MSI Press Blog

Every so often, a public example gives language to something we’ve all seen in quieter corners of life. The recently coined term “YOLO Caucus” —used by journalists to describe lawmakers who act more independently once they’re no longer facing reelection—captures a familiar human pattern: when consequences fall away, behavior changes. This isn’t about politics. It’s about people. 1. The psychological shift: from preservation to authenticity When people believe their job, reputation, or standing is at stake, they often act cautiously. But once the risk evaporates—because they’ve quit, been fired, retired, or already made a major decision—something loosens. They may: Speak more plainly Set boundaries they avoided before Make decisions based on principle rather than strategy Stop performing for approval It’s not that they become different people. It’s that the cost of being themselves drops to zero. 2. The workplace version: “I’ve already given notice…” Anyone who has ever worked with som...

  Some souls never hear a locution. Others hear one in a lifetime—an unmistakable word that changes everything. Some experience them for a season, then they stop. And a few, rare souls hear them throughout their lives. Each pattern has its own rhythm and purpose, and none is a measure of holiness. 🌿 The Four Patterns of Locutions 1. The Silent Majority — No Locutions Most people never experience a locution. Their relationship with God unfolds through Scripture, conscience, community, and the quiet movements of grace. Teresa of Ávila reminds us that union with God does not depend on extraordinary phenomena. Silence itself can be the most eloquent form of divine communication. 2. The Singular Word — One Locution Some receive a single, life-defining word. It may come in crisis or conversion—an interior phrase that redirects the soul. Teresa and John of the Cross both note that one authentic locution can sustain a lifetime of faith. It is not repetition that matters, but fruit. 3. The...

  I knew what was coming. The carrier appeared — that wide‑mouthed contraption that means vet . I don’t need to see the suitcase or hear the car keys. I can smell “boarding” before the humans even think the word. I am Bear. Large. Fast. Capable of a ten‑minute mile when properly motivated. And I do not go quietly. My human may think she’s in charge, but she has to catch me first. The last time I made my move, she chased me around three corners, across the yard (folks said they saw a flash of grey followed a split second later by a flashing blur of flesh--that ten-minute mile), and caught me mid‑leap as I aimed for the fence and the neighbor’s Great Danes. She called it “saving me.” I called it “interference.” So, when she brought out the carrier this time, I spread‑eagled. No entry. No surrender. But the sport‑pet carrier has a wide opening, and she’s quick. Before I could protest, the door clicked shut. Fine. If I must go, I will go on my terms. Thirty minutes of protest followed ...