Personal Blogs

He “gives life to the dead and calls into being what does not yet exist.”

Romans 4:17

I am grateful for the use of the image provided by https://unsplash.com/@loukhs

I guess that you, like me, got the primordial soup theory served up to you? Oh boy—I can’t believe they are still serving this despite all we know, or more to the point, all we don’t know.

The idea was simple: life began billions of years ago in a warm pond filled with basic chemicals, and through a combination of chance and the right conditions, these chemicals formed the first building blocks of life. We were told this was how it all started, but as I grew older, I realized that this theory, despite being taught as fact, has never been conclusively proven. It’s a hypothesis, an educated guess, and yet it continues to be fed to people as though it explains everything.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg4DjvDYQXw&t=18s

But even then, deep down, I felt there was more to it. From an early age, I had this ache—a yearning to know who created the stars, not just how they came to be. I wanted to understand the why behind it all.

I remember being captivated by the night sky as a child, looking up at the stars and feeling a sense of awe. Who could have placed them there? What power could have brought such beauty into existence? The explanations I received in school didn’t seem to satisfy that deeper question. Science could tell me about stars burning millions of miles away, but it couldn’t touch the ache within me, that pull toward something—or someone—bigger.

It reminds me of a simple analogy: imagine walking along the beach and stumbling across someone doing the Romeo and Juliet thing on the beach—a heart shape etched into the sand. None of us would ever conclude that the wind or the waves just happened to carve that heart. We’d know, instinctively, that someone had drawn it. Design needs a designer. It’s such a simple truth, and yet, when we look at the far greater complexity of the universe, we often overlook it. If a heart in the sand points to a child’s hand, how much more should the intricate design of the cosmos point to a Creator?

As we learn more about life and the universe, the evidence of design becomes even more overwhelming. Consider DNA, for instance. It’s like a language—an incredibly complex code that determines everything about us, from our physical traits to how our bodies function. It’s far more advanced than any man-made software, and yet some still want to believe it happened by chance. Or take photon splitting, where scientists have discovered that when you split a photon into two, the behaviour of one photon is instantly mirrored by the other, no matter the distance between them. This phenomenon boggles the mind and speaks to the deep, interconnected complexity of creation.

The more we discover about the universe and life, the more intricate and finely tuned everything appears. Yet somehow, we’re expected to believe that all this complexity, all of this design, happened without a designer? It doesn’t sit well with me.

And here is where the problem exists for some. Society  is prepared to accept any theory other than God. Could that be that when you accept the God hypothesis, we have to do a deep down search of what all that implies? A responsibility, a change in life's pattern Romans 12:2.

But that may be too simple. Many have a genuine struggle because of human suffering, but neither do we want to throw the baby out with the bathwater and that's a subject best tackled by another forthcoming blog.

As a Christian, I believe the design we see in the world around us reflects God’s creative power. He’s the one who “calls into being things that were not,” as Paul writes in Romans 4:17. Science may offer insights into how things work, but it’s God who gives everything meaning. The stars, the galaxies, the intricate details of life—they all point to Him, the ultimate designer. And that ache I felt as a child? It was the beginning of my journey to know the One who placed the stars in the sky.

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@bookblock

The one who is gracious to the poor lends to^[ the Lord,

and the Lord  will repay him for his good deed.

 Proverbs 19:7 (New English Bible).

My wife asked me what was my happiest childhood memory?

It was the day my two friends came and asked if I was coming with them. It was a spring morning, and we took the ferry across to Kelvin to visit the museum.

We were there for several hours and on our return, we rubbed our tummies with hunger. A man said, ‘Here’s a half-crown, buy yourselves ice-cream.’

We jumped up and down singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’ Then… we stopped…went silent. The man told us to buy ice-cream.

But he just smiled, and we jumped up and down again singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’

And I would have to say, that was my happiest childhood memory; the day the kind man smiled and thought it was okay to buy chips.

     “We are faced with a moral issue,” the evangelist said

     “A moral what?” the man asked.

     “A moral issue. Let me illustrate: If I was to say I am stronger than you we could settle the matter easily. We could arm wrestle.”

     “Okay, what’s the point your making?”

     “A moral issue is a bit more complicated. I f I was to say that I am more honest than you, it would take our lifetimes to settle the matter. And so it goes with the human family in their relationship with the creator.”

Image by https://unsplash.com/@arnaudpapa

Bitachon  (Hebrew) refers to a deep spiritual trust and confidence in God that he is in control and that things will unfold according to divine will, regardless of what we observe around us.

*****

 As I sit and reflect on the meaning of the Hebrew word Bitachon—trust, confidence, or assurance in God—I am struck by how it resonates with my own journey. We live in a world filled with uncertainty, imperfection, and suffering. But for me, Bitachon is the reminder that there is a greater force at work, a divine assurance that, despite all appearances, God is in control. This trust is not a passive belief; it is an active posture of faith that steadies me, especially when the world feels chaotic and unjust.

I wasn’t born with an understanding of Bitachon. My path to faith began at 23, a time when I had parted ways with friends and was searching for something more—something that could give my life deeper meaning and purpose. I was seeking God, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. And through scripture, particularly through the lives of people like Job, I began to understand what it meant to trust in God’s overarching plan, even when that plan is obscured by suffering.

The story of Job in the Bible has always moved me. Job was a man who suffered for righteousness' sake, not because of anything he had done wrong, but because he was caught in a much larger moral issue. God allowed Job to experience deep loss, but even in his anguish, Job spoke of a future hope, a “renewal” of life (Job 14:14). This idea of suffering being undone, of renewal and restoration, is something I hold onto tightly. Like Job, I’ve seen suffering—not just in my own life, but in the lives of others. The key question for me has always been, “Why does God allow this?” And the answer lies, I believe, in the very essence of Bitachon: God is in control, even when we can’t see it.

Romans 8:20-23 provides another layer of understanding for me. In these verses, Paul speaks about the creation being subjected to futility, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay. This speaks to the imperfect world we are all born into—a world that groans as it awaits redemption. We are all on a level playing field, born into a society marred by imperfection and suffering. But the fact that we suffer does not mean that God has abandoned us. Rather, it means that we have the opportunity to seek Him, to prove ourselves worthy of eternal life, as Job did. God is always present, guiding the process, even when it feels like everything is unravelling.

The moral issue at the heart of our existence is something I’ve come to accept as part of God’s plan. It reminds me of an illustration I’ve often thought about: if I were to say that I am stronger than you, we could easily settle the matter by arm wrestling. The winner would be clear. But if I were to say that I am more honest than you, well, that’s not something we could determine in a single contest. It would take our entire lives to assess—through our actions, choices, and the way we navigate the challenges life throws at us. In the same way, God allows humanity to live out this moral dilemma, to prove through our lives whether we trust Him, whether we are honest, kind, and righteous. And that process takes time.

Bitachon assures me that no matter how overwhelming life’s moral dilemmas feel, God’s sovereignty remains unchanged. While we are given the freedom to make our choices, God remains in control, working all things together for good—even when it’s not immediately obvious. It’s easy to feel lost when looking at the history of humanity—the wars, the suffering, the injustice—but Bitachon reminds me that history is not without purpose. God’s hand has always been guiding the grand narrative, allowing space for humanity to prove its integrity, its honesty, and its worthiness of His eternal promise.

For me, Bitachon is a deeply personal trust in God’s plan. It means knowing that the suffering and imperfection of this world are not the final word. Like Job, I may experience trials and heartache, but I also hold onto the hope of renewal. And like Paul, I believe that all of creation is waiting in eager expectation for that final redemption. This trust sustains me, even when the world feels out of control, because I know that God’s control is never out of reach.

The psychologist leaned in slightly and asked, “What’s the capital of Scotland?”

“Edinburgh, of course,” he replied.

His next question caught him off guard: “And when was the last time you shared a meal with friends?”

Suddenly, a warm reel of memories began to play in his mind—a slow, cosy film where laughter mingled with the scent of food, and time seemed to stretch in the glow of shared company.

On What it Means to Be Human — Jim McCrory

 Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@yvonnemorgun

But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; 

and none shall make them afraid:

 for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.

Micah 4:4 (KJB)

Sobremesa: The Art of Lingering in a Fast-Paced World

In a world that glorifies speed and productivity, where our days are measured in schedules and deadlines, the Mexican tradition of sobremesastands out like a quiet rebellion. It’s a word I didn’t grow up with, but one that resonates deeply with the quieter rhythms of life I’ve come to cherish over time. Sobremesa is not just the time spent at the table after the meal is finished, but the celebration of togetherness, the shared moments that linger long after the last bite has been taken.

Growing up in Glasgow, meals were often practical affairs. The city moved to the rhythm of its shipyards and industries, and meals mirrored that pace. Food, in my childhood home, was sustenance—something to keep the body going before the next task. Yet, tucked into those hurried moments were the seeds of something slower, something closer to sobremesa. There were nights when conversation stretched long after the plates had been cleared, and I would find myself drawn into the world of my parents’ memories, stories of their childhoods, and the hardships and joys that shaped them. I didn’t know it then, but those moments—the laughter, the sighs, the comfortable silences—were fragments of what sobremesa embodies.

It wasn’t until later in life that I experienced a more intentional version of this tradition. My wife and I began to cherish slow Sunday afternoons, particularly when visiting friends. We would linger over cups of tea, talking about everything and nothing, as time seemed to slow to a comfortable crawl. The conversation wasn’t about achieving something or checking off a task; it was about presence, connection, and the shared human experience. In those moments, I realized that the space after the meal—the sobremesa—was just as nourishing as the food itself.

And here’s the beautiful thing: no matter how often we gathered, no matter how many times we shared those meals, we never tired of it. There was always something new to discuss, some story to revisit or some laughter to be had. It was as if these moments with loved ones, this time spent together after the meal, was something infinite in its appeal. I suspect that even if we lived forever, we would never tire of sitting down to a meal with family and friends. The act itself, like sobremesa, never grows old because it taps into something eternal—our deep need for connection, for communion with others.

There is something almost sacred about this time. In a world where so much is transactional, sobremesa asks nothing of us but our presence. It invites us to be, rather than do. To share, rather than compete. In this space, stories are passed on, wisdom is exchanged, and relationships deepen. It’s a practice that reminds me of the spiritual dimensions of community—the importance of staying a little longer, of listening a little more carefully, of allowing time to unfold naturally without rushing to the next thing.

As I reflect on this, I think about how much we lose when we hurry through life. In the push for efficiency, we forget the richness of connection, the joy of simply being with others. Sobremesa offers us an antidote to this, a reminder that some of the most meaningful moments happen when we let go of the need to be somewhere else.

Perhaps that’s why sobremesa feels so timely and timeless to me. In a culture often focused on what’s next, it offers the gift of now. It’s an invitation to linger, to engage in the deep human need for connection. And in a world where so many are isolated, where divisions grow wider, sobremesa reminds us that the simple act of sitting together, of sharing a moment, can be one of the most profound ways to foster community.

It is in the lingering that we find meaning, in the small, unhurried moments that reveal the fullness of our shared humanity. In those extended conversations after a meal, we are reminded that we were never meant to go through life alone, but in communion with others—whether over coffee, or tea, or something as simple as the warmth of another person’s presence.

And maybe, just maybe, the world could use a little more sobremesa. Because if we were made to live forever, we’d still look forward to those meals, still find joy in the company of those we love, still cherish the conversations that flow long after the last bite is taken. Some things, it seems, are timeless.

 Image kindly provided by Natasha Connell

C.S. Lewis has always had a way of nudging me toward contemplation. His words, like a gentle hand on the shoulder, steer us to consider the larger mysteries of existence, drawing our attention beyond the surface. The quote in question, which speaks to a "controlling power outside the universe," tugs at a deep, instinctive awareness we’ve all encountered but perhaps struggle to define. This invisible, intangible influence that stirs within is as elusive as it is undeniable.

For as long as I can remember, I have felt the weight of this inner voice, a sense of guidance that quietly urges me toward right living. It never shouts. Instead, it whispers gently, persistently, often in the stillness of a walk in the hills or during a moment of reflection before sleep. Sometimes I’ve tried to drown it out with reason, dismissing it as my overactive conscience or the residue of some moral upbringing. But Lewis’ words suggest otherwise—that this voice is not simply a product of my psychology, but perhaps a clue to something beyond, something much grander and more profound.

As a child, I often wandered through forests or along the rocky Scottish shores, overwhelmed by the beauty and complexity of nature. I didn’t have the language to articulate what I was feeling then, but there was a knowing—a sense that I was part of something much larger than myself. I would sit and watch the clouds, or listen to the waves lap against the shore, and feel something inside me stir. At the time, I couldn't name this sensation, but now I understand it as that "influence" Lewis describes. It was more than awe or wonder; it was a connection to a greater reality, a whisper of the divine.

But as we grow older, life has a way of drowning out these subtler voices. We are told to focus on what we can measure, touch, and quantify. Modern life, with its emphasis on productivity and material success, leaves little room for the spiritual or the unseen. And yet, that inner voice never truly goes away. It continues to speak, gently reminding us to look beyond the visible, to behave in ways that reflect not just who we are, but who we were made to be.

I often think of Lewis’ analogy: just as the artifacts of a house cannot be part of the house itself, the divine cannot simply be another object within our universe, another "thing" to be observed or dissected. Instead, it reveals itself to us in the only way we could possibly understand—through the stirrings of our own conscience, the quiet promptings to act with kindness, humility, and love. These are not just moral guidelines; they are the fingerprints of something beyond the world as we know it, guiding us from within.

There have been moments in my life when I’ve ignored that voice—when I’ve let my ego or pride drown out its gentle guidance. These are the moments I look back on with a sense of regret, for they feel like missed opportunities to align myself with something higher. But when I do listen—when I act out of compassion, empathy, or selflessness—I find a sense of peace, as though I’m walking in step with the rhythm of the universe itself.

Lewis suggests that the presence of this inner voice should "arouse our suspicions." And indeed, it does. What is this force that seems to know us better than we know ourselves? What is this guidance that pushes us toward a better version of ourselves, even when we resist? It would be easier to dismiss it if it didn’t feel so personal, so intentional. But that’s precisely what makes it so compelling—it feels as though it is aimed directly at me, as though someone, or something, is trying to reach me through the only means possible: my own heart.

In my writing, especially as I reflect on what it means to be human, this theme recurs. We are more than the sum of our actions, more than flesh and bone navigating a material world. There is a deeper dimension to our existence, one that is revealed not through scientific discovery or intellectual pursuit, but through the quiet urgings of our soul. This inner voice is not just a moral compass—it is the divine calling us back to ourselves, and back to the One who made us.

Perhaps that is why Lewis' words resonate so deeply with me. He understood that faith is not about proving God's existence through external evidence, but about recognizing His presence within us. The "controlling power" he speaks of is not a distant force, but an intimate one, quietly leading us toward love, toward truth, toward the best of ourselves.

And so, as I sit here reflecting on this quote, I am reminded to listen more carefully, to attune myself to the whispering voice within. It is not always easy to hear, especially in the noise of modern life, but it is there. And in those moments when I do listen, I find myself not only more at peace with the world around me but also more connected to the One beyond it.

"I speak the truth in Christ; I am not lying, 

as confirmed by my conscience in the Holy Spirit."

Romans 9:1 (BSB).

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@zoshuacolah

I find myself at a crossroads when it comes to modern children's literature. As I sit with memories of my own childhood, I can't help but reflect on the books that shaped my early years—tales like Peter Rabbit, Pinocchio, Heidi, and the magical world of One Thousand and One Nights and adventures of the Secret Seven. They transported me to places where innocence reigned, where good triumphed over evil, and where the harsh realities of life seemed distant, wrapped in a cocoon of adventure, fantasy, and moral lessons. These stories left me with a sense of wonder and a belief that the world, while sometimes dangerous, was ultimately a place of hope.

But today, the landscape of children’s literature has shifted. It seems that the stories now available to young readers reflect the increasingly complex and, often, darker world they are growing up in. Books addressing issues like parental depression, alcoholism, bullying, and even abuse have found their way onto the shelves. I wonder: is this a healthy evolution, preparing children for the world they will inevitably face, or are we stealing something sacred from their formative years by exposing them to the darker sides of human experience too soon?

On one hand, there’s an argument for realism. Today’s children are, by no means, insulated from the difficulties that life can bring. Many are growing up in homes where they are already exposed to struggles far beyond their years—be it financial hardship, mental illness, or broken family dynamics. These books, which dare to tackle such themes, can serve as a mirror to their own experiences, offering them characters who understand their pain and challenges. Literature like this might provide comfort, reminding them they are not alone in their struggles. It can open up conversations, allowing children to express what they may not yet have the vocabulary or the courage to articulate on their own.

Moreover, proponents of this modern wave of children's literature often argue that it equips young readers with emotional intelligence. They learn empathy by seeing the world through the eyes of characters who face adversity. They develop a sense of resilience when they witness how those characters persevere. After all, isn’t the role of literature, at any age, to help us make sense of the world?

Yet, despite these potential benefits, I can't help but feel an internal tug towards protecting a child's innocence. There is something sacred about the untainted imagination of a child. When I recall the tales of my own youth, I remember how they nurtured a sense of safety and possibility. They offered an escape from any unpleasantness that might have been lurking in the real world. Stories like *Heidi* gave me hope that no matter what misfortunes might befall us, kindness, faith, and goodness would always win out in the end. Such books may not have reflected the darker realities of life, but they preserved something I think is often overlooked in today’s fast-paced, hyper-connected world: the joy of simplicity.

There’s an unspoken magic in a child’s early years, a fleeting window of time where the world can—and perhaps should—remain a place of wonder, free from the weight of adult worries. When we introduce stories about broken families, mental illness, or addiction, are we asking children to grow up too quickly? Are we taking away their opportunity to experience a world that, for a short time, is filled with wonder and delight? There’s a purity to those early days that seems too precious to tarnish with the harshness of reality. Does a seven-year-old need to understand the complexities of addiction or depression? Can’t they just have a few more years where the biggest challenge is whether Peter Rabbit will get caught in Mr. McGregor's garden?

And yet, I see the counterarguments too clearly to dismiss them. The world has changed since I was a child. Children today are bombarded with information, with or without our consent. Technology and media have stripped away much of the protective veil that once shielded childhood from the more distressing aspects of life. Perhaps, in this context, stories that reflect the struggles of modern life can provide children with tools to navigate the world they’re already part of.

But the dilemma remains. Should children be exposed to these realities through literature, or should books be a safe space, preserving the innocence of youth for as long as possible? I don’t have a clear answer. Part of me leans towards the belief that childhood should be a time of simplicity, where joy, wonder, and imagination are at the forefront, allowing children to build a foundation of hope before they face the inevitable challenges of life. Yet, another part of me wonders if we do them a disservice by shielding them too much, by failing to prepare them for the very real difficulties they will face as they grow older.

Perhaps the balance lies somewhere in between. Maybe there’s room for both—stories that preserve innocence and wonder, alongside those that gently introduce the realities of life. As I ponder this, I find myself still searching for that elusive balance between protecting a child’s heart and equipping their spirit for the world they must one day navigate. Perhaps it’s a question that each generation must answer for itself, as we navigate the ever-changing landscape of both childhood and literature.

"Any extra-terrestrial life would be less disappointed by our technology

 than by our failure to live up to our humanity."

Jim McCrory

Image by https://unsplash.com/@nasa

NASA, the North American Space Administration, has invested billions of dollars developing technology to detect extra-terrestrial life. But to what end, I wonder? Is it merely a quest for knowledge, or are we yearning for validation from other worlds? If there is indeed life beyond Earth, what would these beings think of us, of our planet, and how we treat it?

Consider this: Earth, a planet abundant in resources, produces food in quantities that could feed all its inhabitants. Yet, we are bombarded with heart-wrenching images of emaciated children, flies buzzing around their eyes, in regions stricken by poverty and famine. How do we justify such stark contrasts? People die from ailments that could easily be cured with a simple course of antibiotics, while others live in unimaginable luxury. In our cities, the streets are filled with the homeless, despite an abundance of land that could provide shelter. Drugs tear at the fabric of society, and our leaders—entrusted with the responsibility to guide and protect—seem unable to agree on even the most basic issues. It’s like trying to herd fish in a stormy sea.

And yet, we imagine we are ready to meet other life forms.

What would these extra-terrestrials make of us? Perhaps they would be astonished by our achievements—technology that stretches beyond our atmosphere, art that speaks to the soul, and scientific discoveries that unravel the mysteries of the universe. But what of our failings? Would they be baffled by the contradictions in our nature, the way we hoard resources, while others starve? Would they wonder how we can be so divided on issues of justice, fairness, and human dignity, even while standing on a planet designed to sustain us all?

 And perhaps more thought-provoking still: What would we make of them? Imagine if these visitors from another world didn’t come with superior weapons or advanced technologies, but instead came with a message of morality—asking us to live by principles that, deep down, we already know.

What if they asked us to love our neighbours as ourselves, not just in theory but in practice? To truly commit to being loyal, never casting a glance in envy or desire toward another? What if they encouraged us to speak the truth in all matters, to be transparent in our dealings? What if they reminded us to consider the poor, the widow, the aged, and the fatherless with the same concern we have for our own families? How would we react if they implored us to respect all forms of life, including animals, and to treat them humanely?

Imagine if they instructed us to lend without interest, to refuse exploitation of the hired worker, to resist the temptations of jealousy, greed, gossip, and slander. To simply be human—compassionate, honest, and humble. Would we embrace that? Would we even recognize the wisdom in it? Or would we dismiss them, much as we often dismiss the moral teachings that have been passed down to us through millennia?

It’s sobering to think that the values we might expect from enlightened beings beyond our world are the same principles we’ve been given for centuries—principles we often fail to uphold. Could it be that the answers we seek in the stars are already within us?

What if these extra-terrestrial visitors are already watching us, not in curiosity but in judgment? They may not need to land ships on our lawns to assess the state of humanity. Perhaps their eyes are already upon us, evaluating how we handle the gifts we’ve been given. In this regard, they might resemble the God who, as it says in 2 Chronicles 16:9, “For the eyes of the LORD roam to and fro over all the earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose hearts are fully devoted to Him. "

The apostle Paul, in his speech to the people of Athens, touched on a similar theme: “that they should seek the Lord, if perhaps they might reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us.” (Acts 17:27). Perhaps, in our quest to reach beyond the stars, we are missing the profound truth that the divine—the eternal—has always been close, waiting for us to recognize it.

So, as we search for extra-terrestrial life, we might do well to pause and reflect on the life we already know—the life we share with one another here on Earth. For if we cannot live in harmony with those around us, what hope do we have of understanding life beyond our world? What if, before looking outward, we first learned to look inward, to search not for life among the stars, but for humanity within ourselves?

Bible verses from the Berean Standard Bible (BSB)

“Resolve to be tender with the young, 

compassionate with the aged, 

sympathetic with the striving, 

and tolerant of the weak and the wrong. 

Sometime in life you will have been all of these.”

― George Washington Carver

https://unsplash.com/@skyesagisi

From an early age, I felt the emotions of others more intensely than most, as though they were my own. Being an empath brings blessings and a challenges—a life where the emotional currents of the world are unavoidable, flowing in and out of my awareness. It enables me to form deep connections with others, but often leaves me feeling overwhelmed and misunderstood, especially by those nearest to me.

One experience that will always stay with me is the day I heard of a tragic accident involving a family in England. A mother and her two children, on their way to church, were killed, leaving the father to face unimaginable grief. Although I had never met them, I felt the weight of his sorrow as if I were standing in his shoes. The devastation swept over me in waves, his loss becoming mine, and I carried it for days. It wasn’t merely sympathy—it was a deep, overwhelming connection to his suffering, a burden I felt called to bear. I found myself praying for him, hoping that somehow, across the distance, my empathy might offer him a small measure of comfort.

This story encapsulates what it means to live as an empath. It’s a constant, often painful, openness to the emotional world around me, where even the unspoken feelings of strangers become part of my inner life. But this sensitivity has not always been recognised, even within those closest, I’ve often felt misjudged. Those close to me have assumed that my emotional awareness makes me resilient enough to manage everything, yet they seldom see the toll it takes. And when confronted with antagonistic, aggressive behaviour, even when passive, I instinctively withdraw. I cannot thrive in environments where tension and hostility—whether overt or subtle—prevail. In such situations, I often find myself making excuses to leave, seeking refuge from the emotional conflict that drains my spirit. I need space from those who fuel their interactions with aggression, for it pulls me into a storm of emotional turmoil that I cannot sustain.

Being part of a religion was also challenging. One would expect to find people with a Christlike spirit of compassion, and there were many. However, there were also many who seemed unchanged, with no evidence of the transformation faith is supposed to bring. This disconnect between expectation and reality often left me feeling disillusioned.

In this way, my journey echoes that of other well-known empaths. Princess Diana, admired for her deep connection with people, often spoke of how misunderstood she felt in her private life. Oprah Winfrey, too, has shared how the stories of others weigh on her, often leaving her to carry more than she can express. Like them, I know what it means to care deeply and yet feel as though the world doesn’t always reciprocate that care in a way that sustains me.

Through all of this, I’ve learned to navigate my empathic nature carefully. I distance myself from people who antagonise or seek to manipulate, recognising that my own peace depends on a safe emotional space. It’s a survival instinct—to avoid environments where emotional aggression, whether direct or passive, threatens to drown out my inner calm.

While being an empath can sometimes feel isolating, it is also my way of truly connecting with the world. It has given me a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, to feel, to grieve, and to love. Even when misjudged or misunderstood, I find comfort in knowing that this sensitivity is my gift, a means through which I can share in the struggles and joys of others, offering silent empathy when words are not enough.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

Image by https://unsplash.com/@aaronburden

Last Autumn I went through some medical examinations. It came the day to see the consultant for the results.

My wife and I read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’

I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

My God, in whom I trust.”

I said to my wife, “we are going to get bad news today.” She agreed with a pensive look on her face. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed.

And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.

The consultant, a kind Asian man, who seemed worried that I never received the full impact of the diagnoses said, “You are very bravado about this?”

“There’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,” I replied.

"For me, the process of writing personal essays during my master’s 

was not only an academic exercise

 but a way of processing the world and my place in it 

at a time when both seemed uncertain."

Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@kellysikkema

Writing personal essays as part of a Creative Writing degree is an experience that draws you into an intimate relationship with your own life. For me, completing my master’s at the end of the Covid pandemic, much of that journey involved writing personal essays—reflecting on who I was in a time when the world itself was in a state of deep reflection and isolation. The personal essay, by its very nature, forces you to look inward, to craft narratives that not only feel true to yourself but also engage with broader human experiences. But that is where the journey begins.

On the one hand, writing about personal experiences demands a kind of authenticity that doesn’t always come naturally. It’s not simply about recounting a story or an event but shaping that memory into something meaningful, something that resonates with others. There’s this constant tension between telling the truth of your experience and presenting it in a way that meets the demands of the genre—structure, voice, literary techniques, all of which have to be woven into the emotional core of your story. That can feel like a tightrope act. You’re trying to be honest, yet you’re also crafting a piece of art, refining and manipulating your experiences for the sake of the story. Sometimes, in the process, it’s easy to wonder whether the pursuit of craft pulls you further away from your own truth.

The vulnerability of writing personal essays was especially intense during my time in the master’s program. The workshop setting adds another layer of emotional complexity. Sharing something deeply personal in a group of peers, knowing it will be picked apart for the sake of improvement, can feel deeply exposing. I often found myself wondering how to separate my own feelings from the essay itself when I received feedback. Was their critique of the narrative, or were they indirectly critiquing the person I was revealing on the page? The boundary between the self and the written self becomes blurred in that kind of environment, and it takes time to develop the emotional fortitude to accept feedback without internalizing it too deeply.

At the same time, I also faced the pressure to perform, to produce essays that not only explored meaningful experiences but did so in a way that impressed. There’s this unspoken competition in academic writing programs where you’re aware of how your work measures up against your peers. It’s tempting to dramatize your experiences or choose topics that you think will hit harder in a workshop setting, but that can sometimes lead to a kind of performative vulnerability, where you sacrifice your own emotional truth in the pursuit of recognition or approval. I had to constantly remind myself that the power of a personal essay doesn’t come from how sensational the story is but from the depth of insight and the honesty it brings.

This was compounded by the fact that I was writing in a time when the world felt precarious. Finishing my degree in the aftermath of Covid, when life itself was filled with uncertainties, I found myself navigating difficult emotions—grief, anxiety, loss, and isolation. The pandemic pushed all of us inward, forced us to confront ourselves in ways that felt raw and unfiltered. Writing personal essays during this period felt, at times, like peeling away layers of myself that I hadn’t quite come to terms with. Finding the right distance from those experiences to write with clarity, while still being emotionally connected, was one of the hardest parts of the process. How do you write about something that still feels unresolved within you?

Yet, even in that struggle, there was something profoundly human about the process. Writing personal essays is a way of processing, of turning over experiences, seeing them from different angles, and eventually finding some meaning in them. For me, it became a way of making sense of not only my personal history but also the collective experiences we were all going through during the pandemic. However, there were moments of emotional exhaustion. Continuously mining your own life for material, especially when it involves revisiting painful or unresolved memories, can lead to burnout. There’s only so much emotional energy you can pour into your writing before it starts to feel draining.

As with many others in my program, I found that navigating identity, culture, and expectations added another layer of complexity. The personal essay often draws on themes of identity—who you are in terms of race, gender, class, or culture—and the workshop setting, with its diversity of voices, can sometimes feel like a spotlight on those aspects of yourself. It’s easy to feel like there’s an expectation to write from a specific perspective, to represent something larger than yourself, even if your experience is far more nuanced or complex. I often questioned whether I was writing for myself or for an audience that had certain expectations of what my story should be.

Ultimately, the personal essay is both a deeply rewarding and challenging form of writing, especially in the academic context of a Creative Writing degree. While it offers a platform for exploring and making sense of your own life, it also asks for a great deal of vulnerability, emotional labour, and the willingness to confront parts of yourself that may not always be comfortable to examine. But despite those challenges, or maybe because of them, it remains one of the most powerful ways to connect with others—through our shared humanity, our stories, and the truths we uncover along the way. For me, the process of writing personal essays during my master’s was not only an academic exercise but a way of processing the world and my place in it at a time when both seemed uncertain.

"Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them,

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As I reflect on Pearl S. Buck’s words, "Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them," I can’t help but feel the deep truth and urgency behind her statement. To me, how we treat the elderly is not just a reflection of how compassionate or organized a society is—it's a test of our humanity. When the elderly are neglected, forgotten, or made to feel like they no longer matter, it's not just their lives that are diminished; it's the entire fabric of society that begins to fray.

Growing up in a culture that often celebrates youth and ambition, I have noticed how easy it is for the elderly to fade into the background, especially in modern, fast-paced societies where individualism reigns. But in my heart, I know there’s something deeply wrong with this. It is a sign of brokenness when the wisdom, experiences, and stories of older generations are ignored. Their lives matter. They are not relics of the past, but the very foundation on which the present stands. When we allow them to slip into loneliness, we lose more than we might realize—we lose connection, purpose, and a part of our shared humanity.

 This brokenness is not something we see in every culture, however. I’ve always been struck by the contrast with more communal societies, like the Gemeinschaft communities where bonds are personal, and the elderly are woven into the very heart of the social fabric. There, the older generation isn’t treated as a burden but as a living library of experience, contributing to the community’s identity. It's a reminder that we thrive best when we hold tightly to one another, valuing every person for who they are, not just what they can do.

In these societies, I’ve noticed that the elderly live longer, not only because they have physical care, but because they are emotionally and spiritually nurtured. They know they are loved. They know they are needed. That sense of purpose sustains life in a way that no amount of material provision ever could. When people are made to feel valued, they flourish. They have a reason to keep going because their existence still matters in the eyes of others.

A culture that truly respects its elderly allows them to continue being active participants in life, sharing their wisdom and knowledge with younger generations. This is something I particularly admire in Chinese culture, where respecting one’s elders is ingrained in the social fabric. The concept of filial piety—deeply rooted in Confucian ideals—reminds me that it’s not just about caring for older relatives out of obligation but recognizing the incredible value they bring to the table. The elderly in these societies remain central figures, revered for their wisdom and insights. It’s a world away from the loneliness and invisibility I often see among the elderly in the West.

It is heart-breaking to witness the opposite—a society that treats its elders as though they are no longer needed, as though their worth is tied solely to their productivity. When the elderly fear the young, or worse, feel abandoned by them, I can’t help but feel that society has lost something essential. It has lost its soul. For me, it’s not just an issue of morality; it’s an issue of identity. Who are we, really, if we cannot care for those who raised us? If we leave them to languish in isolation, we are severing our connection to our past, to our roots, and ultimately to ourselves.

I believe that a society which fails to honour and include its elderly is a society that is fractured at its core. The brokenness doesn’t just show up in the lives of the elderly; it seeps into every corner of our world. It’s a sign that we’ve lost touch with the things that matter most—community, continuity, and love. I’ve seen first-hand how older people light up when they feel included, when their lives are infused with meaning and purpose. In these moments, they are not just surviving—they are truly living.

And isn’t that what we all want? To feel like we matter, that our lives have purpose, and that we are loved, no matter our age or ability.

For me, the way forward is clear. We need to heal this brokenness by restoring our relationships with the elderly, by making them feel valued and loved again. If we don’t, we risk creating a society where not only the elderly, but each of us, feels more alone. We lose the chance to learn from those who have lived through life’s greatest challenges and triumphs. We lose the chance to grow as individuals and as a community.

Caring for the elderly is more than just meeting their physical needs; it’s fulfilling a God-given duty that restores a vital part of our own humanity. When we care for those who once nurtured us, we uphold a sacred cycle of love and purpose—one that, by God's grace, may one day return to us in our own old age.

“If a man dies, shall he live again? 

(The prophet Job)

Job14:14 (KJV).

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A friend of mine, who worked with a charity supporting refugees, once had a Chinese man visit his office. The man didn’t speak English, but with the help of a translator over video, they were able to understand his question. He asked, “Can you tell me what happens when we die?”

This question is not unique to him. It’s one we all ask at some point, and as we age, the question often surfaces more frequently. Why is there something rather than nothing? Why do we, with our brains—mere matter and electrical impulses—have the capacity to be aware of ourselves? What makes us so uniquely positioned to explore these mysteries?

Science, for all its remarkable advancements, doesn’t provide the answers to these ultimate questions. Despite the grand ambitions of certain theories, these are the boundaries science cannot cross. 

Some might say, “There can’t be a God—there’s too much evil in the world.” But doesn’t the very recognition of evil prompt another question: why is there so much good? And where does this deep sense of morality, of right and wrong, come from? If we are just the product of blind chance, why do we seek justice? In a purely indifferent universe, justice shouldn’t matter. And yet, we feel it deeply. There’s a reason we strive for it.

Several years ago, I was visiting Krakow, Poland. One evening, I wandered through the old town and found myself near the old Jewish cemetery. I like visiting graveyards—they remind me of life’s fragility and the importance of how we live. 

Standing outside the synagogue near the graveyard, I met a rabbi. “The cemetery is closed,” he told me, “but soon, they’ll be coming out.” His words caught my attention. I knew what he meant.

    I replied,  “Yes, Ecclesiastes 9:5, ‘For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing.’”

The dead are dead according to the Hebrew scripture. There’s no hellfire or heavenly calling for them, only silence. This might sound unsettling, but it’s not the end of the story.

There was no resurrection until Jesus came and offered himself as the bearer of humanity’s sins. His death opened the way for life beyond the grave. As the Gospel of John tells us, “Do not be amazed at this, for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear His voice and come out—those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil to the resurrection of judgment” (John 5:28-29).

Isn’t that an incredible thought? Doesn’t it resonate with the depth of who we are? We aren’t merely physical beings bound to 70 or 80 years. We have the capacity for love, selflessness, and thoughts that stretch toward eternity. Life, as we know it, is only part of a much larger plan—a plan that makes sense of both the goodness we experience and the justice we seek.