Tuesdays with Muerte

Window Seat Photograph by Stacia Contemporary Photography A commuter train becomes an unlikely sanctuary. Seated at a table strewn with the paperwork of modern productivity, the subject is captured at the precise instant his attention abandons the demands before him. His gaze turns instead toward a fleeting sunset—already slipping behind industrial buildings and the frame of the train window. The photograph is built upon a series of visual correspondences and competing forces. The magenta glow of the horizon echoes the rose-colored shirt, binding the figure to the landscape that beckons him. Yet everything else conspires to hold him inside: the paperwork spread across the table, the enclosed train car, the rigid geometry of seats and windows, and the momentum of a commute defined by purpose and efficiency. Reflections in the glass collapse the boundary between these worlds, portraying the subject suspended between obligation and wonder. The image poses a deceptively simple questio...

Image: Elscer   CC 3.0 Watching Andor alongside a recent article in The Atlantic helped something click for me about why I so strongly resonate with stories of rebellion. It isn’t the action or the aesthetics—it’s the moral logic underneath them. Drawing on Rebecca Newberger Goldstein’s The Mattering Instinct , the idea is that life isn’t about happiness so much as meaning. Life is temporary, and every living being is an intricate, energy-driven project engaged in a ceaseless struggle against entropy ( The Atlantic ). Andor captures this well: ordinary people sacrificing not just happiness, but relationships—and even their lives—in rebellion against an Empire a million times stronger, because making something matter is worth the cost. From an LDS perspective, this resonates deeply. This life is a time to learn how to live like God. That ongoing project of becoming gives my life meaning. My lifelong project of Christian discipleship matters not only for the eternal destiny of me a...

(Image: NYT front page, January 8, 2026)  With a president who appears comfortable testing institutional boundaries, it’s worth revisiting why the presidency is structured the way it is. The four-year presidential term and the later two-term limit—often taken for granted—were not inevitable. Both emerged from a persistent fear of concentrated executive power and of creating a king in all but name. A Constitution Written in Fear of Power When delegates gathered in Philadelphia in the summer of 1787, they had no clear model for an elected executive. Monarchies dominated the Western world, and existing republics offered cautionary tales rather than inspiration. The framers were starting from scratch—and arguing fiercely. Early proposals varied wildly. Some delegates favored short three-year terms. Others supported seven-year terms, or even a single term with no reelection, fearing what one delegate called an “elective king” who would cling to power and establish a dynasty. At one...