Personal Blogs

The Hidden Life Within Us

A day ago, I rose in the early hours of the morning, hurrying down a bowl of porridge before the PET scan fasting window began. Patients are instructed not to eat for six hours beforehand — four for diabetics. There was something sobering about the whole ritual: the silence of the hour, the waiting, the sudden awareness of one’s own body as something vulnerable and uncertain.

When I arrived at the Gartnavel Hospital in Glasgow, what struck me first was not the machinery or the clinical atmosphere, but the kindness of the reception staff, nurses, and radiographers. Their gentleness lingered with me throughout the morning. In places where people quietly carry fear, kindness acquires a deeper meaning. It becomes more than courtesy; it becomes a form of shared humanity.

A PET scan is a remarkable piece of technology. Positron Emission Tomography allows doctors to look beyond the outward structure of the body and observe its hidden activity. A radioactive tracer, similar to sugar, is injected into the bloodstream. Since cancer cells consume energy more rapidly than healthy cells, they absorb more of the tracer and reveal themselves as bright areas on the scan.

It is astonishing that human beings have developed instruments capable of searching so deeply into the body, illuminating what would otherwise remain unseen. Yet for all its sophistication, the scan reaches only into flesh. It cannot penetrate the inner life of a person — the hidden region of conscience, memory, regret, longing, love, or fear. Science may identify diseased cells, but it cannot measure sorrow, hope, forgiveness, or grace.

That hidden country belongs to God alone.

While waiting that morning, my thoughts turned to Psalm 139:

“Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my concerns.
See if there is any offensive way in me;
lead me in the way everlasting.”

There is something profoundly unsettling in those words. David is asking not merely to be examined, but to be known completely. Most of us spend much of our lives partially hidden, even from ourselves. We soften guilt, disguise motives, bury old wounds beneath routine, noise, and distraction. Yet before God there is no performance to maintain, no image to curate. The soul stands exposed.

Illness has a way of stripping away illusion. It reminds us that we are finite creatures moving through time toward an unknown horizon. Modern life encourages the fantasy of control, but a hospital waiting room reveals how fragile human existence really is. Beneath ambition, appearance, and daily distraction lies the same quiet question each person must eventually confront: what does it mean to live truthfully before God and before one another?

As a child at St Anthony’s Primary in Govan, Glasgow, I remember the nuns speaking about humanity being made in the image of God. At the time I understood it only dimly. Later in life I came to see that this likeness is reflected not in power or achievement, but in qualities such as mercy, compassion, patience, kindness, and love — the fruits of the spirit described in Galatians 5.

That morning, I found myself recalling a conversation with one of the radiographers about family life and the difficulty of raising children through their teenage years. It struck me that perhaps the deepest spiritual truths are encountered not in grand theories, but in ordinary relationships. The daily struggle to remain patient, forgiving, gentle, and loving in a wounded world may itself be part of the soul’s formation.

There is also something mysterious about goodness. Kindness does not merely comfort the receiver; it enlarges the giver. Compassion deepens the inner life. Love, when sincerely offered, seems to draw human beings beyond themselves. In this sense, the personality of God is not only something to admire, but something we are invited to participate in.

We are living in a fractured world marked by loneliness, division, and spiritual exhaustion. Yet even now, grace continues to break through: in a nurse’s reassuring voice, in a conversation between strangers, in the patience of a parent, in the quiet dignity of those who carry suffering without bitterness.

Perhaps that is part of what it means to be human, not simply to survive, but to reflect, however imperfectly, something eternal within the briefness of our lives.

Verses from the BSB Bible 

Where the Storm Pauses: Cancer and Technology

It’s March 17, 2026, and I’ve just had my consultation with my doctor at the Beatson cancer hospital in Glasgow.

I was adopted and raised by a man old enough to be my grandfather and who belonged, in some quiet way, to another century. He had lived in a time when milk arrived at the door in glass bottles, set down gently from a horse and cart, as if even delivery, like the proud horse carried a sense of dignity. He loved Dickens, and I think he trusted stories more than inventions. I now find myself in a fast‑moving world that would seem, to him, almost like fiction.

If I could sit with him again—perhaps on an ordinary afternoon—and tell him what I am about to write, I think he would listen with that same patient curiosity. Not disbelief exactly, but caution.

I watch a scientist called James Tour, who has built—I’m not sure this is the correct word—a “nanocar”: a micro‑structure in the form of a vehicle small enough to enter the bloodstream and carry out essential repair work in the body. It is a strange thought, that something so small could be made to move at all. But there it is, pulled out of the realm of science fiction and made real as the sun rises.

Now, what has this to do with my conversation with the doctor?

In the first chapter I explained that I was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer. For a time, the treatments held things in place, like bags of sand placed carefully against a rising storm. But yesterday, I was told that one tumour has begun to grow again. Back in my father’s day, if the first diagnosis was the end of the line, what would he have made of this latest news?

The doctor spoke of something called PRRT—Peptide Receptor Radionuclide Therapy. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue. The name itself feels weighty. But in essence, it is something surprisingly simple.

PRRT works by using a kind of targeted medicine. Cancer cells like mine carry specific receptors—think of them as micro parcel lockers. PRRT carries a substance designed to find those lockers, open them, and drop in a tiny amount of radiation. And unlike parcel delivery, which can be indiscriminate at times, these tiny parcels of radiation find the specific locker. It sounds similar to the nanocar to my mind: the idea that something so small, so carefully designed, can move through the body, find its target, and act. Not with drama, but with quiet purpose.

I think my father would have struggled with this—not because he lacked understanding, but because it asks us to trust in things we cannot see at all. A story of human hands learning, slowly, how to speak to the smallest parts of creation. I am not sure why, but I think of that verse where David writes, “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book.”

Cancer remains what it is. It does not become less serious because the tools have become more refined. The storm still exists. There are still days when one wakes in that land of Oz.

PRRT does not promise a complete solution. It offers time in a life where we refuse to die.

And in a life where time is no longer measured in years but in distances between worlds, that matters.

Perhaps that is what I would say, if I could sit beside my father again. That the world has changed, yes—but not entirely. That even now, beneath all the complexity, there remains something familiar: a quiet reaching toward life, even in its most fragile places.

But there is something else, too—something that does not belong to laboratories or consultations, something that does not depend on what can be measured or delivered.

A hope that stands a little further out, beyond the reach of medicine.

“Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… God Himself will be with them as their God.
He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning, or crying, or pain, for the former things have passed away.”
Revelation 21:3–4 (BSB)

I find myself thinking, more often now, that the distance between worlds is not only something we endure, but something that will one day be closed. When the quiet absence that follows loss will give way to presence again.

I think of my father then—not as someone left behind in another time, but as someone simply sharing an eternal horizon where time merges and to be truthful, time will only be the gaps in eternal events.

Reference: Scientists say tiny ‘DNA nanobots’ could deliver medicine by travelling through the body - College of Medicine and Integrated Health

Image my Marcus Woodbridge https://unsplash.com/@marcuswoodbridge

The High Road and the Low Road: A Journey to Loch Lomond

On Wednesday evening, my wife and I set out for Balmaha on the banks of Loch Lomond. Drawn by the dual promise of celestial splendour and dawn's first light breaking over the rugged highlands. Our trip was spurred by something more urgent than mere wanderlust—my recent diagnosis with terminal cancer, which has sharpened our focus on seizing the moments that remain.

Loch Lomond isn't just a place of natural beauty; it's a sanctuary where each vista and shifting cloud seems orchestrated to remind us of life's transient, precious nature. As the night sky surrendered to sunrise, I felt a profound connection to the Creator, an assurance that despite the uncertainties of my health, there remains a greater plan at work.

During our visit, the echoes of "Loch Lomond" filled my mind—the haunting lyrics about parting ways, taking different roads through life and beyond. "O you'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road, and I'll be in Scotland before you." The song, a poignant anthem of farewell, resonated deeply, reflecting our current crossroads. It was as if the high road was my impending journey beyond this life, while the low road was the here and now with my wife.

This melody, which has always stirred the soul, now underscored our experience with its profound symbolism. It wasn't just background music; it was a narrative woven into the fabric of our visit, a narrative about love, parting, and the passages we all must navigate.

Standing there, with the dawn light washing over the loch and mountains, I was struck by a mix of grief and gratitude. Grief, for the days that will be no more, and gratitude for the immeasurable beauty and joy that have filled my days. Each moment by the loch was a moment stolen back from fate, a declaration that even in the face of life's end, we can find reasons to cherish and celebrate.

Our journey back home was quiet, reflective. We spoke little, but our hands found each other often, a silent language of support and mutual strength. The road, both literal and metaphorical, stretched out before us, each mile a step towards whatever awaits.

As we navigate this chapter, the lesson of Loch Lomond remains with us: to embrace each day with vigour, to find solace in nature's embrace, and to love fiercely in the face of the unknown. Even as I consider the roads we take—the high ones and the low—the journey is as beautiful as it is heart-breaking, filled with the promise of love’s enduring presence.

When a man dies, will he live again?

All the days of my hard service I will wait,

until my renewal comes.

Job 14:14 (BSB)

“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” 

Last autumn, I went through a series of medical examinations. Then came the day to see the consultant for the results.

That morning, my wife and I read our usual scripture together—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 turned to her and said quietly, “We are going to get bad news today.”
She agreed, her face pensive.

God has often spoken to us through scripture in ways that feel precise, almost personal—as if the right verse lands in our lap just when it is needed. And sure enough, that day the news confirmed what I had already sensed: the faithful cells in my prostate had turned hostile, rebelling and spreading to the pancreas and liver—and perhaps beyond.

The consultant, a kind Asian man, looked worried that I hadn’t fully grasped the gravity of what he was telling me.
“You are very bravado about this?” he asked gently.

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

We came home that afternoon and read the whole of Psalm 91. Both of us felt a deep sense of peace. I have never experienced what the Germans call Torschlusspanik—that sense of the gates closing in. Instead, I wake each morning with a miraculous calm, the kind that only God and Christ can give.

Contentment and Gratitude

The first thing I needed was space. When word spreads that you have a terminal illness, people from your past often want to speak with you. But I am a solitary person by nature, one who needs time to reflect and put life in order.

A year has almost passed since that day. Who knows what the next will bring? Yes, the side effects of treatment are wearying—tiredness, intrusive thoughts, dry eyes, and other discomforts—but my wife and I have not lost our joy.

We are grateful for what we have accomplished this year: the quiet beauty of summer in Scotland, the camping trips, the people we met along the way, and the opportunities to share our faith.

Exercise and nature remain restorative companions. Cancer and stress are not harmonious bedfellows, so I carefully guard my peace and cherish it.

I still take pleasure in reading and in writing my book What It Means to Be Human each day. Like the ancient cave painters who pressed their handprints onto the stone, I write to leave a mark—a reminder that I was here, that I lived, that I believed.

Life is a journey, but the destination can be determined—through God’s undeserved kindness.

When a man dies, will he live again?
All the days of my hard service I will wait,
until my renewal comes.
—Job 14:14 (BSB)

"Renewal", a wonderful concept.

Image by Copilot