On Friday, January 30, the U.S. Department of Justice released a massive trove of over 3 million pages of documents, along with roughly 180,000 images and 2,000 videos, related to investigations into Jeffrey Epstein.

This third file dump — the largest to date — has drawn intense attention due to its massive scope and the unverified but sensational claims linked to high-profile figures, including President Trump, Elon Musk, Bill Gates, Bill Clinton, and Prince Andrew, among others.

On a recent episode of “Relatable,” BlazeTV host Allie Beth Stuckey shared her three biggest takeaways.

Allie first delivers an important preface: “Some of the files do mention prominent figures. … They have not been tied to any wrongdoing, any substantiated criminal activity in connection with this case. It is important to note that a mention of a famous individual does not necessarily mean that they were involved in Epstein’s nefarious activities,” she says, noting that much of what is currently going viral is “uncorroborated tips” from anonymous sources, many of which have been deemed “not credible” by the FBI.

That said, there are still plenty of lessons we can take away from the information we were given.

Lesson #1: “Notice the nature of sin.”

“Sin makes you stupid. Lust, envy, selfish ambition — they all have a way of arresting our thinking. And Satan does his most effective work by overplaying the benefits of sin in our minds and downplaying its eventual consequences,” she says.

“These powerful people in science, medicine, business, finance, and politics all got caught up in Epstein’s web, and they were enticed by this promise of connection and greater power and maybe unfettered pleasure in a lot of cases.”

“Some of them probably didn’t intend to be involved in a criminal enterprise,” says Allie, “but little by little and small justification by small justification, they found themselves connected to an evil person, and, in some cases, they themselves started practicing evil things.”

Lesson #2: “Recalibrate our definition of success.”

Allie cautions against chasing wealth, power, and fame, as they can be a slippery slope into “ruin and destruction.” Sometimes when we’re denied by man — a promotion, invitation, or endorsement that would have given us a boost — there’s a good chance that it ends up being “God’s protection” over us.

She points to Jesus’ admonition in Matthew 19:24: “Again, I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God,” as well as Paul’s warning in 1 Timothy 6:9-10: “For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evils. It is through this craving that some have wandered away from the faith and pieced themselves with many pangs.”

“The seeking of wealth and power for the sake of wealth and power has a way of crowding out godly affections and replacing those affections with idolatry,” she summarizes.

“So we should thank the Lord for what he gives and what he takes away, knowing that his glory and our holiness is ultimately his goal. So we recalibrate the definition of success.”

Lesson #3: “Be grateful for a Christian civilization.”

“There are Jeffrey Epsteins throughout history across a wide variety of cultures. In fact, in many non-Western nations today, child marriage or raping underage girls is not seen as perverse. It’s not seen as criminal,” says Allie. “The reason the West and the United States has a general consensus around the evil of pedophilia is because of Christianity.”

In the ancient world, she explains, children were often aborted, left outside to die, killed after birth, or forced into labor or prostitution.

“They didn’t possess the physical strength that was lauded by Rome, and they didn’t possess the full intellect or the logos that was lauded by Greece, so they were treated as kind of subhuman,” says Allie. “And it wasn’t until Christians introduced the world to the imago dei and preached this radical message of equality before our creator that slowly but surely the world changed how it saw children — not as animals but as these vulnerable people in need of extra protection.”

“The revulsion to Jeffrey Epstein and his ilk, whose actions are incredibly common throughout history, is actually evidence of the vestiges of the Christian conscience that forged the West and inspired the words that we read in the Declaration of Independence.”

To hear more, watch the full episode above.

Want more from Allie Beth Stuckey?

To enjoy more of Allie’s upbeat and in-depth coverage of culture, news, and theology from a Christian, conservative perspective, subscribe to BlazeTV — the largest multi-platform network of voices who love America, defend the Constitution, and live the American dream.

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Gary Cooper never played obnoxious, overbearing characters. He played men who weighed their words and meant them. In a trade of display, he mastered stillness. His screen presence was immense, but acting was only one part of his story — a story that led, in the end, to God.

Born Frank James Cooper in 1901, he was shaped by Montana ranch life and the reserve of English boarding schools. Before studios dressed him in costumes, life dressed him in discipline. He could ride, shoot, and stand his ground. These weren’t skills for the screen so much as habits of character.

‘I am not afraid,’ he said — and meant it. Of all the famous lines he spoke on screen, none carried the force of those four words.

His rise came just as Hollywood grew fond of show and swagger. The 1930s and 1940s rewarded fast talkers and flashing smiles. Actors like James Cagney, who barked and lunged through gangster films, or Errol Flynn, who fenced, flirted, and filled the frame with movement. Even romantic leads like Clark Gable leaned on charm and chatter. Movies prized motion. Dialogue came in bursts.

Quiet authority

Cooper worked the other way. In “High Noon,” while other Western heroes would ride out guns blazing, his marshal waits. He listens. He walks the town. He watches the situation unfold before choosing when to act.

In “Sergeant York,” his courage comes with doubt, which is why it feels believable. Alvin York begins as a hard-drinking farm boy with a taste for trouble. Faith interrupts his life, forcing him to wrestle with Scripture and conscience at the same time. When war comes, he goes only after weighing the cost. He fights to protect others and to return home to build a life.

Where others faced the camera with frantic talk and expansive gestures, Cooper stripped things down to presence and timing — long pauses; spare looks. His characters hesitated when others hurried.

Today, that strong, quiet type survives mostly as a memory. Clint Eastwood is still with us. But age has pushed him to the margins, and Hollywood no longer revolves around figures like him. The figure Cooper made famous is now more likely to be mocked than admired. His characters would be called rigid or out of date, even emotionally vacant.

Ease and appetite

That judgment says more about the present than it does about him. Cooper showed that a man proves himself not by how loudly he speaks, but by what he is willing to carry. He also learned that responsibility, without something higher to live for and answer to, becomes empty and isolating.

Although Cooper was raised Episcopalian, faith didn’t shape his early adult life. Religion was part of the scenery, not the script. Hollywood rewarded ease and appetite, and Cooper followed the flow. He drank too much. He leaned into a long pattern of adultery. Fame made temptation easy, and he rarely refused it.

His wife, Veronica “Rocky” Balfe, was a committed Catholic, as was their daughter, Maria. Their marriage entered rough water, and Cooper knew exactly why. Guilt was no longer abstract. In 1953, during a trip to Rome, he met Pope Pius XII at the Vatican. The meeting didn’t convert him on the spot, but it unsettled him. Faith stopped being a background habit and became a serious concern. He began to ask whether the life he had built could support the way he was living. The answer was no.

Back in America, Cooper grew close to Father Harold Ford, a priest the family called “Father Tough Stuff.” The nickname fit. Ford was unimpressed by movie stardom. He spoke of duty, devotion, and sacrifice, setting aside the celebrity and addressing the soul.

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The strength of surrender

Cooper listened. What began as a conversation became routine. He started to pray. He returned to confession. He accepted limits where he had lived by impulse. In 1959, he formally entered the Catholic Church. There was no announcement tour. Faith entered his days quietly, through prayer and self-control.

When cancer arrived, belief stopped being optional and became essential. As illness closed in, the habits he had learned rose to the surface. He spoke of God’s will without panic and of the future without fear. There was no display in it, only resolve — the kind of courage that comes from faith in something higher. “I am not afraid,” he said — and meant it. Of all the famous lines he spoke on screen, none carried the force of those four words.

Cooper died on May 13, 1961, at the age of 60. He was buried in a Catholic cemetery in Southampton, New York, beneath a plain stone marker. His path wasn’t easy, but it reached a clear end. What began in excess finished in order.

For Christians, Cooper leaves behind a simple lesson. Faith shows itself in what a person does. You keep your word. You stay when leaving would be easier. Belief appears in conduct long before it appears in language.

He failed, corrected himself, and tried again. After running hard in the pursuit of pleasure, he stopped, knelt down, and looked upward. He defined himself by what he accepted and what he refused. Cooper is gone, but the example remains — a timely lesson from a timeless actor.

​Faith, Abide, Christianity, Lifestyle, Conversion, Converts, Gary cooper 

In my more cynical moments, I’ve suspected that Valentine’s Day owes its longevity less to romance than to a choreographed alliance between the greeting card, chocolate, and lingerie industries. The day has been thoroughly commercialized, and many men, myself included over the years, have approached it with well-intended but often ham-fisted earnestness.

Still beneath the marketing and the eye rolls, Valentine’s Day has come to serve as a pause for many couples. A moment, however imperfectly executed, to tend the fire of intimacy. Over time, lasting loves tend to look at it less as a performance and more as a reminder, a deliberate effort to say, “You matter to me,” even when the words come out crooked.

Common things are seldom viewed as precious. Only a deep bond leaves one person willing to shoulder what the other no longer can.

For family caregivers, however, Valentine’s Day carries a different weight altogether.

In my writing, I often focus on the broader applications of the lessons caregiving teaches. Sometimes though, it’s important to speak directly to a particular group. This is one of those times.

I’m talking about couples where one person is carrying more than their share of the relationship. Not because of indifference or neglect, but because the other, though still alive, is unable to do so. Dementia, disability, illness, injury, or unrelenting pain has shifted the balance. The love remains, but the weight cannot be borne evenly.

Holidays already do this to families. Christmas and Thanksgiving often force a reckoning with decline and loss. Valentine’s Day pierces a little deeper. It is intimate by design. And when one person must carry the relationship alone, the sadness can feel sharper, more personal, and harder to explain.

Caregiving requires reframing. Not denial or pretending. Not putting on a happy face. Reframing means stepping back far enough to see the relationship writ large, not merely through the narrow lens of present limitations. It means recognizing that the ache itself testifies to something rare.

Common things are seldom viewed as precious. Only an uncommon love produces this kind of sorrow. Only a deep bond leaves one person willing to shoulder what the other no longer can.

Over the years, I’ve offered a suggestion that sometimes catches people off guard. “It is OK for caregivers to buy their own Valentine’s Day card.”

Choose the one your husband or wife would have picked for you if they could. At this point in your life together, you already know the words. You’ve learned them through years of shared history, private humor, ordinary sacrifice, and quiet fidelity. Find the card that says what your spouse would have said, and mail it to yourself. Not as an exercise in self-pity, but as a tribute to the love you share.

I remember the first time I mentioned this on the air many years ago. When I finished, I glanced through the studio glass and saw tears filling my producer’s eyes. He was caught in a hard place, married to someone struggling with alcoholism. It is a chronic impairment, one that quietly turns a spouse into a caregiver, though few people think to call it that. He understood immediately what I meant. Not the card itself, but the recognition of love still present when reciprocity has gone missing.

Fix your spouse’s favorite meal, even if you have to help them eat it. Set the table, even if there is only one place setting that feels fully present. Play the song you once danced to or hummed together through the years.

Pining over what is no longer possible can undo a caregiver. But choosing instead to rest in the magnitude of a love that inspires such devotion can steady you. That choice does not eliminate the tears. Nothing in this life will, and that is not a bad thing.

Some things are heartbreaking because they are too beautiful for our hearts to contain this side of heaven. “Sadness” is too small a word for that kind of ache.

Near the end of “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader,” C.S. Lewis gives Lucy a moment of language-defying clarity when she catches a glimpse of Aslan’s country. Struggling to explain what she feels, all she can say is, “It would break your heart.” When someone asks whether she means that it is sad, Lucy answers, “No,” because what she has seen is not tragic at all. It is simply too glorious for her heart to hold.

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This is where scripture speaks with quiet authority. The Christian promise is not that God will make all new things, discarding what was. The promise is that He will make all things new. The love you lived, the faithfulness you showed, the care you gave, none of it is wasted.

So this coming Valentine’s Day, if you find yourself in a hospital room, an assisted-living facility, a nursing home, or at your own kitchen table with only one place setting that feels fully occupied, allow the tears to come. Read the card your spouse would have sent. Eat the meal you would have shared. Listen to the music that once marked your life together.

And set another card on the table, the one you would choose for the person who changed your life so profoundly that you now carry the love entrusted to you when he or she no longer can.

Remember this as well. There is one who loves you both more fiercely than our hearts can understand. He sees every tear. He keeps account of every sacrifice. And He will indeed make all things new.

As scripture reminds us, “A cord of three strands is not quickly broken” (Ecclesiastes 4:12).

​Valentine’s day, Caretakers, Love, Caregiving, Holidays, Life together, Opinion & analysis, Caregivers, Faith, Endurance, Perseverance