Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.
YOU MATTER.
Not in a Hallmark-card way.
In a your name would still echo if you disappeared way.
If today feels heavy—
If your head is loud at 3 a.m.—
If you’re tired of pretending you’re “fine”…
Pause. Breathe. Stay.
Text. Call. Chat.
988 — Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
No judgment.
No lectures.
Just another human on the line saying, “I see you.”
Life gets brutal sometimes.
But disappearing isn’t the solution.
Surviving today is.
— Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty. Stay Human.™
Short answer?
Sunday is the BEGINNING of the week.
Long answer? Breathe… here we go.
🕯️ Biblically Speaking
In the Book of Genesis, God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh.
That seventh day? Saturday.
Which means…
✅ Day 1 = Sunday ✅ Day 7 = Saturday (the Sabbath)
Sunday was never meant to be the couch day hangover from Saturday night.
It was always meant to be Day One.
📅 Historically Speaking
Ancient calendars — Jewish, Roman, early Christian — all start the week on Sunday.
The modern “Monday is the start” thing?
That’s a workweek invention, not a sacred one.
(Blame Excel spreadsheets and alarm clocks.)
✝️ Spiritually Speaking
Sunday became the Lord’s Day because it marks resurrection — not rest.
Sabbath = rest Sunday = renewal Breath back in the lungs Light cracks the darkness Game resets
Sunday is not the sigh at the end.
It’s the inhale before the punch.
🧠 Saint Dirty Face Translation
If Sunday feels like the end of your weekend, that’s culture talking.
If Sunday feels like a reset — quiet coffee, reflection, grace — that’s your soul remembering the original plan.
Rest your body on Saturday.
Reboot your spirit on Sunday.
Then walk into Monday like hell already lost.
Final Word
Sunday isn’t the end of something good.
It’s the start of something clean.
Stay dirty. Start fresh.
Let Monday deal with its own sins.
— Saint Dirty Face™
✌️ & ❤️
— a Saint Dirty Face reflection
December always tries to dress things up.
Lights.
Ribbons.
Forced cheer like it’s a corporate HR memo:
“Be joyful or be quiet.”
But redemption doesn’t show up polished.
It comes wrapped in splinters and straw.
Redemption is God looking at what’s broken and saying,
“Yeah. That’ll do.”
Not because it’s clean.
But because it’s honest.
Christmas isn’t about God waiting for us to get our reps in, fix our credit score, heal our trauma, or stop limping emotionally.
Christmas is God stepping into the wreckage.
Into the mess.
Into the relapse.
Into the shame drawer we keep locked and labeled “don’t look here.”
He didn’t ask us to climb up.
He climbed down.
That’s redemption.
And look at the bloodline He chose to wear.
Rahab — labeled by everyone, redeemed by God.
Ruth — an outsider who refused to stay small.
David — adored, anointed, and still dangerous with temptation.
Tamar — ignored, wronged, but never erased.
God didn’t edit them out.
He wove them in.
Because redemption isn’t God pretending the damage didn’t happen.
It’s God saying the damage doesn’t get the final word.
That’s why this season hits different when you’ve lived some life.
Because you know broken.
You’ve danced with it.
You’ve baptized it with whiskey, silence, prayer, or white-knuckled survival.
And still—
you’re here.
Your story didn’t disqualify you.
It qualified you.
If God can enter a stable instead of a palace…
If God can wear flesh instead of lightning…
If God can use cracked people instead of perfect ones…
Then maybe—just maybe—
that thing you keep calling too far gone
is actually prime redemption material.
This season isn’t asking you to sparkle.
It’s asking you to stay.
To sit with the broken parts.
To let the cold air hit your lungs.
To believe—quietly, stubbornly—that God still specializes in rebuilding from scraps.
That’s not soft faith.
That’s winter faith.
And winter faith survives.
Pause & reflect:
What part of your life feels beyond repair?
What if that’s the exact place God plans to plant something holy?
Saint Dirty Face says:
Stay Dirty. Stay Redeemed. 🖤
This isn’t about fantasy.
It’s about faithfulness.
We’re not perfect people.
We never pretended to be.
We have bad days.
We have great ones.
We misunderstand each other.
We get tired.
We say the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But we don’t walk away.
Because this isn’t me versus you.
It’s us versus whatever tried to step between us today.
We argue like adults.
We cool off.
We sleep.
And when morning comes, we pick up what fell apart the night before and keep building.
That’s not weakness.
That’s commitment.
You’re my wife.
I’m your husband.
And when things get heavy, we don’t threaten exits—we choose solutions.
We forgive.
We reset.
We move forward.
For every bad day, we choose five good ones.
Not because life is easy—but because love that stays always wins.
We are not perfect.
But together, we are imperfectly perfect.
— Saint Dirty Face™
*Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.*™
A Saint Dirty Face™ confession
I’m unemployed.
No alarm clock yelling at me.
No inbox full of fake urgency.
No motivational LinkedIn posts telling me to “rise and grind.”
And here’s the part that really scares people:
I don’t feel bad about it.
I’m not depressed.
I’m not lost.
I’m not “falling behind.”
I’m resting.
For the first time in a long time, I wake up without dread dripping down my spine. I make my drink slow. I sit still. I breathe like someone who isn’t being chased by deadlines, politics, or middle management with a God complex.
Do I have drive to job hunt?
Nope.
Not even a little.
Not today, Satan.
And that bothers folks.
Because in America, stillness is treated like a sin. If you’re not producing, grinding, chasing, proving—then clearly something must be wrong with you. The idea that a grown man could simply enjoy being home? Radical. Possibly illegal. Someone call HR.
Here’s the dirty truth:
I gave decades to the machine.
I showed up early.
I stayed late.
I carried weight that wasn’t even mine.
Now?
The machine can wait.
This pause isn’t laziness—it’s recovery.
It’s rehab for the soul.
It’s my nervous system finally getting a long drink of water after a desert crossing.
Will I work again someday?
Yeah. Probably.
I like money and electricity.
But I’m done sprinting toward the next thing just to prove I’m “productive.” I’m done apologizing for peace. I’m done letting panic decide my timeline.
Right now, my job is simple:
Be present Be human Be still long enough to hear my own thoughts again
And oddly enough… that feels like progress.
The grind will call. It always does.
But for now, it can leave a message.
I’m home.
I’m breathing.
And I’m not broken for enjoying it.
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Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty. Stay Human™
December used to be sacred.
Now it’s a 30-day hostage situation sponsored by Visa, MasterCard, and some elf with unresolved trauma.
Somehow, we took the birth of Jesus—a barefoot revolutionary born in a borrowed barn—and turned it into:
“BUY NOW OR YOUR KID WILL THINK YOU’RE POOR” Twelve payments of regret And a partridge in a debt notice
Jesus came into the world with no crib, no assistant manager, no marketing plan, and somehow we honored Him by buying a 7-foot inflatable Santa fist-fighting a snowman in the neighbor’s yard.
Respect.
Modern Christmas According to Society
Jesus: born to save humanity Society: “Cool cool… but have you seen this air fryer?”
December has become Give Me Season.
Kids want stuff.
Adults want stuff.
Relatives want specific stuff with receipts.
And somewhere in the background, Mary’s like,
“Hey… my kid literally changed history?”
And everyone’s like,
“Yeah, yeah—circle back after New Year’s.”
**The Wise Men Brought Gold.
We Bring Credit Card Statements.**
The Wise Men didn’t roll up with:
Bluetooth toys Matching pajamas A receipt stapled to a passive-aggressive gift card
They brought meaning.
Gold, frankincense, and myrrh—
which, let’s be honest, still makes more sense than buying someone a $300 gadget they’ll forget by February.
Jesus Is the Only One Not Asking for Anything
That’s the wild part.
The one person December is supposed to be about is:
Not asking for money Not asking for gifts Not asking for attention
Just:
“Love each other.
Take care of the broken.
Be kind.”
And humanity responded with:
“Cool story, bro. Now watch me fight a stranger in Target over a discounted toaster.”
A Dirty Face Truth
If Jesus showed up today, He wouldn’t be mad.
He’d just sigh…
flip over the returns counter…
and say:
“You missed the point—but I still love you.”
Because He always does.
Maybe This Year…
Maybe this year Christmas doesn’t need to be:
Bigger Louder Or wrapped in debt and glitter trauma
Maybe it can be:
Quieter Kinder A little more… holy mess instead of holy stress
Light a candle.
Say a prayer.
Hug your people.
Forgive someone who doesn’t deserve it.
And remember a baby was born who didn’t need a damn thing—
but gave everything anyway.
Peace & Love, you beautiful holiday heathens.
— Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.
Monday showed up like it owns the place. No apology. No lube. Just a firm knock on the skull and a reminder that the week does not care about your feelings.
In a perfect, fictional universe—one run by compassion and paid sick days—Mondays would come with a doctor’s note and a controlled environment. Soft lighting. Deep breaths. The kind of coping strategies HR pretends exist.
But here we are.
So no, this isn’t a manifesto for anything illegal. Relax. This is gallows humor. Dark wit. The only truly affordable healthcare left: sarcasm and a cold beer that says, “I see you’re struggling… I won’t fix it, but I’ll sit with you.”
Beer doesn’t ask questions.
Beer doesn’t schedule meetings.
Beer doesn’t send emails marked “urgent” that absolutely are not.
It just listens while you stare at the wall wondering how, somehow, Sunday night teleported into full-blown Monday hellscape.
Is beer a solution?
No.
Is it a coping pause button?
Absolutely.
This is about survival, not celebration. About taking the edge off long enough to remember: you’ve survived worse, you’ll survive this, and tomorrow you might even laugh about it.
So here’s to Mondays.
Not conquered. Just tolerated.
Barely.
With foam.
Peace, persistence, and poor decisions postponed till Friday.
— Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]
Sunday night is already a crime scene.
Laundry staring at you.
Alarm clock lurking like a debt collector.
Monday warming up its bullshit.
And then—boom—some poor bastard decides to comment on another girl’s selfie:
“Hot af.”
Sir.
You didn’t just light a match.
You poured gasoline, set your phone down, and walked away like an action movie villain.
Because now?
Everything is hot af.
The car? Hot af.
The couch? Hot af.
Your peaceful evening? Cremated.
And the smile?
That sweet, plastic, Barbie-from-hell smile that says:
“Oh my… look what else is hot, babe.”
That’s not anger.
That’s calculated chaos.
This is why Sunday night demands discipline.
You don’t poke bears.
You don’t test physics.
And you do not admire selfies out loud when you’re already on thin emotional ice.
Sunday night is about survival.
Keep your comments inside your skull.
Save your opinions.
And remember—
Silence is cheaper than flowers, apology dinners, and sleeping on a couch that’s mysteriously also hot af.
Sleep tight, sinners.
Monday is coming.
Saint Dirty Face says:
If you’re gonna play with fire on a Sunday night…
don’t act surprised when everything burns.
I behaved all week.
Kept my mouth shut.
Walked the straight line.
Showed up. Nodded. Played the role.
I did everything I was supposed to do.
Saturday is here now.
The one day my halo tilts crooked
and I give myself permission not to be perfect.
Not reckless.
Not destructive.
Just… honest.
Saturday isn’t about losing control.
It’s about letting go of the grip
I kept on myself all damn week.
I don’t burn churches.
I don’t betray my people.
I don’t forget who I am.
But I loosen the collar.
I pour the drink.
I stop apologizing for wanting to feel something.
My faith doesn’t leave on Saturdays —
it leans back, smirks, and lets me breathe.
Because sinners who admit it
are more dangerous than saints who pretend.
So tonight, I sin softly.
I laugh louder.
I live a little sideways.
Halo tilted.
Still glowing.
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Saint Dirty Face™
[Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]
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Most people think power is loud.
They think it shows up early, talks the longest, explains itself twice, and convinces everyone it belongs in the room.
That’s theater.
Real power doesn’t audition.
This isn’t a hype post.
It’s a field guide for staying calm while chaos shops for a host.
1. Never Beg for Attention
True power is recognized, not requested.
The moment you start asking to be seen, you’ve given it away.
Gravitation beats marketing every time.
People notice when you stop trying.
2. Don’t Over-Explain Yourself
Confidence is knowing, not proving.
The more you explain, the more permission you ask.
Say what needs to be said. Then stop.
Silence after a statement is not awkward — it’s leverage.
3. Master Silence
Pausing before speaking makes people respect your words.
Fast mouths leak intent.
Silence keeps your cards face-down.
If you control the pace, you control the exchange.
4. Stay Unpredictable
People fear what they can’t predict.
Consistency is good for systems.
Unpredictability is better for people who watch you closely.
Never let them think they’ve mapped you.
5. Keep Your Plans Quiet
Move in silence. Let your success speak.
Announcements invite interference.
Progress doesn’t need witnesses.
Execute first. Explain later. Or never.
6. Speak Less. Observe More
The less you say, the more powerful you appear.
Talking is easy.
Watching teaches you everything you need to know about who’s rushing, who’s bluffing, and who’s afraid of quiet.
7. Never Chase
Let them come to you.
Chasing is effort without leverage.
Positioning is patience with benefit.
Stillness is attractive when paired with intent.
8. Walk With Purpose
Every step should command attention.
Not because you demand it —
because your movement says I know where I’m going.
People feel that before they understand it.
9. Maintain Eye Contact
Make them break first.
Not in a creepy way.
In a present way.
People flinch when they realize you’re not nervous.
10. Control Your Emotions
Never let anyone see you panic or react impulsively.
Anger telegraphs weakness.
Panic gives away strategy.
Calm is expensive.
But losing it costs more.
Final Thought
Power isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It doesn’t rush.
It stands still long enough for everyone else to realize they’re circling it.
If they can’t read you, they can’t run you.
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Saint Dirty Face™
Stay Dirty, Stay Composed™
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Saint Dirty Face 