current AI industry in terms of their use of other people's property. But that's a whole other thought process that I have been going through, which belongs in a different article.

Conclusion

The future of AI as it stands is uncertain. There are people that are both bullish and bearish on the state of the industry from a business standpoint. I tend to align myself more with the bears. I believe that the financing is a shame, and there will (hopefully) be either some kind of market correction, or day of reckoning where these companies are concerned.

While the things that many people think are tells really aren't, that doesn't mean it isn't possible to identify AI generated writing more accurately given the correct set of linguistic analysis tools. And at this point we should be identifying these works as the technology is really not at a level where it should be so broadly accepted.

When I look at a company like Oxide Computers I am encouraged that they are taking an approach that addresses many of the subtleties of the questions surrounding AI. However, what I am not encouraged by is that the missed the singularly most critical point: how does one quantify the usefulness of this technology? My personal experience showed me that it could quite easily and substantially get in my way, turning a thirty-minute task into two hours of work. That's not a productivity boon.

But, I am also wondering if we are looking at this form the wrong perspective. Throughout history there have been technologies that have substantially impacted our ability to write and create. Has the impact of those technologies been positive or negative? That's a question with an unknown answer, and one that should be researched more deeply in order to understand what we should expect as the impact of AI.

I know there have been artists and creators that have resisted the technologies that I brought up in this article. I mentioned that one author couldn't stand a self-filling fountain pen (Lovecraft), while another (Twain) loved it so much he endorsed the company. There were authors that resisted using the typewriter when it became a reasonably commonplace and affordable tool for writing, despite all of its benefits.

Where does AI fit in for writers? I don't know, but I do have some hopes for it. The primary hope is that it is a technology that does not remain in the hands of large corporations. I hope that it instead becomes a personal technology that the individual can implement for themselves, and customize it to integrate it into their life.

I am spending time with my parents and there is one word that describes this whole trip: healing.

They bought us a mirror for our housewarming gift. They contributed something exotic and exquisite to our home. Coupled with that, we had the most amazing customer service experience at Sofa Land. My mom did a happy dance in the store when she got the $500 mirror on sale for $240.

Coupled with that, Dad is helping Roy learn how to mount the mirror on the wall.

Our relationship is changing.

De Zwaar Beveiligde Geheiligde 3 Eenheid treedt weer wetmatig op

De zondag dienst, herhaling maakt mogelijkerwijs herhaling Sky Show Time is ook maar gebakken luchtverplaatsing

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Als het op je toe komt met gebruik van honderdduizend beschermde beelden dan zit er altijd een regi(e)ss(z)eur achter die deze over stroom op stroom in stukjes zit te verdelen een mootje nu, een partje gisteren en een hele hoop deeltjes voor morgen dit hard gesneden beeld moet voor nog veel meer van dergelijke puzzelstukjes zorgen voor tussen handel en onder dat tussendoortje wellen dan alweer vergelijkbare media zendingen op en deze daadwerkelijke eindeloze schijnvertoning zet telkens weer je wereldbeeld op de kop ze dissen iets op dat op zijn best, best aardig op iets waardevols lijkt maar het is echter enkel onderdeel van opgevoerd economisch werk beleid de kleine club beeld en geluid opzichters sturen voortdurend miljarden soorten rumoer makende berichten naar ogen en oren zodat de niks uitzendende werkelijkheid het voor ons gebouwde kunstmatig leven zo min mogelijk zal verstoren Weer een opening vertonen zodat de zittende kijker ondanks beter voelen er door gaat kijken en dus weer een grote hoge mast erbij waarvoor het restje echt andere moet uitwijken zie daar het vuurwerk in het uurwerk, hoor de lijn verbinding zoemen, kijk, de malloten en hun lulijzeren wil en blijf tijdens dit bijna almachtig dagelijks opgetrommeld gedonder over het gebliksem doodstil liggen huiveren voor morgens deel rondom het werelds pillen paleis beplakt met glanspoedercoating stop alle energie iedere dag met levenslust en al in een zwaar metalen zeer giftige verkeersring eet al ontwikkelend en immer bijlerend je ingewikkelde in afval omwikkelde cultuur voer tijdens weer een seizoens getrouwe uitzending over een nooit daadwerkelijk iets veranderende kunsttour toerisme beweging motivatie video en promotie flyers vliegen rondom de altijd standby stereoset en alles veranderen in niets meer en wel minder dan volkomen gestoorde binnenpret samen zijn we opgenomen in een onverstoorbare alles beperkende afgesloten heilig verklaarde studio het leven omgezet tot een door waanzin aangedreven spectaculair ogende media show oeverloos geklets om geld al duwend te laten rollen en wapens te laten kletteren als inzet van vroeg tot laat samengepakt in een huiveringwekkend groot opblaasbaar hunnebed Daar gaan we weer met de uitzenders mee in trans port tuigjes vluchtend over het economisch tapijt van teer beton, gebroken rotsen, pvc wortelkleed, verscheepte zand kust en luchtgebakken klei op weg naar vrij en blij wikkel winkulland en via de los geld pin automaat poort deze bewerkte werkelijkheid verlaten maar in feite zitten we zondermeer levenslang opgesloten in via manipulatie begrensde monetaire mono polie staten Thuis is op rekening, liggen in het bed van de bank op het matras van zelfverrijkende wetenschap, koffie- en eettafels een substituut voor de preekstoel, en dan de media altaren voor de alle leven vernietigende boodschap het offer er voor zijn wij, vrijwillig vullen we dit goede sier verschijnsel in, houden deze herrie en vertier makende parasiet in blijvende nood toestand blijven volhouden dat we echt leven in dit met allerlei regels en redevoeringen geproduceerd land lusteloze clowns, wispelturige vrekken, malende missie dienaars en standvastige malloten worden al vertellend met klank, kleur en timbre dankzij ferme letter houdgreep omgezet in magistrale supermens exploten De vervolg helden die een manhaftig afgezet stuk grond tot bestaand land moeten maken, bijna iets van echt niets veroorzaken daar zijn ze weer de mannen van weleer in verse versies optredend in het Hedendaags Theater allemaal stukjes her en her en herintredend voor duizenden herhalingen voor ons vrijwillig verblijf in gevangenschap nu maar vooral voor de kleintjes later tot in de eeuwigheid zichzelf als rotsen in kringetjes rollen naar een niet werkelijk bestaand hoger niveau toch verbaasd dat ze ondanks de perfect uitgevoerde rol patronen telkens uitkomen op hetzelfde podium van dezelfde show

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Later daalt meer van gisteren en eer gisteren op u stand alone moederbord neer de vlijtig samenscholende netwerken gaan iedere uitkomst van alle inspanningen beperken tot u murw gebeukt door die aanhoudende stroom aan berichten voor de vervalste meerderheid van de zeer beperkte minderheid zal zwichten en ook u woede zich op hun vijanden zal richten

welkom bij die club van aangesmeerde nederlagen het is mij een eer om u zo vaak als ik kan te belagen te strikken in mijn duizenden hinderlagen tot u eindelijk weer bij zinnen komt en stopt met versies van vragen voor aanvragen om te ondervragen voor meer van die zinloze maatschappelijke bijdragen voor een maatschappij die uit niks anders bestaat dan textuur lagen

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

• Enola Holmes 3
• ☆ Minions & Monsters
• Magellan
• Young Washington

Anticipated Shows

• ☆ Elle
• BLACK TORCH

Returing Favorites

• X-Men '97 — Season 2
• Survival of the Thickest — Season 3
• ☆ Silo — Season 3
• Skeleton Knight in Another World — Season 2
• Mushoku Tensei: Jobless Reincarnation — Season 3
• Grand Blue — Season 3

Trending Shows Status Changes

• The Bear — Returning Series → Ended
• Dr. Stone — Returning Series → Ended

Most Watched Movies this Week

• = Michael
• new Voicemails for Isabelle
• new The Sheep Detectives
• new Masters of the Universe
• -3 Mortal Kombat II
• = Pressure
• -3 Project Hail Mary
• new Citizen Vigilante
• new The Mandalorian and Grogu
• new Tuner

Most Watched Shows this Week

• new House of the Dragon
• -1 FROM
• = Rick and Morty
• = Dutton Ranch
• -3 Widow's Bay
• new I Will Find You
• new The Bear
• -1 Cape Fear
• -4 Clarkson's Farm
• new The Agency

Popular Trailers

• In Cinemas Now — Supergirl
• Only in cinemas July 8 — Evil Dead Burn
• A new era of Spider-Man dawns — Spider-Man: Brand New Day
• the ocean always has Moana's back — Moana
• Jackass: Best and Last is 95% on the tomatometer! get tix to see the best jackass yet in theatres now! — Jackass: Best and Last
• Final Trailer [Subtitled] — Detective Conan: Fallen Angel of the Highway
• If chaos was a movie... well... — Minions & Monsters
• Thank you to the fans for making Toy Story 5 the NO.1 film in the world! — Toy Story 5
• Season 15 Official Trailer — King of the Hill
• Get It On Digital Today! — Tuner

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Hi, I’m Kevin 👋. Product Manager at Trakt and creator of Rippple. If you’d like to support what I'm building, you can download Rippple for Trakt, explore the open source project, or go Trakt VIP.

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I think back to the ages I've reached. 30 didn't bother me much. 40 didn't either. Apparently those bother some people. When I got to 45 it kind of bothered me. I was like, wtf, I'm 45. How did this happen? Where did all those years go?

Now near 55. I will qualify for some senior discounts. Only 10 years from retirement age. Not that I will be retiring likely, but retirement age I will be. I wouldn't say that I feel one way or another about it. No feeling as though it snuck up on me like 45 did. How I perceive the passage of time is much different. Like when I was 20 I was not thinking, wtf I'm almost 30. Now at 55 though I am thinking, wtf I'm almost 65. Events that happened 10 years ago can seem so recent, and then I can’t help thinking, in that same amount of time I'll be 65.

At 55 I don't understand young adults. Today I think that means anyone under 30. Ten years from now that might mean anyone under 40. I don't know. They are like aliens from another planet. I am not keeping up with technology advancements. I'm an alien visiting, watching a strange species do weird shit that I don't understand.

Over the hump day of my life. If my life was a week I would be near Friday by now or something. If I'm lucky I'll see Saturday Sunday.

Or like my own doomsday clock approaching midnight. I haven't looked at that in awhile...

internet tells me we're at 85 seconds to midnight. Closest to midnight than it has ever been since they invented it. That's no surprise. Most of the ones in power are a threat to humanity, and are allowing the planet to become uninhabitable. I think some are doing the right things, but it sadly seems too few too late. Going by what the news says, the race is still close. Common sense is still being crushed like a bug under the heel of greed, power and money. It shouldn't be. We should have been in crisis mode a long time ago, and things should have changed.

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!