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“The sole meaning of life is to..."

Is to what? Gather riches, build a bigger house? Indulge  in carnal pleasures? For Tolstoy, especially in his later years, life’s true depth wasn’t found in status or wealth but in moral and spiritual awakening. " The sole meaning of life was to serve mankind" . Or, one might say, love ones neighbour. 

After grappling with depression despite his success, he turned to simplicity, faith, and compassion—finding meaning not in what he could gain, but in what he could give.

 "The sole meaning of life was to serve mankind." 

"To see a world in a grain of sand"

William Blake

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Imagine holding a simple stone tool in your hand, its edges roughly chipped to a functional point. There’s no question about its origin. It’s clear that someone, long ago, shaped it with intent and purpose. No one would seriously argue that it came into existence by chance—that wind, water, or random collisions of stones could produce something so obviously designed for a task. Even its crude simplicity speaks of intelligence. 

Now, consider the double helix, the elegant structure of DNA that carries the instructions for all living things. It is a marvel of complexity, a masterpiece of order and precision. Its intricacies—billions of coded instructions, capable of replication and error correction—make the stone tool seem almost insignificant. Yet, for many, the prevailing belief is that DNA, with all its unparalleled sophistication, simply "happened" through random processes over time. 

This contrast raises a perplexing question: if a simple tool unequivocally points to a maker, how can the infinitely more complex double helix be dismissed as the product of blind chance? 

The Bible offers an explanation in Romans 1:19-21, where it says, “People can clearly see what God is like because He has shown it to them. Ever since the world was made, people have seen the amazing things God created. These things show us His power and that He is God, so no one has an excuse not to believe in Him.” The passage goes on to explain that even though people can see this evidence, they often reject it, becoming confused and darkened in their thinking. 

This ancient insight speaks to something deeply human. It isn’t that the evidence of a Creator is hidden—quite the opposite. It’s plainly visible in every leaf, every cell, and every galaxy. Yet, acknowledging that evidence leads to uncomfortable questions about purpose, accountability, and the nature of God. For many, it’s easier to explain away creation as a product of randomness than to confront the possibility of a Creator who might ask something of us. 

Think about how illogical this is. We celebrate human ingenuity when we see a work of art, a skyscraper, or a complex computer program. We admire these creations precisely because they reflect intelligence and purpose. Yet, when faced with the far greater complexity of DNA—the very code that makes life possible—many argue that no intelligence was involved at all. 

This denial, as Romans suggests, is more than intellectual; it’s spiritual. When people refuse to acknowledge the Creator, their thinking becomes muddled, and they lose their sense of wonder and gratitude. And gratitude is the key. When we look at the world around us—the delicate balance of ecosystems, the beauty of a sunset, the breathtaking intricacy of a single cell—the only fitting response is awe and thankfulness. 

It’s like standing in a gallery filled with masterpieces and refusing to believe there’s an artist. The evidence of design is overwhelming, from the simplest stone tool to the incomprehensible elegance of the double helix. But seeing it requires humility, the willingness to acknowledge something greater than ourselves. 

If we can so easily recognize intelligence in the small things—like a primitive tool—shouldn’t we be even more amazed at the brilliance behind the complexity of life itself? The Bible reminds us that creation is God’s signature, visible to everyone who chooses to see it. To deny that is not merely to miss the truth—it is to turn away from the very source of life and meaning. 

The double helix doesn’t just whisper of a Creator—it shouts it. The question is, are we willing to listen?

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"Why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? 

Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, 

The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? "

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 "Last Saturday, I visited the British Museum, and as I wandered among the artifacts, it was evident that the items found in graves, tombs, and burial chambers belonged to past humans who believed in an afterlife. In some instances, pharaohs and similar figures were buried with their servants, presumably so they wouldn't enter the netherworld without the convenience of having everything done for them.

However, a particular burial that caught my attention this week was a discovery in the Czech Republic due to its unusual contents. This Bronze Age burial, found accidentally near the town of Břeclav in South Moravia in 2021, included a unique artifact—a puppet-like figure with a ceramic head. Dating back approximately 4,500 years, the burial featured this puppet, which had a head mounted on what seemed to be a wooden body, though the wood has not survived the ages. The head was distinctively decorated with incised geometric patterns, suggesting it might have held cultural or possibly spiritual significance.

Yet, I can't help but wonder—archaeologists sometimes make mistakes as their conclusions often involve a degree of guesswork. Even if it's educated guesswork, considerable disagreement among scholars persists. My theory? Perhaps this puppet was how the individual earned a living and entertained. After all, who doesn’t enjoy a good puppet show? And what better way to tell future generations who he was?

But these burial practices raise some weighty thoughts regarding the human psyche; why is there a deep hope within us that life does not end when we close our eyes to this life? Why are there concepts of Paradise, Heaven, a New World, Valhalla, Fiddler's Green, The Elysian Fields, Tian, Jannah, and many more? Wherever you look in the world of cultures, there is a name for the afterlife.

The truth is, in God’s original purpose, mankind was given everlasting life. That was, until sin entered the mix and brought death through sin. Jesus came to release mankind who accept and believe in him to have the opportunity of life everlasting. That’s why he spoke to the repentant criminal on the cross and promised, “You will be with me in paradise.”

But returning to the burial practices, this discovery made me reflect on what I would want to be buried with. What could future generations learn about me from such items? Perhaps my writer’s notebook would be a fitting choice.

Now, what about you? What would you leave behind for future generations that would hint at your identity?"

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes,

and there will be no more death

or mourning or crying or pain,

for the former things have passed away.”

Revelation 21:4 (BSB).

"We laugh, we cry, we care about characters on screen, not because we forget they aren't real, 

          but because they evoke real emotions in us." — Anonymous.

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Whilst Sir Walter Scott took a trip to Stratford-upon-Avon, Li, a Business Studies student at Glasgow University, was on a road trip with friends to see the Glenfinnan Viaduct. That same year, Kioko, a middle-aged widow, boarded a flight from Tokyo to Canada. Years earlier, her mother had flown from Tokyo to Edinburgh.

Aside from the obvious differences, they all had something in common: they were on similar missions. Each was indulging in what psychologists call parasocial relationships—or unilateral relationships. Sir Walter Scott set off to visit the home of his literary hero, Shakespeare. Li and her friends were headed to the spot where the Hogwarts Express crossed the viaduct. Kioko was travelling to visit the home of Anne of Green Gables, and her mother had once journeyed to the city where the Bay City Rollers had grown up.

I am no exception. One late spring in 2017, my wife and I took a trip to Britain’s Lake District. While there, we decided to visit Grasmere, the village where Wordsworth had lived, and the subject of much of his poetry.

When we arrived, Grasmere was ghostly—eerily still despite the bright summer morning. We strolled through the small village and eventually arrived at Wordsworth’s cottage. Suddenly, a group of forty or fifty Indian visitors appeared—professors, literature teachers, poets, and literary enthusiasts. Having studied English literature myself, I was intrigued to know why they had travelled from Delhi, Kerala, Gujarat, and Hyderabad to make this pilgrimage to the home of their beloved poet.

Their schedule was tight, but I managed to speak with one man from Delhi—a poet. I asked him a question that has often occupied my thoughts: Why do we make such journeys to visit the places that inspired our favourite writers, poets, and fictional characters?

I deliberately used the collective “we,” as I, too, am caught in this curious psychological phenomenon. Yet, in our brief conversation, we merely danced around the question. I walked away with a lingering sense that the answer remained incomplete—unexplored.

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This past weekend, I found myself weaving through the vibrant tapestry of London’s bustling streets. Some carry with them a preconceived notion, whispered and widely accepted: that Londoners are a reserved bunch, particularly on the labyrinthine threads of public transport. Yet, my experience painted a different picture—a canvas filled with unexpected strokes of friendliness and openness.

It’s curious how a simple “hello” can thaw the frostiest of demeanours. Indeed, some individuals were tough shells to crack, a phenomenon not unique to this city but common wherever humans gather. The initial hesitation seemed rooted in issues of trust and security, but genuine interest and respect quickly bridged that gap, leading to warm exchanges and smiles that softened the sternest of faces.

I had been reading a companion of sorts—Edward Hirsch’s How to Read a Poem and Fall in Love with Poetry. This isn’t your average introduction to verse. Hirsch dives deep, guiding the reader through the layers and rhythms of poetry.

One segment that particularly resonated with me was his exploration of Walt Whitman’s “To You.” In it, Whitman extends an invitation to the reader, a call to engage in the simplest yet most profound act of connection: conversation.

       “Stranger, if you are passing, meet me and desire to speak to me,
       Why should you not speak to me?
       And why should I not speak to you?”

Reflecting on these experiences, I am reminded of the essential truth that we often meet each other at our best when we are open to the world and to new interactions. As travellers and as humans, when we are removed from the everyday stresses and immersed in the joy of discovery, we find it easier to revel in the beauty each person has to offer.

Through the simple yet profound act of speaking to a stranger, I rediscovered the enduring power of human connection—a theme as timeless as any poem and as beautiful as any landscape. Whether in the heart of a bustling city or the tranquillity of the Highlands, it seems we are all just waiting for someone to extend a hand, open a dialogue, and connect. In doing so, we weave ourselves into a larger human story, one conversation at a time.

Interestingly, one of the most fascinating conversations took place 2000 years ago and someone recorded it:

Luke 24:13-35 NIV - On the Road to Emmaus - Now that same - Bible Gateway

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing

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I was only a boy when my music teacher introduced me to the hauntingly beautiful music of Edvard Grieg. It was the kind of music that reaches deep into your soul and stirs something ancient and unnameable. Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, especially Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King, carried me far away, beyond the confines of the classroom, into a place where mountains stretched endlessly toward the heavens and fjords cut through the earth like jagged wounds of breath-taking beauty. That day, I was struck by a peculiar feeling—a homesickness for Scandinavia, as if I had lived there in some other time. I felt, with an intensity that has stayed with me all my life, that I was born in the wrong country.

The Germans have a word for this: Fernweh. It translates as a kind of homesickness but can have a twist. Instead of pining for a place you've been, it describes a longing for somewhere you've never visited. It's the pull of an unfamiliar land that somehow feels more like home than the ground beneath your feet.

As a boy, I couldn’t have understood Fernweh in such terms, but I felt it keenly. It was as if Grieg’s music unlocked a door within me, leading to a distant, mist-shrouded land I had yet to see but already loved. The ache that came with it was as real as homesickness, a longing so profound that it almost felt like loss. To this day, when I hear Grieg’s compositions, that sensation returns—a yearning for mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and the crisp, cold air of Scandinavia that I’ve never breathed but know in my bones.

This feeling isn’t unique, though it is deeply personal. Whilst reading at the dentist a while vack, I read about the story of Pablo the Penguin from Disney’s The Three Caballeros fascinated me. Pablo, living in the icy expanse of Antarctica, dreams of warmth. He builds a little boat and sails toward the tropics, yearning for sunshine and palm trees. But once he reaches the warm seas of his dreams, something unexpected happens. He feels homesick. He misses the icy winds of Antarctica, the very place he had been so desperate to leave behind.

Pablo’s story resonates with me because it captures the paradox of longing. We yearn for something different, something distant and elusive, and yet, when we reach that place, there’s a chance we might long for the familiarity of where we began. I’ve often wondered if I would feel the same if I lived in Scandinavia. Would my heart still yearn for those fjords and snowy landscapes, or would I find myself pining for the rugged coasts and rolling hills of Scotland?

Like Pablo, I’ve come to understand that homesickness, whether for a place we know or one we imagine, is part of the human experience. It speaks to a deeper truth about us: we are creatures of longing. We seek out beauty, peace, and belonging, sometimes in distant lands or in the melodies of foreign composers. But this longing is often as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

For me, Scandinavia is a place where my soul feels it belongs, even though my body has only been there a few times. The mountains and fjords I dreamed of as a child feel as real to me as my own home. I wonder if this is because there is a part of us, perhaps, that has roots in many places. Some of those roots are nurtured by the landscapes we live in, while others are stirred by the music we hear, the stories we tell, or the dreams we dream. Additionally, my surname is Celtic where a rich history of Scandinavian connection once waved over these landscapes. Who knows if this rich connection is still impeded in our psyche.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Fernweh truly is: the recognition that we belong not just to one place, but to many. It is the ache of knowing there are pieces of ourselves scattered across the world, waiting for us to find them, in countries we’ve never visited, in melodies we’ve never heard, and in the hearts of people we’ve yet to meet.

Pablo may have longed for the warmth of the tropics, only to miss the cold of Antarctica, but perhaps that’s the nature of longing itself. It moves us forward, reminding us of the places that call to our souls, while always leaving room for the pull of home—wherever that might be.

My friends and I got to talking about God's future plans. Will faithful humans go to heaven or earth? Could the future Paradise that Jesus spoke of be somewhere that has not been revealed to us yet.? I am not sure. But one thing is sure: we will not be homesick.

             You open your hand, and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16 WEB

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Perhaps the best way to thank a stranger’s kindness

 is to become a stranger’s kindness in return.

Some years ago, I was in Rome, wandering the morning streets and absorbing the city’s timeless beauty. At some point, I stepped into a small café for an espresso—just a brief pause in my day. It was a simple, familiar ritual: order, sip, savor, then pay. But as I reached for my wallet, the barista smiled and shook his head.

“The gentleman before you has already paid,” he said.

I looked toward the door, but the stranger was gone, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for thanks. It was a small gesture—just a cup of coffee—but it carried a weight beyond its cost. The man had left behind more than a paid bill; he had left behind an echo of kindness, a reminder that goodness often moves unseen, like a quiet current beneath the surface of daily life.

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I learned of caffè sospeso recently, the Neapolitan tradition where someone pays for an extra coffee, leaving it for a stranger in need. It is an act of giving that does not seek acknowledgment or reward, only the simple hope that it might brighten another’s day. My benefactor in Rome had done the same—not because he had to, not because he expected anything in return, but because he could.

In a world often preoccupied with transactions and reciprocation, such gestures stand out. They remind us that kindness is not a business exchange but a gift, freely given. Perhaps that is why acts of quiet generosity stay with us long after they happen. They ask nothing of us but linger in memory, shaping the way we see the world.

I never thanked the man who bought my coffee. I never learned his name or had the chance to return the favour. But maybe that is the point. True kindness does not demand to be noticed—it simply exists, rippling outward in ways we may never see.

Perhaps the best way to thank a stranger’s kindness is to become a stranger’s kindness in return.

What about you, have you had similar experiences of kindness? Tell us in the comments.

“Be careful not to perform your righteous acts before men to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven.

So when you give to the needy, do not sound a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. Truly I tell you, they already have their full reward.  But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.

Matthew 6: 1-4 (BSB).