Ahh meu amor, como é um alivio falar com você.

Como é bom ter você por mais um tempo, como é bom respirar no mundo onde você existe e a gente ainda se ama.

Eu sinto que essa calmaria antecede a tempestade, mas também sinto que muito embora ela vá chegar, ela também vai passar…

Eu te quero, eu quero te fazer minha, quero acordar contigo todos os dias, quero dividir meus planos, minhas risadas e inseguranças.

Quero me sentir amado por você, e entregue nos teu braços.

E como o chat acertou quando disse: quero sua risada reverberando pelas paredes da minha casa.

Eu sou teu, como nunca fui de mais ninguém…

Fica.

Te amo,

Do sempre seu,

Nathan.

There was a time when the very mention of God felt like an insult to intelligence, when faith sounded like a crutch for the weak and Christianity appeared to be nothing more than a cultural inheritance passed down without examination. The man whose story unfolds here did not casually drift away from belief; he dismantled it piece by piece with deliberate precision, convinced that reason and evidence stood firmly on his side. He read the philosophers, listened to the debates, devoured the arguments that claimed science had buried God and that the Bible was a relic of primitive thinking. He did not hate Christians, but he pitied them, believing they had surrendered critical thought for comfort. In his world, truth was measurable, testable, observable, and anything outside those boundaries was wishful thinking dressed up as spirituality. Yet beneath the intellectual armor was a quiet restlessness that he refused to acknowledge, a subtle ache that logic alone could not soothe. The journey from atheist to Christian did not begin with a lightning bolt or a choir of angels, but with a crack in certainty so small it almost went unnoticed.

Atheism had not entered his life through rebellion but through questions that seemed unanswered. If God is good, why is there suffering that feels unbearable and random? If the Bible is true, why does it appear to conflict with modern science in certain interpretations? If prayer works, why do so many prayers seem to dissolve into silence? These were not childish objections but sincere challenges that demanded thoughtful responses, and when he felt that the responses he encountered were shallow or evasive, disbelief felt like the more honest option. He admired thinkers who stood confidently against religion, who argued that morality could exist without God and that the universe required no divine architect. The idea of a self-existing cosmos governed by natural laws felt cleaner, less complicated than a personal God who intervenes and judges. Over time, disbelief hardened into identity, and identity into pride, until the label atheist became more than a position; it became a shield. What he did not realize was that shields not only block arrows but also block light.

His arguments were sharp, and he wielded them with skill. He questioned the reliability of the New Testament manuscripts, pointed to historical atrocities committed in the name of religion, and insisted that faith was merely psychological conditioning. He challenged Christians to prove God’s existence with the same empirical standards applied to chemistry or physics, and when they could not reduce the divine to a laboratory formula, he declared victory. The problem of evil became his centerpiece, the emotional dagger that seemed to pierce any claim of a loving Creator. He would ask how a good God could allow children to suffer, wars to rage, diseases to devastate entire communities, and he expected silence or clichés in response. When someone suggested that suffering might have a larger purpose beyond human comprehension, he dismissed it as an intellectual escape route. From the outside, he appeared confident, composed, and unshakable. From the inside, however, the questions were not entirely resolved; they were merely redirected.

The turning point did not begin with theology but with personal crisis. Success had come in measurable forms, achievements that impressed others and validated his worldview, yet satisfaction remained strangely elusive. Relationships faltered under the weight of cynicism, and moments of quiet exposed a loneliness that accomplishment could not erase. When tragedy struck someone close to him, the intellectual framework he had built offered analysis but no comfort, explanation but no hope. He could describe the biological processes of grief, the neurological pathways of emotion, yet none of that knowledge held him through sleepless nights. For the first time, he wondered whether a purely material universe was large enough to carry the weight of human sorrow. The arguments against God still felt strong, but the arguments for meaning without God began to feel thin. In that tension, a subtle shift occurred, not a surrender of reason but a willingness to reexamine assumptions he had once considered settled.

He began to explore Christianity again, not as a cultural artifact but as a serious worldview claim. Instead of approaching the Bible as a book to dismantle, he approached it as a document to investigate, reading the Gospels with the same critical attention he had applied to skeptical literature. What startled him was not blind faith but the historical depth surrounding the life of Jesus, the early eyewitness testimony, and the rapid spread of the Christian message in the face of persecution. He had assumed that belief in the resurrection was a legend that evolved over centuries, yet the historical evidence suggested that this proclamation emerged immediately and at great personal cost to its earliest witnesses. He wrestled with the idea that men and women would willingly suffer and die not for a myth they inherited but for an event they claimed to have seen. The more he studied, the more he realized that dismissing Christianity as irrational required ignoring substantial historical considerations. Doubt did not disappear overnight, but it was no longer as comfortable as it once had been.

The moral argument also began to press on him in unexpected ways. He had long maintained that morality could be grounded in social contracts and evolutionary advantage, yet he struggled to explain why certain acts felt objectively wrong regardless of cultural context. If morality was merely a human construct, why did injustice ignite such deep outrage, even when it cost personal benefit to oppose it? The concept of human dignity, so passionately defended in modern society, seemed to float without a firm foundation in a purely materialistic framework. When he considered the Christian claim that humans are made in the image of God, bearing intrinsic worth, something resonated that logic alone had not satisfied. He recognized that his own sense of justice, compassion, and longing for goodness might point beyond biology. The idea that moral law implies a moral Lawgiver, once dismissed, began to feel less naive and more plausible. His resistance did not vanish, but cracks in certainty widened.

The person of Jesus became impossible to ignore. He had once categorized Jesus as a moral teacher whose followers exaggerated his claims, yet the text itself presented a more radical figure. Jesus did not merely suggest ethical improvements; he forgave sins, claimed unity with the Father, and accepted worship in ways that forced a decision. Either these accounts were fabrications, delusions, or they were true, and each option carried weight. The portrait of Christ revealed not a manipulative leader but a man who embodied humility, courage, and sacrificial love to a degree unmatched in history. The crucifixion, once viewed as tragic failure, began to appear as deliberate self-giving for the sake of others. The resurrection, once mocked, became the hinge upon which everything turned, for if it happened, then disbelief required more faith than belief. He realized that his rejection of Christianity had often relied on simplified caricatures rather than careful engagement. The more he encountered the depth of Jesus’ teaching and character, the more his dismissive stance felt inadequate.

Yet the intellectual journey was only part of the transformation. The deeper shift occurred when the message of grace penetrated beyond analysis into the heart. Christianity did not simply present arguments; it presented a diagnosis of the human condition that felt uncomfortably accurate. The Bible described sin not merely as rule-breaking but as separation from God, a distortion of love and purpose that touches every life. He had considered himself morally decent, yet when he measured his thoughts, motives, and private failures against the standard of perfect holiness, confidence faltered. The cross began to represent not religious symbolism but a personal confrontation with guilt and mercy intertwined. The claim that God entered human suffering, bore its weight, and offered forgiveness as a gift rather than a wage was unlike any system he had studied. Pride resisted the idea of needing rescue, but humility whispered that perhaps rescue was exactly what he required. In that tension, faith began to emerge not as intellectual surrender but as relational trust.

One evening, alone with questions that would no longer stay silent, he prayed not a polished theological statement but a raw admission of uncertainty. He did not declare absolute conviction; he asked for truth, for clarity, for revelation if God was indeed real. There was no thunderous response, no visible sign, yet a quiet assurance settled in that he struggled to explain. The weight of striving to be self-sufficient lifted slightly, replaced by a sense of being seen and known. Over time, this internal shift deepened, accompanied by a growing hunger for Scripture and a renewed openness to prayer. The intellectual objections did not vanish overnight, but they no longer functioned as barriers; they became questions explored within relationship rather than weapons against it. Faith, he discovered, was not the absence of doubt but trust in the midst of it. The journey from atheism to Christianity unfolded not as a dramatic spectacle but as a steady awakening.

Those who knew him noticed changes that surprised even him. The cynicism that once colored conversations softened into patience, and the need to win arguments gave way to a desire to understand. Compassion expanded beyond abstract principles into tangible action, motivated not by social pressure but by gratitude for grace received. He found himself drawn to community in ways he had previously avoided, discovering that faith was not merely private belief but shared life. The Scriptures that once seemed archaic began to speak with startling relevance, addressing fear, ambition, pride, and hope with timeless clarity. He realized that Christianity was not anti-intellectual but invited the renewal of the mind alongside transformation of the heart. The more he leaned into Christ, the more he recognized that truth and love were not opposing forces but inseparable realities. What he once mocked became the anchor he had been searching for all along.

The toughest atheist arguments did not disappear from his memory, and he did not pretend they lacked force. Instead, he learned to engage them with humility, acknowledging complexity while pointing to a larger narrative that held suffering and hope together. The problem of evil remained painful, yet the cross reframed it, showing a God who does not stand distant from pain but enters it. Scientific discovery continued to fascinate him, yet he saw it not as a threat to faith but as exploration of a universe that bears fingerprints of design. Questions about Scripture prompted deeper study rather than retreat, revealing layers of historical and literary richness he had once overlooked. He understood now that disbelief had often been fueled by partial information and unresolved hurt. In Christ, he found not simplistic answers but a living relationship that sustained inquiry without fear. Faith became not the end of thinking but its fulfillment.

For those who stand where he once stood, skeptical and guarded, his story is not an attempt to shame or belittle honest doubt. It is an invitation to examine whether the assumptions underpinning disbelief are as airtight as they seem. It is a reminder that intellectual integrity and spiritual openness are not enemies but allies in the pursuit of truth. The journey from atheist to Christian is not about abandoning reason; it is about allowing reason to follow evidence wherever it leads, even if that path surprises you. It is about recognizing that longing for meaning, justice, and love may point beyond material explanation. Most of all, it is about encountering a Savior who does not demand blind allegiance but offers transformative grace. The path from disbelief to belief is rarely straight, and it is never forced, but it remains profoundly real for those willing to walk it.

As his testimony continues to unfold, deeper layers of that transformation reveal themselves, touching not only his mind but his identity, reshaping how he sees suffering, success, relationships, and eternity itself, and it is in that unfolding that the true weight of this journey becomes undeniable.

What followed his surrender to Christ was not a flawless ascent into spiritual perfection but a gradual, sometimes painful reorientation of everything he thought he understood about himself and the world. He began to see that atheism had not only been an intellectual conclusion but also a protective structure, a way of keeping ultimate accountability at a distance. If there is no God, then there is no final Judge, no absolute standard beyond personal or societal preference, and that framework had quietly granted him autonomy without answerability. Christianity, by contrast, introduced both comfort and confrontation, offering unconditional love while simultaneously calling for repentance and transformation. He realized that grace was not permission to remain unchanged but power to become new. The Gospel did not flatter his independence; it dismantled it and rebuilt him on a different foundation. This rebuilding process required humility, and humility did not come easily to someone who once prided himself on intellectual dominance. Yet in the surrender of pride, he found a freedom that argument had never delivered.

One of the most striking changes occurred in how he viewed suffering, the very issue that once fueled his disbelief. Previously, pain had been evidence against God, a contradiction that seemed impossible to reconcile with divine goodness. After coming to faith, suffering did not suddenly become pleasant or easy, but it acquired context within a larger story. The crucifixion revealed a God who does not remain detached from human agony but willingly steps into it, absorbing its violence and betrayal rather than avoiding it. The resurrection declared that suffering does not have the final word, that death itself can be overcome. This narrative did not erase tears, but it infused them with hope, transforming despair into endurance. He began to see that a world with free will and genuine love would inevitably contain the possibility of pain, yet God’s response was not indifference but redemption. What once appeared as evidence of absence now pointed toward a deeper presence.

His view of truth itself also shifted in ways he had not anticipated. As an atheist, he often framed faith as belief without evidence, yet he came to understand that everyone lives by certain foundational assumptions that cannot be empirically proven but are nonetheless trusted. He trusted that the external world was real, that his reasoning faculties were reliable, that moral outrage signaled genuine injustice rather than chemical reactions alone. Christianity did not abolish reason; it provided a grounding for it, suggesting that a rational Creator designed a universe that can be meaningfully explored. The harmony he began to perceive between faith and intellect surprised him, dissolving the false dichotomy he had once defended so passionately. He no longer saw science and Scripture as adversaries but as different lenses examining the same reality from distinct angles. Instead of feeling that belief required shutting down critical thought, he experienced faith as an invitation to deeper inquiry. The integration of mind and spirit became one of the most compelling aspects of his transformation.

Relationships also underwent a profound recalibration. In his atheist years, he valued honesty and loyalty, yet subtle self-centeredness often shaped his interactions. When Christ’s teaching on sacrificial love took root, he found himself challenged to forgive offenses he once would have cataloged, to serve without immediate recognition, and to listen rather than dominate conversations. The Sermon on the Mount, once dismissed as idealistic rhetoric, became a blueprint for daily life, confronting anger, lust, pride, and hypocrisy with surgical precision. He discovered that genuine strength is expressed not in overpowering others but in laying down one’s rights for their good. This new orientation did not make him passive; it made him purposeful, aligning ambition with compassion. Friends noticed that debates once fueled by ego were now marked by patience and curiosity. The transformation was not instantaneous, but its trajectory was unmistakable.

Prayer, which he once regarded as psychological self-talk, evolved into a lifeline. Initially, he struggled with doubt, wondering whether he was merely speaking into emptiness, yet over time he sensed guidance and conviction that transcended his own internal dialogue. Answers to prayer did not always arrive in dramatic fashion, but subtle alignments of circumstance and insight reinforced his growing trust. He began to perceive that communion with God was less about changing divine will and more about shaping his own heart. In quiet moments, Scripture seemed to illuminate specific struggles, offering wisdom that felt personally tailored. He understood that skeptics might interpret these experiences as subjective, yet their consistency and depth could not be easily dismissed. Faith matured not through spectacle but through steady relationship, through countless small moments that collectively formed a pattern of divine faithfulness. The more he prayed, the more he recognized that he was not alone in the universe.

Engaging with former atheist friends presented its own challenges and opportunities. He remembered the confidence with which he once dismissed believers and approached these conversations with empathy rather than defensiveness. Instead of launching into rehearsed apologetics, he shared his story, acknowledging the legitimacy of their questions while testifying to the evidence and experiences that reshaped his own perspective. He emphasized that Christianity does not fear scrutiny, inviting honest examination rather than blind acceptance. In doing so, he found that authenticity carried more weight than abstract argument. Some listened with curiosity, others with skepticism, yet he no longer felt compelled to win. The transformation within him became the most persuasive element of his testimony, a living demonstration that grace can alter even the most resistant heart. He trusted that God’s Spirit, not his eloquence, would ultimately draw others.

As months turned into years, the depth of his gratitude only intensified. He reflected on how easily he could have remained entrenched in disbelief, mistaking confidence for certainty and cynicism for clarity. The realization that God had pursued him even while he denied His existence humbled him profoundly. He began to see divine providence woven through events he once attributed solely to chance, encounters and questions that gently nudged him toward reconsideration. This retrospective awareness reinforced his conviction that faith was not self-generated but divinely initiated. He understood now that salvation is not earned through intellectual achievement but received through surrender. The journey from atheist to Christian was not about winning an argument; it was about being found. That awareness fueled both worship and compassion, reminding him that no heart is beyond reach.

The broader cultural implications of his testimony also became clearer. In a world where skepticism often masquerades as sophistication and faith is caricatured as ignorance, his story challenges simplistic narratives. It demonstrates that rigorous questioning and genuine belief can coexist, that conversion is not always rooted in emotional vulnerability alone but can arise from careful investigation. He recognizes that not every skeptic will follow the same path, yet his experience stands as evidence that the intellectual case for Christianity deserves serious consideration. Moreover, his life now reflects the moral and relational fruit that faith can cultivate, offering tangible evidence of transformation. The power of God’s love is not confined to ancient texts; it continues to reshape modern lives in ways that defy reductionist explanations. His testimony becomes not merely a personal narrative but a living argument for the reality of grace.

For those wrestling with doubt, his journey serves as reassurance that questions are not enemies of faith but often gateways to deeper understanding. Christianity does not demand the abandonment of critical thought; it calls for honest engagement with truth wherever it leads. The path from disbelief to belief may involve discomfort, humility, and the dismantling of long-held assumptions, yet it also offers a depth of meaning that transcends intellectual satisfaction alone. It offers reconciliation with the God who created, sustains, and redeems. It offers forgiveness for failures that no amount of self-justification can erase. It offers hope that death is not the terminus of existence but a doorway to eternity. Above all, it offers relationship with Jesus Christ, whose life, death, and resurrection remain the cornerstone of this transformative faith.

In the end, the story of an atheist finding Christ is not a triumph of religion over reason but a testimony of grace over pride, of light entering places long shadowed by doubt. It reveals that the human heart, no matter how resistant, remains capable of awakening to truth when confronted with love that refuses to relent. The arguments that once seemed unassailable lose their dominance when measured against the living reality of a Savior who meets individuals in their questions rather than condemning them for asking. This journey continues, as every believer’s journey does, marked by growth, repentance, discovery, and unwavering hope. The path from disbelief to unwavering belief is not a myth; it unfolds in real time, in real lives, through the undeniable power of God’s transforming presence. His testimony stands as an invitation to anyone standing at the crossroads of skepticism and faith, reminding them that truth is not threatened by examination and that grace is always nearer than it appears.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

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two trapezes and a broken clown nose: A blog about creative ambition, questionable decisions, and whatever else falls out of my brain.

I’m an underachieving writer with an overachieving imagination. I have plenty of stories, just not the discipline to actually write them down. To me, if I can make one person laugh or get them to think with my posts, then I’ve done my job.

I’m occupied tonight, so this is just the opening act. But in my next post, I’ll offer a stunningly unbiased analysis of the video RFK posted of himself submerging his shirtless body and his Levi’s into a tub of cold water.

The real question is: if that’s how he washes his clothes...

In Summary: * Presently waiting for the streaming radio feed for my early college basketball game of the night to kick in. Sometimes the feed comes in before the scheduled start of the game so I can catch the pregame show. It seems this isn't one of those times.

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. Details of that regimen are linked to my link tree, which is linked to my profile page here.

Health Metrics: * bw= 227.85 lbs. * bp= 136/77 (66)

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

Diet: * 06:00 – 1 sonic cheeseburger sandwich, 1 banana * 08:30 – 1 seafood salad sandwich * 09:50 – 1 more sonic cheeseburger sandwich * 12:15 – salmon with a cheese and vegetable sauce * 16:20 – 1 fresh apple * 18:20 – cheese and crackers

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:30 – bank accounts activity monitored * 05:45 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, and nap * 12:15 to 14:00 – watch old game shows and eat lunch at home with Sylvia * 14:30 – listen to KONO 101.1 San Antonio * 15:00 – listen to The Jack Riccardi Show * 17:10 – waiting for the streaming radio feed for tonight's college basketball game

Chess: * 14:25 – moved in all pending CC games

Luke 16 is one of those chapters that refuses to sit quietly in the background of the New Testament, because it challenges the comfortable assumptions we build around money, morality, and even the afterlife. It opens with a story that seems confusing at first glance, a manager who is about to lose his job for wasting his master’s goods and who then acts shrewdly to secure his future, and instead of condemning him outright, Jesus appears to commend his cleverness. If we read that carelessly, we might conclude that dishonesty is somehow being rewarded, but that would miss the deeper current moving beneath the surface. Jesus is not praising corruption; He is exposing the spiritual dullness of people who claim to believe in eternity yet plan only for this temporary world. The steward understood something urgent about his situation: time was short, consequences were coming, and relationships mattered. In that sense, the chapter becomes less about accounting and more about awakening, less about money itself and more about what our handling of money reveals about the condition of our hearts. Luke 16 pulls back the curtain and forces us to ask whether we are living with eternity in mind or simply surviving day to day, pretending that tomorrow will never demand an answer from us.

The parable of the unjust steward confronts us with the uncomfortable truth that unbelievers often show more intentionality about their temporary future than believers show about their eternal one. The steward knew he would soon stand before his master, so he used the limited authority he still possessed to position himself wisely for what was coming next. Jesus points out that “the children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light,” and that statement should pierce us if we take it seriously. How often do we see people who reject God pour enormous effort into networking, investing, building reputations, and securing influence, while those who profess faith drift through life with vague intentions and half-hearted obedience? Luke 16 does not applaud dishonesty, but it does commend foresight, strategic thinking, and an awareness that today’s decisions shape tomorrow’s reality. Jesus is teaching that money, influence, and opportunity are tools, not trophies, and that their true value is measured by what they accomplish beyond the grave. If we only ever use resources to increase our own comfort, we reveal that our vision is limited to the visible, but if we use them to bless others, to advance truth, and to reflect God’s generosity, then we demonstrate that we understand something about eternity.

One of the most sobering lines in the chapter is when Jesus says that whoever is faithful in little will be faithful in much, and whoever is unjust in little will also be unjust in much. That principle cuts through every excuse we make about waiting for “more” before we begin to live faithfully. We tend to believe that if we just had more money, more influence, more recognition, then we would finally make a difference for God, but Luke 16 dismantles that illusion. Faithfulness is not a product of abundance; it is a product of character. The steward’s story shows that even in a moment of crisis, the way we handle what is in our hands reveals who we truly are. If we mishandle small responsibilities, larger opportunities would not purify us; they would only magnify our flaws. In this sense, Luke 16 is not merely about financial stewardship but about spiritual integrity, because how we treat temporary things reflects what we believe about eternal ones.

Jesus goes even further and states that if we are not faithful with unrighteous mammon, who will commit to our trust the true riches. That phrase “true riches” forces us to redefine wealth. The world measures wealth in dollars, assets, titles, and visible success, but Jesus points to something far more substantial. True riches are not confined to bank accounts; they include peace with God, influence that changes lives, wisdom that outlives us, and a legacy that echoes in eternity. Luke 16 suggests that our management of earthly resources is a test, not the final reward. If we cannot be trusted with something as fleeting as money, how can we be entrusted with spiritual authority or eternal impact? This is not about earning salvation, because salvation is a gift of grace, but it is about demonstrating that grace has reshaped our priorities. The chapter quietly asks whether we see our possessions as ownership or as stewardship, because that distinction changes everything.

Then comes the statement that no servant can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other or else he will hold to the one and despise the other, and Jesus concludes with the unmistakable line that we cannot serve God and mammon. This is not a suggestion but a declaration about divided allegiance. Mammon is more than money; it represents trust placed in material security, status, and self-sufficiency. Luke 16 confronts the fantasy that we can compartmentalize our devotion, giving God a portion of our hearts while reserving the rest for the pursuit of wealth or approval. The human heart was not designed for dual thrones, and whenever we attempt to enthrone both God and money, one will inevitably dominate. If we are honest, many of our anxieties, compromises, and moral hesitations stem from fearing the loss of financial stability or social standing. Jesus is not condemning prosperity itself; He is exposing misplaced trust, because the issue is not possession but allegiance.

The Pharisees, described in Luke 16 as lovers of money, scoffed at Jesus when He taught these things, and that detail is not incidental. Their reaction reveals that religious language can coexist with hidden idolatry. They knew the Scriptures, they held positions of spiritual authority, yet their hearts were tethered to wealth and status. Jesus responds by saying that what is highly esteemed among men is an abomination in the sight of God, and that statement overturns entire systems of admiration. We celebrate influence, power, and financial achievement, often assuming that visible success equals divine favor, but Luke 16 warns that heaven’s evaluation operates on different metrics. God looks at motives, at generosity, at humility, and at the quiet obedience that may never trend on social platforms. The chapter challenges us to examine whether our faith is shaped more by cultural admiration or by Christ’s commands.

As Luke 16 unfolds, it transitions into one of the most vivid depictions of the afterlife in the Gospels, the story of the rich man and Lazarus. Unlike the earlier parable, this account carries an intensity that feels almost like reportage. The rich man lives in luxury, clothed in purple and fine linen, feasting daily without apparent concern for the suffering at his gate. Lazarus, covered in sores and longing for crumbs, represents the ignored, the marginalized, and the invisible. Both men die, and their circumstances reverse with stunning finality. Lazarus is comforted in Abraham’s bosom, while the rich man finds himself in torment. Luke 16 does not say that the rich man was condemned simply for being wealthy, nor does it say that Lazarus was saved simply because he was poor. The deeper issue is compassion, humility, and responsiveness to God’s revelation.

The rich man’s torment is not described merely as physical suffering but as separation, regret, and an unbridgeable chasm. He pleads for relief, then for warning to be sent to his brothers, but Abraham responds that they have Moses and the prophets and that if they do not hear them, neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead. That final line echoes through history with haunting clarity. It anticipates the resurrection of Jesus and the persistent unbelief that would still follow. Luke 16 underscores that revelation has already been given, and the responsibility lies with the hearer. We often imagine that if God would just perform a more dramatic miracle, then belief would be automatic, but Jesus teaches that hardened hearts can resist even the clearest signs. The rich man’s tragedy was not ignorance; it was indifference.

This chapter compels us to examine how we respond to the suffering around us. The rich man did not necessarily commit violent crimes or overt blasphemy; his sin was quieter yet equally destructive. He walked past Lazarus every day. He normalized inequality. He insulated himself from discomfort. Luke 16 suggests that neglect can be as damning as active cruelty when it flows from a heart unmoved by compassion. If our faith does not open our eyes to the needs at our gate, then something is deeply misaligned. Jesus is not presenting a simplistic equation where wealth equals damnation and poverty equals salvation; He is exposing the moral danger of abundance without empathy. When resources isolate us from the pain of others instead of equipping us to relieve it, we drift toward the rich man’s path.

The concept of the great gulf fixed between the two realms after death confronts modern sensibilities that prefer flexible outcomes. Luke 16 insists that eternity is not a negotiable extension of earthly life but a definitive continuation shaped by our response to God. The rich man’s request to cross over is denied, not because God lacks mercy, but because mercy was offered during life and rejected. This is not meant to provoke despair but urgency. Every breath we take is an opportunity to align our hearts with truth, to practice generosity, to cultivate humility, and to trust in Christ rather than in possessions. Luke 16 does not present a God eager to condemn; it reveals a God who has spoken clearly and who honors human choices with eternal consequence.

If we read Luke 16 carefully, we begin to see that it is less about fear and more about clarity. It clarifies that wealth is temporary, that stewardship is sacred, that allegiance cannot be divided, and that eternity is real. It dismantles the illusion that we can postpone obedience without consequence. It also offers hope, because the very fact that Jesus tells these stories means that warning precedes judgment. The steward had time to act before his master returned. The rich man’s brothers still had Moses and the prophets. We, too, have Scripture, conscience, and the testimony of Christ’s resurrection. The question is not whether information has been given, but whether it has been received with seriousness.

In a culture that often equates blessing with accumulation, Luke 16 stands as a corrective voice. It calls us to measure success not by what we store up for ourselves but by what we invest in others and in eternity. It asks whether our daily decisions reflect a belief that life extends beyond the visible horizon. When we give generously, when we forgive debts, when we choose integrity over advantage, we are living in light of a different kingdom. Luke 16 invites us to imagine standing before God not with a portfolio of assets but with a record of faithfulness. It invites us to see every paycheck, every opportunity, every relationship as part of a larger ledger being written in heaven.

The chapter ultimately points us back to the heart of the Gospel, because none of us can claim perfect stewardship. We have all mismanaged time, talent, and treasure at various points in our lives. The difference between despair and redemption lies in what we do with that realization. The unjust steward acted decisively when he recognized his coming accountability. The rich man, by contrast, recognized too late. Luke 16 encourages us to act now, not out of panic but out of purpose, to reorder our priorities while breath still fills our lungs. It reminds us that grace does not eliminate responsibility; it empowers transformation. When we understand that everything we have is entrusted to us temporarily, we begin to live with open hands instead of clenched fists.

As we continue to reflect on Luke 16, we will see that its themes stretch far beyond ancient parables and into the core of modern life, because the tension between wealth and worship, between comfort and compassion, between temporary gain and eternal truth, remains unchanged. This chapter is not merely a historical teaching; it is a mirror held up to every generation. It asks whether we are living as if eternity is real and whether our daily choices reflect that belief. And if we allow it to speak deeply, it will not leave us unchanged, because Luke 16 is not just about money or morality; it is about the orientation of the soul toward God and the recognition that one day every ledger will be opened, and every life will be weighed in the light of eternal truth.

As we move deeper into Luke 16, the thread that ties the entire chapter together becomes increasingly clear, because both the parable of the steward and the account of the rich man and Lazarus are not separate moral lessons but two sides of the same revelation about stewardship and eternity. The first story shows a man who realizes judgment is coming and adjusts his behavior while there is still time, and the second shows a man who ignores warning signs and awakens to irreversible consequence. In both cases, the issue is not merely financial mismanagement but spiritual perception. The steward, though flawed, understood urgency. The rich man, though outwardly successful, remained spiritually asleep. That contrast becomes the heartbeat of Luke 16, because it reveals that intelligence, status, and prosperity do not guarantee wisdom in the eyes of God. Wisdom, according to Christ, is measured by how we prepare for what lies beyond the visible horizon.

The steward’s shrewdness is not about deception being endorsed but about foresight being valued. He understood that relationships built in the present would matter in the future, and Jesus uses that awareness to teach a far deeper principle. When He says to make friends by means of unrighteous mammon so that when it fails they may receive you into everlasting habitations, He is not instructing us to manipulate people through money. He is revealing that generosity and intentional stewardship create eternal impact. When resources are used to lift others, to share truth, to relieve suffering, and to reflect God’s character, they echo beyond the grave. Luke 16 shifts our understanding of wealth from accumulation to influence, from possession to participation in God’s purposes. Money becomes a temporary instrument through which eternal outcomes are shaped, and that reality forces us to examine how casually we often treat something Jesus considered spiritually revealing.

The idea that money is a test runs through this chapter with relentless clarity. It is not the size of the amount but the posture of the heart that matters. A person with modest means who gives sacrificially may demonstrate greater faith than a wealthy individual who gives comfortably without inconvenience. Luke 16 dismantles the illusion that generosity begins at a certain income level. Faithfulness begins wherever we are. If our hearts are attached to security in possessions, even abundance will never satisfy us. If our trust rests in God, then even limited resources can become powerful tools for good. Jesus teaches that the management of what we see reveals how we will handle what we cannot yet see. That principle moves the conversation beyond finance into every arena of life, because time, influence, opportunities, and relationships are all entrusted to us temporarily.

When Jesus says that if we are not faithful in that which is another man’s, who will give us that which is our own, He introduces the concept that everything we currently hold is ultimately borrowed. Our careers, our homes, our talents, and even our very breath are gifts sustained by God’s grace. Luke 16 confronts the illusion of ownership and replaces it with stewardship. If everything belongs to God, then our role shifts from owner to manager. That shift changes how we spend, how we save, how we speak, and how we serve. It produces humility, because we recognize that pride over possessions is misplaced. It produces gratitude, because we see every provision as evidence of divine generosity. And it produces responsibility, because we understand that what has been entrusted will one day be evaluated.

The Pharisees’ reaction in this chapter is deeply instructive because it reveals how easily religious identity can coexist with misplaced devotion. They scoffed at Jesus because they loved money, and their mockery exposed a hardened resistance to truth. Luke 16 shows that external religiosity cannot compensate for internal allegiance to mammon. The Pharisees likely believed they were righteous, yet their attachment to wealth distorted their ability to hear Christ clearly. Jesus’ response that what is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God is a thunderclap that echoes into modern culture. We admire wealth, celebrity, and visible influence, often equating them with success and favor. Yet Luke 16 reminds us that heaven evaluates differently. God sees motives, secret acts of kindness, unseen sacrifices, and private obedience. What the world overlooks may be celebrated in eternity, and what the world applauds may hold no weight at all before the throne of God.

The account of the rich man and Lazarus intensifies the chapter’s message by illustrating the eternal consequences of indifference. The rich man’s life appears enviable by earthly standards. He enjoys luxury, comfort, and daily feasting. Lazarus, by contrast, suffers publicly and continuously. Yet death reverses their circumstances completely. Luke 16 does not present this reversal as arbitrary but as revelatory. The rich man’s life demonstrated no evidence of compassion or repentance. His wealth insulated him from empathy. He stepped over a suffering man daily without allowing it to disrupt his comfort. That repeated indifference became the evidence of a heart disconnected from God. Lazarus, though poor and afflicted, is shown as one who ultimately receives comfort. The chapter does not romanticize poverty, nor does it demonize wealth. It reveals that what matters is the orientation of the heart toward God and toward others.

One of the most haunting aspects of the rich man’s plea is that even in torment he still views Lazarus as a servant. He asks that Lazarus be sent to cool his tongue and later to warn his brothers. There is no indication of personal repentance, only a desire for relief and a wish to spare his family from similar fate. Luke 16 suggests that character, once solidified in life, carries into eternity. The rich man’s perspective did not transform simply because circumstances changed. This underscores the urgency of spiritual formation now. We do not become compassionate by accident, and we do not suddenly develop humility after death. The choices we make daily shape the person we are becoming. That reality should sober us, because it means that small acts of generosity and small acts of neglect both carry weight beyond what we see.

Abraham’s statement that a great gulf is fixed between the two realms emphasizes finality. In life, the rich man could have crossed the street to Lazarus. In eternity, the chasm cannot be crossed. Luke 16 reveals that opportunities for compassion and repentance exist within the span of earthly life. After that, consequence solidifies. This is not presented to terrify but to clarify. The Gospel consistently offers grace, forgiveness, and transformation to those who respond in faith. The tragedy is not that mercy is unavailable; it is that mercy is ignored. The rich man had access to Moses and the prophets, meaning he had access to revelation. His brothers also possessed that revelation. The refusal to heed it resulted not from lack of evidence but from unwillingness to submit to truth.

The closing words of the chapter, that if they do not hear Moses and the prophets neither will they be persuaded though one rose from the dead, resonate profoundly in light of Christ’s resurrection. Luke 16 anticipates the reality that even the miracle of resurrection will not coerce belief in hearts determined to resist. Faith is not produced by spectacle alone but by humility and openness to God’s voice. This challenges modern assumptions that dramatic proof would automatically solve unbelief. Scripture indicates that the deeper issue is often not insufficient evidence but hardened desire. When wealth, status, or autonomy become ultimate, truth is filtered through self-interest. Luke 16 invites us to examine whether we are genuinely seeking God or merely seeking validation of our existing priorities.

There is a thread of mercy woven through the severity of this chapter, because warning itself is an act of love. Jesus tells these stories so that listeners might adjust course before it is too late. The steward’s story demonstrates that change is possible when accountability is recognized. The rich man’s story demonstrates the tragedy of ignoring that recognition. Together they form a call to awakened living. Luke 16 urges us to consider how we are using what has been placed in our hands today. It asks whether our resources are building only temporary comfort or contributing to eternal good. It challenges us to evaluate whether we are serving God wholeheartedly or attempting to balance divided loyalties.

When viewed as a whole, Luke 16 dismantles the myth that faith is merely internal belief detached from daily choices. True belief expresses itself in stewardship, compassion, and integrity. The way we treat money reveals trust. The way we treat the suffering reveals love. The way we respond to revelation reveals humility. This chapter does not allow us to hide behind abstract theology. It presses faith into the practical details of living. Every financial decision, every opportunity to give, every moment we notice someone in need becomes spiritually significant. Luke 16 transforms ordinary transactions into eternal investments when they are surrendered to God.

The beauty within this confrontation is that God’s grace empowers faithful stewardship. We are not left to manufacture righteousness by willpower alone. Through Christ, hearts can be reshaped, priorities realigned, and attachments loosened. The Gospel invites us to release our grip on temporary security and to trust in the eternal faithfulness of God. Luke 16 ultimately directs our gaze toward Christ Himself, because He embodies perfect stewardship. He used His authority not for self-exaltation but for sacrifice. He stepped toward the suffering rather than stepping over them. He embraced the cross, investing His life so that others might gain eternal life. In Him, we see the ultimate reversal, where apparent loss becomes everlasting gain.

As we close our reflection on Luke 16, the message settles into something deeply personal. The ledger of eternity is not written with currency alone but with choices, compassion, and allegiance. Every day presents opportunities to demonstrate that our treasure is in heaven rather than in fleeting acclaim. We may not stand at a literal gate where a Lazarus lies, but we encounter need constantly in various forms. We may not manage a vast estate, but we manage time, attention, and influence. The question Luke 16 leaves with us is whether we will live awake to accountability and rich in mercy. It calls us to strategic generosity, unwavering devotion to God, and a recognition that eternity is not an abstract doctrine but a coming reality. When that truth shapes our decisions, money loses its mastery, compassion gains momentum, and life becomes an intentional preparation for the everlasting kingdom that cannot be shaken.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

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#002290 – 05 de Setembro de 2025

Aprendi a patinar com quase 25 anos, tive as primeiras aulas de surf com uns 35 anos, quase 50 quando comecei a andar de surfskate. O primeiro cubo 3x3x3 resolvi-o depois dos 40 anos, as primeiras aulas de música aconteceram depois dos 50 anos. O corpo, nesta longa convalescença, não tem a agilidade que lhe conhecia e devo proteger-me de mais lesões, por enquanto. Mas há os muitos livros que não li, a proporcionar-me mundo e mundos que ainda nem sei que desconheço.

#002289 – 04 de Setembro de 2025

Planos para o futuro são muitas vezes uma forma de adiar o presente, de empurrar o tédio com a barriga. No tempo que ainda não existe, sou imensamente organizado, todas as acções que queria tomar já despudoradamente detalhadas.

#002288 – 03 de Setembro de 2025

Alguma música é como vinho do Porto. A discografia de Stephen O'Malley, por exemplo, é vasta mas apetece não a beber toda de uma vez. Outra, mais escassa e intensamente deliciosa, como a dos YOB, escuta-se em ocasiões especiais, de preferência ao vivo.

There is a subtle tension that lives inside the modern believer, a tension that rarely announces itself with noise but steadily erodes confidence from within. It is the tension between intellect and surrender, between analysis and trust, between needing to understand and being willing to follow. Over the years, I have come to realize that many people who feel distant from Jesus are not hostile toward Him and are not rebelling against Him, but are simply exhausted from trying to mentally untangle Him. Faith has quietly become an equation to solve rather than a relationship to enter. The simplicity that once drew fishermen from their nets and tax collectors from their tables has been replaced with layers of hesitation, self-examination, and spiritual second-guessing. In a world that celebrates complexity and rewards skepticism, it has become almost uncomfortable to embrace something as direct and disarming as childlike trust. Yet the more I study the Gospels and examine my own walk, the more convinced I become that overthinking Jesus is one of the most understated barriers to spiritual transformation in our time.

When Jesus walked the earth, He did not recruit scholars by dazzling them with abstract arguments, nor did He construct a system that required intellectual mastery before participation. He spoke in stories about seeds, soil, vineyards, storms, coins, and bread because He was revealing something profound about the nature of faith itself. Faith was never designed to be an academic exercise detached from lived experience; it was meant to be embodied, walked out, breathed in real time. The fishermen who followed Him did not request a detailed roadmap of the next ten years of their lives before leaving their boats. They did not demand clarity about political implications, theological frameworks, or personal safety guarantees. Something in His voice cut through the noise of their reasoning and spoke directly to the deeper part of their being, the place where trust is born long before understanding catches up. That same invitation still echoes, but it often collides with our modern instinct to analyze every variable before taking a step.

I have watched sincere believers become paralyzed by the need to reconcile every doubt before moving forward. They tell themselves that once they resolve every question about suffering, sovereignty, timing, and unanswered prayer, then they will be ready to trust more deeply. They convince themselves that clarity must precede obedience, that understanding must come before surrender, and that certainty is a prerequisite for commitment. What quietly happens in that process, however, is that faith becomes perpetually postponed. The mind continues searching for a level of resolution that life rarely offers, and the heart waits patiently for permission to believe. The tragedy is not that questions exist, because questions have always been part of spiritual growth. The tragedy is that questions become gatekeepers instead of companions, standing at the entrance of obedience and refusing to move aside until they are fully satisfied.

When I read about Peter stepping out onto the water, I do not see a man who had mastered the physics of buoyancy or fully understood the identity of the One calling him. I see a man who heard a voice he had learned to trust and responded before fear could rehearse all the possible outcomes. Peter’s step was not built on flawless comprehension; it was built on relational confidence. Even when he began to sink, the story did not end with condemnation but with rescue. That detail matters more than most people realize, because it reveals something essential about Jesus’ posture toward imperfect faith. He did not withdraw His hand when Peter faltered; He reached for him. In that moment, the lesson was not about mastering the mechanics of walking on water but about learning the character of the One who calls us beyond our comfort zones.

Overthinking Jesus often disguises itself as spiritual maturity, but beneath the surface it is frequently fear wearing theological clothing. Fear whispers that if we move too quickly, we might misinterpret God’s will. Fear insists that if we trust too openly, we might be disappointed. Fear suggests that if we surrender too fully, we may lose control. These fears feel responsible and measured, yet they slowly erode the very courage that faith requires. The longer we sit in analysis, the more we amplify worst-case scenarios, and the more distant obedience begins to feel. We start confusing hesitation with wisdom and delay with discernment, all while the invitation of Christ remains steady and uncomplicated.

The woman who reached for the hem of Jesus’ garment did not hold a symposium in her mind about ceremonial law before pressing through the crowd. She did not map out a strategic plan for social acceptance or rehearse a theological defense in case someone confronted her. She simply believed that if she could touch Him, something would change. Her faith was not polished, eloquent, or academically defended; it was desperate and direct. That desperation cut through the noise of over analysis and moved her toward action. When Jesus turned and acknowledged her, He did not critique her method or interrogate her reasoning; He affirmed her faith. There is something deeply instructive in that exchange, because it reminds us that transformation is often waiting on the other side of movement rather than contemplation.

In our era, access to information has created the illusion that spiritual depth is measured by how much we can articulate rather than how deeply we can trust. We can listen to countless sermons, read volumes of commentary, and debate doctrines across digital platforms without ever taking a single obedient step forward. Knowledge accumulates while courage atrophies. The mind grows sharper while the heart grows cautious. We begin to mistake familiarity with language about Jesus for intimacy with Jesus Himself. Yet intimacy is not built through analysis alone; it is built through shared journey, through moments of vulnerability, through obedience when the outcome is still unclear.

Thomas is often remembered for his doubt, but what fascinates me is how Jesus responded to him. He did not shame Thomas for wanting tangible assurance; He invited him closer. He offered His hands and side as evidence, not as a rebuke but as a bridge. The story does not suggest that doubt disqualifies someone from relationship; it shows that doubt can be met with grace. However, Thomas still had to move toward Jesus to encounter that reassurance. He did not remain distant, analyzing from afar. He stepped into proximity. That proximity transformed uncertainty into conviction, not because every philosophical question was resolved, but because he encountered the risen Christ personally.

Overthinking often keeps people at a safe distance where they can observe faith without risking participation. It allows them to critique, evaluate, and assess without committing. There is a strange comfort in staying in the realm of theory, because theory does not require vulnerability. Once you step into practice, you open yourself to the possibility of disappointment, misunderstanding, or even failure. Yet the Gospels reveal again and again that growth happens in proximity, not detachment. The disciples learned who Jesus was not by studying Him from a library but by walking dusty roads beside Him, sharing meals, witnessing miracles, and wrestling with their own shortcomings in real time.

There is also a subtle pride hidden within overthinking that rarely gets acknowledged. It is the belief that if we can intellectually master something, we can control it. When faith feels unpredictable, the mind tries to domesticate it by dissecting it. We search for formulas that guarantee outcomes, systems that ensure results, and principles that eliminate mystery. But Jesus never offered a formula; He offered Himself. He never reduced relationship with God to a mechanical sequence of inputs and outputs. Instead, He spoke of abiding, remaining, trusting, and loving. Those words are relational, not procedural. They invite engagement rather than calculation.

I have encountered many who delay obedience because they fear making the wrong decision and missing God’s will permanently. They analyze every option to the point of paralysis, convinced that one misstep could derail their entire spiritual destiny. What they fail to see is that Jesus specializes in redirection. The disciples misunderstood Him repeatedly, argued about status, fled in fear, and even denied Him, yet their story did not end in disqualification. It ended in restoration and commissioning. If the path of following Christ required flawless navigation, no one would qualify. The beauty of grace is that it meets us in our missteps and guides us forward again.

The thief on the cross is one of the most striking examples of uncomplicated faith. He did not possess a long record of good deeds to present. He did not have years of disciplined spiritual practice to point toward. In his final moments, he simply turned to Jesus and asked to be remembered. That request was not backed by a fully developed theology; it was backed by trust in the One hanging beside him. Jesus responded not with a lecture but with a promise. That exchange shatters the notion that understanding must be complete before salvation can be received. It reveals that sometimes the most powerful faith is expressed in a single, sincere turning of the heart.

As I reflect on all of this, I am increasingly convinced that the courage to simplify is one of the rarest virtues in a complicated age. It takes courage to trust without having every answer. It takes courage to obey when clarity is partial. It takes courage to believe that Jesus is enough even when circumstances feel unstable. Overthinking feels safer because it keeps us in control, but control is not the same as peace. Peace flows from knowing the character of the One you trust, not from mastering every possible variable. When we reduce faith to an intellectual conquest, we inadvertently rob it of its transformative power.

The invitation of Christ remains remarkably consistent throughout the centuries: follow Me. Those two words do not contain exhaustive explanations about the journey ahead. They do not outline every challenge, disappointment, or triumph that may come. They simply call for movement rooted in relationship. Following implies trust in the leader’s direction, even when the path curves unexpectedly. It acknowledges that understanding may unfold gradually rather than instantly. It shifts the focus from mastering information about Jesus to walking with Him personally.

In my own life, I have had seasons where I wanted guarantees before obedience. I wanted assurance that stepping forward would result in visible success or immediate confirmation. I wanted clarity that removed all risk. What I have learned, sometimes through uncomfortable experience, is that growth rarely happens in the absence of uncertainty. The very spaces where I felt most unsure often became the places where I encountered God most deeply. Had I waited for complete understanding, I would have remained stationary. It was the act of stepping, even with trembling, that opened the door to greater confidence.

Overthinking Jesus can slowly morph into overcomplicating identity. If you are constantly questioning whether your faith is strong enough, pure enough, or consistent enough, you may begin to see yourself primarily through the lens of deficiency. Instead of resting in the truth that you are loved, you start striving to prove that you deserve love. Instead of receiving grace as a gift, you attempt to earn it through mental perfection. This mindset breeds exhaustion rather than intimacy. The Gospel was never meant to be a performance review; it was meant to be good news for imperfect people.

The simplicity of the Gospel does not mean it lacks depth. On the contrary, its depth is inexhaustible. But depth is not the same as complication. A child can understand that Jesus loves them and yet theologians can spend lifetimes exploring the implications of that love. The accessibility of the message does not diminish its richness; it magnifies it. Overthinking tends to assume that if something is simple, it must be shallow. Yet the most profound truths in life are often the most straightforward. Love your neighbor. Forgive those who hurt you. Trust God with tomorrow. These instructions are not complex, but they are transformative when practiced.

As we continue walking through this idea, it becomes increasingly clear that the battle is not between intelligence and faith, but between control and surrender. Intelligence is a gift, and thoughtful reflection is valuable. The problem arises when reflection becomes a substitute for response. When thinking replaces trusting, and analysis replaces action, we drift from the heart of discipleship. Jesus did not rebuke people for thinking; He invited them to move beyond thinking into following. The call was never to abandon reason but to anchor reason in relationship.

There is a quiet freedom that emerges when you release the need to have everything mapped out before taking the next step. That freedom does not eliminate questions, but it refuses to let questions dominate the journey. It acknowledges that mystery is part of faith, not a threat to it. It embraces the reality that God’s ways may exceed human comprehension without becoming inaccessible. When you stop demanding exhaustive explanations, you create space for encounter. And encounter, more than explanation, is what transforms the human heart.

This is where the shift begins to happen, not in a dramatic explosion of revelation, but in a steady recalibration of posture. Instead of standing at a distance evaluating every aspect of who Jesus is, you begin walking with Him, allowing experience to deepen understanding over time. Instead of waiting until your fears subside completely, you move forward trusting that courage will grow through obedience. Instead of seeing faith as something to conquer intellectually, you begin seeing it as something to inhabit relationally. That shift does not happen overnight, and it does not happen without resistance, but it is the beginning of uncomplicated faith that carries profound strength.

And as that strength begins to grow, something remarkable happens within the soul. The constant internal debate starts to quiet. The pressure to perform spiritually begins to loosen its grip. The need to justify every act of obedience with airtight logic fades into the background. What remains is a steady confidence rooted not in perfect comprehension but in trusted character. That character belongs to Christ, whose consistency through history and in personal testimony continues to anchor those willing to step beyond over analysis into lived trust. It is here that faith becomes less about proving and more about participating, less about dissecting and more about dwelling, and this is where the real journey unfolds.

The unfolding of that journey does not eliminate complexity from life itself, but it reorients the believer’s relationship to complexity. Problems still arise. Suffering still confuses. Prayers are sometimes answered in ways we did not anticipate or on timelines we would not have chosen. Yet the foundation shifts from needing to understand everything to knowing Who you are walking with through everything. That shift is subtle, but it changes the emotional climate of the heart. Instead of panic driving reflection, trust steadies reflection. Instead of fear dictating delay, confidence encourages movement. And in that movement, faith matures in ways that analysis alone could never produce.

When faith settles into that quieter, steadier posture, it begins to reveal something that overthinking could never produce: endurance. Endurance is not built in the classroom of theory but in the field of lived obedience. It is formed when a person chooses to trust again after disappointment, to pray again after silence, to step again after stumbling. Overanalysis tends to magnify every setback as evidence that something has gone wrong at a fundamental level. It convinces the believer that perhaps they misheard God, misunderstood His will, or lacked sufficient spiritual insight. Yet when you look closely at the lives of those who walked with Jesus, you see a pattern of growth through imperfection rather than avoidance of it. Their maturity was not the result of flawless interpretation but of continued participation.

Consider how often the disciples misunderstood Jesus’ words. They misinterpreted His references to leaven, mistook His warnings, argued about who would be greatest, and even tried to prevent Him from speaking about His own suffering. If overthinking had disqualified them, their journey would have ended early. But Jesus continued to teach, correct, and include them. He did not demand immediate mastery of every concept before allowing them to witness miracles or share in ministry. Their understanding expanded as their experience expanded. They learned by walking, by failing, by asking, by observing, and by remaining. That pattern still applies today. Understanding deepens through relationship, not isolation.

Overthinking often convinces people that they must resolve every theological tension before they can live with conviction. They wrestle with questions about sovereignty and free will, suffering and goodness, timing and delay, and while those questions are important, they can quietly overshadow the daily call to love, serve, forgive, and trust. It is possible to spend years attempting to harmonize every doctrinal nuance while neglecting the very practices that shape the soul. Meanwhile, Jesus continues to invite His followers into tangible acts of faithfulness that require courage more than comprehensive explanation. Loving your enemy does not wait for you to understand every dimension of divine justice. Forgiving someone who wounded you does not require a complete theological framework for pain. Obedience often precedes clarity rather than the other way around.

There is also a psychological weight that accompanies constant spiritual self-examination. When every thought, doubt, or emotional fluctuation is scrutinized as a potential failure of faith, the believer can become inwardly consumed. Instead of looking outward in service or upward in trust, the focus turns inward in relentless evaluation. Am I believing enough? Am I praying correctly? Am I feeling what I am supposed to feel? Over time, this internal microscope can create anxiety rather than intimacy. The irony is that Jesus consistently redirected attention outward toward relationship, compassion, and mission. He did not ask His followers to obsess over the perfection of their inner state; He asked them to abide in Him and bear fruit.

Abiding is a profoundly relational word. It implies remaining, dwelling, continuing in connection. It does not imply mastering every detail about the vine before drawing nourishment from it. When Jesus described Himself as the vine and His followers as branches, the emphasis was not on intellectual comprehension but on sustained connection. A branch does not overthink its dependence on the vine; it simply remains attached and receives life. In the same way, faith thrives not through constant analysis but through ongoing communion. Prayer, worship, service, and obedience become the rhythms that sustain growth. These practices do not eliminate questions, but they anchor the heart in relationship while questions are explored.

One of the subtle dangers of overthinking Jesus is that it can gradually transform Him into an abstract concept rather than a living presence. When He becomes primarily an idea to debate or a doctrine to defend, the relational aspect of faith can recede into the background. Yet the testimony of Scripture and of countless believers throughout history is that Christ is encountered personally, not merely studied academically. This does not diminish the value of study; it restores it to its proper place. Study should deepen encounter, not replace it. Reflection should enrich trust, not suffocate it.

There is a profound difference between thoughtful faith and paralyzed faith. Thoughtful faith engages the mind while still moving forward in obedience. Paralyzed faith remains stationary, waiting for a level of certainty that may never arrive. Thoughtful faith asks questions while still praying. Paralyzed faith withholds prayer until questions are answered. Thoughtful faith acknowledges doubt but refuses to let doubt dictate action. Paralyzed faith allows doubt to become the final authority. The distinction is subtle, but its impact is significant. One posture leads to growth through engagement; the other leads to stagnation through hesitation.

When I speak about uncomplicated faith, I am not advocating for blind belief or anti-intellectualism. The Christian tradition has long valued rigorous thought, philosophical exploration, and careful interpretation. The issue is not whether thinking is valuable; it is whether thinking has become a barrier to trusting. There is a humility required to admit that not every mystery will be resolved on this side of eternity. That humility is not weakness; it is strength rooted in perspective. It acknowledges the finite nature of human understanding without diminishing the reliability of divine character.

Trust ultimately rests not on the ability to explain every circumstance but on the confidence that the One being trusted is good. The Gospels present a portrait of Jesus marked by compassion, courage, integrity, and sacrificial love. He touched the untouchable, spoke truth without cruelty, confronted injustice, and laid down His life willingly. That character becomes the anchor for faith when circumstances fluctuate. When life feels unpredictable, remembering who He is steadies the soul more effectively than attempting to decode every outcome.

There are seasons when overthinking is fueled by disappointment. Prayers go unanswered in the way we hoped. Doors close unexpectedly. Plans unravel. In those moments, the mind works overtime trying to identify what went wrong. Did I lack faith? Did I mishear? Did I miss a sign? While self-reflection can be healthy, it can also spiral into self-blame. Yet Scripture repeatedly shows that faithful people experienced delay, confusion, and hardship without being abandoned. The delay did not negate God’s presence. The hardship did not cancel His purpose. If anything, those seasons often refined trust in ways comfort never could.

Abraham stepped into an unknown land without a detailed itinerary. Moses confronted Pharaoh without a guarantee of immediate success. Esther approached the king without certainty of survival. In each case, obedience preceded visible resolution. Their stories did not unfold in tidy, predictable sequences. They encountered resistance, fear, and uncertainty. Yet they moved forward anchored in trust rather than exhaustive explanation. That same pattern runs through the New Testament as well. The early church advanced not because every risk was eliminated but because conviction outweighed hesitation.

The modern tendency to overthink can be amplified by the constant comparison facilitated by digital culture. We see curated glimpses of others’ spiritual experiences and assume that our own faith must match or exceed them. We compare callings, outcomes, and perceived levels of clarity. That comparison breeds insecurity, which then fuels more analysis. We begin questioning whether we are hearing correctly, moving correctly, believing correctly. Yet the call of Jesus has always been deeply personal. He addressed individuals by name. He spoke into specific contexts. He tailored His guidance to the person in front of Him. Your journey will not mirror someone else’s exactly, and it does not need to.

When you release the need to mirror another’s path, you create space to walk faithfully in your own. That release reduces the noise that often drives overthinking. Instead of measuring every decision against external benchmarks, you learn to cultivate attentiveness to the quiet leading of the Spirit in your own life. That attentiveness is not frantic; it is steady. It does not demand constant signs; it rests in ongoing relationship. The more you practice obedience in small, daily ways, the less intimidating larger steps become. Courage grows through repetition.

Uncomplicated faith does not mean naive faith. It means anchored faith. It means choosing to trust the character of Christ even when the details of the journey remain partially hidden. It means acknowledging that while the mind is a gift, it is not the ultimate authority over spiritual movement. It means allowing love to motivate action more than fear motivates delay. When love becomes the driving force, obedience shifts from obligation to response. You follow not because you have solved every mystery but because you have encountered Someone worthy of following.

There is also a deep peace that comes when you stop attempting to predict every twist in advance. Planning has its place, but prediction often carries anxiety. You cannot forecast every outcome or shield yourself from every disappointment. What you can do is cultivate resilience rooted in trust. That resilience does not deny pain when it arrives, but it refuses to let pain redefine God’s character. It does not suppress questions, but it refuses to let questions eclipse devotion. It moves forward, sometimes slowly, sometimes boldly, but always relationally.

If you find yourself caught in a cycle of overthinking Jesus, begin by returning to what you already know to be true. Return to the stories of His compassion. Return to moments in your own life where you sensed His guidance. Return to the foundational truth that salvation is a gift, not a reward for intellectual mastery. Let those truths steady you while unanswered questions remain in process. Faith is not the absence of inquiry; it is the decision to trust while inquiry continues.

The quiet courage of uncomplicated faith may not attract headlines, but it builds enduring strength. It is the courage to pray even when answers are delayed. It is the courage to forgive even when feelings lag behind obedience. It is the courage to serve even when recognition is absent. It is the courage to believe that Jesus remains who He has always been, regardless of shifting circumstances. That courage grows not from exhaustive explanation but from sustained relationship.

As you continue walking this path, you may discover that many of the fears that fueled overthinking lose their intensity. The more you experience God’s faithfulness in small matters, the less you require airtight guarantees in larger ones. Trust compounds over time. Each step of obedience becomes a reference point for the next. The journey remains dynamic and occasionally mysterious, but it is no longer paralyzing. You learn to live with open hands rather than clenched fists.

In the end, following Jesus was never about constructing a perfectly reasoned system before taking action. It was about responding to a call that still echoes with clarity. That call invites you into relationship, into growth, into transformation that unfolds across a lifetime. You will continue to think, to question, to learn, and to reflect. But those processes no longer dominate; they support a deeper foundation of trust. And from that foundation, you walk forward not as someone who has solved every mystery, but as someone who knows the One who walks beside you.

Your friend, Douglas Vandergraph

Watch Douglas Vandergraph’s inspiring faith-based videos on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@douglasvandergraph

Support the ministry by buying Douglas a coffee: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/douglasvandergraph

• this month started like most: overwhelming. while i usually take the contours of my life with relative grace, there’s something about this month that scares me. lots of decisions are being made in the next couple of weeks, let’s see if they’re correct—or at least worth the wait.
• ever since i’ve been writing more, the specter over my shoulder is starting to be exorcised. reality seems to be taking shape and i finally have the eyes to see it.
• i think i need at least ONE roommate. living alone is obviously a luxury most want but don’t receive, however, i’m starting to talk to myself way too much. it’s a habit i picked up in high school, regurgitating study material to myself silently in my school’s media center, but it’s ended up overstaying its welcome. i can clearly remember moving into my first apartment in dc rehearsing my professional elevator pitch in front of the bathroom mirror wearing only a towel while hitting power poses. i recite monologues around my place too, of course thinking i’m preforming like there’s an eviction notice on my door. anyway, i think i just need a pet. i was cat-sitting for my friend momina a couple months ago (if you’re reading this hiiiiii) and i was immediately taken aback having another living thing in my home. i don’t necessarily ignore the silence, i didn’t really have the ears to hear the frequency. it’s like the cat’s signs of life widened my understanding by reminding myself adolescence, back when i was sharing a room with one or both of my siblings. i miss the noise.

* i think i’m attracted to men that are built and look like walruses. * it’s fleeting, but i sometimes feel 17 again. it’s like i wake up and lose progress one day. sometimes i look in the mirror and see him staring back. is there something i’m missing? * i think i’m the only person who knows about madi sipes & the painted blue. i found the band right before covid hit while i was visiting home for spring break. i was in a phase of isolating myself and illegally watching movies on my 2017 macbook air until 2 AM, using the last couple of dollars from my work study paycheck to buy snacks from the vending machine by my dorm. some say i might’ve been struggling financially—i’m gonna have to agree. anywayyyyy, the music is kinda made for people who want to imagine what sex is like without actually having to experience it (there has to be a better way to say this my god). it’s melodramatic, sometimes gaudy, but always good idc. these lyrics were tearing 19-year-old me apartttttt.

• i would’ve been that one grad student in elizabeth holmes’ chemistry lab praying on her downfall.
• i’m sitting at my desk trying to work but i think this job is genuinely making me depressed. it’s hard to explain but going to the office feels like a funeral procession—i find myself gravitating to all black outfits and walking somberly to the metro as if i’m awaiting the fate of my livelihood. last year when it was even worse (lol yeah that’s possible) and my mom would comment on how sad my eyes looked on facetime. i didn’t believe her at first but now it’s all see when i look at myself in passing. it’s draining. i just want these people to take me seriously like everyone else in my life. why can’t they see me? but also who fucking cares about them? idk. it also sucks because i’m wearing my sophie sweater today and serving too much cunt for a corporate environment.

• i will never forgive the initial commodification of large language models by openai. its gonna take so much longer for ai research to be taken seriously by the general population.
• i deleted my twitter account about two years ago and while i’m eternally grateful for that decision, i’ve always been nervous that i’d be missing out on the inside jokes that make up most of internet culture. all that to say, thank god for those meme pages on instagram reposting tweets like i really needed someone to fill that vacuum of humor and they came through for me.
• i have a memory from elementary school where i was in my music class and playing with a sharpened pencil on the carpet. all i remember next is the pencil going through my left hand and blood leaking all over my uniform shirt. it seemed that no one helped fast enough as the blood dried on my skin with smudges from my tears i’m guessing? i still don’t know if that was a dream.
• time isn’t as close as i think it is. it’s like when i turn back i can’t see it anymore, i’m waving back to get its attention—i still feel the weigh over my shoulder.
• i’m gripping what i want so tightly i might kill it. i can see the life leaving its eyes and veins pop. but it’s for me. i know it’s for me.
• oliynykova’s serve is so cool, it looks too cool to be that consistent and fluid.
• i think ariana grande was allowed to co-opt black culture without too much blowback from the public since she was a child star on nickelodeon. to me at least, working with dan schneider under the age of 18 gives you one hall pass for a socially unacceptable behavior. i’m thinking about this since i’m a) a gay guy and b) listening to positions in a time of tumultuous transition.
• this tweet fr follows me everywhere:

• there has to be a drink with the same flavor profile as classic red bull like i can’t keep drinking caffeine like this if i want to retire in brazil.
• i find it so endearing that my barber sings along to the radio while he cuts my hair. he’s not shy with it either, finding harmonies with the melody and vocalizing the ad-libs with precision. i sometimes join him in between cuts obviously avoiding eye contact even though everyone knows the words to s&m…
• i’m actually so glad i don’t have a childhood home. i don’t think i can visit a space of mine that has witnessed so much change. my presence is inherently transient. i’ve gotten so attached to places i’ve only lived in for a couple months, college dorms mostly. i look back at the photos and can explain ever design choice, every poster placement, every pin on my wall.
• why do we need to ai-generate little latin boys with grammys if we have bad bunny performing at the super bowl?
• i don’t have my pulse on the culture like i used to but i hope bugonia is a frontrunner in the oscar conversation. (aside: i’ve heard so much about one battle after another [review below] and tbh i wasn’t as impressive as it was made out to be. coming into it i had this expectation that pta succinctly captured the climate of post-covid america in three hours and while he kinda did, it didn’t move me at all? that’s a pretty loaded statement and i probably need to write a full-blown essay about it but i digress…)

• i think gpt by stayc is the best songs on love in the internet age post-covid and that’s a hill i’m willing to die on. i’m also only sharing this opinion because i think i’m dl, but in a k-pop sort of way. (aside: i’ve been on the periphery of k-pop stan culture for most of my time on twitter and regularly found myself running in the same circles as people with irene avis. in a way i felt an kinship with them and i don’t think i have time to explain further.)
• the world has always been broken
• i feel like 2% of all air canada employees speak french fr
• are you predicting trends or just observing what’s already in front of you?
• whenever i drink a strawberry matcha i feel like a fruit fly drinking sugar water in a wet lab
• is media literacy really at an all time low if the only people seeing these takes are also concerned with anti-intellectualism? we only talk about these issues as outsiders looking in instead of actually interacting with the realistic opinions of the people who are “media illiterate.” it also doesn’t help that these conversations mainly happen online with media publications regurgitating the spark notes version of a video essay an editor found on youtube. i guarantee you most people don’t know who mina le is.
• there’s something about the personality of the average british person that makes the traitors uk the best in the franchise
• emerald fennell’s movies are gonna be cult classics in 30 years and yes i’m being dead serious
• rather than relying on gestures, we rely on diction and syntax
• we need more horny b-roll footage
• industry is one of the only shows that treats sex scenes as something that is used to explicitly help the narrative to make relationships more obvious to viewer without it teetering on “show, don’t tell.” it feels less intimate—more viscous and voyeuristic. it’s like i’m watching something too realistic to suspend my belief that i’m watching television.
• imagine if tennis had loser brackets… like imagine an unseeded player grinding through the draw after losing early and then having to reset the bracket against sinner in the final… like i’d kill myself.
• life constantly feels like you’re traversing fog of  war and unlocking previously restricted areas; somehow MOBAs are a useful metaphor.
• time builds fondness
• and of course this knocked me off my ass btw:

There are two cardinal rules of writing. First, you never say I’m trying to write a book, novel, short story, etc. Second, you never talk about what you’re writing in detail. Break these rules and you’ll never get anything done.

I don’t like talking about my upcoming projects because I always jinx myself. However, eventually I’m going to have to talk about them. And since I’ve been mostly consistent on posting on this blog, the momentum helped me bring back unfinished short stories out of the back burner.

I’ve stopped writing short stories for several years because I’ve been so busy. Now, I’m back in the game. I have a chance to finish my short story trilogy before the year is done.

Why now? I hate leaving anything unfinished. At this point in my life I don’t care if my works succeed or not. It’s all about just finishing. Best to be last in the finish line than to drop out completely. At least I can say to myself in the mirror that I did it.

Do you have any writing projects in your back burner? Do you want to finish them regardless if you succeed or not? Take advantage of 2026 before 2027 creeps up on you.

#writing #project #shortstory

Almighty and Everlasting God, Who hatest nothing that Thou hast made, and dost forgive the sins of all those who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we. worthily lamenting our sins, and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of Thee, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ, Thy Son, our Lord, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Ghost, ever One God, world without end. Amen.

—Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church, 1917

#lent #prayers

This series begins with the post, Rules for Thee: The Homeowners Association Community Standards. Moving on to “Prohibited Items,” this is what it says for my HOA-governed neighborhood (emphasis mine):

Certain alterations/conditions are not allowed within the Declaration without the written approval of the Board as submitted by the ACC. These include, but are not limited to those listed below. They are considered to be in VIOLATION and subject to immediate action by the ACC through the Violation Procedures as amended from time to time.

•Window Air Conditioning Units

•Satellite Dishes over 39.37 in.

•Aluminum, metal, plastic, or fiberglass roofs where the roof pitch is equal to or greater than 3/12 unless covered by composite asphalt/fiberglass multi-tab or dimensional shingles.

•Wood or asphalt mineral surface roll roofs

•Plastic or Artificial flowers.

The first major problem I had in my new house was the a/c. Within two or three years, it needed new coils because mine were freezing up and the type I had was outdated and no longer on the market. WTF! Next, I needed a new fan motor because mine burned out. That was between year three and four. By year five or six, the a/c was irreparable, and the cost for replacement was $9k!!! Thankfully, it went out in the “fall” or I probably would have died.

So, for a year or so, I had one a/c window unit in the back. Next, I added another to the front. Then, I added a portable one that had a part you had to put to the window, but it didn’t hang out the window. It was hot AF in this house! I gathered a fraction of the money then applied for a bank loan to finance a new unit.

I wrote all that to say not one time did the HOA say anything. There were other “violators” in the neighborhood. And I actually didn’t know it was against “Community Standards” until a gracious informant clued me in. Plus, I have definitely seen artificial flowers. Do you really think homeowners are asking for permission from the “Architecture Committee” for box air conditioners and fake ass flowers?

When you closed on your house located in an HOA-governed community, you agreed to things that you may not have imagined. Yes, you as a grown person—who likely made the largest purchase of your lifetime—signed up to have an abundance of rules for a property you thought you owned. These rules exist to create homogeneity for the betterment of the community, aka “to increase property values…or at least that’s what they continue to tell you. Look at the verbiage HOAs use (emphasis mine):

It is the intention of the ACC to maintain a high standard of exterior architectural appearance throughout the Vista Palms Community. The following guidelines have been set up to protect the integrity of the community for both the developer’s interests and the purchasers’ investment therein. Your adherence to these guidelines will help preserve the quality of Vista Palms.

However, if you have come to understand how rules work, rules are not for everyone. And they are often enforced arbitrarily. You can see this by driving through a community. But you will not truly know unless you know someone who the HOA has made an example of. Thankfully, I will demonstrate this through a review of my neighborhood in a series of posts, beginning with this one.

My HOA Community Standards document informs homeowners upfront that they don’t mean everything that they say. And even if they don’t say something, it may still apply to you (emphasis mine):

This Community Standards Document is established to assist the Architectural Control Committee (ACC) and Owners with procedures and guidelines through consistent and high quality design standards for the property alteration process. It supports and amplifies the Declaration of Restrictions and Covenants and other governing documents that bind each property Owner. It is provided to residents of Vista Palms for their future reference. This document is not intended to address all possible situations, alterations, etc…These standards do not cover every possible situation that may require ACC approval.

So, what does the Architectural Committee have jurisdiction over? Well, everything related to the outside of your house and the surrounding land as follows (emphasis mine):

Any exterior property alteration (to the home or the lot) requires the completion of an “Application to Architectural Control Committee” form that must be approved by the ACC. A copy of a blank application form is included in this booklet.

Examples of alterations include, but are not limited to:

•Awnings

•Brick pavers: location and color

•Changes to the exterior color of the home (painting)

•Exterior decoration applied above garage doors and fronts of homes

•Recreational or sporting equipment

•Fences

•Flag poles and antennas

•Front door: style and/or color

•Gutters: style, color

•Items in flowerbed besides plants

•Lanais, sunrooms and gazebos

•Lighting: placement and size

•Landscaping (refer to Article 4)

•Pools, spas, hot tubs, whirlpools

•Porches, decks and patios

•Roofing

•Screen Enclosures

•Home additions and exterior renovations

You bought/financed a house so that you could apply to your HOA to determine if you can make any changes to your house. Does that sound like something you own?

I imagine this scenario below to make myself laugh even though it isn’t the greatest analogy [because the car doesn’t stay on the lot in one community].

You buy a Ford Expedition. You decide you want change the color of the car from black to blue but you have to apply to the Ford Architectural Committee (FAC) first. They say yes because blue is safer than black (Why did they sell you a black car then?). But it has to be sky blue because it has to match the current fleet of Ford Expeditions. Your a/c stops functioning and so you leave the windows down all the time. The FAC tells you that you cannot have those windows down like that and they are going to fine you $1000. (They don’t have to do to this. They want to do this.) You are confused because there are other Fords drivers with their windows down but, apparently, they only have their windows down at night. A/C repair is $800 which you obviously do not have right now because, duh, why would you be having your windows down while it is 106 degrees outside. There are two nails in your left passenger tire and you get one used tire to replace it. The FAC sends you a notice that you aren’t allow to have mismatched tires on your Expedition because that doesn’t represent the “high standard” of the brand. But you don’t need four new tires plus you don’t have the money to replace them all in addition to needing a new $800 a/c and having to pay the $1k fine for having your windows down all day for the past few months. You play your music loud in your Expedition’s upgraded sound system while you try to come up with a plan for all your expenses. The FAC sends you a violation stating that the volume of your music is unacceptable for a person who drives a Ford Expedition and you will be fined $1000. You now have the money to get all new tires and to get the a/c fixed. You receive a notice from Ford Law Firm that your case has been referred to them and that you owe fines and attorney’s fees for multiple violations and if you don’t pay, they will take you to court to get a lien and/or take the car from you to sell it. But you own the it. What? At least you can just sell the Expedition because it has a value higher than other brands…except that people are now buying much older cars because they realized that there is better value in those. Plus, there are so many other Expedition-type vehicles on the market that are cheaper than yours and with similar features. Also, sky blue is like, so senior-citizen.

Because I have something like 400 books stored in Houston, a few of which I'd like to bring back to Cairo with me, I decided to travel without a book on my person, and that way I'd have one less book to carry. Instead, I grabbed my kindle—which I hadn't touched in over a year—to start diving into whatever unread book(s) I might have on it. Walter Mosely's ARCHIBALD LAWLESS, ANARCHIST AT LARGE has thus far not disappointed. Apparently, you can hardly ever go wrong with me if the book prominently features a character that tethers between genius and madness.

Enjoyed watching BUGONIA on the long leg from Paris, though its title does strike me as a little forced. I also watched the Francois Ozon film adaptation of Albert Camus' THE STRANGER, which was surprisingly good. Surprising only because the book itself is rather peculiar and doesn't quite lend itself too well to movies, but the black & white cinematography alone is just gorgeous, and all the performances are very on point.

The weather in Houston this time of year is both warm and crisp, and much more pleasant than Cairo right now which has yet to fully shed its winter chill, despite Khamaseen dust storms having just rolled in early this year—typically a sign of incoming spring.

The AirBnB I'm staying at is just around the corner from my kid's place, his school sandwiched in-between. Got to walk him to school this morning, which was just absolutely delightful.

#journal #travel