Personal Blogs

“I was seven Last Night”

I was seven years old last night. I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t want to be a soldier or a president — just someone who could touch the quiet and visit the animals in the forests near my home. 
Mama said I should sleep, but the stars were still awake, scattered like precious gems on the dark sky above my town. I pressed my face to the cold windowpane, trying to count them, but they kept trembling, as if frightened too be counted.

Papa had promised me we’d go to the park again when the weather turned warm and this is all over. I’d ride my old chopper that belonged to dad when he was seven; the one with the bent handles like a Harley. Dad would chase me till we both fell laughing into the grass before all this happened. I liked the way the world smelled after rain. It always felt like God had washed it clean, ready for another try.

When the sirens started, I thought they were part of a dream.
Mama’s arms wrapped around me, I could hear her heart beating fast; dum-dum! dum-dum!
The world outside howled; a wind, a growl, a noise from the deep.
I wanted to ask, why do they hate us? But the words got lost in the thunder.

There was light then. A light too bright for night. The kind that doesn’t belong to our world.
And then, quiet again. Not the kind that means safety, but the kind that holds everything, every prayer, every tear, every unspoken why.

I’m not cold now. I’m not afraid.
The stars are closer than ever, and I wonder if they know my name.
Mama is sleeping somewhere below, her heart aching in that endless human way. Tell her I’m sleeping now, to keep my chopper until I wake. Tell her when we meet again; we will laugh with a gentle heartbeat.

The town is erased from my memory now with the guns, bombs, planes, drones and tanks.

But stories don’t die that easily. They echo, even in ruins.
I was going to grow tall, learn English, study biology. I had a notebook with drawings of foxes, mushrooms, birds, moons, comets trailing their long silver hair. Maybe someone will find it in the rubble. Perhaps they’ll know I was there.

And I ask the same question every soul asks when the world forgets itself: What is the meaning of all this?
Men build guns and drones and tanks and planes, but none of it follows them here. No one has power here. Only the things we gave without return. The love the affection the kindness.
People are clutching photographs. They are still looking for purpose in the ruins. Mama and Papa hold my photo, my first day at school, they are kneeling beside the broken room where I will always be seven.

I was seven years old last night.
Now I am part of something older than time —
the silence between stars,
the heartbeat of the world when no one is listening,
the small, unending hope that someone will finally learn
what it means to be human.

“If someone dies, will they live again?
All the days of my hard service
I will wait for my renewal to come.”
— Job 14:14 (NIV)

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 "A man who lives and breathes molecules,

humbly admits that the origin and nature of life

 remain beyond even the most brilliant scientific minds."

What Was That Cell That Just Died?

Imagine you're in the lab, working with living cells. You're focused, careful, alert—then, suddenly...  one dies. What have you lost? Can it be revived? After all, it’s just a microscopic cell and there's all this equipment around. Cant you resuscitate it? No, you cannot, no one can.

Its quiet collapse points to a deeper mystery. For all our scientific advancement, we still don’t know what life is.

That was the unsettling conclusion of biochemist Dr James Tour in his interview on Socrates in the City:

James Tour: How Did Life Come Into Being?
https://socratesinthecity.com/watch/dr-james-tour-how-did-life-come-into-being/

Tour, a man who lives and breathes molecules, humbly admits that the origin and nature of life remain beyond even the most brilliant scientific minds.

This uncertainty echoes something far older. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says:

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? 

Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father.”

—Matthew 10:29 (BSB)

Imagine walking through a park and seeing a sparrow fall from a branch. It lies still. It looks just as it did a moment before, but something essential is gone. The shape remains, but the life is missing. This is not just a biological moment, it’s a spiritual one.

Just a verse earlier, Jesus says:

“Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.” —Matthew 10:28 (BSB)

This suggests there is something inviolable in us—something that outlives the cells, the body, even death itself. We are more than our physical makeup. We are soul, body, and life force—a unity that begins in dust and breath.

I thought about this last recently  while walking through a graveyard on holiday. The dates on the stones stretched back to 1760. Each one marked a life—a person who had inner joys, laughter, sorrow, regret. Were their lives futile? That depends on how they lived, and in whose hands they placed their hope. Because the final word belongs not to death, but to God and Christ.

I’m reminded of a small, touching story:

A child was talking about her grandmother. A friend asked, “Where is your grandmother?”

“She is in the tomb,” she replied.

“What’s a tomb?”

“It’s like the drawer where my mum keeps all her valuables—but the tomb is a drawer only God can open.”

I believe that too. I’m what you might call a dualist. I accept that consciousness is tied to the brain—but I also believe it is something more. Something separable. When the day of renewal comes, I believe God will give me a new body—whether spiritual or physical—and with it, restore every memory, every thread of my identity. I won’t be a stranger to myself. I will be me—revived, remembered, and remade.

And so I echo the words of Job:

“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)

Ah! Renewal, what a lovely concept.

     “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.

“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.

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