Where Do We Go When the Light Fades Away?

There’s a question that quietly hangs over our age, even if we rarely say it out loud:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

For centuries Western civilization lived with a shared framework of meaning—moral boundaries, transcendent truth, and the assumption that reality itself had an order we didn’t invent.

But something changed.

Many today celebrate the idea that we have finally thrown off the restraints of the past. We are told we are free now—free to define truth, free to construct identity, free to determine our own moral path.

But beneath the celebration, there is a growing sense of unease.

Because when every voice becomes its own authority, something strange begins to happen: the ground beneath us starts to move.

A Warning from an Ancient Book

The Bible describes a similar moment in Israel’s history. The book of Judges ends with a haunting summary of the culture at that time:

“In those days there was no king in Israel. Everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”
— Judges 21:25

At first glance, that might sound like freedom. No king. No authority. Everyone deciding for themselves.

But the stories leading up to that verse tell a darker story—violence, chaos, moral collapse, and communities unraveling.

The problem was not simply political leadership. The deeper issue was the loss of a shared moral reference point.

When everyone becomes their own authority, there is no longer a common compass.

Nietzsche’s Madman

In the 19th century, the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche wrote a famous parable that feels eerily relevant today.

In The Gay Science, he describes a madman running into a marketplace carrying a lantern in the daylight, crying out:

“I seek God! I seek God!”

The crowd laughs at him. Many of them already believed God was irrelevant.

Then the madman delivers a shocking declaration:

“God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”

But the point of the story is often misunderstood. Nietzsche was not celebrating this moment.

He was warning about its consequences.

The madman continues:

“What did we do when we unchained the earth from its sun?
Whither is it moving now?
Are we not plunging continually?”

Nietzsche saw something coming that many people around him did not yet recognize: if the foundation of transcendent truth disappears, the moral and philosophical structure built on top of it cannot hold forever.

In other words, once the sun is gone, the darkness eventually follows.

Freedom Without Form

This is where the Christian philosopher Francis Schaeffer spoke with remarkable clarity.

In his book How Should We Then Live?, Schaeffer argued that Western culture was gradually embracing what he called “freedom without form.”

People wanted absolute personal freedom—freedom from moral limits, freedom from inherited truth, freedom from external authority.

But Schaeffer warned that freedom without form cannot sustain itself.

Without a structure of truth to guide it, freedom begins to collapse inward.

When every individual becomes their own source of truth, society does not become more stable—it becomes more fragmented.

Soon the question shifts from “What is right?” to “Who has the power to decide?”

And that is when freedom slowly begins to disappear.

When the Light Fades

We may not carry lanterns through marketplaces like Nietzsche’s madman, but many people today feel the same unease he described.

The old moral landmarks seem to be disappearing. Institutions that once provided stability feel uncertain. Even the idea of truth itself is often treated as negotiable.

So the question returns:

Where do we go when the light fades away?

The answer may not lie in inventing new truths or constructing new moral systems from scratch.

Instead, it may require rediscovering something older—something that was never ours to create in the first place.

Because if the light did not originate with us, it also means its source has never truly disappeared.

The real challenge is whether we are willing to look for it again.

My attempts to capture this in a song-

So this is my 3rd time and in some ways I feel like it keeps failing- maybe too philosophical-

1st try: The Madness

2nd Try: Lamps in the Light

And they didn't quite work...

so I turned it more into a story.

3rd try- The Lantern Man

The song Lantern Man (A Parable) pushes this question one step further.

In the story, a man walks through a small town carrying a lantern in broad daylight. The people laugh at him. They mock him. Some ignore him completely. To the town, he looks like a fool—an odd relic clinging to something that no longer makes sense.

But the lantern is not for the daylight.

It is a warning about the darkness.

In many ways, that image echoes the strange calling of the Old Testament prophets. When God spoke through them, they often did things that seemed bizarre or embarrassing in order to wake people up.

Ezekiel, for example, was commanded to perform actions that must have looked absurd to those watching:

• He lay on his side for hundreds of days to symbolize Israel’s coming judgment (Ezekiel 4).

• He cooked food over a fire made from dung as a sign of coming hardship (Ezekiel 4:12–15).

• He shaved his head and beard with a sword and divided the hair to represent the fate of Jerusalem (Ezekiel 5).

• At one point he was even told to pack his belongings and dig through a wall to leave the city in front of everyone, symbolizing exile (Ezekiel 12).

To the surrounding culture, the prophets must have looked strange—maybe even ridiculous.

Yet their actions carried a message: something was wrong, and people needed to wake up.

In a similar way, sharing the message of Christ in our time can sometimes make us appear just as strange.

When we speak about truth in a world that believes truth is relative…
When we talk about sin in a culture that prefers affirmation…
When we point people toward Christ as the source of life and meaning…

we may look a little like that lantern carrier in the marketplace.

Out of step, unfashionable, perhaps even foolish.

But if Nietzsche’s warning was correct—if a culture really can unchain itself from its moral sun—then the question becomes unavoidable:

Are we willing to carry the lantern anyway?

Because without a source of truth beyond ourselves, we are not truly navigating the world.

We are simply wandering through it.

And without direction, we are not enlightened—we are just stumbling in the fading light.

Send me a note- which one did you like the best?

Verse 1 In an old backwoods town Where the roads run thin and dry There’s a man who walks the market With a lantern in broad daylight. Children laugh and trail behind him, Men just shake their heads and grin, “Still searching for your God out here?” They shout as he walks in. Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps walking through the laughter and the strain— That quiet Lantern Man. Verse 2 They say he’s been here years now, Ever since the mill shut down, Since the preacher left the pulpit And the truth left this town. One day someone asked him laughing, “What are you trying to prove?” He said, “You tore the sky from meaning— Now tell me how you move.” Chorus Where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the stars we trusted fall? What still holds when the noise dies down When there’s no clear voice at all? He keeps searching through the dust and shifting sand— That stubborn Lantern Man. Verse 3 One night when the crowd had drifted And the square was standing still, I asked him why he carried Fire against their will. He said, “Freedom without form breaks apart, It bends until it frays. Doing what is right in our own eyes Leaves us lost halfway.” Bridge “Not every truth arrives in thunder, Not every answer roars. Some restore the shape of things By whispering what matters more.” Final Chorus So where do we turn when the lights burn out? When the night outlasts the day? What still leads when the ground gives way And the old paths fade to gray? He said, “You don’t need thunder to call you back— Just a voice that stays.” Outro Now sometimes when the town goes dark And the road runs out of plan, I swear I see a lantern glow In the hand of that old man. No firestorm, no shaking ground— Just a quiet light again. Walking slow through the silent streets, That steady Lantern Man.

WISDOM from Proverbs 9

This post/song was inspired by a devotion last night from Dr. Scott Redd.....

We now come to the last of the introductory passages before the listing of individual proverbs. Proverbs 9 sets the stage with two feminine personifications: Wisdom and Folly.

Wisdom builds her house. She hews her pillars. She prepares her table.
Folly lounges at the door, loud and seductive, offering what is stolen.

Caught between them stands the simpleton — the unformed, the inexperienced — really a personification of us all. The question hangs in the air: do we grow up into life through maturity, or do we drift downward into destructive traps?

Proverbs 9 reads almost like a scene.

It is as though you open the book just to read a line — thin paper trembling under lamplight — and instead of silent ink, the page begins to speak. Two voices rise from the text.

One stands where the high stones meet the sky. Her table is set. Bread laid open. Wine poured clear. No rush in her voice. No hidden claim. “Come and eat. Leave your simple ways. Walk in understanding.”

The other leans where the alley bends. Honeyed laughter. Silver promises. “Stolen water is sweet. Secret bread is pleasant. Come inside. Just close the door.”

Both sound like a friend.

And the simple one stands at the crossing of stair and street, no crown, no scar, no chosen name — only hunger. Which way will he go?

There is a third character here as well: the scoffer, the mocker.

Verses 7–8 sober us. Correct a scoffer and you invite abuse. Reprove him and you injure yourself. There is a hardness here beyond simple immaturity. This is not the inexperienced soul who can be formed — this is the one who resents formation itself.

So how do we discern when someone has crossed from simple to scoffer?

I wrestle with the same tension when I consider Jesus’ command not to cast pearls before swine. At what point does continued correction become harmful rather than helpful?

First, discernment itself is a fruit of pursuing wisdom. As we grow in godly wisdom, we gain the skill of recognizing when a heart is teachable and when it has become entrenched. There comes a moment when loving persistence turns into enabling hardness. At that point, wisdom may require withdrawal.

Second, we must trust God’s regenerative power. Even if we misjudge the moment, God does not lose those He intends to redeem. Salvation is not finally secured by the precision of our discernment, but by the sovereignty of His grace.

Finally, we fast and pray — especially when the mocker is someone we love. A child. A friend. A spouse. We have all seen those who seem defiant almost from birth. Not honest questioners. Not open wanderers. But hardened, cynical, darkened by resistance. In those cases, continued argument may only deepen callousness. It can be more loving to step back and plead with God to do what only He can do.

Sometimes that pleading is painful. You watch a world begin to crumble. You pray for a flicker of softness. And you leave condemnation where it belongs — with God alone.

But most of us are not fixed scoffers. We are the simple — still forming, still choosing.

And Proverbs 9 returns us to the table.

Look at the parallel pleas:

Lady Wisdom: “Come and eat my bread and drink my wine.”
Woman Folly: “Stolen water is sweet, and secret bread is pleasant.”

Two meals. Two invitations. Two ends.

One road runs slowly upward into life.
The other slips quietly downward — deep in the realm of the dead.

Both sound appealing in the moment. Both promise satisfaction. Only one sustains.

So we pause and remember the true bread and the true wine.

Christ has set a table as well. Not stolen. Not secret. Not hidden in darkness. Openly given. His body. His blood. Life offered freely to the simple who will turn and come.

The question of Proverbs 9 is not merely theoretical.

Who do you want to dine with?

Song: Deep in the Realm of the Dead (Proverbs 9)

"It's Theology"- Huckabee/Carlson Podcast Thoughts

The reaction to this post was surprising- so I have added a follow-up at the end- and tried to clarify a question I had from the Romans 9-11 passage.

I recently finished watching the Tucker Carlson interview with Mike Huckabee. At times, I found it deeply frustrating. Not because difficult questions were raised — those are necessary — but because the tone often felt more argumentative than illuminating. When theology, geopolitics, history, and media personalities converge, clarity can quickly give way to heat.

Yet the interview served a useful purpose for me. It forced me to examine where I stand. It made me slow down and clarify what I actually believe about Israel, covenant, prophecy, and the relationship between spiritual truth and political reality. It reminded me how careful we must be when we speak about these matters.

It took me almost 4 days to watch- the conversation kept going in strange loops- it was not easy to follow and felt like a lot of 'gotcha' -  

One of the difficulties in this conversation is that it feels increasingly hard to occupy a thoughtful middle ground. 

Even public figures who attempt to ask probing questions about Israel often find themselves accused of hostility or disloyalty. In some circles, any criticism of Israeli policy is quickly labeled as sympathy for extremism. At the same time, some of the loudest pro-Palestinian activism in our country has, at times, been marked by rhetoric or demonstrations that feel chaotic, reactionary, or untethered from careful moral reasoning.

The result is a climate where nuance is easily lost. Legitimate concerns about justice and human dignity can be swallowed up by partisan suspicion. The space for careful, principled Christian reflection narrows when every critique is treated as betrayal and every appeal for restraint is treated as weakness.

Even Tucker Carlson is conflicted- he was having a hard time between questions and charges of him being 'anti-semitic". As a point of clarity, I like both men- both of them are products of their experiences and belief systems- and life is messy. In some ways we all stumble through and navigate a lot of gray. My faults are more clear to me than anyone else.... and I have to always be willing to say "I was wrong". 

Few topics are more complicated. We are dealing with ancient covenant promises, first-century fulfillment in Christ, centuries of Jewish suffering, the horrors of the Holocaust, the establishment of a modern nation-state, ongoing conflict involving multiple peoples, and deeply held theological convictions. Compressing all of that into a podcast exchange almost guarantees that nuance will suffer. But the complexity of the issue should not drive us to slogans.

One thing that troubles me in modern discourse is how quickly Christians are labeled — “Christian Zionist,” “Christian Nationalist,” and so on. These terms often function more as rhetorical weapons than helpful descriptions. Before any modifier, we are Christians. Our primary identity is not political, national, ethnic, or ideological. It is union with Christ. To reduce Christian conviction to a political category shrinks something that Scripture presents as cosmic and redemptive. That does not mean Christians avoid political questions, but it does mean our theological identity must not be reduced to them.

From a Reformed and covenantal perspective, God’s promises to Abraham are not denied or discarded; they are fulfilled. Paul writes in Galatians 3 that the promises were ultimately made to Abraham and to his “offspring,” who is Christ. Those who belong to Christ are Abraham’s seed and heirs according to promise. The covenant expands in Christ; it is not erased. The New Testament consistently interprets Old Testament institutions — temple, priesthood, sacrifice, even land — through the lens of fulfillment. The temple is fulfilled in Christ. The priesthood is fulfilled in Christ. The sacrificial system is fulfilled in Christ. The promise to Abraham becomes heir not merely of a narrow strip of land, but of the world. This does not erase Jewish identity or deny historical continuity, nor does it support antisemitism in any form. But it does relocate the center of covenant fulfillment in a person rather than a political structure.

Romans 9–11 sits at the heart of this discussion. 

But it is not as though the word of God has failed. For not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel, [7] and not all are children of Abraham because they are his offspring, but “Through Isaac shall your offspring be named.” [8] This means that it is not the children of the flesh who are the children of God, but the children of the promise are counted as offspring. (Romans 9:6–8 ESV)

Paul begins with anguish over his fellow Jews. He affirms their privileges — adoption, covenants, promises — yet insists that not all who are descended from Israel belong to Israel. Ethnicity alone is not covenant fulfillment. 

Isaac was the seed of promise- Ishmael was not- yet both are descendants of Abram.

Righteousness comes through faith in Christ, for Jew and Gentile alike. In Romans 11, Paul uses the olive tree illustration: some natural branches were broken off because of unbelief, and wild branches were grafted in. There is one tree. Gentiles do not replace Israel; they are grafted into Israel’s covenantal story. And embedded in this passage are sobering warnings to Christians: do not be arrogant, do not become proud, but fear. The text is not fuel for triumphalism but a call to humility.

Paul also speaks of mystery. A partial hardening has come upon Israel until the fullness of the Gentiles comes in, and “all Israel will be saved.” There remains a future mercy pattern we do not fully grasp. But Paul does not map that mystery onto political sovereignty or territorial charts. He ends not with geopolitical detail but with worship: “Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God!” The emphasis is on divine mercy and unfathomable providence, not on cartography.

I am a Christian today because of the 'temporary change in the flow'- the blessing coming to the gentiles, but there does seem to be great evidence that sometime in the future, the 'dry bones will live' - but that will be a revival of a spiritual nature... not an earthly kingdom. 

Note: You can read my thoughts on Romans beginning here:  Romans  and there are many posts in that run from May through July 2009.

Those shaped by dispensational theology approach these texts differently, often maintaining a sharper distinction between Israel and the Church and expecting a future national restoration. That perspective arises from a serious desire to take Old Testament promises literally and seriously. It should not be caricatured. But it does create tension, especially when modern political developments are viewed as stages of prophetic fulfillment. When headlines begin to function as eschatology, the line between biblical theology and foreign policy can blur. That is where caution is necessary.

One of the clearest dangers in our time is the temptation to rationalize geopolitical policy on the basis of spiritual truths. It is one thing to affirm that God made promises to Abraham; it is another to draw straight lines from Genesis to modern military or diplomatic policy. Political states are not redemptive entities. They may play roles in God’s providence — as all nations do — but they are not themselves covenant fulfillments. Christians should care deeply about justice, human dignity, and peace for all people involved — Jewish and Palestinian alike. But we must be careful not to baptize policy preferences with biblical absolutism.

Ultimately, this conversation drives me back to humility. God’s providence moves through history in ways we often misunderstand. The first coming of Christ was foretold, and yet largely misread by those who had the Scriptures in hand. Expectations were confident. Interpretations were detailed. Many were wrong. If we misunderstood the first coming, we should hold our interpretations of the second with reverent caution. Conviction is good; certainty about the mechanics of God’s unfolding plan should be tempered by awe.

So where do I land?

I affirm the dignity and worth of the Jewish people and recognize the State of Israel as a nation among nations.

Our hope, however, is not rooted in political arrangements but in the redemptive work of Jesus Christ, through whom God is gathering one people to Himself.

I therefore pray for peace, justice, and mercy for all who dwell in the region and seek to approach these matters with humility, charity, and restraint.

Finally- As I mentioned in an earlier post (Aug 2025) year on salvation- Trump, Watters and Questions of Salvation I am finding fewer and fewer people on popular mainstream online discourse who argue from a truly Biblical perspective- MANY people know the words, but few articulate understanding.

Other Resource- Here is a side by side comparison of how Covenantal Theologians differ from Dispensational Theologians on Issues of the Modern Middle East- Side by Side Middle East

WAS THE MODERN DAY NATION STATE A PRODUCT OF A  PRE-MILLENIAL MINDSET?

The short answer- NO- though I was 'suspicious of it for a time- here is where I stand today:

After some more reading and reflection, I want to clear up something I had long suspected but never really examined carefully.

For years, I carried a quiet assumption — not fully formed, but lingering — that the development of the modern State of Israel in 1947–48 was heavily pushed along by premillennial dispensationalists who were eager to see prophecy fulfilled. Almost as if Christians, newly enthusiastic about end-times charts, were nudging history forward. At its most uncharitable, I even wondered whether it was a kind of modern “Ishmael” move — human effort trying to force what God had promised.

The more I’ve looked into it, the more I realize that suspicion doesn’t hold up historically.

The roots of modern Israel run far deeper and far more complex than Christian prophetic enthusiasm. Modern Zionism began largely as a Jewish nationalist movement in 19th-century Europe, shaped by rising antisemitism, violent pogroms, and the broader tide of European nationalism. The early Zionist leaders were often secular. Their motivation was not Christian eschatology but survival, identity, and self-determination.

Note: If you haven't done so, I encourage you to read two blog posts I made about this terrible anti-semitic period ( I wrote these in April of 2025)

Framed Outrage

Blood Libel Myth

Then came World War I and the collapse of the Ottoman Empire. The British Balfour Declaration expressed support for a Jewish national home, but that decision was tied as much to wartime strategy and imperial interests as to theology. Borders throughout the Middle East were being redrawn in those years — not by prophecy teachers, but by diplomats and military powers carving up the remains of an empire.

And then, of course, the Holocaust changed everything. After the systematic murder of six million Jews, the moral urgency surrounding Jewish statehood intensified dramatically. By the time the United Nations voted on partition in 1947, the driving forces were humanitarian crisis, refugee displacement, international diplomacy, and geopolitical calculation. The eventual borders of 1948 were shaped as much by war as by any preexisting map.

Dispensational theology was certainly growing in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, especially in America. But evangelicals at that time did not wield the kind of political influence that would allow them to orchestrate the creation of a nation-state. In fact, strong American Christian Zionist political influence emerged much more prominently after 1967 than in 1947.

So my earlier suspicion — that Christians eager to “hasten the millennium” were a primary force behind Israel’s founding — simply doesn’t fit the historical record. That doesn’t mean theology played no role anywhere. It does mean it was not the engine driving the train.

At the same time, recognizing the political, national, and tragic factors that led to Israel’s establishment does not remove God’s providence from the picture. Scripture shows us again and again that God moves history forward through ordinary political ambition, human sin, war, empire, and even catastrophe. Cyrus did not know he was fulfilling prophecy. Rome did not crucify Christ in order to accomplish redemption. Joseph’s brothers were not consciously advancing God’s covenant purposes. Yet God was sovereign over it all.

Providence does not require prophetic awareness.

That realization helps me avoid two opposite errors. On one hand, I don’t need to assume that modern Israel was engineered by prophecy enthusiasts trying to force God’s hand. On the other hand, I don’t need to strip the moment of any theological significance whatsoever. God governs history in layered and often hidden ways. The establishment of modern Israel arose from nationalism, imperial politics, unspeakable tragedy, and international negotiation. How it fits into the larger tapestry of God’s purposes is something I approach now with more humility than suspicion.

If anything, this correction strengthens my broader conviction: we should be slow to draw straight lines between biblical promises and modern political events. The first coming of Christ was foretold clearly, and yet widely misunderstood by those who studied the Scriptures most intensely. That alone should make us cautious.

I am grateful for the push to examine my assumptions. It is good to hold convictions. It is better to refine them.

John Wayne at the Alamo

Last night, we had a rare sit down movie opportunity. I turned on the screen and began scrolling through options... Equalizer 3 was tempting, and then my wife saw it PRIDE and PREJUDICE! 

And so that one we did- I had seen it before a while back, but I enjoyed it, and she deserved it. I do think watching these movies with closed captioning on helps me, maybe because my hearing isn't great.

In the movie, many mistakes were made that were the result of "Pride and Prejudice" constrained by customs, obsession with status, and limited opportunities of women in a society that relegates them to service, I get all of that...

But the reaction to that, has allowed the pedulum to swing the total opposite way.

I wrote on this issue before- no more Hollywood stars because of the 'toxic masculinity' mood in Hollywood- (see link here : The Last Action Star?)

Even in the movie last night- Darby was disliked, because he was misunderstood and subject to gossip rampant with disinformation.

It reminded me of a John Wayne quote:

“Everyone wants to feel useful in this old world… to hit a lick for what’s right and say a word against what’s wrong even if you get walloped for saying that word… You do the one or the other. You do the one and you’re living, the other and you’re dead on your feet.”

That’s about as subtle as a hammer. But it’s hard to shake.

Now to be honest- there is a HUGE balancing act here- 

A man without love can become a cruel brute and a man without fight.... well, he ain't a man.

I wrote on this archetype as well, how the movie Forgiven shows the darker side of this glorification of cowboy as fighter - (see link here: Unforgiven)

There’s something about all of this that resonates, especially right now. Most men I talk to don’t want applause. They don’t need fame. But they do want to feel useful. They want to matter. They want to know their life counts for something beyond paying bills and keeping the schedule moving.

Our culture has changed, but the problem hasn’t. You can polish society, create what looks like an “oasis of civilization,” and still never deal with the root issue of the human heart. Without Christ, sin doesn’t go away. It just dresses better.

And that’s part of the tension men feel today.

The Confusion Around Manhood

It’s not easy to know what being a man is supposed to look like anymore. The messages are mixed at best and hostile at worst.

Be strong — but don’t be too strong.
Lead — but don’t appear controlling.
Speak up — but only if your opinion is approved.
Be tender — but don’t be weak.

It leaves a lot of men unsure of where they stand.

The reason that old Western image still appeals to people isn’t really about guns or showdowns. It’s about clarity. That character knew what he believed. He knew when something was right or wrong. And he was willing to absorb the consequences.

That’s what struck me about the quote. “You do the one and you’re living.” In other words, you either step into responsibility, or you slowly drift into passivity. There isn’t much middle ground.

And that’s not about bravado. It’s about engagement.

Most of us aren’t being asked to defend the Alamo. But we are being asked to lead our homes. To disciple our children. To love our wives well. To serve our churches. To stand for truth in ordinary conversations.

That’s where the real fight is. The hard truth is that it’s often easier to disengage. It’s easier to stay quiet. Easier to let someone else take responsibility. Easier to avoid the uncomfortable conversation.

But over time, that kind of avoidance hollows a man out. You may still be busy. You may still be successful. But inside, you know you’re coasting.

That’s what Wayne meant by being “dead on your feet.”

The kind of man our families need isn’t extreme in either direction.

He’s strong enough to protect and provide.
He’s steady enough to be counted on.
But he’s also gentle enough to listen.
Humble enough to admit when he’s wrong.

Strength without tenderness becomes harsh. Tenderness without strength becomes instability. Biblical manhood holds both together.

Which brings us to Jesus.

If we’re honest, even the best cultural images of manhood fall short. They may inspire grit, but they don’t address sin. They don’t change the heart. When you look at Christ, you see something far deeper than a cinematic hero. You see courage that doesn’t need to prove itself. Authority that isn’t insecure. Power that is perfectly controlled.

He confronted hypocrisy directly. He spoke truth clearly. He endured injustice without retaliation. And He went to the cross willingly.

One detail that’s always struck me: after the resurrection, He still bore the scars.

He didn’t erase them. (Why Still the Wounds?)

Those scars were proof of what He had endured. They weren’t signs of weakness; they were reminders of love and victory. The hard road led somewhere. It accomplished something.

We want the easy road. We want growth without discomfort, leadership without sacrifice, influence without cost.

But maturity — real maturity — is forged through difficulty.

Here’s the encouraging part: no matter your season of life, there is still room to grow.

As husbands, we can grow in patience and intentional love.
As dads, we can grow in consistency and presence.
As grandfathers, we can grow in wisdom and spiritual leadership.
As leaders, we can grow in courage and humility.

Growth requires honesty. It requires repentance. It requires leaning into Christ rather than trying to manufacture strength on our own.

The world doesn’t need loud men. It needs faithful men.

Men who know when to speak and when to be silent.
Men who don’t shrink back from truth.
Men who take responsibility for their homes.
Men who are tough when necessary and tender by conviction.

The real measure of a man isn’t whether culture applauds him. It’s whether he is alive in Christ and engaged in what God has called him to do.

and that also means you will have detractors, you will be misunderstood- but someone has to stand strong and tall in that noise.

Song Links:

John Wayne at the Alamo

Unforgiven

Call Me Savage

Hemingway

John Wayne State of Mind

Meeting and Reading the Old Me

Every now and then somebody will dig up something I wrote twenty years ago and send it to me.

And yes… sometimes I read it and think, “Wow. That was… strong.”

For fun sometimes I go back and read a post say like from Feb. 2006 or 2007 and reflect on Feb now in the present. 

To be honest, I like a lot of what I said, but not always...LOL.

If you’ve ever read something I wrote back in the mid-2000s and cringed a little, just know — I probably do too when I read it now.

I’ve honestly thought about going back and cleaning some of it up. Fixing the typos. Breaking up the run-on sentences. Toning down the ALL CAPS moments. Maybe adding a little disclaimer at the top that says:

“The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect the host — even though both of them are me.”

The guy who wrote those posts is me. Same convictions. Same heart in a lot of ways. But also not quite the same man.

Reading old writing is like looking at old pictures. You remember the clothes, youthful intensity. You remember what you were fighting for. What felt urgent. What you were trying to protect. And you also see things you’d say differently now. Most of all was this somewhat arrogant urge that I deserved to be heard and known.... and the old 'ham' part of me exists, but now is just a feeling of sowing, not entitled- I don't know if that makes sense.

I don’t want to erase any of it.  I was probably a little fired up about whatever I had seen that week.

But I can also see some things that have fallen off over time.

Less sharpness- less anxiety( that  I didn’t recognize as anxiety). Less fear dressed up as certainty.
Less confidence in my own perspective that probably needed to be humbled.

Sin still clings. My heart is still prone to wander. That hasn’t changed.

But I am more at peace now than I was then. Less reactive. Less fearful. More settled.

I’m more confident in Christ. And honestly, less confident in me.

So no, I’m not going to scrub the archives anytime soon. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t say what I said. That was part of the journey. Growth looks like something over twenty years. Sometimes you can actually see it.

If you read something old and think, “He wouldn’t say it that way now,” you’re probably right.

But that man was on the way to this one.

And I hope, if the Lord gives me another twenty years, I’ll be able to say this same thing again.

There is another part of this that is somewhat opposite, there could be some who read the past and miss that old guy- maybe this 'new' me is too safe or even silly. 

I can tell on my blog where AI began to help me in the editing process, though I have fought hard to let it be just that- but one thing is for sure, there was no such thing in 2010 or 2017....

The music thing has had people scratch their head and look at me with odd expressions... One of my co-workers said to me, "'AI music is sketch, but some of your songs do get stuck in my head"- and I appreciate the sentiment.... in the case of the music, I am writing the lyrics and I work hard on the prompts and genres and finally publish what I like even if no one else does... the soundtrack of my day is much healthier that it was becoming, even Country music had gotten too dark, tongue in cheek hooks made me love the genre, but it is just hip hop with boots and  twang now.

So at odd times, the old me sometimes meets the current me and I wonder if the future me will think the same about the current me like the current me thinks about the old me.

Will we even be reading in the future? Only the Lord knows.  

Current visits at jayopsis.com 1,3367,992 since 2004

Current listens a Jayopsis/Soundcloud 115,494 since 2024

The Hemingway Hero

As I look back over previous posts I have written over the years with my analysis of English Romantics, American Modernists... I see one that I tend to ignore- Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway is one of the towering figures of American literature — a writer whose name carries as much legend as literature. He lived boldly and wrote sparingly, crafting stories of war, loss, courage, and what he famously called “grace under pressure.” His prose was stripped down, almost skeletal, built on the belief that the deepest truths lie beneath the surface — the “iceberg” unseen.

If you have never read his style- it is simple rhythm... and for readers who like figurative language, it may seem... bland?

And yet, for all his influence, I have always felt a certain distance from him. While I admire the discipline of his style and understand the archetype of the “Hemingway hero,” it sometimes seems that the mythology of the man — the war correspondent, the bullfighter’s companion, the fisherman in Cuban waters — looms larger than the stories themselves.

What haunts me most is the tragic culmination of his life. In one of his early stories, a young boy asks about suicide, and the answer is chillingly restrained — as if even despair must be handled quietly. Years later, Hemingway himself would die by his own hand. The man who wrote about endurance and stoicism ultimately reached the place where, perhaps, he could not “stand it anymore.”

Hemingway’s work wrestles with strength, but it also reveals the cost of it. His characters stand in the wind — wounded, restrained, dignified — but often without assurance that standing will save them. That tension between courage and collapse may be the truest thing about him.

This song had an original version that I posted 2 years ago, but I didn't like it. I pushed Hemingway lines too hard and it had the activity it deserved... none. LOL.

So I took time this past weekend to pick up some Hemingway, read some of his better known passages and re-did the song. The changes I made really improved what I was driving at- by the way, it is stuff I like even if no one else does.

I send it out into digital space wondering if there are any classic literature nerds left..... we are definitely headed to extinction in this new age. I just hope the ideas stay alive.

Click on the title to hear:

Standing in the Wind

(a tribute to the Hemingway Hero)

Verse 1
In the fall, the war was there,
We walked away, wounds laid bare.
Strength is forged in quiet flame,
Through loss and pride, we played the game.

Verse 2
“The world breaks all,” the old man said,
“Some rise strong, and some just bled.”
Through the dusk, the hero stands,
"Grace under pressure", trembling hands.

Chorus

Let the wind come — we won’t bow.
I may break us — not us now.
Scars don’t mean that we give in,
They’re proof we stood in the wind.

Let us stand in the wind

Verse 3
A quiet room at 2 a.m.,
The walls don’t hide what’s caving in.
Medals rest beside the bed,
But ghosts still speak of things unsaid.

The clock ticks like a distant drum,
Each second asks what we’ve become.
Scars don’t shine in silver light —
They ache the most when it’s this quiet.

Bridge 

I almost laid my purpose down,
Almost let the silence drown.
But something in me still won’t bend —
A quiet voice that says, “Stand.”

Chorus

Let the wind come — we won’t bow.
It may break us — not us now.
Every scar beneath our skin
Says we stood in the wind.

We stood…
We stood in the wind.

Columbia (President's Day)

 

We all know the iconic image of “Columbia”—long before she became associated with Columbia Pictures (founded in 1919 under the less-than-catchy name Cohn-Brandt-Cohn Film Sales).

But Columbia’s story predates Hollywood—and even predates Lady Liberty.

As we approach Presidents’ Day, I’ve been reflecting on the remarkable poet Phillis Wheatley (1753–1784) and her tribute to General George Washington at a defining moment in American history.

Wheatley was kidnapped from West Africa as a child and enslaved in Boston. Yet through extraordinary intellect and determination, she became the first African American woman to publish a book of poetry (1773). At a time when both her humanity and her intellect were questioned, her published volume stood as a quiet but powerful rebuke to the injustice of slavery.

In 1775, during the Revolutionary War, Wheatley wrote a poem titled “To His Excellency, General Washington.” Washington was then Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army—leading a fragile, under-resourced force against the most powerful empire in the world. The American experiment was uncertain. Independence was not yet secured. The future hung in the balance.

In that moment, Wheatley cast Washington not merely as a military leader, but as the defender of an ideal.

She imagined America personified as Columbia—radiant, noble, and divinely guided—moving through the turmoil of revolution with both beauty and strength. And she placed Washington within that vision as the champion of liberty under Providence.

Here’s a taste of her powerful poem:

Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!
The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.

In Wheatley’s time, Columbia became a beloved symbol of the young nation—representing its ideals, aspirations, and resilience. Named for Columbus, she embodied the spirit of the “new world,” but more importantly, she embodied liberty itself. Artists and writers of the 18th and 19th centuries depicted her in classical form—draped in flowing garments, crowned with laurel, standing beside eagles or ships, holding symbols of freedom.

But Wheatley’s portrayal may be one of the earliest and most striking literary depictions. Her Columbia is “divinely fair,” yet not passive. She is radiant—but armed. Beautiful—but resolute. She feels the anxiety of a fragile cause, yet stands ready to defend it.

And at the center of that moment stood George Washington.

What is especially moving is that Washington received Wheatley’s poem with gratitude and dignity. He responded with a personal letter thanking her and later invited her to visit his headquarters in Cambridge. In a time of deep contradiction—when a nation proclaiming liberty still permitted slavery—this exchange stands as a small but meaningful moment of mutual respect.

Wheatley saw something in Washington that symbolized hope: a leader striving to secure freedom for a new nation. And Washington, for his part, recognized the brilliance of a young Black poet whose words gave moral weight to the cause.

Throughout the 19th century, Columbia remained a familiar patriotic figure, though by the early 20th century her symbolic role gradually shifted to Lady Liberty. Still, Columbia evokes the founding vision of America—its courage, its aspiration, and its solemn responsibility.

Presidents’ Day gives us an opportunity not merely to remember leaders, but to reflect on leadership itself.

Washington was not perfect—but he understood the gravity of stewardship. He relinquished power when he could have held it. He set precedents of restraint and constitutional order. In doing so, he helped shape not just a revolution, but a republic.

Wheatley’s Columbia captures that same tension—hope mingled with burden. Radiance intertwined with responsibility.

Her poem reminds us that America was born not only through battle, but through vision. Through prayer. Through moral imagination.

And perhaps that is why her words still resonate.

Columbia moves “divinely fair,” but she feels the weight of her mission. Washington leads, but under the gaze of Providence. Freedom shines—but it must be defended and stewarded.

Did you know the very first post on this blog, written 20 years ago, was a prayer for America?

November, 2004- the very first blog post I ever wrote:

Dear God Our Father,
In this time of great division and danger, we ask that you help us. Not that we deserve it, but we want to continue to be a beacon of hope and a model of success. This life is a mixed bag and a temporary host. May you allow us to continue being a preservative of the natural entropy of order.
Lord, the churches are dark in the old land and selfishness reigns. Intellectual imperialism tickles the ears but salve no wounds. Our churches are flickering. Please revive us- give us soft hearts of love and united hearts of courage. We wimper in our prosperity and hoard our greed.
Be gracious to our leaders and heal our land.
In the name and example of Christ,
AMEN

As we observe Presidents’ Day, may we remember both the leader and the poet. May we remember the courage required to found a nation—and the faith required to sustain one.

Wheatley gave us a vision of America that was noble, beautiful, and accountable to heaven.

May we continue striving to live up to it.

Here is the song link:

Columbia

(Verse 1)

In the heart of this land, where freedom grows,

There’s a lady of beauty, in soft repose,

She moves through the ages, a vision so fair,

With laurel and olive bound in her hair.

She’s America’s grace, her strength, her pride,

But today she kneels with us, by our side.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Verse 2)

Phyllis saw her standing, strong in the fight,

With “fair freedom” shining, a “heavenly light.”

Though danger and darkness might come her way,

She lifts her gaze to a brighter day.

Now we stand with her, her hopes and her fears,

Her voice through the ages calls out in our ears.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Bridge)

The weight of a nation rests on her soul,

She fights for our future, to keep us whole.

In fields of freedom, in skies so blue,

She stands in our shadows, she stands with you.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Outro)

So we lend her our voices, we lend her our song,

In the hope of a future where freedom is strong.

She’s America’s dream, her sorrow, her grace—

Together, we pray in this hallowed place.

Barefoot Where I Belong

A story and song for spring........ Always a good time to return from where you have been.

The rideshare driver didn’t say much when the pavement gave way to gravel. The GPS had gone silent five miles back, replaced by fence lines and fields that rolled on without apology.

“Out here?” the driver asked.

“Yep,” he answered.

The car slowed beside a weathered mailbox that still leaned slightly to the left, just like it had when he was twelve. The old farmhouse sat beyond it—white paint worn thin, porch wide and waiting, fields stretching in every direction like open arms that had never quite closed.

He stepped out and back in time.

The door shut with a hollow thud, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing. The air smelled like sun-warmed hay, red dirt, and something sweet drifting from the far pasture. It didn’t smell like city rain on concrete. It didn’t smell like cologne and polished floors and late nights pretending.

He had that inner voice that had changes so much in the last few years. "You thought this place was prison and you hated the decay, now you know it  smelled like truth".

He looked down at the boots he was wearing—expensive, sharp, chosen carefully once upon a time. Tony Lamas. Polished shine. They had looked good in mirrors, under office lights, across bar counters. They had added height. They had added confidence. They had added a version of him that never quite fit.

He was happy to take them off for good- he knew there were some cow patty crusted Brogans in the barn that likely had not moved in years.

He tossed them on the bags that were the only reminders of that far away wasteland of regret.

When was the last time he walked barefoot and free? 

The gravel was rough at first. Then the grass met him—cool and forgiving. He stepped forward, and the earth gave just enough beneath his weight. No echo. No cement. No hard return of footsteps trying to prove something.

Just ground. Every step felt like it was peeling something away.

He had walked far from here. Walked into rooms where he learned how to smile without meaning it. Walked streets that never slept, under lights that never let you see the stars. He had worn boots too tight for too long, marching to a rhythm that promised success but never rest.

He had looked good but it had never felt right. It never was him.

The sun pressed warm against his face now, and he closed his eyes, letting it settle into his skin like it used to when he’d lie in the pasture and watch clouds turn into cattle and ships and dragons. The wind moved through the tall grass, brushing his legs. It carried the faint sound of wind chimes from the porch.

He started walking. Not toward anything specific. Just kept moving forward.

The field opened up around him, wide sky stretching overhead with nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. His Sunday best would have grass stains soon. He almost laughed at the thought. His mother used to fuss over that. His father used to shrug and say, “It’ll wash.”

The dirt clung to his feet. Honest ground. Not polished floors. Not city sidewalks that burned in summer and froze in winter. This soil knew him. It remembered the boy who ran through it barefoot, who climbed fences and fell and got back up without checking who was watching.

Out here, there was nothing left he had to be.

The house grew smaller behind him as he walked deeper into the field. He hadn’t meant to go far, but his feet kept moving as if they were reacquainting themselves with the land. The wind ran through his hair. He tipped his head back and let it.

He had left chasing something—status, approval, a version of manhood stitched together from magazine covers and boardrooms. Nights that made him stronger, yes. Harder, too. But stronger in ways that felt earned, not borrowed.

He sat down and looked back to the sun.

The farmhouse looked smaller now, resting against the horizon. The porch swing swayed slightly. He could almost picture his mother’s hands gripping the railing, shading her eyes.

Then he heard it—

A car door slamming in the distance.

The sharp sound carried across the open field. He had walked farther than he realized.

He squinted toward the house. At first, they were just shapes against the white porch and pale sky. Small. Almost fragile at that distance. Then the shapes began to move.- They were running.

One figure first. Then another. Arms lifting. Waving. Running as if they had been waiting at the door for years and finally saw him not just passing through—but coming home.

He felt something rise in his chest, not loud or dramatic. Just steady and certain - They looked small from here, but he could see the joy in the way they ran.

He looked down at his feet, dusted in dirt and grass, planted in the only soil that had ever known his name before he tried to rename himself.

The sun was sinking low now, but his heart felt strong. He smiled. It felt good to be back where he belonged.

Song: Barefoot Where I Belong

A Streetcar Named Success: How Tennessee Williams Lived the American Nightmare

If Southern Gothic asks, “What happens when the past won’t stay buried?”

Tennessee Williams answers, “People break—but beautifully.”

I went to dinner the other night with a group of friends where the meal was authentic New Orleans–style gumbo—and it was the best I’ve ever had.

 Everything about the night was intentional, almost thematic. The food, the conversation, the pace. We even had Kopi Luwak coffee—made from beans that pass through a civet’s digestive system—once prized for its rarity and smoothness, now better understood as a symbol of how appetite, prestige, and story can sometimes outpace substance.

The evening revolved loosely around the idea of the Vieux Carré, French for “Old Square,” the historic heart of New Orleans. The French Quarter. Old streets laid out centuries ago. A place where music, food, decay, beauty, and excess all coexist. Vieux Carré is also the name of a classic cocktail—and the title of a play by Tennessee Williams set in that very neighborhood. Without realizing it at the time, the setting had already chosen the author.

I hadn’t really read much Tennessee Williams before. So over the next few days I read "A Streetcar Named Desire" and "The Glass Menagerie". I wasn’t blown away by either. They’re interesting, important, and historically significant—but by today’s streaming standards, they feel restrained, even dated. I can see why Marlon Brando’s performance as Stanley Kowalski added a whole new gear to Streetcar—his infamous “STELLA!” practically lives outside the text now—but on the page, the plays felt a bit like the playwright’s name itself: great titles, evocative, suggestive… but not electrifying for me.

What did stop me cold was an essay.

Before Streetcar opened in New York in December 1947, Tennessee Williams published an essay in The New York Times Drama Section titled “A Streetcar Named Success.” And in that essay, Williams is not writing about theater so much as he is writing about the danger of arrival.

He begins by describing how abruptly success came to him after The Glass Menagerie—how one life ended and another began almost overnight:

I will quote a lot of this essay - It stayed with me for days.....

“I was snatched out of a virtual oblivion and thrust into sudden prominence… My experience was not unique.

Success has often come that abruptly into the lives of Americans.

The sort of life which I had had previous to this popular success was one that required endurance, a life of clawing and scratching along a sheer surface and holding on tight with raw fingers to every inch of rock higher than the one caught hold of before, but it was a good life because it was the sort of life for which the human organism is created. I was not aware of how much vital energy had gone into this struggle until the struggle was removed.

This was security at last. I sat down and looked about me and was suddenly very depressed. I thought to myself, this is just a period of adjustment.

In the suite things began to break accidentally. An arm came off the sofa. Cigarette burns appeared on the polished surfaces of the furniture. Windows were left open and a rainstorm flooded the suite.

I lived on room-service. But in this, too, there was disenchantment. Sometime between the moment when I ordered dinner over the 'phone and when it was rolled into my living room like a corpse on a rubber-wheeled table, I lost all interest in it.

Once I ordered a sirloin steak and a chocolate sundae, but everything was so cunningly disguised on the table that I mistook the chocolate sauce for gravy and poured it over the sirloin steak.

I soon found myself becoming indifferent to people. A well of cynicism rose in me.

Conversations all sounded like they had been recorded years ago and were being played back on a turntable. Sincerity and kindliness seemed to have gone out of my friends' voices. I suspected them of hypocrisy.

I stopped calling them, stopped seeing them.

I was impatient of what I took to be inane flattery. I got so sick of hearing people say, "I loved your play!" that I could not say thank you any more. I choked on the words and turned rudely away from the usually sincere person. I no longer felt any pride in the play itself but began to dislike it, probably because I felt too lifeless inside ever to create another. I was walking around dead in my shoes, and I knew it but there was no one I knew or trusted sufficiently, at that time, to take him aside and tell him what was the matter.

This curious condition persisted about three months, till late spring, when I decided to have another eye operation, mainly because of the excuse it gave me to withdraw from the world behind a gauze mask.

It was my fourth eye operation, and perhaps I should explain that I had been afflicted for about five years with a cataract on my left eye which required a series of needling operations and finally an operation on the muscle of the eye.

When the gauze mask was removed I found myself in a readjusted world. 

I checked out of the handsome suite at the first-class hotel, packed my papers and a few incidental belongings and left for Mexico, an elemental country where you can quickly forget the false dignities and conceits imposed by success, a country where vagrants innocent as children curl up to sleep on pavements and human voices especially when their language is not familiar to the ear, are soft as birds'. My public self, that artifice of mirrors, did not exist here and so my natural being was resumed.

Then, as a final act of restoration, I settled for a while at Chapala to work on a play called "The Poker Night," which later became "A Streetcar Named Desire." It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work is not only convenient but unavoidable.

Success happened to me. But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. 

Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a whitehot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to-- why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position of knowing where danger lies. You know, then, that the public Somebody you are when you "have a name" is a fiction created with mirrors and that the only somebody worth being is the solitary and unseen you that existed from your first breath and which is the sum of your actions and so is constantly in a state of becoming under your own volition--and knowing these things, you can even survive the catastrophe of Success! 

It is never altogether too late, unless you embrace the Bitch Goddess, as William James called her,

(note: William James uses the term in his 1907 book Pragmatism. There is a certain worship of success in American life, a devotion to what he calls the “bitch-goddess Success.”)

with both arms and find in her smothering caresses exactly what the homesick little boy in you always wanted, absolute protection and utter effortlessness. Security is a kind of death, I think, and it can come to you in a storm of royalty checks beside a kidneyshaped pool in Beverly Hills or anywhere at all that is removed from the conditions that made you an artist, if that's what you are or were intended to be.

Ask anyone who has experienced the kind of success I am talking about--What good is it? Perhaps to get an honest answer you will have to give him a shot of truth-serum but the word he will finally groan is unprintable in genteel publications.

(Note- I am reminded of the Guy de Maupassant quote that is understood to be a pithy summary of his outlook on life and desire: “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.”)

Then what is good? The obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into pigment or music or bodily movement or poetry or prose or anything that's dynamic and expressive--that's what's good for you if you're at all serious in your aims. William Saroyan wrote a great play on this theme, that purity of heart is the one success worth having. "In the time of your life--live!"

(note: William Saroyan & The Time of Your Life (1939) Saroyan wrote the play in the late 1930s, on the eve of war, in a moment when America was anxious, disillusioned, and unsure what “winning” even meant anymore. The line comes from the play’s epigraph and recurring moral center: “In the time of your life—live!” And the idea —“that purity of heart is the one success worth having”—is Saroyan’s explicit thesis.)

That time is short and it doesn't return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, Loss, Loss unless you devote your heart to its opposition.

Reading this essay, it struck me that Williams wasn’t just describing a personal crisis. He was diagnosing a cultural one. What he feared in his own life—the confusion of success with safety, prosperity with meaning—is a trap that has always haunted the American Dream. And when opportunity is severed from virtue, the dream quietly becomes a nightmare.

Every February, I try to observe some kind of fast. I don’t want to go into the details now, but reading Williams—and thinking through where success, comfort, and attention quietly reshape us—has already begun to influence what that fast will look like this year. Rather than a withdrawal for its own sake, it feels more like an experiment in resistance: a way of paying closer attention to what I consume and what consumes me. I’ll be curious to see where it leads, and perhaps when the month is over, I’ll have something worth reporting—not as a conclusion, but as an experience.

Update: This is kind of bizarre, but in trying to capture the mood of this amazing essay from Williams- I felt I needed a more bleak symbol... so it landed at the tragedy of Howard Hughes- 

Song: The Last Days of Howard Hughes

Music video: Last Days of Howard Hughes Video