May the words of my mouth
and the meditation of my heart
be pleasing in Your sight...
Psalm 19:14 (BSB).
Cliù
In the tongue of my ancestors who came from Islay on the Scottish Hebrides, cliù (Scottish Gaelic) meant more than reputation. It was honour—lived rather than spoken, earned rather than claimed. It wasn’t what others whispered about you in passing, but what followed you through time because of the way you lived your life. A kind of moral inheritance.
Today, reputations are made and ruined in moments. Words, once weighty, are thrown about like scraps—cutting, careless, fleeting. People blurt out their worst thoughts and move on, leaving others to carry the wound. But cliù still has weight. It doesn’t cling to the loud or the self-important. It clings to the steady, the faithful, the kind.
I’ve been spoken about, as we all have. But I’ve learned not to let such things get too close. Words may sting, but they don’t define me. I don’t stand before them—not in this life, and not in the next. I will stand before Christ Jesus. He is my judge. He sees past all the noise and weighs the heart. “Therefore, judge nothing before the appointed time; wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of the heart.” (1 Corinthians 4:5)
That’s where cliù lives now—in the unseen acts, the unspoken prayers, the quiet integrity that often goes unnoticed. It is not reputation in the modern sense, but something slower and more enduring. A quiet light cast by a life lived with purpose and grace.
I may never be remembered by many. But if I leave behind a thread of honour—faith kept, kindness shown, truth spoken—then I will have left something worth more than renown. I will have left cliù
Sometimes we meet ourselves in a mirror—but not the kind that shows our face.
There are mirrors in life that reflect not what we look like, but who we are. Moments, people, and encounters that hold something up to us—often quietly—and reveal a truth we didn’t know we needed to see. Not all at once, and not always comfortably. But clearly enough to stop us in our tracks.
We’re often encouraged to look inward—to examine our hearts, to search our conscience, to find answers in solitude. And that has its place. But sometimes, we come to know ourselves more honestly through the presence of someone—or something—outside of us. It can be a gesture, a face, a life lived well. And in that unexpected reflection, we glimpse not only who we are, but who we might become.
Years ago, I belonged to a religious organisation that emphasised developing a “new personality.” On paper, which sounded noble, the act of becoming more loving, more faithful, more Christlike. But in practice, it often turned into a treadmill of tasks and expectations. We were encouraged to do more. I found myself constantly striving, constantly spinning like a Whirling Dervish, and trying to measure up to something always just out of reach. It was a kind of spiritual strangulation.
I stepped off that wheel. I began to slow down. To listen. Not just to teachings or instructions—but to what was going on inside me. And to the quiet messages around me that I had long ignored.
I remember one morning. I was walking along the coast, the tide out, the air still. A robin landed on a branch just a metre away and stayed there beside me for a while. We were both still. That moment wasn’t extraordinary in any obvious way, but it stayed with me. I felt seen—not by the bird, exactly—but by something deeper. As if I’d been reminded, I was part of something sacred, something alive. I walked away quieter than I had arrived.
Silence like that creates space. A space where the soul can stretch and grow. Not the silence of loneliness or avoidance, but the kind that brings clarity. Where listening becomes more than just hearing—it becomes a form of love. And in that stillness, free from distractions and expectations, we sometimes begin to see ourselves more honestly.
But we don’t always need solitude to grow. Sometimes, it’s other people who hold up the mirror we need. Not through their opinions or criticisms, but through the quiet example of their lives. We might witness someone offering mercy when we wouldn’t, showing patience, we know we lack, or living with a faith we hadn’t realised was possible. These moments can gently reveal where we fall short—not to condemn us, but to invite us into something better.
I’ve learned from people who have suffered quietly, who forgive without being asked, who walk into a room and bring peace with them. When I see that, I don’t feel jealous or ashamed. I just feel a longing; a desire to grow into that kind of person. It’s as if God planted something in me long ago that is only now beginning to stir and take root.
It’s humbling. The world often tells us we’re fine as we are. But real love doesn’t flatter us. It reveals us. And then, remarkably, it still draws us close. I believe that’s how God works—not by shaming us into change, but by showing us a more beautiful way to be. Through the lives of others, through books, through quiet moments, He gives us a glimpse of what is possible.
Of course, not every reflection is easy to face. Sometimes the goodness of others makes us aware of the noise inside us; the pride, the impatience, the restlessness we’ve come to accept as normal. But I’ve learned to welcome those moments too. Because they are not rejections, they are reminders. The soul learns best when it is still. And it listens best when it no longer needs to have all the answers.
That’s why I return to quiet places. Hillsides. Beaches. Woodland paths. Not to escape life, but to return to it differently. To remember what it means to truly see others—and to let their grace and strength reflect something I may have forgotten about God, or about myself.
Because sometimes, the clearest mirror is not the one we use to check our appearance, but the one held up by another person’s life.