CeCe is Freaky Again

#nsfw #CeCe

CeCe still had impeccable fashion sense, piecing together outfits from thrift stores and online deals that made her look polished, professional. On workdays, she'd tuck away the naked freak entirely. She dressed presentably in blouses and slacks, arriving at the tech firm with calculated efficiency, her brilliant mind dissecting code and prototypes like it was child's play. Despite lacking a degree, her raw talent shone through; promotions came steadily, compensation rising with each one. It was all she had outside our bubble. This was her anchor to stability, so she fought for it tooth and nail. She masked her obsessions behind spreadsheets and meetings, never letting a hint of her porn-fueled world slip.

What no one knew. Her bosses praised her for her dedication to the company.

Her daily transformation to her true self started with her commute home. We were able to save our money and buy affordable cars. It was a fond memory because we picked them out for each other, not for ourselves.

As soon as she pulled out of the parking lot in her small Honda, merging into the city's evening traffic, she'd start undressing—blouse unbuttoned and tossed to the passenger seat, skirt hiked up and shimmied off, bra and panties following until she was completely bare, her curvy body reclining against the leather as she smiled to herself. The steering wheel cool against her bare breasts, the AC teasing her nipples, the thrill of potential accidents or glances from trucks beside her—it was her decompression, a private rebellion before she arrived home to me, naked and waiting.

And yes, she often got out her car wearing nothing but heels and smile carrying her clothes like it was just a normal day. I told her they will kick us out. She just responds with “We pay rent early and no one has complained.” There is no winning when CeCe wants to be naked.

CeCe had developed quite the reputation as “the naked chick,” at our apartment complex. No one ever said it to our faces. Neighbors witnessed some of her naked antics. They would see her strolling to the laundry room in the dead of night, thick thighs flexing as she carried baskets with nothing but flip-flops on, her full breasts swaying freely. Sometimes she would slip out for trash runs, her juicy ass on display under the dim hallway lights. She even took quick naked trips to the mailbox, where she'd stand exposed for a moment, sorting mail before retreating. But it was always calculated. She chose late hours, avoiding family hours when kids might be around. Folks would nod politely in the mornings, pretending they hadn't seen, but whispers floated.

Inside our apartment, our place was a shrine to her addictions: multiple screens flickering with porn tabs. Black women in exhibitionist bliss, gooning sessions that ran for hours. We had dildos and toys scattered on nightstands and shelves, lube bottles within arm's reach. I didn't mind one bit. I didn't want CeCe to feel limited, caged in by judgment. If it weren't for me and my family welcoming her into holidays and support, she'd be utterly alone, adrift in her fixations with porn her only companion.

Speaking of my family, CeCe took to them well. We started small. I took her on a Friday evening to meet my mom. At that time, we were just friends and I kept it that way. My mom is a special needs professional and was well versed in handling CeCe. My mom's name is Mimi. CeCe took to her quickly and I was glad to see that she found another safe person to add to her circle. Mom insisted that CeCe talk to her on a first name basis. That took some pressure off the formalities for her.

Over time my mom and I slowly acclimated her to the rest of the family in small doses. By the 3rd year of us living together, CeCe would breeze through family gatherings with ease. However this peace did not last long.

At gatherings, my aunt and uncle would corner me. My older cousins would watch us and judge. Some of my distant cousins were getting married and starting families.

My bold relatives would say things out of earshot from everyone. They would say things almost every time they saw me: “Tasha, why are you still living with CeCe? You're not getting any younger.” “Find a man, start a family.”

What they said stung, it wore me down but I hid it. Their assumptions about my life, about us. It was all wrong, but I didn't want to tell them. I didn't want to drag CeCe into another stressful family situation. I still have not come out to my mom yet. It was too much. So I just dealt with the comments shielding CeCe the best I could.

However, CeCe eventually overheard them during one fateful Thanksgiving dinner. They had gotten bolder over the past few gatherings and stopped being as discreet as before.

CeCe let it slide the first time, but the second time she heard it, she had enough. She came to my defense fiercely, her voice steady but edged with that calm directness that cut through bullshit. “Our life is more complicated than that,” she said openly, no shame in her tone. “If you have a problem with a lesbian couple, then maybe I don't have any family here either.”

The room went silent, tension crackling, but my mom shut it down quick—standing her ground, eyes flashing at the judging relatives. “Don't you start.” She stared daggers at the ring leaders with a paused silence. “Tasha's happy, and CeCe's family. If you can't accept that, you're the ones missing out.” It was a turning point; my mom had became our quiet advocate. She didn't even know our real status until that very moment, but she stood firm and supported us. I almost cried if it wasn't for how uneasy the moment was.

The ring leader that kept pushing me to settle down said meekly, “I didn't know.” Head down speaking softly. Her fork resting on her plate in shame.

Mom wasn't having it. She was done.

“This gathering is over. Make a plate and leave, this is not how we spend Thanksgiving together. Someone else can try again next year.” The room remained silent. She continued, her strong voice resonating off the walls. “My mother and father, the ones who bought this house would never want us fighting in our house. And if any of you have problems with Tasha and CeCe, now that you know the truth, do not come back here again. I will not stand for anyone judging my babies like this.”

With a knowing silence, my aunt and uncle quietly took their leave. My cousins took their prepared dishes home with them. If they wanted anything, mom just nodded silently. She didn't leave the dinner table. Watching everyone like a sentinel. A guardian.

CeCe just held my hand slowly rubbing my palm for comfort. I didn't make eye contact with anyone. I just looked away. I didn't want everyone to find out like this, but I guess they had to find out eventually. I wasn't embarrassed. I just didn't want CeCe to have another bad family moment. Once everyone left, I told my mom “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen.” CeCe was the first one to respond and she gently slapped my hand.

“Shush, I'm the one that spoke up. None of this is your fault in the slightest. I just couldn't sit by and let them pick on you.”

My mom sat and observed. She looked at us differently now as if the nearly 4 years we had been living together finally started to click. “It all make sense now.” She said with a knowing fascination. There was no judgement. She was letting reality settle in.

My mom is amazing.

After that day, my mom stepped up in ways I never expected. She decided to keep family gatherings between just us from that day forward. She didn't mind. It was less work. If her siblings wanted big gatherings, they would have to step it up from now on. Just like me, she devoted her free time to nurture CeCe. She knew the events that lead us to dropping out of college and her breakdown being exposed to everyone in her dorm.

From then on, my mom poured into CeCe like she was her own daughter, inviting us over more often for quiet dinners or longer visits to her house to spend the weekends together. I was really impressed and surprised by how readily she accepted our lesbian relationship. She didn't judge, no prying questions.

She even casually suggested marriage one day, not for romance, but for the legal benefits: She spoke to me quietly, “When CeCe's ready, think about it—health insurance, taxes, all that practical stuff. Love like yours deserves protection.” I was stunned my mom was ok with that. She understood my love for CeCe stemmed from her brightness, her raw talent, her directness, and that unapologetic spirit—you couldn't help but want to support her, to shield her from a world that often misunderstood her fixations.

CeCe felt safe and comfortable around my mom in a way she never had with her own family, opening up bit by bit during those visits. Mom was the curious sort, always observant, and it didn't take long for her to notice how CeCe fidgeted in her clothes—tugging at collars, shifting uncomfortably in seats, like the fabric was an itch she couldn't scratch. One Sunday afternoon, as we sat in her living room sipping tea, Mimi leaned forward with that gentle, knowing smile. “CeCe, honey, why do you always look so uncomfortable in your clothes? Like you'd rather not be wearing them at all,” she said with a playful smirk.

CeCe froze, her eyes darting to me, but I decided to be candid. CeCe would never have broached it on her own. “Well, Mom, CeCe is basically Eve's half-sister. You can't keep clothes on the girl.”

Mimi's eyes widened in great surprise, her teacup pausing mid-sip. She set it down, a flicker of upset crossing her face. She was not angry, but looked hurt hurt. “Tasha, why on earth did it take so long for you to tell me this? I'm your mother. We both could've been supporting her all this time! It's just us ladies here after all.” She turned to CeCe, her voice softening. “If that's how you are, then be naked anytime you want in my house. I mean it. But let's talk about it, okay? I want to understand your true nature and I need to make sure I'm ready for what I'm giving permission to.”

We had a long talk that afternoon, the three of us on the couch, sunlight streaming through the windows as CeCe slowly peeled off her layers—first her sweater, then her jeans, until she sat there naked, her caramel curves relaxed for the first time that day. I made sure mom was truly prepared, probing gently: “Mom, this isn't just casual—it's extreme more than I can say right now. Are you sure you want the full story? It might change how you see things.” Mom nodded firmly, her professional instructor's empathy shining through, ready to listen without flinching.

CeCe, hesitant at first, told her most everything, her voice steady but vulnerable as she opened up. She explained why her mom got arrested—that frantic night fueled by CeCe's phone confession about loving porn and masturbation, rejecting marriage and traditional life, which sent her mom into a tailspin of control and denial. “Porn... it's everything to me now,” Her voice wavered, quivered, trembling. I held her hand and looked at her willing support telepathically. The woman was brave. She was naked in my moms house confessing her deepest secret to someone else for the first time.

“It started in college when Tasha showed me porn to help after a bad date. I was so sheltered, so shy, but it fixated me—especially videos of black women owning their bodies, exposing themselves. It's my coping mechanism, my high. I have to watch it to cum, to feel regulated.” She slowly gestured to her bare body with a tentative smile.

“I do everything like this—all the time. Laundry, cooking, even working from home. It's very extreme....” She hesitated with a sigh, letting the full gravity of her depraved mind walk into the light.

“I masturbate in public spots. I sent Tasha nudes from the college library all the time. I have done this in parks too. I know its risky, I know its very wrong, I know you are probably shocked too, but it makes me feel alive. It's who I am now.... and I understand if you want nothing to do with me anymore. I know I'm a degenerate freak that will never get therapy to fix this...I don't want to fix this.”

She sighed.. CeCe braced herself, eyes downcast, scared she'd be outcast again, unwanted like with her own family. “I think you will hate me for it,” she whispered, trembling. “That I'd be too much. So I hid the truth. I thought I could stay dressed and pretend while I'm here. You do so much for both of us. I respected your home too much to do such things like this or even talk about this without permission.”

Mom was totally unfazed. She reached out and took CeCe's hand, her expression warm and steady. She turned to me then, eyes misty but resolute. “She's precious, Tasha. Do everything you can to protect her. I see now why you bonded with her—you're her protector and her anchor. Yes, I was hoping my baby would settle down with a man, but I see why CeCe was a necessary detour and truly your calling. You are her rock. You didn't want to take that away from her. I welcome her too, because you showed her you were safe. CeCe is a brilliant and talented woman. In my profession I have talked and dealt with all kinds of unusual situations. To me, this is no different. CeCe is not harming herself. She is thriving with you. Just like you Tasha, I can overlook her 'unique' traits. She's a woman living her life without any shame or apology. I can't help but applaud that. Your secrets are safe with me. I love you both. What you just told me changes nothing.”

My mom got up and hugged the naked woman. CeCe was trembling. She was ready for the worst and instead she was shown love and understanding. CeCe broke down into hysterical crying right there, collapsing into my mom's arms, her naked body shaking with sobs that seemed to release a lifetime of pain. Tears soaking my mom's blouse.

She was so ready for things to go the other way—rejection, judgment—but instead, she found the mom she never had, accepting her fully, flaws and all. The rest of the day was spent comforting her: My mom holding her like a child, rocking gently and whispering affirmations; me stroking her back, wiping her tears, the three of us tangled in a heap on the couch. It was years of hurt, abandonment, judgment, and trauma pouring out, finally letting go because, at last, she was accepted—naked, obsessed, and unapologetically herself.

In Summary: * Listening now to women's basketball with the North Carolina Tar Heels leading the SMU Mustangs 20 to 7 in the first quarter. I plan to stay with this game until it ends, then take care of my night prayers before putting my old self to bed.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night. Details of that regimen are linked to my link tree, which is linked to my profile page here.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 145/86 (65)

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

Diet: * 05:30 – 1 peanut butter sandwich * 06:30 – 1 Sonic cheeseburger * 08:15 – 2 crispy oatmeal cookies * 09:20 – beef chop suey * 09:50 – enchiladas * 10:30 – breaded pork chops * 18:00 – cheese and crackers

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 06:00 – bank accounts activity monitored * 06:30 – read, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials * 13:30 – listen to The Dan Bongino Show Podcast * 15:00 – listen to The Jack Ricardi Show * 16:59 – listening now to the pregame finishing for tonight's NCAA women's basketball game between the SMU Mustangs and the North Carolina Tar Heels. Call of the game will be provided by the SMU Mustangs Sports Network.

Chess: * 12:30 – moved in all pending CC games

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POTUS is working hard to insure that only his friends are allowed to vote. Enacting the SAFE Act which requires a state issued ID or passport to vote will disenfranchise millions of legal voters who do not have these documents for many legitimate reasons. For example, blind people do not have drivers licenses, yet they are citizens and have a right to vote.

POTUS has been working for years to make sure that Republicans control elections. The NY Times has documented his actions to control voters in this article https://www.brennancenter.org/our-work/research-reports/timeline-trump-administrations-efforts-undermine-elections which appeared on their website.

It shows the many actions that POTUS and his cohorts have taken to make sure that you don't vote at all if you won't vote the way they want. It will ensure that only republicans win elections. Just another example of how POTUS hates Americans and the freedoms the Constitution guarantees all of us.

POTUS Roaster

Thanks for reading these posts. Th read other posts in this series go to write.as/potusroaster/archive.

Please tell your friends and family about these posts.

There is something in Luke 10 that refuses to stay safely on the page. It will not allow itself to be admired from a distance like a stained-glass window glowing in soft religious light. It walks into the room. It rearranges the furniture. It confronts the comfortable. It heals the broken. It disrupts the busy. Luke 10 is not merely a chapter of Scripture. It is a commissioning, a collision, and a correction wrapped into one continuous movement of heaven pressing into earth.

The chapter begins not with stillness but with sending. Seventy others are appointed and sent out two by two ahead of Jesus into every town and place where He Himself was about to go. That detail alone changes everything. They were not sent randomly. They were not sent to represent themselves. They were sent ahead of Him. They were the advance notice of mercy. They were the prelude to redemption. They were the echo before the Voice arrived.

There is a pattern here that stretches into every generation. God still sends people ahead of His visible movement. He plants witnesses before revival. He positions encouragers before breakthrough. He dispatches obedience before manifestation. The harvest, Jesus says, is plentiful, but the laborers are few. That line has been quoted so often it risks losing its urgency, but if one pauses long enough, the weight of it becomes undeniable. The problem has never been the readiness of hearts. The problem has been the scarcity of those willing to walk into fields that do not belong to them.

The seventy were told to go as lambs among wolves. No weapon. No defensive strategy. No promise of comfort. Just authority and obedience. That is a terrifying combination for anyone who wants guarantees. The Kingdom does not offer safety as the world defines it. It offers purpose. There is a difference. Safety seeks preservation. Purpose seeks fulfillment. When a person chooses purpose, preservation becomes secondary.

They were instructed to carry no purse, no bag, no sandals. Dependence was not optional; it was the design. The Kingdom economy does not operate on self-sufficiency. It operates on trust. The modern instinct is to prepare for every contingency, to insulate against risk, to secure every possible outcome. Yet here are seventy ordinary people being told to walk into unknown territories with nothing but a message and authority over darkness. It forces the question: what are we clinging to that keeps us from being sent?

The instruction to greet no one on the road was not about coldness. It was about focus. Distraction is often the enemy of destiny. The mission was urgent. The peace they carried was real. If a house received that peace, it would rest there. If not, it would return to them. There is an emotional resilience in that teaching. Not every place will receive what you bring. Not every person will understand your obedience. Not every environment will celebrate your calling. Yet rejection does not diminish authority. It only reveals alignment.

Then comes the line that has humbled many proud hearts. If a town rejects you, shake the dust off your feet as a testimony against them. That gesture was not petty. It was prophetic. It declared that responsibility had been transferred. The message had been delivered. The opportunity had been offered. Accountability now belonged to the hearer. There is freedom in that understanding. The outcome does not rest on the messenger alone. Faithfulness does.

When the seventy return, they are exhilarated. Even the demons submit in Jesus’ name. There is a kind of joy that comes from visible impact, from measurable results, from spiritual authority demonstrated in tangible ways. Yet Jesus responds with perspective. He says He saw Satan fall like lightning from heaven. He affirms their authority, but then He redirects their joy. Do not rejoice that the spirits submit to you. Rejoice that your names are written in heaven.

This is a correction many modern movements desperately need. Power is intoxicating. Influence is seductive. Visibility is addictive. Yet the deepest joy is not in what bows before you but in where you belong. Identity before impact. Relationship before results. Heaven’s registry matters more than earth’s applause. If the seventy had built their joy on manifestations alone, they would have been vulnerable to despair the first time the miracles seemed delayed. But if their joy was rooted in belonging, nothing external could uproot it.

Then Luke records something extraordinary. Jesus rejoices in the Holy Spirit. He thanks the Father for hiding these things from the wise and learned and revealing them to little children. This is not anti-intellectualism. It is anti-pride. Revelation does not bow to human hierarchy. The Kingdom is not unlocked by credentials but by humility. The learned may analyze. The child receives. The sophisticated may debate. The surrendered understands.

In that moment, Jesus reveals an intimacy within the Trinity that is almost overwhelming. No one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and those to whom the Son chooses to reveal Him. Knowledge of God is not achieved; it is revealed. It is not conquered; it is given. The invitation into that revelation still stands. The question is whether pride blocks what humility could receive.

Then comes the story that has transcended religious boundaries and entered global vocabulary: the Good Samaritan. Yet familiarity has dulled its blade. To hear it rightly, one must feel the shock of it. A man is traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho and is attacked, stripped, beaten, and left half dead. A priest passes by. A Levite passes by. Both religious figures. Both trained in law. Both familiar with holiness codes. Both choosing distance over involvement.

Then a Samaritan appears. In that culture, the word itself carried tension. Samaritans were despised by many Jews, viewed as compromised, impure, outsiders. Yet it is the Samaritan who stops. It is the Samaritan who feels compassion. It is the Samaritan who binds wounds, pours oil and wine, lifts the broken man onto his own animal, brings him to an inn, pays for his care, and promises to return.

Jesus asks a question that reverses the lawyer’s original inquiry. The lawyer had asked, “Who is my neighbor?” Jesus asks, “Which of these was a neighbor?” The shift is seismic. The focus moves from defining who deserves love to embodying love regardless of category. Neighbor is not a label to assign. It is a posture to assume.

The priest and Levite may have had reasons. Ritual purity laws. Safety concerns. Scheduling pressures. Religious obligations. Yet compassion was postponed in the name of responsibility. The Samaritan interrupts his journey. Compassion costs him time, money, and convenience. Love is rarely efficient. It is rarely tidy. It is rarely comfortable. But it is always transformative.

The oil and wine are not random details. Oil soothes. Wine disinfects. Compassion is not sentimental; it is practical. It addresses real wounds with tangible action. The Samaritan does not merely pray from a distance. He touches blood. He carries weight. He invests resources. This is not charity from superiority. It is mercy from proximity.

There is also a prophetic undercurrent in the story. Humanity lies beaten on the roadside of sin. Religion passes by with explanations. Law passes by with standards. But unexpected mercy arrives, binds wounds, pays debts, and promises return. The Samaritan becomes a shadow of a greater Rescuer who steps into hostility to redeem the wounded.

Yet Luke 10 does not end on the road to Jericho. It moves into a home in Bethany. Martha welcomes Jesus into her house. Mary sits at His feet listening to what He says. Martha is distracted by much serving. The Greek suggests being pulled in different directions. She is not lazy. She is not malicious. She is overwhelmed.

Martha approaches Jesus and asks if He cares that her sister has left her to do the work alone. Tell her to help me. There is frustration in her voice. There is exhaustion in her spirit. There is a subtle accusation toward both Mary and Jesus. Yet Jesus responds with tenderness. Martha, Martha. You are worried and upset about many things, but few things are needed, or indeed only one. Mary has chosen what is better, and it will not be taken from her.

This is not a rebuke of service. It is a correction of priority. Service detached from presence becomes anxiety. Activity detached from intimacy becomes agitation. Martha was serving for Jesus while Mary was sitting with Him. The order matters. The Kingdom does not reject work. It rejects work that replaces relationship.

The entire chapter forms a tapestry. The seventy sent in dependence. Joy redirected toward identity. Revelation given to the humble. Compassion embodied across hostility. Presence prioritized over performance. Luke 10 is not random episodes strung together. It is a portrait of what it means to participate in the Kingdom without losing the King.

There is a danger in being sent without staying. There is a danger in serving without sitting. There is a danger in loving abstractly without touching wounds. There is a danger in rejoicing over power without treasuring belonging. Luke 10 confronts every one of those dangers.

It calls believers out of spectator faith and into commissioned obedience. It dismantles pride disguised as wisdom. It challenges prejudice masked as theology. It exposes busyness masquerading as devotion. It invites intimacy over image. It demands compassion over convenience.

The seventy learned that authority flows from alignment. The lawyer learned that love crosses boundaries. Martha learned that presence precedes productivity. And the reader is left with a decision. Will the message remain admired, or will it be embodied?

Luke 10 does not permit half-measures. It refuses to let compassion be theoretical. It refuses to let identity be secondary. It refuses to let service overshadow surrender. It insists that the Kingdom is both proclaimed and practiced, both powerful and personal, both active and attentive.

There are fields still white for harvest. There are roads still stained with wounded travelers. There are kitchens still crowded with anxious service. There are hearts still wrestling with the question of who qualifies as neighbor. And there is still a Savior rejoicing in the Spirit, inviting the humble to understand what pride cannot grasp.

The sending continues. The compassion continues. The correction continues. And the invitation remains open. Luke 10 is not confined to ancient soil. It breathes wherever obedience answers calling, wherever mercy interrupts prejudice, wherever presence quiets anxiety, and wherever joy finds its anchor not in what bows before it but in the assurance that a name is written in heaven.

Luke 10 does not simply describe a moment in history; it exposes the architecture of the Kingdom and then asks whether anyone is willing to live inside it. If the first movement of the chapter is commissioning, the second is clarification. If the seventy reveal the reach of the mission, the Samaritan reveals the heart of it, and Mary reveals the center of it. Taken together, they dismantle every shallow version of faith that tries to survive on reputation, ritual, or relentless activity.

Consider again the sending of the seventy. They were instructed to say, “The Kingdom of God has come near to you.” Not will come. Not might come. Has come near. Proximity changes responsibility. When something is far away, it can be ignored without consequence. When something is near, it demands response. The Kingdom is not an abstract future reality reserved for a distant horizon. It presses close. It interrupts schedules. It enters towns and houses and conversations. It demands either reception or rejection.

There is a sobering realism in Jesus’ instructions. Some towns would receive them. Some would not. The Kingdom advances without denial about human resistance. It does not collapse because of rejection. It does not shrink because of hostility. It continues. There is something profoundly stabilizing in that truth. The obedience of the messenger is not invalidated by the indifference of the hearer. The measure of success in the Kingdom is faithfulness, not applause.

Then the return of the seventy reveals another layer of human nature. They are thrilled that demons submit to them. There is nothing inherently wrong with that joy. Authority exercised for the liberation of others is good. Yet Jesus sees beneath the surface. He knows how easily visible power can eclipse invisible security. When He tells them to rejoice that their names are written in heaven, He is anchoring them to something unshakeable. Authority can fluctuate in its expression. Circumstances can shift. But belonging does not waver.

Identity is the foundation of endurance. When identity rests on performance, burnout is inevitable. When identity rests on recognition, insecurity is constant. But when identity rests on being known by God, the soul becomes steady. The seventy needed that steadiness before the next assignment ever came.

Jesus’ rejoicing in the Spirit reveals another dimension that is often overlooked. He celebrates the Father’s pleasure in revealing truth to the humble. The Kingdom is not impressed with self-sufficiency. It is responsive to childlike dependence. There is a kind of strength in surrender that the world misunderstands. To kneel before truth is not weakness. It is alignment. Pride resists revelation because pride wants control. Humility receives revelation because humility trusts.

Then the narrative pivots into the conversation with the expert in the law. The lawyer’s question appears sincere on the surface: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Yet it is framed in achievement language. What must I do. The law is quoted correctly. Love God. Love your neighbor. Yet the follow-up question reveals the underlying tension. “Who is my neighbor?” The desire is not merely to understand. It is to define limits.

Human nature prefers boundaries around compassion. It wants clarity about where responsibility ends. It seeks categories to justify selective love. Jesus responds not with a definition but with a disruption. The road from Jerusalem to Jericho becomes the stage for a revelation that pierces through centuries of prejudice.

The priest and the Levite represent more than individuals. They represent a system where religious identity can exist without relational mercy. They see the wounded man. They pass by on the other side. The language suggests deliberate distance. Compassion would have required inconvenience. It would have required interruption. It would have required risk. They chose continuity of schedule over disruption for mercy.

Then comes the Samaritan. The outsider becomes the embodiment of the law’s fulfillment. He sees. He feels compassion. He acts. There is a progression here that is impossible to ignore. True compassion is not theoretical. It begins with seeing, moves into feeling, and culminates in action. The Samaritan does not outsource responsibility. He does not create a committee. He kneels in the dirt and binds wounds.

Oil and wine are poured. The wounded man is lifted. The inn becomes a temporary refuge. Payment is made. A promise is extended: if there is more expense, I will repay you when I return. Love assumes ongoing responsibility. It does not abandon after initial assistance. It commits to follow-through.

When Jesus asks which of the three was a neighbor, the lawyer cannot even bring himself to say “the Samaritan.” He answers, “The one who had mercy on him.” Mercy becomes the defining trait. Not ethnicity. Not religious office. Not social standing. Mercy. Then Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.” There is no applause line. There is no theological debate. There is a command.

The weight of that command stretches across generations. It refuses to be domesticated. It asks whether faith will remain doctrinal or become incarnational. It asks whether love will remain rhetorical or become sacrificial. It asks whether prejudice will be surrendered or protected.

Then Luke transitions to the home of Martha and Mary, and the contrast is startling. After a story about radical compassion, the narrative enters a private domestic scene. Yet the tension is just as sharp. Martha welcomes Jesus. Hospitality is honorable. Service is necessary. Yet distraction begins to fracture devotion. The text does not condemn her service; it exposes her anxiety.

Martha is described as worried and upset about many things. The language suggests internal agitation. Her service has become a burden because it has lost its center. Mary, in contrast, sits at Jesus’ feet. That posture is significant. Sitting at a rabbi’s feet was the position of a disciple. Mary is not merely listening casually. She is receiving instruction. She is prioritizing presence over performance.

When Martha asks Jesus to correct Mary, she reveals something many have felt but rarely articulate. There is resentment when devotion appears less productive than activity. There is frustration when stillness seems irresponsible in the face of tasks. Yet Jesus’ response reframes the entire moment. Only one thing is needed. Mary has chosen what is better.

Better does not mean the absence of service. It means the right order of service. Intimacy fuels effective action. Without it, service becomes self-referential. It becomes about proving worth or maintaining image. Mary’s posture safeguards her heart. It anchors her identity before any work begins.

Luke 10, therefore, presents a progression. Sent into the world. Rooted in identity. Humbled into revelation. Compelled into compassion. Centered in presence. Each scene builds upon the last. Each exposes a potential imbalance.

A generation obsessed with platform needs the reminder that names written in heaven matter more than followers counted on earth. A culture quick to define enemies needs the reminder that mercy may arrive through unexpected hands. A society addicted to productivity needs the reminder that sitting at the feet of truth is not laziness but alignment.

There is also an undercurrent of return woven through the chapter. The seventy return from their mission. The Samaritan promises to return to settle any remaining debt. The rhythm of going and returning reflects the heartbeat of the Kingdom. Sent out. Drawn back. Active. Anchored. Compassionate. Contemplative.

If the chapter ended with the seventy, one might overemphasize action. If it ended with the Samaritan, one might reduce it to ethics. If it ended with Mary and Martha, one might retreat into private devotion. But together, they create a holistic vision. The Kingdom moves outward with authority, bends downward with mercy, and rests inwardly with intimacy.

Luke 10 also dismantles the illusion that faith can be compartmentalized. It cannot exist purely in proclamation without practice. It cannot exist purely in service without surrender. It cannot exist purely in contemplation without compassion. Each dimension feeds the others.

There is something deeply liberating in this integrated vision. The seventy were ordinary people entrusted with extraordinary authority. The Samaritan was an unlikely hero whose mercy redefined righteousness. Mary was a woman in a culture that often restricted female discipleship, yet she was affirmed as having chosen what is better. The Kingdom consistently elevates the overlooked and confronts the established.

The chapter ends quietly, but its implications are thunderous. It asks every reader to locate themselves within its scenes. Are you resisting being sent because security feels safer than obedience? Are you measuring your joy by visible results instead of eternal belonging? Are you defining neighbor in ways that protect comfort rather than expand compassion? Are you so busy serving that you have forgotten to sit?

Luke 10 refuses indifference. It refuses shallow admiration. It invites transformation. It reveals that the Kingdom is near, that authority is real, that mercy is costly, and that presence is essential.

The seventy walked dusty roads carrying peace into uncertain houses. The Samaritan knelt beside bloodied humanity and chose involvement over avoidance. Mary silenced the noise of expectation and chose to listen. These are not isolated characters. They are mirrors.

The harvest remains plentiful. The wounded remain visible. The distractions remain loud. Yet the invitation remains steady. Go. Rejoice rightly. Show mercy. Sit and listen. Then rise again, rooted and ready.

Luke 10 is not a chapter to analyze once and shelve. It is a pattern to inhabit. It is a call to live sent, love boldly, and remain anchored in the presence of the One who sends, heals, and teaches.

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

Audible Link

Die purpurnen Flüsse ist das vielleicht bekannteste Buch von Jean-Christophe Grangé, wohl auch, weil es davon eine relativ erfolgreiche Verfilmung gibt.

Der Film hat die Geschichte aber an vielen Stellen angepasst und nur selten zum Besseren. Das Buch hingegen erzählt eine packende Geschichte mit grossartigen Charakteren. Und die erstklassige Vertonung von Lübbe Audio lässt das Geschehen noch lebendiger, noch intensiver wirken.

Die Geschichte

Die Purpurnen Flüsse ist der erste Roman in dem der archetypische Grangé Charakter auftaucht; ein Polizist mit kaputtem Hintergrund. Dieser Hintergrund treibt ihn zu grosser Brutalität und fragwürdigen Entscheidungen, dafür erzielt er aber Resultate. Solche Charaktere werden in kommenden Werken des französischen Autors immer wieder auftauchen, hier erhalten wir ihn gleich im Doppelpack.

Dabei sind beide Männer, Pierre Niémans wie auch Karim Abdouf, sehr interessante Charaktere. Zweiteren lernen zudem wir über eine spannende Erzählung seines Hintergrunds kennen.

Pierre Niémans ermittelt in einer Universitätsstadt in den Alpen, nahe von Grenoble. Hier ist ein brutaler und mysteriöser Mord passiert. Die zahlreichen und grausamen Verletzungen und Verstümmelungen der Leiche werden, ebenfalls typisch für die Werke von Jean-Christophe Grangé, ausführlich beschrieben.

Die Suche nach dem Täter führt schier Unglaubliches zu Tage. Die Verbrechen sind unvorstellbar und die Verfolgung und Aufdeckung sehr spannend.

Die Vertonung

Gelesen wird das Buch von Joachim Kerzel, der vielen Grangé Büchern seine Stimme leiht und dabei immer einen super Job macht. Auch hier überzeugt er. Es ist jederzeit klar erkennbar welche Person gerade spricht, sich Gedanken macht oder ob wir dem Erzähler lauschen.

Die wahre Stärke von Kerzel liegt aber darin, die Emotionen der Personen zu vermitteln. Oft spielt er die Charaktere mehr als dass er den Text vorliesst.

Und dazu komm dann der eigentliche Clou der Lübbe Audio Vertonungen: Die Geschichte wird mit Geräuschen und mit Musik unterlegt. Damit gehen sie einen Schritt in Richtung Hörspiel, insgesamt ist das Werk aber immer noch klar als Hörbuch zu verstehen.

Die Musik ist passend gewählt und hilft die Szenen lebendiger wirken zu lassen. Den Trick kennt man aus Filmen, wo die allgegenwärtige Hintergrundmusik dem Zuschauer stets vermittelt wie er sich zu fühlen hat. Dieses Konzept wurde hier in ein Hörbuch übertragen — mit grossen Erfolg.

Das Ganze ist wirklich sehr gelungen und gibt dem Hörbuch eine zusätzliche, nicht zu unterschätzende, Dimension.

Für wen ist es?

Die purpurnen Flüsse sind nicht zu Unrecht das bekannteste Werk von Jean-Christophe Grangé. Es bietet sowohl starke Charaktere als auch eine fesselnde Geschichte. Wer spannende Kriminalromane mag, der wird von dem Buch begeistert sein. Dazu die super Vertonung, die mit der Integration von Soundeffekten und Musik für ein super Hörerlebnis sorgt.

Einzig wer ausführliche Schilderungen von Gewalt und Verletzungen nicht mag, sollte davon absehen, das Buch zu hören. In anderen Werken des Autors sind die Verletzungen zwar noch brutaler und die Beschreibungen noch ausführlicher, leichte Kost ist aber auch das hier nicht.

There is a quiet fear that follows many people through life, and it sounds like this: if I were stronger, I would be useful; if I were smoother, I would be chosen; if I were flawless, I would be trusted. It is the fear that weakness disqualifies, that imperfection postpones destiny, that hesitation cancels calling. It is the belief that God searches for polished vessels and passes over cracked ones. Yet Scripture and history together tell a very different story. Again and again, the pattern is unmistakable. God does not begin with perfection. He begins with surrender. He does not search for flawless voices. He speaks through trembling ones.

When Moses stood before the burning bush, the ground beneath him was holy, but his heart was uncertain. He had fled Egypt decades earlier. He had buried a past mistake in the sand and built a quieter life in the wilderness. Then God interrupted that quiet with a commission that would alter history. He was to confront Pharaoh, demand freedom for enslaved people, and shepherd a nation through the unknown. It was a calling that required public speech, bold confrontation, relentless leadership. Moses did not answer with confidence. He answered with insecurity. He said he was slow of speech and tongue. He was not eloquent. He was not naturally persuasive. In his own mind, he was not the man for the moment.

It is easy to read that story quickly and miss its humanity. Moses was not offering poetic humility. He was confessing a genuine struggle. He knew what it felt like to open his mouth and have words hesitate. He knew the humiliation of not sounding the way he wished he sounded. He knew that in a culture where oratory carried authority, he did not feel equipped. He assumed that God’s assignment required a flawless instrument.

God’s response did not remove the weakness. It reframed it. Who made man’s mouth? That question carries thunder within it. It declares sovereignty over ability and limitation alike. It asserts that weakness is not an accident outside divine awareness. Moses’ insecurity was not news to God. It was already accounted for. The calling was issued with full knowledge of the flaw.

That truth alone dismantles the lie that perfection precedes purpose. If God waited for flawless vessels, the Exodus would never have happened. The Red Sea would have remained closed. The law would not have been delivered. A nation would have remained in chains. The hesitation of one man could have altered history, but God did not withdraw the assignment when insecurity surfaced. He promised presence. He provided Aaron as support. He chose partnership over replacement.

Thousands of years later, a boy in Florida struggled with words. Illness had left him with a severe stutter. Conversations were battlegrounds. Sentences were obstacles. That boy grew into a man who would one day step onto stages across America. When he spoke, the stutter was there. Words repeated. Sounds stretched. Pauses lingered. Yet when he sang, the stutter vanished. Melody carried what ordinary speech could not. Rhythm organized what anxiety disrupted. That man was Mel Tillis. He did not hide his stutter. He made peace with it. He joked about it. He let audiences see it. Then he sang with confidence and power. His imperfection did not repel listeners. It endeared them. His weakness became part of his witness.

There is something profound in the fact that singing activates different pathways in the brain than speech. Music bypasses certain blocks. Rhythm steadies the tongue. It is as if melody becomes a bridge across insecurity. Moses had Aaron. Mel Tillis had melody. In both cases, the weakness remained visible, but it did not remain victorious. The flaw did not have the final word.

History offers more examples than many realize. James Earl Jones, whose voice would one day become synonymous with strength and authority, barely spoke as a child because his stutter was so severe. For years he retreated into silence. A teacher encouraged him to read poetry aloud, to let rhythm guide him, to let cadence shape his confidence. That practice slowly unlocked fluency. The boy who once feared speaking became one of the most recognizable voices in cinematic history. Winston Churchill struggled with speech difficulties and labored meticulously over his addresses, practicing them repeatedly. The speeches that steadied Britain during war were not the product of effortless eloquence but disciplined perseverance. Even in modern politics and entertainment, individuals who once avoided speaking in classrooms have become communicators before nations.

The pattern is clear. The weakness did not eliminate the calling. The calling transformed the relationship with the weakness.

This pattern echoes through Scripture beyond Moses. David was anointed king while still a shepherd, yet his life would include moral failure, betrayal, grief, and personal collapse. Peter walked on water and denied Christ within the span of a few chapters. Paul carried what he described as a thorn in the flesh, something persistent and humbling that he pleaded with God to remove. The answer he received was not removal but sufficiency. Grace was declared sufficient. Power was declared perfect in weakness.

That phrase alone overturns modern assumptions. Power perfected in weakness contradicts every worldly metric. Culture celebrates polish, charisma, seamless delivery. Faith honors surrender, dependence, obedience. The world applauds confidence rooted in self. Heaven responds to confidence rooted in God.

Consider how many destinies remain dormant because individuals are waiting to feel ready. Readiness, as we often define it, means the absence of fear, the disappearance of doubt, the removal of limitation. Yet Scripture consistently portrays readiness differently. Readiness is availability. It is the willingness to step forward while aware of inadequacy. It is obedience that moves despite trembling.

Moses did not become articulate overnight. He grew through obedience. Confidence developed in motion. Leadership was forged in wilderness and confrontation. The Red Sea did not part because his speech was flawless. It parted because he raised his staff in obedience. The miracle responded to faith, not fluency.

Mel Tillis did not wait until his stutter vanished before performing. He performed with it. Audiences did not demand perfection. They responded to authenticity. His vulnerability became strength because it revealed courage. Courage is not the absence of struggle. It is movement within it.

There is also a spiritual dimension that must not be overlooked. Weakness keeps pride in check. If Moses had been naturally eloquent, perhaps he might have been tempted to attribute deliverance to his own persuasion. If David had been morally flawless, perhaps he would never have written psalms of repentance that comfort generations. If Paul had been without thorn, perhaps he would have boasted in his achievements rather than in grace. Weakness, while painful, often protects the soul from arrogance.

Modern believers wrestle with insecurities that mirror ancient ones. Some struggle with anxiety that tightens the chest and scrambles thoughts. Some wrestle with depression that dims motivation. Some feel intellectually inadequate in conversations about faith. Some stumble over words when trying to articulate belief. The assumption creeps in that others are better equipped, more articulate, more stable, more worthy. Yet the biblical narrative refuses that assumption. God’s pattern is not to select the obvious favorite. It is to reveal strength through surrender.

There is something sacred about a person who admits limitation and still says yes. There is a beauty in trembling obedience that polished performance cannot replicate. Authenticity carries authority because it is rooted in truth. When people see vulnerability and faith coexist, they recognize something real.

The church was never designed to be a museum of perfected saints. It was meant to be a hospital of redeemed sinners. It was never meant to display flawless leaders but forgiven ones. The power of the Gospel lies not in human impressiveness but in divine grace. The cross itself stands as the ultimate paradox. What appeared to be weakness became victory. What seemed like defeat became redemption. God’s greatest act of salvation emerged through apparent vulnerability.

If the cross teaches anything, it teaches that God does not fear weakness. He redeems it.

Moses’ stutter did not surprise God. Mel Tillis’ speech impediment did not prevent his platform. James Earl Jones’ silence did not dictate his destiny. Weakness did not disqualify them. It shaped them. It humbled them. It deepened them.

It is worth asking how many people silence themselves unnecessarily. How many decline opportunities because they do not sound like someone else. How many hide gifts because delivery feels imperfect. How many postpone obedience because insecurity feels louder than calling. The tragedy is not weakness itself. The tragedy is allowing weakness to dictate surrender to fear rather than surrender to God.

There is a difference between surrendering to insecurity and surrendering insecurity to God. The first shrinks. The second grows. The first hides. The second steps forward. Moses initially leaned toward the first. He asked God to send someone else. That is the instinct of insecurity. Yet God’s persistence revealed something greater. He would not let Moses retreat permanently. He promised presence. He promised partnership. He promised purpose.

Presence matters more than polish. When God says, I will be with you, that assurance outweighs eloquence. It is divine companionship that empowers trembling leaders. It is grace that steadies shaking voices.

In the modern world, where social media amplifies comparison and perfection appears effortless, the temptation to self-disqualify intensifies. Carefully curated lives create the illusion that others move without struggle. Yet behind microphones and platforms, many who speak with clarity once wrestled with silence. Behind leadership roles often stand stories of insecurity. Behind confident sermons often lie private battles.

This reality does not diminish the power of their voices. It enhances it. Struggle breeds empathy. Insecurity cultivates humility. Weakness teaches dependence. Those qualities are fertile soil for spiritual authority.

When Moses returned to Egypt, he did not go alone. Aaron spoke alongside him initially. Over time, Moses grew in boldness. Leadership matured. Faith deepened. What began as insecurity evolved into courage shaped by divine faithfulness. Growth rarely occurs in isolation from calling. It unfolds within it.

Mel Tillis’ story also reveals adaptation. He did not deny his stutter. He found rhythm within it. Music became a vehicle for expression. There is wisdom in that. Weakness does not demand denial. It invites creativity. It invites reliance on different strengths. It invites humility.

This principle extends beyond speech impediments. Whatever the struggle may be, it can become soil for growth rather than ground for retreat. Anxiety can cultivate reliance on prayer. Doubt can drive deeper study. Failure can birth compassion. Physical limitation can awaken spiritual resilience. The very thing that appears as obstacle may serve as teacher.

God’s economy is different from ours. He does not waste scars. He does not discard flawed vessels. He restores and repurposes. He writes redemption into broken stories. The stutter becomes the sermon. The thorn becomes the testimony. The weakness becomes the window through which grace shines brightest.

Imagine standing before Pharaoh with a stutter. Imagine stepping onto a stage knowing words may hesitate. Imagine reading poetry aloud after years of silence. Each scenario requires courage. Each scenario demands trust that weakness will not have the final word. That trust is faith.

Faith is not the absence of insecurity. It is obedience in its presence. It is the decision to move when comfort is absent. It is confidence not in self but in the One who calls.

There is freedom in embracing this truth. It releases the pressure to perform flawlessly. It redirects focus from self-assessment to obedience. It replaces the exhausting pursuit of perfection with the steady pursuit of faithfulness.

If Moses teaches anything, he teaches that God does not call the equipped; He equips the called. If Mel Tillis teaches anything, he teaches that authenticity resonates more deeply than polish. If history teaches anything, it teaches that voices forged in struggle often carry the most weight.

The question is not whether weakness exists. It is whether weakness will dictate retreat or deepen reliance. The stutter can become silence, or it can become a story of perseverance. The insecurity can become paralysis, or it can become prayer.

The narrative of Scripture consistently invites the latter. It invites individuals to bring inadequacy into God’s presence rather than hiding it from Him. It invites honesty over pretense. It invites surrender over self-protection.

As this truth unfolds across generations, one sees a legacy forming. Imperfect people stepping into purpose. Hesitant voices speaking truth. Broken individuals carrying hope. The pattern remains unbroken.

And this pattern continues today in ways both public and unseen. In classrooms where a child struggles to read aloud yet refuses to give up. In churches where a believer shares testimony despite trembling hands. In workplaces where someone advocates for integrity even while fearing rejection. In homes where parents lead imperfectly but faithfully.

Weakness has never been the barrier many imagine it to be. Pride has been a greater obstacle. Self-reliance has caused more damage than stuttering ever could. God’s strength rests comfortably upon humility.

The miracle of Moses was not that he became eloquent. It was that he became obedient. The triumph of Mel Tillis was not that his stutter vanished completely. It was that he sang anyway. The power of countless others lies not in flawless beginnings but in faithful perseverance.

When insecurity no longer defines destiny, a person begins to move differently through the world. The internal dialogue shifts. Instead of asking, “What is wrong with me?” the question becomes, “What might God do through me?” That shift is not subtle. It alters posture, tone, decision, and direction. It does not erase weakness, but it refuses to let weakness rule.

Moses’ life after the burning bush was not free from difficulty. He faced resistance from Pharaoh, complaints from the people he led, and moments of deep personal frustration. There were times he felt overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility. There were moments when he cried out to God in exhaustion. Yet at no point did God say, “Your speech issue has disqualified you.” The stutter was never revisited as a disqualifier. It was overshadowed by obedience. It was absorbed into calling.

There is something deeply instructive in that. Often, the weakness we obsess over fades in significance once we step into purpose. It does not disappear entirely, but it no longer dominates the narrative. Action diminishes the volume of insecurity. Obedience reduces the echo of doubt.

Mel Tillis understood this intuitively. He did not wait for a flawless voice before standing on stage. He walked into the spotlight as he was. He allowed audiences to see his humanity. When he sang, the fluency astonished people because it contrasted with his spoken hesitations. That contrast amplified the gift. The struggle made the strength more visible.

Contrast creates clarity. Without weakness, strength can appear ordinary. Without vulnerability, courage seems automatic. Without struggle, success can feel impersonal. It is the visible humanity that makes victory compelling.

The same pattern appears in Scripture repeatedly. When David faced Goliath, he did so not as a seasoned warrior but as a shepherd boy. His lack of military pedigree highlighted divine intervention. When Gideon went to battle with a drastically reduced army, the numerical weakness made the victory unmistakably God’s. When Paul wrote about his thorn, he reframed it as a canvas for grace. Each story reveals the same truth: God’s strength shines most clearly against the backdrop of human limitation.

This principle challenges modern metrics of influence. In a culture that prizes seamless performance, the idea that weakness could enhance authority feels counterintuitive. Yet history supports it. Winston Churchill’s speeches were powerful not because they were effortless but because they were forged in discipline and urgency. The fact that he labored over delivery adds weight to the words. James Earl Jones’ commanding voice carries greater impact when one knows it emerged from years of silence and struggle. Authenticity intensifies authority.

In spiritual life, authenticity is indispensable. Faith that acknowledges struggle is more resilient than faith that pretends invulnerability. When believers admit doubt, they create space for growth. When leaders confess weakness, they cultivate trust. When testimony includes scars, it resonates more deeply.

This does not mean glorifying weakness for its own sake. It means recognizing that weakness is not an enemy of calling. It can be a companion in growth. It can guard against pride. It can foster empathy. It can refine character.

Consider how many psalms were born from David’s distress. Without betrayal, there would be no lament. Without guilt, there would be no psalm of repentance. Without fear, there would be no cry for refuge. Those ancient prayers continue to comfort millions precisely because they were written from places of vulnerability. Perfection would have produced sterile poetry. Brokenness produced sacred song.

Mel Tillis’ stutter, like Moses’ hesitation, humanized them. It made their stories accessible. It dismantled the illusion that greatness requires flawlessness. It revealed that purpose coexists with imperfection.

There is also an important psychological dimension here. When individuals confront weakness rather than conceal it, resilience develops. Avoidance strengthens fear. Exposure weakens it. Every time Moses spoke before Pharaoh, courage increased incrementally. Every time Mel Tillis addressed an audience, confidence expanded. Repetition builds strength. Action rewires hesitation.

This aligns with spiritual growth. Faith grows through practice. Courage strengthens through use. Obedience reinforces trust. Waiting for fear to vanish before acting guarantees stagnation. Acting in faith gradually reduces fear’s control.

Many people misinterpret weakness as a sign that they are outside God’s will. In reality, weakness may be the very terrain where God intends to display His faithfulness. Paul’s words echo through centuries: grace is sufficient. That sufficiency is not theoretical. It is experienced in moments when self-reliance fails. It is discovered when resources feel inadequate. It is revealed when ability seems insufficient.

Moses discovered grace sufficient for leadership. Mel Tillis discovered grace sufficient for performance. James Earl Jones discovered grace sufficient for expression. Each story testifies that limitation is not the end of narrative.

There is something almost poetic in imagining Moses standing at the edge of the Red Sea. The people behind him were panicking. Pharaoh’s army approached. The sea stretched out before them. At that moment, eloquence was irrelevant. What mattered was obedience. God instructed him to lift his staff. The waters parted. The miracle did not hinge on flawless speech. It hinged on faithful action.

This is liberating. It means that the decisive moments of life do not depend on perfect delivery but on responsive trust. When faced with daunting assignments, the question is not, “Can I execute flawlessly?” but, “Will I obey faithfully?”

In the modern world, this applies far beyond public speaking. The entrepreneur who fears failure must decide whether insecurity will halt innovation. The parent who feels inadequate must decide whether self-doubt will overshadow love. The believer who struggles to articulate theology must decide whether hesitation will silence testimony. In each case, weakness can either paralyze or propel.

Faith reframes weakness as opportunity for reliance. Instead of hiding imperfection, it brings it into conversation with God. It says, “Here is my limitation. Work through it.” That posture invites partnership. It mirrors Moses’ journey from reluctance to resolve.

There is also communal significance in this truth. When individuals share stories of overcoming insecurity, they grant permission for others to step forward. Mel Tillis’ openness about his stutter likely encouraged countless others who struggled similarly. James Earl Jones’ testimony about silence becoming voice inspires those who feel unheard. These stories ripple outward, multiplying courage.

The church benefits when weakness is acknowledged rather than masked. Communities thrive when members understand that struggle does not disqualify belonging. Transparency fosters connection. Shared vulnerability dismantles isolation. Imperfect people gathered around a perfect Savior create a powerful witness.

The legacy of Moses extends beyond the Exodus. It includes the law, the wilderness journey, the shaping of a people. Yet that legacy began with hesitation. The legacy of Mel Tillis extends beyond awards and performances. It includes inspiration for those battling insecurity. That legacy was born from perseverance. The legacies of others who overcame stutters or speech impediments are not merely about eloquence. They are about resilience.

Legacy, then, is not built on flawlessness but on faithfulness over time. It is the cumulative effect of repeated obedience despite limitation. It is the long arc of surrender shaping character.

There is a profound humility required to accept that weakness may remain even as purpose unfolds. Moses did not become a flawless communicator. He became a faithful leader. Mel Tillis did not erase his stutter entirely. He learned to sing and speak with courage. The thorn Paul described was not removed. Grace sustained him.

This challenges the assumption that growth always means eradication of struggle. Sometimes growth means learning to carry struggle with grace. Sometimes maturity means discovering strength within limitation rather than outside it.

The image of the stutter becoming the sermon captures this beautifully. The very thing that once felt like embarrassment becomes evidence of transformation. The obstacle becomes altar. The hesitation becomes testimony. The crack becomes conduit for light.

In a world obsessed with curated perfection, this message is countercultural and deeply needed. It reminds individuals that authenticity is not weakness. It is strength rooted in truth. It assures them that God’s calling is not contingent upon flawless presentation. It invites them to step forward as they are.

If Moses had waited for eloquence, Israel might have remained enslaved. If Mel Tillis had waited for flawless speech, countless songs would have remained unsung. If James Earl Jones had embraced silence permanently, iconic performances would not exist. The cost of surrendering to insecurity is unseen potential.

Conversely, the reward of trusting God through weakness is profound. It includes growth, impact, legacy, and intimacy with the One who calls. Dependence deepens relationship. Struggle cultivates humility. Obedience builds history.

When insecurity whispers that you are not enough, remember the burning bush. Remember the stage lights. Remember the silent classroom transformed into poetic recitation. Remember that God’s pattern has never required perfection first.

He calls. He accompanies. He empowers.

The stutter may remain, but it no longer rules. The insecurity may linger, but it no longer dictates destiny. The weakness may persist, but it becomes a platform for grace.

And that is the heart of the legacy: imperfect people, surrendered to a perfect God, stepping into purpose with trembling faith and discovering that grace is indeed sufficient.

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

Recent experience has shown that my schedule (and I'm SUCH a creature of habit!) works best when my night's game to follow is an early one. Tonight I find two early games, both of them NCAA women's basketball games, and both with 5:00 PM CT scheduled start times: SMU Mustangs at North Carolina Tar Heels, and Syracuse Orange at Pittsburgh Panthers. Without a personal attachment to any of these four teams, I'll simply listen to the call of the game provided by the first, strong streaming feed I can pull in.

Hmm... I wonder which game I'll listen to tonight?

And the adventure continues.

Last week I wrote encountering music, singing along, and even quiet reflection while listening as a form of prayer and practice. This week I want to continue that thread with the idea of using headphones to listen to guided meditations through an app or website. There are many of these tools available, some specifically religious in tone, others more secular, and some a mix of those two modes. I have found both for myself and for many of the people I work with, finding deep silence and stillness in the midst of a busy day is hard.

On vacation, or on retreat, or even while we are traveling long distance often creates enough distance from the noise of our daily environment to pause and be reflective. There can even be moments of genuine presence and simply consenting to the power of that moment. At home, at work, in the throes of our daily obligations, it can be hard to create that moment of pause and just be.

There are a lot of sites and tools, some of which only really function with a paid subscription, others of which are free, and still others that offer a pay-what-you-can donation model. I haven’t tried or vetted every one of these tools, but I will offer a starting list for you to explore, and then I’ll speak about three that I do use with some regularity.

I offer these tools with the caveat of my learning from David A Treleaven, author of Trauma-Sensitive Mindfulness, that meditation is not a substitute for comprehensive mental health care,and that for people with histories of trauma and complex trauma, silent meditation can actually exacerbate symptoms of traumatic recall. There are a lot of wonderful adaptations in the book, and I’d recommend you review them with your therapist or psychiatrist as well as any meditation instructor you work with.

Headspace

Anchored for the most part in a Buddhist mindfulness framework, Headspace is a great tool for beginners learning how to meditate. There are so many exercises to try, from brief reflections for particular times of day, to breathing practices, and semi-guided periods of silent meditation as well. I have been using headspace off and on for about four years now thanks to a subscription that my employer has provided. I enjoy the short form recordings and videos, the breath-work, and even some of the guided meditations, though I have found things like topical webinars, multi-week courses, and the mood trackers less useful for my own practice.

Pray as You Go

This tool is offered by the Jesuit outreach ministry (cue religious order trope joke here) in the United Kingdom. Pray as You Go offers daily audio meditations that include sacred music, lectio divina or sacred reading where we listen to scripture in a prayerful and heartful way, and Ignatian imagination exercises where we are invited to use silent pauses to enter the story, relate to various characters and settings, and explore the passage “from the inside”. After a period of such reflection, the passage is read again, now illumined with our wondering, followed by a time of prayer and intercession for what has arisen during the meditation. The content changes daily, with the addition of an examination of consciousness on Saturday to shift to mode of practice reflection on the week’s prayers.

Centering Prayer

Offered by the good folks at Contemplative Outreach, the Centering Prayer app offers a simple way to engage in this very old practice that dates back to The Cloud of Unknowing, and was revived in the 1970’s and taught by Christian monastics like Thomas Keating and M. Basil Pennington.

The app provides the guidelines, an opening prayer to read, a gentle sound to help us relax into the silence, a timer for the silence, and a gentle sound to welcome us back. Afterwards there is a spot for a short closing prayer. This is minimally guided meditation, as the majority of the time is spent in silence, being heartfully open to what arises, while clinging to none of it. The mind and any thoughts are put compassionately to rest with the soft recall of a single sacred word that is an expression of consent to be in the presence of God. the cadence recommended for this particular practice is a morning and an evening session.

These three are a small but mighty sampling of the tools available for ways to pray with your headphones on. I appreciate the way that they help to muffle the sound of the environment for a moment or two, giving me the gracious pause that helps my practice to really breathe deep.

before I was born, life was a photograph of my parents in their late 30s: younger, skinny, sun‑kissed, sitting by the edge of a pool in the late afternoon holding my blond, chubby baby brother, little indicator finger pointing out to the sky. I hope that after I die, you'll all have the decency to return to that quiet stillness.

/feb26

Sometimes I go on Apple Maps to check random businesses in different cities. Doesn’t everybody? Several months ago, I found a small arts supply store called A Work of Heart in San Jose. Turns out, it was already going out of business and had to sell their entire inventory.

On their website, they were selling a few 12-pack boxes of Blackwing pencils. If you’re familiar with them, they’re great pencils but expensive ($30 for a 12-pack). The red Blackwing 746 pencil I’m using, I only bought one cause a 12-pack is even more expensive ($55 for a 12-pack).

Anyway, I bought a 12-pack of 602s for $20 before tax. What a deal! While it’s sad another mom and pop store had to close down at least I got a chance to help them out a tiny bit. I’ll make sure those Blackwing 602s are used well.

#pencil #artstore #Blackwing

Getting terminated from your job has its pros and cons. One pro is that if you have been trying to get out of your career field of almost two decades and have been dragging your feet, you instantly get a motivational boost (and extra time to act on it) like never before! Another pro is that you become eligible for unemployment compensation if you were fired without cause.

A layoff is “without cause”; and so is discrimination—> Your employer will not implicate itself in a continuous pattern of actions that are illegal/alegal by contesting your unemployment compensation claim. Some would say if your employer did something illegal, then you can file a complaint with the EEOC and/or sue them. Sounds simple? It absolutely is not. Legal battles are costly, time-consuming, and mentally exhausting—like fighting your Homeowners Association. On the other hand, getting unemployment compensation is relatively simple, unlike dealing with your Homeowners Association.

One of the cons of unemployment compensation is that no matter how much money you were previously making, the maximum amount you can qualify for in the state of Florida is $275 per week. That is $550 every two weeks which is how often you will receive the money when you “claim your weeks”. That is $1100 per month which equates to about $7 per hour if you were working a job. And that may pay your mortgage for the month, but you’re going to have to strip or sell a lil’ somethin’ to pay for the electricity, water, phone, internet, automobile, auto insurance, gas, food, toiletries, etc. Add being in the hole with your HOA putting a lien on your house, foreclosing on it, and then afterwards, fining you for your roof tarp. Yes, this all happened to me in one summer!

Unemployment compensation lasts no longer than three months. At that point, you take whatever job you can get and hope that you stick out amongst all the other 100+ people who applied to the same jobs on Facebook—I meant LinkedIn. Meanwhile, your HOA continues to harass you—kicking you while you are waaayyy down in a situation that they could have stopped from the very beginning. HOAs and their property management companies are not for the people, the homeowners. They are for business. And that business is your money.

「この前さ、お前が公園で、ただ立ってるのを見たんだ」

「声かけてよ」

「無理だよ。ほんとうに立ってるだけだったんだもん。スマホを触るとか、お茶を飲むとか、ベンチに座るとかしてたら、まだ人に見えるのに」

「今さ、金がなくて。持ってるもの全部止まってるんだよ。スマホが止まってんだ。飲み物なんて当然買えないし」

「じゃあせめて、ぼんやり座ってればよかったのに」

「ヘルニアでね」

「……悪かった」

「いや、気にすんなよ」

「でもさ、そんな立ってるだけで気が紛れるのか」

「紛れるよ。遠くで誰かの笑い声がほどけて、小さな靴音が落ち葉を踏んで消えていく感じとかさ」

「ん？」

「夕方の光って、どこか遠い場所から届いた手紙みたいでさ。少し遅れて世界を照らすんだよ」

「おい」

「ん？」

「お前、時間余りすぎて、だいぶ詩的になってきてるぞ」

「どうしよう」

「このままだと完全に詩人になる……」

「そんな脅威みたいに言うなよ」

「こんな夕方の公園にいたらダメだ」

「どこ行くんだよ」

「業務スーパーだよ。あそこからは風情が生まれない」

「酒、買ってくれ」

「いいよ」

その夜は俺の部屋で二人で飲んだ。 少しだけ、お前は詩人から戻ってきた。 けれど次に会うときには、きっとまた別の色に沈んでいる気がした。 灰色か、それとももっと静かな色か。

Desde pequeño he sido fan del juego, me encantaba jugar. Pasaba horas jugando con mis juguetes, inventando un lore y un guion con historias y desarrollos de personajes, con desenlaces, dramas y traiciones. Mi creatividad e imaginación estaban a flote. Y todas esas historias solo yo las conocía, y nadie más; eran para mí y solo para mí, el disfrute era permanente.

También dibujaba, creaba muchos personajes, héroes, antihéroes, villanos y secuaces. Practicaba mucho deporte, sobre todo fútbol, mucho fútbol, baloncesto y voleibol, y demasiadas horas jugando videojuegos.

En aquel tiempo, la vida como niño y adolescente estaba más llena de juego y, de alguna manera, en mi caso al menos, era mucho más divertida.

No sentía el peso ni la rigidez de ahora, esas expectativas fuertes frente a los demás, frente a la sociedad, el clásico “debería hacer esto porque ya tengo esta edad”, “una casa, un carro, casarme, etc.” Y bueno, aunque tenía responsabilidades de adolescente, como ir al colegio o hacer tareas, no era lo que reinaba o dominaba mis pensamientos.

«Las cosas que los niños y niñas aprenden por iniciativa propia durante el juego libre, no pueden ser aprendidas de otra manera” Peter Gray.

Cuando empiezas a ser adulto, lentamente se empieza a perder ese disfrute, esta visión de la vida. De repente, tu vida gira en torno, casi exclusivamente, al trabajo y a las obligaciones de la vida adulta. Y aun si eres de los pocos privilegiados que tienen un trabajo que les gusta y disfrutan, habrá momentos en que se tornará pesado: papeleos y actividades burocráticas que seguramente no disfrutarás del todo.

Si tuviste una infancia de juego, verás con nostalgia esos tiempos en los que no querías ir a dormir porque querías seguir jugando.

Ahora seguramente se preguntarán: “Pues sí, pero ya crecimos, nos corresponde ser adultos responsables, no podemos vivir en fantasías”.

Estoy de acuerdo en parte, pero no tenemos que renunciar al juego en nuestras vidas; podemos incorporarlo y, de hecho, nos vendría muy bien. Es más, puede hasta salvar la vida.

¿Qué es el Juego?

El juego, para el antropólogo Johan Huizinga, es la categoría fundamental del comportamiento humano: sin el juego, la civilización no existiría. Y no es solo entretenimiento infantil. Es una actividad estructurante de sentido, con características específicas.

• Divertido El juego se disfruta. No aburre, entretiene

• Libre El juego no se impone. Si es obligatorio, deja de ser juego.

• Separado de la vida ordinaria Ocurre en un “como si”: un espacio y tiempo propios (el campo, el tablero, el escenario). Es un escenario que se comparte por un rato.

• Cargado de significado Aunque no sea “útil” en términos prácticos, es profundamente significativo.

• Generador de comunidad Quien juega entra en un pacto simbólico con otros. Suele ser más una diversión compartida que un placer solitario.

• Espontáneo Aunque haya reglas —algunas explícitas, otras implícitas— y se juegue en serio, aunque se controle su desarrollo y se oriente a una meta, no suele ser tan rígido como el trabajo en una oficina o en una fábrica.

Hasta entonces, el ser humano se había definido principalmente como:

Homo sapiens (el que piensa) y Homo faber (el que fabrica)

Huizinga propone una tercera raíz más profunda: el ser humano es, ante todo, un ser que juega (Homo Ludens)

A nivel individual y psicológico, en el juego exploramos identidades, probamos límites sin consecuencias fatales y ensayamos roles (liderar, perder, cooperar).

Además, es una forma segura de autodescubrimiento:

Se restaura la creatividad. Ayuda a entrar en estado de flujo El ego se suaviza.

«Lo que hace excepcional a la especie humana, es que estamos diseñados para jugar durante toda la vida». Stuart Brown.

No he conocido una sola persona en mi vida que no disfrute o haya disfrutado algún tipo de juego, sean deportes, individuales o colectivos, o juegos infantiles.

¿Quién de nosotros no disfrutó al menos alguno de estos: las escondidas, el loco paralizado, la lleva (la eres) o, en su defecto, juegos de mesa como dominó, póker, monopolio, bingo, ludo, Risk, Stop, etc.?

Esta es una explicación fundacional sobre cómo los seres humanos nos hemos desarrollado (y lo seguimos haciendo) a través del juego.

Decía Albert Camus:

“Todo lo que sé sobre la moral y las obligaciones de los hombres se lo debo al fútbol”.

Esta frase la siento en el alma. He sido fan del fútbol y lo he jugado por mucho tiempo a nivel recreacional y amateur. Podría escribir un artículo entero sobre cómo ha influido en mis valores y en cómo veo la vida: cómo trabajar en equipo, cómo ser un líder, cómo ayudar, cómo controlar el ego, cómo equivocarse y aprender a perder, de compañerismo, de solidaridad, etc.

No creo que solo pase en el fútbol; probablemente ocurra en cualquier práctica deportiva colectiva. Camus decía que se pueden encontrar paralelismos con todas las vicisitudes de la vida .

Marshall Rosenberg y cómo ver todo como un juego

Desde hace unos años he notado que, cuando juego a algo o cuando lo adopto como un “juego”, tengo una energía diferente para encarar los desafíos de esa actividad.

Eso es algo que, a nivel psicológico, Marshall Rosenberg, creador de la CNV (Comunicación No Violenta) y uno de mis héroes personales, me cambió la vida con algo muy sencillo (en realidad, con toda su obra). Él mencionaba que deberíamos ver la vida, y toda acción que hagamos, como un juego, como una forma de contribuir a la vida misma.

Que deberíamos deshacernos de motivaciones guiadas por el miedo, la culpa, la vergüenza, el deber u la obligación.

Él menciona en su libro un par de historias personales. Una de ellas era que odiaba hacer historias clínicas, y lo hizo por mucho tiempo, suponiendo que, como él era psiquiatra, tenía que hacerlo; pues era su trabajo.

Pero al verificar con detenimiento las razones de por qué lo hacía, se dio cuenta de que era por dinero, e inmediatamente comprendió que podía hacer dinero de otra forma o que, a lo mejor, no tendría que hacer todas esas historias clínicas. Se dio cuenta de que podía elegir.

“Tal vez de las más peligrosas de las conductas sea hacer las cosas porque se supone que tenemos que hacerlas”.

Él mencionaba también que llevar a los niños a la escuela le parecía demasiado tedioso. Pero, en esta ocasión, al examinar la causa que justificaba llevarlos, se dio cuenta de los beneficios que obtenían sus hijos al asistir a esa escuela. La institución quedaba lejos, pero ofrecía unos valores educativos que Marshall valoraba. De repente, la energía desde la cual lo hacía cambió totalmente y la queja se desvaneció.

“Tengo que hacer esto” por “Elijo hacer esto porque valoro…”

Usemos un par de ejemplos:

“Tengo que hacer dieta y hacer ejercicio”.

“Elijo hacer dieta y hacer ejercicio porque valoro mi salud y mis niveles de energía”.

“Tengo que ver a mi amigo porque se siente solo después de su separación, aunque estoy cansado y no me apetece”.

“Elijo ir a ver a mi amigo y acompañarlo porque valoro nuestra amistad y su bienestar”.

Cuando hacemos algo porque queremos, porque elegimos hacerlo, incluso algo difícil, el cuerpo y la mente lo viven distinto.

Preguntémonos: ¿cuántas veces llevamos a cabo acciones por obligación, por un sentido del deber, por dinero, por aprobación o para evitar el castigo o la culpa?

Tal vez más de las que estamos dispuestos a admitir.

“En una hora de juego se puede descubrir más acerca de una persona que en un año de conversación” -Platón.

En nuestra educación y en nuestra cultura, y de hecho en nuestro lenguaje mismo, están tan inmersas las palabras “debería”, “tendría”, que hemos olvidado que podemos elegir; hemos olvidado nuestra posibilidad de agencia.

Eso me pasaba: notaba que la energía que daba al jugar, a disfrutar el juego, a hacer todo lo posible por ganar, siguiendo las reglas y sin ser abusivo, me enseñaba de todo y me hacía sentir mejor, más vivo.

A eso siento que se refiere Rosenberg.

Cultivar la conciencia de la energía que se encuentra detrás de nuestras acciones.

Después de leer a Rosenberg, empecé a buscar gamificar mis experiencias, enfocándome en objetivos, desafíos y recompensas, en lugar de verlas como una obligación; se trata de adoptar una mentalidad activa, crear “misiones”, aprender de los “fallos” (errores) y disfrutar el “viaje” de la vida como crecimiento, no solo del destino, aplicando estrategias, tomando decisiones y construyendo un “personaje” fuerte.

¿Por qué es tan importante el disfrute según Gabor Maté?

Recuerdo que solía ser muy rígido en mi personalidad —muy tímido, muy estructurado— hasta hace unos ocho años. De chico, siempre que sacaba buenas notas en clase, recibía mucha validación externa de mis profesores y de mi familia. Aunque eso reforzaba mis ganas de aprender, también limitaba la posibilidad de explorar otras partes de mí, sobre todo la espontaneidad. No sé exactamente por qué. Creo que, como me conocían como esa versión timida, no me daba el permiso de explorar esa otra parte.

Mi identidad ha estado vinculada fuertemente con mi mente y con el pensamiento lógico-deductivo. Aún sigo luchando con ello: sobrepensando y tratando de resolverlo todo. Eso me trajo muchos beneficios, pero me quitaba, en cierta forma, el disfrute.

Hasta que entré en contacto con el arte: tocando guitarra, escribiendo, haciendo impro. Lo disfruté, y aún lo sigo haciendo, conociéndome a mí mismo y descubriendo facetas de manera compasiva, sin desviarme de los principios que más valoro. Me di cuenta de que mi identidad no tiene por qué ser rígida.

“No estás obligado a ser la misma persona que eras hace cinco minutos.” — Alan Watts

Maté, en su libro El mito de la normalidad, menciona que recuperar el disfrute puede salvarte la vida.

Desde su mirada clínica (trauma, adicciones, enfermedad), Maté observa un patrón claro:

La mayoría de las personas afectadas por situaciones traumáticas, que posteriormente desarrollan enfermedades autoinmunes o adicciones severas, suelen ser personas muy responsables, muy autoexigentes, muy desconectadas del placer y muy duras consigo mismas.

Esta personalidad que desarrollaron fue simplemente una respuesta a eventos duros, donde solo de esa manera podían sobrevivir. Pero esa personalidad no es rígida, y merece cambiar; necesita cambiar y adaptarse cuando ya no estás en modo supervivencia.

Buscar:

• No tomarse tan en serio

• Recuperar el disfrute

• Permitir el juego y la curiosidad

• Soltar la identidad rígida

No voy a entrar en detalles acerca del trauma, pero lo que llegué a conectar leyendo ese capítulo del libro de Maté es que, si tu identidad no te la tomas de manera tan rígida y le das espacio al juego en la vida, si te permites un lugar donde tu yo auténtico pueda existir sin estar en juicio permanente, es uno de los mayores actos de amor y autocompasión que podemos tener con nosotros mismos

Conclusión

Para mí está claro: jugar es una forma de autocompasión profunda. Cuando una persona actúa desde el deseo de contribuir y no desde la culpa, cuando puede reírse de sí misma y soltar la identidad rígida, su cuerpo descansa y su vida recupera sentido.

Además, tenemos solo una vida. ¿Por qué hacerla tan seria? Podemos ser responsables y, aun así, jugar y contribuir a esta única y maravillosa experiencia en esta roca flotante junto a otros seres.

---

Referencias

Huizinga, Johan. Homo Ludens. 1938.

Rosenberg, Marshall B. Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life. 1999.

Maté, Gabor y Daniel Maté. El mito de la normalidad. 2022.

Confieso que el mundo paranormal no es mi fuerte. Quizás exista, pero soy incrédulo. Tan incrédulo que ni siquiera juego a la lotería.

Una noche soñé con un número que pude recordar al despertarme.

Confieso también que estuve tentado a comprar el número, pero por convicción no lo hice. Sé que no ha salido en ninguna de las loterías que la gente juega. Por tanto, el premio está pendiente.

Cuál no sería mi sorpresa que al registrarme en una página de internet y equivocarme con la contraseña, el número infinito de recuperación comenzó con las cifras exactas del número que soñé.

Al comentárselo a Rosa, mi mujer, tiró la puerta del horno y me dijo:

-Ahi está, y tú tan incrédulo.

Desde entonces, ella algunas veces juega el número en la lotería y yo, aunque discretamente, estudio ese portal, por si de algún modo la suerte está allí.

Pero nada. No lo veo fácil, y en el fondo quizás tampoco quiera. Porque lo que nos falta es que a los dos nos de por la búsqueda de eso que tú estás buscando pero que en el fondo sabes que no va a aparecer y que, como todos, nos vayamos moviendo de aquí para allá, de lado y de vuelta, tratando de descifrar por qué razón, siendo tan especiales, seguimos sin encontrar no se sabe qué.

-Paco, ¿has visto algo?