Is Jesus the Answer?

Almost everyone who has grown up around Christian platitudes has heard phrases like, “Did you pray about it?” “If you really believe in Jesus, everything will work out.” “The most important thing in a marriage is that both spouses share the same faith.” At first, these statements sound comforting. They’re meant to reassure. But in real life, when decisions are complicated, relationships are messy, or problems feel overwhelming, these answers often fall short.

A closer look at Scripture shows that faith alone is never presented as a catch-all solution. For example, James warns, “So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead” (James 2:17). Belief is important, yes, but action is required too. Proverbs emphasizes the same principle: “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty” (Proverbs 21:5). Prayer and trust, while emphasized in Christian teaching, are not presented as replacements for careful planning, effort, and discernment.

Life does not come with spiritual shortcuts. It’s tempting to assume that a single prayer, or simply sharing belief, will resolve complex problems. Yet Ecclesiastes reminds readers to consider both prosperity and adversity thoughtfully: “In the day of prosperity be joyful, and in the day of adversity consider: God has made the one as well as the other” (Ecclesiastes 7:14). Luke illustrates the point with a simple image: anyone who desires to build a tower must first sit down and count the cost (Luke 14:28). Guidance alone is not a replacement for preparation and practical decision-making.

This becomes even more apparent in relationships. It is often claimed that the most important aspect of a marriage is shared faith. While that can be meaningful, the Bible highlights qualities that require effort: patience, kindness, humility, and enduring love (1 Corinthians 13:4–7; Ephesians 5:21). Shared belief alone is not sufficient to sustain a relationship. Communication, understanding, and intentional effort are essential, regardless of religious alignment.

Scripture consistently presents a balance of trust and action. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths” (Proverbs 3:5–6). When wisdom is lacking, it can be requested and is promised generously (James 1:5). Prayer is depicted as part of a larger process, not a magical solution. Action, discernment, and personal responsibility remain essential components of navigating life.

Oversimplified answers like “just pray” or “faith will make it right” do not capture the fullness of biblical teaching. Scripture consistently calls for a combination of trust, wisdom, and practical effort. Faith or prayer alone does not replace preparation, reflection, or hard work. The Bible repeatedly emphasizes that guidance and action go hand in hand—and that no spiritual shortcut can replace the effort required to navigate life thoughtfully and responsibly.

Twinkle Lights on Displacement and Justice

Every December, Christmas gets a serious glow-up. Twinkle lights, matching pajamas, holiday movies where everyone has excellent bone structure and zero unresolved trauma—it all makes it feel cozy, comfortable, and… predictable.

Which is ironic, because the original Christmas story? Not cozy. Not predictable. In fact, it’s kind of radical.

At the center of it all is a young woman saying, essentially, “This is what happened to my body.” In her society, that was not exactly a category people respected. She wasn’t wealthy. She wasn’t powerful. She wasn’t married. She came from a tiny village nobody cared about. And yet, the story hinges entirely on people trusting her. Whether you call it divine mystery, myth, or metaphor, it’s a clear message: big, world-changing things sometimes start with voices that society is trained to doubt.

Then, right after the big birth moment, things do not calm down. Instead, the family flees political violence in the middle of the night, across borders, just to survive. By today’s language, they’d be called refugees. So while Christmas often feels like a story of stability and peace, the first Christmas was about finding safety where you could—hardly the “perfect holiday” image we’ve been sold.

Enter the Magi: outsiders traveling from afar with gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. They didn’t belong to the community. They didn’t share the culture. They simply showed up and offered what they had. No lectures, no demands, no moral superiority—just generosity that actually mattered. Imagine if more wealthy people today did the same.

And then there’s the ultimate subversion of expectations. If you were writing a story about God entering the world, you might pick a palace. Or at least indoor plumbing. Instead, the setting is humble. The first witnesses are shepherds, people whose résumés and social standing made them invisible to most. Power doesn’t arrive flexing. It arrives present, quietly showing up where it’s needed most. Humility becomes strategy. Presence becomes influence.

The remarkable thing about this story is that you don’t have to believe every supernatural detail to get the point. It’s about listening to voices that don’t benefit from lying, protecting families from harm, sharing resources rather than hoarding them, and valuing people over power. That’s not just a religious idea—it’s a human one.

So maybe Christmas isn’t just about theology. Maybe it’s about noticing who we trust, how we care for the vulnerable, and how we measure strength. Maybe it’s about generosity that actually helps, humility that truly matters, and paying attention to the upside-down ways the world sometimes changes. And honestly, that makes the holiday far more interesting than yet another perfectly decorated tree.

🎄✨

YOU'RE A DOODY HEAD

It usually doesn’t start with an insult. It starts with a feeling.

Someone reads a comment, hears an opinion, or stumbles into a conversation they weren’t prepared for, and something tightens. Maybe it’s irritation. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s the unsettling sense that a long-held belief has just been nudged out of place. The body reacts before the brain catches up, and suddenly the urge isn’t to understand—it’s to end the interaction as quickly as possible.

So out it comes: “You’re a doody head.”

Not literally, of course. Sometimes it’s sharper. Sometimes it’s trendier. Sometimes it wears the costume of wit or moral superiority. But functionally, it’s the same thing kids say on a playground when they don’t have language yet. It’s a full stop disguised as a statement. Conversation over.

What’s interesting is that name-calling often masquerades as confidence. It feels decisive. Clean. Final. There’s a rush that comes with landing an insult, like you’ve planted your flag and walked away victorious. But that sense of winning is brief, because nothing has actually been said. No idea has been clarified. No belief has been strengthened. The only thing that’s been accomplished is relief—from the discomfort of having to think any further.

Most people don’t resort to insults because they’re cruel. They do it because they’re overwhelmed. A reaction shows up fully formed, demanding expression, but the speaker hasn’t paused long enough to ask where it came from. Instead of wondering why a topic hit so close to home, they externalize the feeling. The emotion needs somewhere to go, and it lands on the nearest person in the form of a label.

The problem is that name-calling doesn’t just shut down the other person. It shuts down the speaker too. Once an insult enters the room, curiosity leaves. Listening becomes impossible. Nuance becomes suspicious. The conversation collapses into teams, and everyone retreats to their corners convinced they’ve defended something important, even if they can’t quite name what that thing is.

Thoughtful people aren’t people who never get emotional. They’re people who notice when emotion arrives and decide not to let it drive alone. They still feel anger. They still feel hurt. They still feel defensive when a topic brushes up against identity, history, or deeply personal experience. The difference is that they slow down long enough to ask themselves what’s actually happening inside them before speaking outward.

That pause matters. In it lives the ability to say, “I don’t agree, and I’m still figuring out why,” or “This makes me uncomfortable, and I need to sit with that,” or even, “I’m not ready for this conversation yet.” None of those responses are flashy. None of them feel as immediately satisfying as a well-timed insult. But they keep the door open—for understanding, for growth, for the possibility that something meaningful might happen next.

When we skip that pause, we trade reflection for reaction. We choose playground logic over adult conversation. And over time, that habit trains us to avoid complexity altogether. Why wrestle with a complicated feeling when you can just dismiss the person in front of you and move on?

But some conversations are supposed to be uncomfortable. Some disagreements don’t resolve neatly. Some ideas take time to process, especially when they challenge stories we’ve told ourselves for years. Name-calling short-circuits that process. It ensures nothing changes—not our minds, not our understanding, not even our certainty. It just ends things loudly.

There’s a quiet confidence in being able to sit with your own reactions without flinging them at someone else. It doesn’t mean agreeing. It doesn’t mean staying in every conversation. It simply means knowing yourself well enough to speak from intention instead of impulse.

So the next time the urge to insult bubbles up, it might be worth asking what you’re actually trying to protect. A value? A memory? A sense of belonging? An unexamined fear?

If you can name that instead, you won’t need to reach for “doody head”—or any of its grown-up equivalents.

And honestly, the conversation deserves better than that.

The Reality of Gender-Affirming Care

Somewhere along the way, gender-affirming care became shorthand for something extreme in the public imagination. The phrase is often said with urgency or suspicion, as if it signals an operating room waiting just around the corner. But in real life, gender-affirming care rarely begins—or ends—with surgery. Most of the time, it doesn’t involve surgery at all.

Imagine the first moment someone feels safe enough to say, “This is who I am.” For many people, gender-affirming care starts there—not with a scalpel, but with being listened to. A doctor, therapist, teacher, or loved one who responds with curiosity instead of correction can change the trajectory of a person’s mental health. Being believed and respected lowers anxiety, reduces depression, and builds trust. No medical intervention required.

For others, affirmation shows up in everyday interactions. Being called the right name. Hearing the correct pronouns used without hesitation. These moments may seem small to someone who has never had their identity questioned, but they can be life-saving for someone who has. Research consistently shows that social affirmation alone can significantly reduce suicidal ideation among transgender youth and adults. Again—no procedures, no prescriptions. Just respect.

Often, gender-affirming care looks like therapy. Not therapy designed to “convince” someone to transition, but therapy that offers space to explore identity, manage dysphoria, and navigate relationships in a world that may not always be kind. Many people spend months or years in therapy and never pursue any medical steps at all. The care is in the support, not the outcome.

Sometimes affirmation is deeply practical. Clothing that finally feels right. A haircut that aligns with how someone sees themselves. Learning how to use makeup—or deciding not to. These choices can dramatically reduce distress and increase confidence. They are no more medical than choosing an outfit for a job interview, yet their impact can be profound.

Voice training is another example. Some people feel uneasy every time they speak because their voice doesn’t match how they see themselves. Working with a speech therapist to adjust tone, pitch, or resonance can help them feel more at home in conversations, on the phone, or in public. It’s non-invasive, reversible, and often far more affirming than people realize.

Even when medical care enters the picture, it’s often misunderstood. Gender-affirming care includes something as basic as a healthcare provider knowing how to competently treat transgender patients—like offering gynecological care to trans men or prostate exams to trans women without judgment or confusion. The affirmation lies in the respect and competence of the care, not in altering anyone’s body.

For adolescents, the conversation is often fraught with fear. Puberty blockers, when prescribed, are temporary and fully reversible. Their purpose is not to rush anyone toward a decision, but to give young people time—time to breathe, time to understand themselves, time to grow without distress. They pause a process; they don’t finalize one.

Even hormone therapy, which is frequently conflated with surgery, does not obligate anyone to take further steps. Many people use hormones without ever pursuing surgical options. Some stop after a period of time. Some never start. Medical transition is not a linear path, and it is certainly not mandatory.

What’s often left out of the conversation is this: many transgender people never want surgery at all. Their identities are not incomplete. Their care is not “unfinished.” Gender-affirming care is about alignment, not escalation.

And here’s where the misunderstanding becomes especially clear—because gender-affirming care isn’t exclusive to transgender people.

When a cisgender woman seeks breast reconstruction after a mastectomy, that is gender-affirming care. When a cisgender man takes testosterone for low T to feel more like himself again, that is gender-affirming care. When a teenager with gynecomastia has surgery to ease distress about his chest, that is gender-affirming care. Society rarely questions these choices, because we instinctively understand that helping someone feel at home in their body matters.

Even something as common as orthodontics or hair restoration carries a similar logic. Aligning one’s appearance with one’s identity—how you see yourself and how you move through the world—is widely accepted, unless the word “transgender” enters the conversation.

At its core, gender-affirming care is about informed consent and personal agency. Every step—if any—is guided by medical guidelines, professional ethics, and the individual’s needs. Surgery, when it happens, comes after extensive evaluation and is chosen by the patient. It is not the definition of care; it is one possible option among many.

So here’s the friendly reminder: care is not coercion. Support is not a shortcut to surgery. And affirmation does not mean inevitability.

More often than not, it simply means giving people the space, safety, and respect to live as themselves—something we already understand when it comes to everyone else.

When One Person’s Rights Are Violated, It Becomes Everyone’s Business

Any time someone speaks up about a constitutional violation—whether it’s police using excessive force, the government overstepping its authority, or an agency targeting people who pose no threat—someone inevitably shows up to say, “Mind your own business.”

It’s always strange to me, because in a country built on watching, questioning, and checking government power, looking away is the fastest way to lose the very rights we say we cherish. The Constitution wasn’t written as a decorative document. It was written as a guardrail. And people only stay safe when all of us keep an eye on where the government decides to place its hands.

That’s why when I spoke up about ICE officers pepper-spraying citizens who threw handfuls of snow at their vehicle, I didn’t treat it like some isolated skirmish between annoyed officers and rowdy protesters. Pepper spray is not a toy—it’s a chemical agent. And the moment an officer uses it, the law treats it as a use of force, which means it must be reasonable, necessary, and proportionate. Snow is not a threat that justifies a chemical response. It melts. There was no danger, no emergency, and no excuse for escalation. That makes it a constitutional issue—not a personal one.

And this isn’t happening in a vacuum.

Concerns about how ICE uses its power have been raised for years. People have been detained based on pending charges they haven’t even been convicted of. Others have been arrested in immigration courts without warrants, pulled aside before they ever had a chance to stand before a judge. Policies have been crafted specifically to make it harder for certain people to get bond, even though existing law gives them a right to ask for it. Courts have had to step in and remind ICE that warrantless arrests require more than suspicion—they require a lawful basis and an actual risk of flight. Even interpretations of centuries-old laws, like the Alien Enemies Act, have been challenged because they threatened to strip people of a fair hearing entirely.

All of these issues revolve around one core principle: due process.

The Fifth and Fourteenth Amendments make it crystal clear that no person—citizen or not—can be deprived of life, liberty, or property without it. Courts have repeatedly affirmed that this protection extends to non-citizens because constitutional rights don’t start and stop at citizenship status. They start and stop at government power.

So when someone says, “Mind your business,” what they’re really saying is, “Let the government do whatever it wants as long as it isn’t happening to you.”

But that mentality is exactly how rights erode.

Rights don’t disappear all at once—they disappear one ignored violation at a time.

And that same mindset pops up whenever people with platforms speak on issues of injustice. Suddenly the crowd shifts to, “Shut up and dribble,” “Stay in your lane,” or “Stick to entertainment.” It’s a silencing tactic, nothing more. It’s a way of protecting comfort, not justice. It’s a way of saying, “Don’t make us look at what’s happening.”

But speaking up isn’t drama—it’s civic responsibility.

If I see someone else’s rights violated, I’m not watching a show. I’m watching a warning. And warnings should never be ignored.

At the end of the day, you don’t have to be a lawyer to know when the government crosses a line. You just have to care that the line exists. Knowing your rights, staying calm during encounters, asking whether officers have a warrant, and seeking legal help when needed—those are the tools individuals can use. But the tool we all share is our voice.

So no—I will not “mind my business.”

If anything, this is my business.

It’s all of our business.

Because the moment we stop paying attention is the moment those rights stop belonging to us at all.

At Some Point, You Gotta Pass the Torch

Houston politics has been extra these past two years. And I don’t mean fun extra — I mean the kind of extra where you’re tired, confused, grieving, checking Google every five minutes, and wondering when the adults in the room are going to get it together.

And look: I say all this with deep respect. I’m not attacking anybody’s age, ability, or health. I’m not telling elders to sit down. I’m saying something simple:

Nobody is here forever. And if you truly love the people you serve, you should be training the person who comes after you.

That’s where my head is. And that’s why I think Congressman Al Green — who has done so much for Houston — might want to consider ending his service on a high note and helping build what comes next.

Let me explain.

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Houston Took Two Major Losses Back-to-Back

In less than two years, we lost Sheila Jackson Lee and Sylvester Turner — two people who didn’t just hold office; they were Houston politics.

Sheila Jackson Lee was everywhere — every parade, every community event, every crisis, every microphone. That woman served with fire. And her death from pancreatic cancer left a huge hole in the 18th District.

Then Sylvester Turner — our former mayor, someone with literal decades of leadership — stepped up to replace her. And before he could even settle in, he passed away, too.

Two giants, gone.

Two seats empty.

And a whole community left trying to hold itself together without clarity or direction.

And again — let me be super clear — I am not saying they were too old. Life happens. Illness happens. None of us are immortal.

But that’s the point.

When leaders don’t build a bench, communities suffer when something unexpected happens.

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And Then Greg Abbott Stepped In and Made Everything Worse

You would think the Governor would quickly call a special election so Houston wouldn’t be left without representation, right?

Wrong.

Greg Abbott delayed and dragged his feet like he was allergic to giving a majority-Black district a voice in Congress. And the whole time this was happening, Texas Republicans were also pushing through mid-decade redistricting, which is:

• Unnecessary

• Disruptive

• Confusing

• And honestly? In bad taste

Because why are we redrawing maps like we’re rearranging living room furniture during a hurricane?

Redistricting should NOT be something you pull out in the middle of a decade just because it benefits you politically. And doing it while Houston is already grieving and unrepresented? That’s not governance. That’s games.

And because of those delays, instead of having a representative months ago, we now have to wait until January for a runoff between Christian Menefee and Amanda Edwards.

Houston did not deserve this chaos.

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This Is Why Succession Planning Matters

This whole situation made me sit back and go:

“Why don’t our longtime representatives have someone ready to go?”

Corporations plan succession.

Churches plan succession.

Family businesses definitely plan succession.

But politics?

It’s like everybody wants to hold the seat until the wheels fall off and then let the community figure out the mess on their own.

That’s not fair.

That’s not leadership.

And honestly? That’s how districts end up vulnerable to exactly what just happened to us.

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So Where Does Al Green Fit Into This?

Al Green has served with dignity, consistency, and heart for decades. He has earned his flowers. Nobody can take that away from him.

But with these new Texas maps and the opening of a brand-new congressional district, this is a moment for him to choose legacy over longevity.

He could absolutely run and win.

But he also has the chance to become the elder statesman who says:

“I’ve done my part. Now let me help prepare the next leader.”

And honestly? That would be powerful. That would be leadership. That would be the opposite of what we just lived through with the 18th District.

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Here’s What Makes Sense to Me

Christian Menefee and Amanda Edwards are the two candidates headed to the January runoff. Both are talented. Both are respected. Both would serve Houston well.

So instead of letting one “lose” and disappear, here’s what I think should happen:

• Whoever wins becomes the representative for the 18th District.

• Whoever doesn’t win should be earmarked for the new congressional district that’s about to open up with a March runoff.

Why start from zero when we already have strong candidates right in front of us?

This is how you build stability.

This is how you build a political future.

This is how you stop the chaos.

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Legacy Isn’t Just What You Did — It’s Who You Prepare

Al Green has done the work. Nobody can argue that. But the next chapter of leadership in Houston doesn’t have to be chaotic or traumatic. It can be intentional.

We’ve already seen what happens when we don’t prepare.

We’ve already seen how quickly we can be left unrepresented.

We’ve already seen how political games — like mid-decade redistricting — can hurt communities that have been resilient for generations.

Now is the time for wisdom.

Now is the time for mentorship.

Now is the time to build the next generation of leaders before we need them.

And if anybody can set that example with grace and dignity, it’s Al Green.

Freedom of Religion: Faith Thrives Through Choice and Respect

In the United States, faith grows in hearts, not under government control. True devotion comes from love, choice, and personal conviction. Our Constitution protects freedom of religion, allowing Christians, Muslims, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, Baha’is, Jains, Indigenous spiritual practitioners, and people of all beliefs—including atheists and agnostics—to worship, celebrate traditions, or live by conscience.

Religious freedom strengthens both society and faith. Christians celebrate Christmas, pray at home, lead church services, and share their faith openly. Muslims pray, fast during Ramadan, and gather in mosques. Jews observe Shabbat and celebrate Hanukkah. Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, and Jains hold festivals, perform rituals, and teach their children their beliefs. Even people without religion live according to conscience, free from imposed faith.

Misunderstandings arise when people claim one religion threatens another. The Arabic word “Allah” means simply “God,” and Arabic-speaking Christians have used it for centuries. A call to prayer, a hijab, or a Hindu festival in public spaces does not diminish anyone else’s faith. These practices reflect devotion, not competition.

Faith flourishes when chosen freely. Christianity, like every religion, thrives when it inspires love, service, and moral guidance—not dominance or suppression. Jesus taught peacemaking, humility, and love for neighbors, including people of different faiths. Other traditions emphasize compassion and respect as well: Judaism calls for tikkun olam—repairing the world; Islam emphasizes mercy and justice; Buddhism focuses on compassion and reducing suffering; Hinduism values dharma—righteous living; Jainism emphasizes nonviolence and truth; Indigenous traditions honor balance and respect for all creation. Even atheists contribute moral guidance and civic virtue through reason, empathy, and shared human values.

Protecting religious freedom does not weaken Christianity or any faith. It strengthens society, creating an environment where moral values, spiritual growth, and service flow from choice, not law. When every faith thrives, people practice principles they believe in, and communities flourish in respect, freedom, and love.

Faith lives fully when freedom reigns. Christians follow Jesus, Muslims follow Muhammad, Hindus honor their deities, Jews study Torah, Buddhists practice mindfulness, Jains uphold nonviolence, and people of all beliefs—including atheists—contribute to a society built on respect and compassion. Freedom of religion allows every person, every faith, and every heart to flourish.

When They Claim They’re “Protecting Women,” I Don’t Buy It

Every time I hear lawmakers say they’re protecting women, something in me pushes back. Protecting women’s sports. Protecting women’s privacy. Protecting women’s spaces. The words sound familiar, but the actions don’t match. It feels less like protection and more like performance.

Across red states—and now at the federal level—lawmakers keep pushing bills that ban transgender women from sports teams and public bathrooms. They sell these laws as care for women and girls, but all I see is a fixation on controlling a small group of people while ignoring the problems most women face every day.

Women have asked for equal pay for decades. We’ve asked for affordable childcare, paid family leave, better maternal healthcare, and real accountability for sexual assault. We’ve asked for rape kits to get tested instead of collecting dust for years. We’ve asked for protection from harassment and violence in our workplaces, schools, and homes. Yet lawmakers keep choosing a different fight—one that costs them very little politically and fixes nothing materially.

Texas now enforces laws that block trans students from using restrooms that align with their gender identity and threatens universities with massive fines if they don’t comply. Other states follow suit, redefining sex so narrowly that trans women disappear from public life altogether. On the federal stage, politicians try to rewrite civil rights protections under the banner of “fairness in women’s sports,” even though those efforts target a tiny population.

That’s what makes this feel dishonest. Trans women make up a very small percentage of the population, yet politicians center them again and again, not because they pose some widespread threat, but because they serve as a convenient symbol. Fear mobilizes voters faster than compassion ever will.

What bothers me most comes down to enforcement. Every time someone argues for bathroom bans, I ask the same question: who enforces this? Who checks? Who decides whether someone looks “female enough” to walk into a bathroom without getting questioned, stares, or worse? These laws drag all women into surveillance. They turn restrooms into spaces of suspicion. They invite strangers to police bodies—and that should disturb every single one of us.

Women didn’t ask for this. I don’t know a woman who said, “This solves my problems.” I know women who feel exhausted. Who feel unheard. Who juggle work and family without support. Who navigate healthcare systems that dismiss their pain. Who worry about safety far more often than about who stands next to them in a bathroom.

When lawmakers claim they’re helping women while ignoring everything women actually demand, it feels insulting. It feels like being used as cover. Like our lives function as talking points instead of realities that deserve serious solutions.

These laws don’t protect women. They divide us. They cast trans women as threats and treat cis women like props. They deflect attention away from broken systems and redirect it toward a group with the least power to push back.

Real support for women would look different. It would center economic security, healthcare, autonomy, and safety. It would expand opportunity instead of shrinking who belongs. It wouldn’t rely on humiliation, surveillance, or fear.

When politicians talk about protecting women, I pay attention to what they choose to protect us from—and what they choose to ignore. Right now, they ignore pay gaps, healthcare disparities, childcare crises, and violence against women. Instead, they police bathrooms.

The fact that we now have to ask who belongs in a bathroom tells me everything I need to know about how far off track we’ve gone.

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Support Systems Don’t Destroy Families

Every so often, someone appears to warn us that if women rely too much on government support, we will collectively forget how marriage works. As though the presence of public assistance causes rings to slide dramatically off fingers. As if Medicaid is standing in a doorway whispering, “You don’t need him anymore.” This argument assumes one extremely important thing: that women must choose between love and infrastructure. Apparently, we cannot have both.

The framing usually goes like this: if the government supports you, you won’t need a husband. And if you don’t need a husband, you won’t want one. And if you don’t want one, the collapse of society is imminent. This suggests marriage and government assistance are competing romantic prospects. Like the government is nervously twirling its hair while a husband clears his throat across the room. But here’s the thing: marriage has never once paved a road, funded a public school, provided unemployment insurance, approved family medical leave, or shown up during a hurricane. My husband is wonderful, but he cannot process a FEMA claim.

Historically, women relied on men not because it was ideal but because it was legally required. Marriage wasn’t just love—it was survival paperwork. For a long time, women couldn’t own property, couldn’t open bank accounts, couldn’t leave marriages easily or safely, and definitely couldn’t say, “I need time to find myself” without serious consequences. If your choices are marry a man or enter poverty immediately, that’s not romance. That’s economic coercion with a lace veil. So when people say, “Women should rely on husbands instead of the government,” what they’re really asking is for women to re-enter a system where dependence was compulsory, not chosen. Pass.

Somewhere along the way, we started talking about public support like it’s a substitute for intimacy. As if a woman wakes up one day and says, “I was hoping for companionship, emotional connection, and mutual respect… but then I received affordable healthcare, and the desire for love completely evaporated.” Government programs do not listen to your feelings, split the mental load, argue about dishes, make you laugh when you’re tired, or hold your hand when you’re scared. A safety net doesn’t replace relationships. It replaces desperation.

People choose better relationships when they aren’t choosing under threat. When you don’t need marriage in order to eat, stay housed, or receive medical care, you can wait, you can choose well, and you can leave if you need to. “You’re with me because you want to be” is a lot more romantic than “You’re with me because my job has health insurance.” A society that supports people doesn’t weaken families—it allows them to form voluntarily instead of under pressure.

And it’s always interesting how this argument singles out women, as if men don’t collect Social Security, don’t use Medicare, don’t rely on veterans benefits, don’t file for unemployment, and don’t enjoy roads, bridges, and electricity. If using public infrastructure makes marriage unnecessary, then we need to have a very serious conversation with every married man who drives on a publicly funded street.

You can want marriage, value partnership, and believe in family, and at the same time support public healthcare, believe in childcare assistance, want labor protections, and support people regardless of marital status. This is not moral confusion. This is understanding that personal relationships and social systems serve different purposes. Your partner is there to love you. Your government is there to make sure no one falls through the cracks. No one is asking one to replace the other.

Wanting government support doesn’t mean you don’t value marriage. Wanting marriage doesn’t mean you want dependence. The government is not my husband. My husband is not my government. One shares life with me. The other makes sure bridges don’t collapse. It’s okay to want both.

Scarcity and Other Lies

Anytime people talk about helping others—feeding kids, funding schools, addressing housing, expanding healthcare—someone inevitably says, there just isn’t enough money.

That sentence survives only because people keep repeating it, not because facts support it.

We live in a country where single individuals hold hundreds of billions of dollars. Not governments. Not entire programs. Individuals. People who own multiple homes, private jets, yachts, and properties in cities where teachers and service workers can’t afford rent. Calling that environment “scarce” requires ignoring what sits right in front of us.

Jeff Bezos owns multiple mansions worth tens of millions of dollars while Amazon workers report skipping breaks and relying on public assistance. Elon Musk gained billions in net worth in a single year while Tesla fought unionization and benefited from public subsidies. The Walton family holds more wealth than millions of Americans combined, even as Walmart consistently ranks among the largest employers of workers who depend on government aid.

That reality doesn’t come from a lack of money. It comes from where the money flows—and where it stays.

When the federal minimum wage began in the late 1930s, CEOs typically earned about 30 to 40 times the average worker’s pay. That gap acknowledged leadership while still valuing labor. Today, CEOs collect 300 to 400 times the earnings of the people who keep companies running. Some executives now earn more in a single day than their employees earn in a year.

Executives didn’t suddenly start working ten times harder. Wages flattened. Unions lost power. Profit-sharing disappeared. Executive compensation exploded. Corporate boards shifted priorities, and workers absorbed the consequences.

The pattern repeats itself across industries. Amazon reports record profits while fighting safety protections. ExxonMobil announces billions in earnings while nearby communities carry the cost of pollution and climate damage. Corporations roll out stock buybacks and layoffs in the same headlines, then insist restraint when conversations turn to social investment.

At the same time, people hear that feeding children at school costs too much. Affordable housing gets labeled unrealistic. Medical debt relief gets framed as irresponsible.

Meanwhile, billionaires add properties. Corporations expand offshore accounts. Executives collect bonuses tied directly to cutting labor costs.

Money exists. It simply moves upward and stays there.

Repeating the phrase “there isn’t enough money” shifts attention away from unchecked accumulation and places responsibility on the people struggling to survive. It reframes hoarding as practical and casts human need as excessive. That narrative doesn’t reflect economics—it protects power.

This argument doesn’t reject success. It rejects the idea that extreme concentration deserves more protection than human dignity. Societies reveal their values through their budgets. Right now, ours funds luxury without limits and treats survival like an unreasonable request.

Scarcity works as a story.

The numbers tell a different one.

Once you notice where the money goes, the lie becomes impossible to repeat.

What Wish Lists Really Say

Every year, wish lists resurface like clockwork—dismissed by some as childish, indulgent, or unnecessary. But beneath the jokes about “being good” and the performative modesty of I don’t need anything, wish lists reveal something far more interesting: how people understand comfort, identity, nostalgia, and control in a world that rarely offers enough of any of those things.

At their core, wish lists are not inventories of excess. They are autobiographies written in objects.

Most adults are reluctant to admit this. We’re taught that wanting things should taper off with maturity, that practicality should replace delight, and that joy must justify itself with productivity. But if you look closely, what people put on their wish lists often reflects how the year treated them—and what they’re trying to rebuild afterward.

Take organization tools. Shelves, dividers, pegboards. On paper, they’re neutral household items. Emotionally, they represent belief: belief that life can feel less chaotic, that objects can have places, and that the person living among them can feel settled rather than perpetually behind. Wanting organization isn’t about perfectionism—it’s about relief.

Clothing operates the same way. Clothes aren’t just fabric; they’re narrative devices. A jacket that signals confidence. A cardigan that says softness without collapse. A robe that reframes rest as something intentional instead of accidental. Even the classic leather jacket fantasy—half aesthetic, half aspiration—says less about motorcycles and more about how we want to be perceived moving through the world. Wish lists let people quietly shape that story.

Pop culture deepens this language. Items tied to artists like Beyoncé aren’t just merch; they’re shorthand for values—discipline, creativity, excellence, cultural impact. A puzzle becomes patience. A crochet kit becomes optimism. Candles and ornaments become rituals that elevate everyday life. These objects aren’t about consumption; they’re about alignment with what inspires us.

Then there’s nostalgia—the most misunderstood category of all. A leg lamp. An animated Goofy. Holiday décor that’s slightly absurd and unapologetically joyful. These items don’t pretend to be practical. Their value lies in emotional continuity, in reminding people that delight doesn’t need to be earned or optimized. In uncertain times, nostalgia becomes an anchor.

Even the most “practical” wish list items carry emotional weight. A walking pad isn’t just exercise equipment; it’s a compromise between intention and reality. A helmet is an acknowledgment that survival matters. A phone mount is an admission that being lost is stressful, not whimsical. These aren’t luxuries—they’re small acts of self-preservation disguised as purchases.

What often gets lost in conversations about wish lists is this: wanting things doesn’t mean entitlement. It means awareness. People curate wish lists after surviving hard years, not frivolous ones. They are gestures of hope—proof that someone still believes in comfort, still imagines a future that includes beauty, ease, and safety.

Pop culture has always understood this better than we admit. From holiday movies to sitcoms to viral wish list screenshots, the act of wanting is framed as both vulnerable and revealing. It tells us what people value when no one is grading them on practicality.

So when someone shares a wish list, they’re not asking to be indulged. They’re offering context. They’re saying: This is what made the year survivable. This is what I’m building toward. This is how I imagine joy fitting into my life.

Magic may sell the story, but effort writes the list. And sometimes, wanting things is really just another way of saying: I’m still here. I still care. I still believe delight belongs to me.

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PS: I made a Wishlist on Elfster! Check it out: Click here

Sticks and Stones

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how people talk—and how fiercely they defend the way they talk. I keep circling back to the same conclusion: it’s not the word. It’s the people using the word.

Most words don’t start as insults. They begin descriptive, practical, even clinical. Over time, though, words collect tone, context, and power. They carry history. Eventually the meaning shifts—not because dictionaries change, but because people use the words in ways that hurt.

Take retarded, for example. It began as a medical descriptor. But over the years, mockery and cruelty wrapped themselves around it. Now, if someone tells me that word hurts them—or hurts someone they love—the only reasonable response comes without argument: stop. Continuing after that point doesn’t show ignorance; it shows a choice.

Then there’s African American. Some people debate endlessly about when to use it versus Black. Which honors heritage better? Which respects identity more? None of that matters if the person in front of you tells you their preference. Their experience dictates the choice, not your opinion.

Other words carry histories we often overlook. Oriental once simply meant “from Asia,” but decades of stereotyping and exoticization turned it into a loaded insult. And words like gyp or gypped, which many use casually, carry anti-Romani prejudice baked into everyday speech. These aren’t abstract examples—they exist in daily life, often hiding in plain sight.

I don’t consider myself the most empathetic person. Sometimes I don’t understand why something stings the way it does. But I’ve learned that understanding isn’t required to change behavior. Respect doesn’t demand comprehension; it demands effort.

If someone tells me a word hurts them, I stop. No debate. No explanation of what I meant. No insistence on how the word used to be used. If I step on someone’s foot, I don’t argue intent—I move.

People love to say, “I didn’t mean it like that,” and sometimes that’s true. Intent matters, but impact exists independently. Harm doesn’t vanish just because it arrives uninvited. Both realities coexist, whether we like it or not.

Then comes the familiar defense: “It’s just a word.” But words rarely exist in a vacuum. Money counts as “just paper,” yet we fight over it. Flags rank as “just fabric,” yet people cry, rage, and die over them. Words shape reality. They carry weight because humans give them weight.

Language changes constantly. That doesn’t mean the world became fragile. It means people started speaking up. For years, silence carried the burden of harm. Now honesty does—and honesty tends to make people uncomfortable.

Even terms meant to honor identity shift over time. “Colored” once passed as acceptable, then “Negro,” then “Black,” then “African American,” and now often “Black” again, depending on the speaker and the listener. None of these shifts happened for the sake of rules. They happened because people said, “This no longer feels right. Please stop.”

Here’s the thing that frustrates some people most: you don’t have to understand why a word hurts to stop using it. You don’t need a dissertation. You don’t need a personal connection. You just need to believe people when they tell you their experience.

At some point, continuing to use a word after knowing it causes harm stops being about free speech, intent, or semantics. It becomes about refusing to adjust when adjustment costs nothing.

Choosing a different word doesn’t erase intelligence. It doesn’t weaken principles. It doesn’t hand over control. It simply acknowledges that language lives, breathes, and changes—just like people do.

This isn’t about perfection. It’s about decisions. Once you know better, what you do next matters.

It’s not the word.

It’s what people choose to do when they know the word hurts.

Caring for the Least of These: Faith, Compassion, and the Law

Scrolling through social media, you might see a reel about welcoming migrants and a comment claiming, “The Bible says obey the law, so helping people who enter the country illegally is wrong. You should be ashamed.” Such a response misses both Scripture and reality.

In the hills outside Jerusalem, Jesus spoke to crowds worried about survival, not policy. In Matthew 25:31–46, He described the final judgment, separating people like sheep and goats based on their treatment of “the least of these.” Feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, welcoming strangers, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and imprisoned—Jesus tied every act of mercy to Himself. Scholars note that in His time, welcoming strangers often meant offering refuge to people fleeing violence or oppression, risking social disapproval or resources. Hospitality represented life or death, and the failure to care constituted moral failure.

Even His own birth carried a refugee story. Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem with no room at the inn. Their flight to Egypt followed Herod’s threat. Jesus identified from the start with the displaced, the vulnerable, and the hunted.

Critics often assume helping migrants conflicts with the law. However, U.S. statutes and international agreements protect vulnerable people. The Refugee Act of 1980 created legal pathways for asylum seekers. The Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) allows individuals to request asylum, even without passing through an official port of entry. U.S. law also prohibits returning people to countries where authorities would threaten their lives or freedoms. Internationally, the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the 1951 Refugee Convention, and the Convention on Migrant Workers establish protections for migrants’ dignity, safety, and family unity. Showing hospitality to vulnerable migrants aligns with these legal frameworks.

Stories bring these principles to life. A Texas church once hosted a family fleeing violence in Central America. Church members provided food, clothing, and guidance, helping the family navigate asylum procedures. Later, when authorities granted them legal protection, the pastor realized: their compassion had operated fully within the law. History echoes the same truth. During the Holocaust, European churches hid Jews, protecting lives even under harsh legal restrictions, demonstrating that moral law and human decency sometimes operate in tandem with—or even beyond—civil law.

This brings up an important reality: legality does not always reflect morality. Laws have historically permitted grave injustice. Slavery remained legal in the United States for centuries while violating human dignity and God’s command to love one another. Segregation enforced racial oppression under the law. The Holocaust executed genocide under a legal framework, showing how laws can sanction evil. Other examples include apartheid in South Africa, the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, and forced labor in the early 20th century. In each case, people suffered under legal systems that contradicted the moral imperative to protect the vulnerable.

Romans 13 instructs respect for governing authorities, while Matthew 25 calls for mercy and care. When laws protect migrants, compassion aligns with both Scripture and civil obedience. Even when laws fall short, God’s call to care for the vulnerable does not waver. Feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, and advocating for the oppressed fulfill both divine and moral law.

Every act of mercy toward someone in need, every warm meal or safe shelter, reflects God’s concern for the vulnerable. Obeying the law and caring for the least of these does not conflict; it flows naturally from a heart shaped by Scripture and informed by justice. From ancient Israel to modern refugee crises, hospitality remains a sacred duty. Ignoring the vulnerable carries consequences. Welcoming them opens doors not just to temporary safety, but to the living presence of God.

Scripture References: 

• Matthew 25:31–46
• Romans 13:1–7
• Hebrews 13:2
• Exodus 22:21
• Leviticus 19:34

Legal References:

• Refugee Act of 1980 (U.S.)
• Immigration and Nationality Act (INA)
• 1951 Refugee Convention & 1967 Protocol
• Universal Declaration of Human Rights
• Convention on Migrant Workers

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