Personal Blogs

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From Bamburgh to Stavanger: A Memory Not Lost at Sea

It’s Thursday just passed and I’m standing with Bamburgh Castle at my back. Its ancient stones are steeped in history, yet I’m not drawn to look behind me. My eyes are fixed on the sea. North-east, to be exact. That invisible line across the water stretches toward Stavanger, where I lived for a fleeting time during what could only be described, to borrow from Dickens, as the best of times and the worst of times.

But this moment isn’t about castles or history. It’s about something smaller and more enduring; the quiet goodness that lives in human connection.

I’m walking the shoreline with family and friends. The wind on Sola beach is gentle and like the laughter, warm. A young girl from Sandnes walks beside me; her family having been so hospitable to us during our time in Norway. She’s a teenager, bright-eyed and full of the same enthusiasm for music that once filled me. We swap stories and song titles, lost in the shared joy of discovering kindred taste and poetic lyrics.

Later, I give her a cassette of my all-time top twenty songs. Just a little plastic box with a handwritten label. At the time, it felt ordinary. But sometime afterward, her mother tells me that her daughter now falls asleep each night to the gentle music captured on the cassette.

Even now, I feel a hush inside when I remember that. The thought of those songs becoming a lullaby, a comfort, a thread between our human connection. Music carrying a presence, even after I was gone.

That was in 1999. I returned to Scotland, and life and distance, as it often does, scattered our connection with the family. I lost contact with the family. Still, I wonder. That young girl will be in her forties now. Perhaps she has children of her own. I wonder if they too fall asleep to music. I wonder if, in some way, the kindness shown to me, the conversation on that beach, the cassette passed from hand to hand, still echoes in their lives.

Because what are we, really, is determined in our small acts of goodness.  A song shared. A moment of hospitality. A memory that lingers. So much of life feels fleeting, but these moments — they have a way of outlasting us.

And if we are made in the image of something eternal, perhaps it is this that reflects it most clearly. The impulse to give. To comfort. To be remembered not for what we built or achieved, but for how we loved, and how we made others feel safe enough to fall asleep.

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What Compels the Electron to Spin Round the Atom?

We are used to thinking of the world as solid and dependable. The table under our hands. The spoon in our tea. The feel of the ground beneath our feet. But the deeper we look into what things are made of, the less solid they become. Beneath every surface lies a hidden world of atoms, and inside each atom—a dance of particles that defies simple explanation. Chief among these is the electron, a tiny particle of negative charge, endlessly moving, mysteriously suspended, bound to the nucleus of the atom by forces we cannot see.

In old science textbooks, the electron was often pictured as a miniature moon orbiting a tiny sun. That’s how many of us learned it. But the truth, as scientists now understand it, is far more strange—and far more beautiful. The electron doesn’t orbit in circles. It exists in regions called “orbitals,” places where it might be found, not places where it certainly is. It’s not spinning like a top or circling like a planet. It’s behaving like a wave and a particle at the same time. And it’s held in place—not by strings or levers—but by invisible laws of nature. So what compels the electron to move? What keeps it from falling into the nucleus, or flying away into the void?

Science speaks of electromagnetic attraction and quantum principles. And rightly so. But beyond the mechanics lies a deeper wonder—a spiritual question: Who wrote the laws? Why does anything obey them at all?

The writer of Hebrews puts it this way: “By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible” (Hebrews 11:3). That verse, penned nearly two thousand years ago, reads today like a quiet summary of quantum physics. The visible world, the world we touch and measure, rests on things that are not visible. Unseen forces shape reality. And from a Christian perspective, those unseen things are not simply forces. They are the design of a Creator.

What compels the electron? It is drawn by the same laws that compel the stars to burn and the waves to rise. It follows a path laid out in the deep architecture of the universe—an architecture spoken into being by a God who delights in order, mystery, and life. The electron does not know why it moves. But it moves. It obeys. And in its obedience, it allows everything else to exist.

And isn’t that a picture of faith? Most of us do not fully understand the path we are on. We cannot see the end from the beginning. Yet we are drawn forward by unseen convictions, quiet hopes, and invisible hands. Like the electron, we find ourselves part of something of a larger part of a design we didn’t invent and cannot control. But the beauty lies in the trust. In moving forward. In keeping faith.

So the next time you look at your hand, or sip from a cup, or simply sit still in the quiet of the morning, consider this: the world you see is built on what you do not see. The electron spins not because it chooses to, but because it must. And in that tiny, invisible movement, held in place by mystery, is written the fingerprint of God.

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On Tenderness

It’s not a word we hear often these days—tender. It sounds almost old-fashioned, a term borrowed from lullabies and love letters, out of place in a world obsessed with strength, strategy, and self-promotion. Yet there’s a quiet defiance in tenderness—a moral courage that refuses to harden. In a world that teaches us to toughen up, tenderness dares to remain soft.

The etymology of tender offers insight into its soul. From the Latin tener—soft, delicate, young—it evokes the image of a sapling swaying in the wind, not despite its weakness but because of its flexibility. It is a word that breathes, not shouts

The philosopher Søren Kierkegaard once wrote, “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.” Tenderness belongs to that forward-facing life. It requires us to be present in the moment, to respond not with rehearsed cynicism, but with a kind of openheartedness that makes us vulnerable to pain—but also to beauty.

Psychologically, we are wired to protect ourselves from hurt. The amygdala, our ancient threat-detection system, flares up at anything unfamiliar. Tenderness works against this grain. It invites the slower brain—the prefrontal cortex—to respond with empathy, with measured grace. As Brené Brown puts it, “Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity.” Tenderness is the handmaid of vulnerability.

To be tender is not to be fragile, but to possess an inner elasticity, a strength supples enough to bend but not break. Think of the willow tree, which outlasts the oak in storms because it yields. Or consider the Japanese concept of amae—a sweet, presupposed acceptance between loved ones. Tenderness, like amae, assumes you will not be rejected when you risk softness. It is a moral trust in the goodness of relationship.

In literature, tenderness often appears in the margins—in the worn hands of Kent in King Lear, or the silence between Elizabeth and her father in Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. Simone Weil, the French writer, once said, “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” Tenderness pays attention. It notices the unnoticed: the trembling lip, the quiet withdrawal, the soul behind the stranger’s eyes.

When Jesus wept at Lazarus’ tomb, it was not just grief—it was divine tenderness. He could have spoken of resurrection first, but he chose to feel first. That order matters. There is a sacredness in lament, in acknowledging suffering before solving it. In that moment, he gave us a model of love that doesn’t leap to fix but lingers to feel.

I think of my own life, and moments when tenderness rewrote the script.

In a fractured world, the quality is resistance. It refuses to retaliate. It listens instead of lectures. It makes room. And perhaps that is its most Christlike quality: it does not occupy all the space. It steps aside. It lets the other in.

The writer John O’Donohue once observed, “Tenderness is the most fragile presence of the soul, and it is not a mood but a way of being.” We must protect it—especially as we age, as loss and disappointment threaten to calcify us. The temptation is to grow defensive. But the call of tenderness is to remain open. To remain human.

If faith is the substance of things hoped for, then perhaps tenderness is the texture of that faith made flesh. It cannot be manufactured. It is cultivated, often in silence, through sorrow, through the deliberate decision not to become bitter.

In a noisy, combative age, to be gentle is to live prophetically. To forgive when wronged. To stoop when others climb. To weep when others mock. This is not softness—it is the kingdom of God drawing near.

“Be kind and tender-hearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.”

Ephesians 4:32.

Therefore everyone who confesses Me before men, I will also confess him before My Father in heaven.

Matthew 10:32.

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Should We Feel Free to Examine the Religion We Were Taught?

There comes a time in many people’s lives when a quiet, persistent question rises to the surface: Is what I was taught about God, Christ  and truth really true? It can be an uncomfortable question, one we might push aside for years, even decades. Yet when it comes, it often brings with it not just a crisis of faith, but a crisis of identity, belonging, and relationship.

For some, like me, the cost of this questioning has been high. My own journey led to estrangement from family, people I love deeply, but who could not accept my departure from the religious path they still walk. It is a pain that leaves no visible scars but cuts deep all the same. So, the question becomes more than academic: Should we feel free to examine the religion we were taught—even when doing so risks losing everything? This is not about religion. It goes deeper. This is about loyalty to God and Christ which reach far beyond religion; a religion which is in a state of constant updates and flux.

Psychologists describe what’s known as cognitive dissonance—the mental discomfort experienced when holding two conflicting beliefs. For those raised in tightly bound religious communities, beginning to question core doctrines can feel like betrayal, not only of God but of family and self. The inner voice of inquiry is often met with a chorus of guilt, shame, and fear and we remain physically in, but mentally out in order to please others.

What’s more, the fear isn’t always irrational. In many religious contexts, dissent is met not with curiosity but condemnation. The cost isn’t just internal—it’s relational. Parents, siblings and adult children may interpret your doubts as rebellion. Friends may withdraw, go silent. In these moments, the exile is not metaphorical. You feel it in every unanswered message, every family gathering you’re no longer invited to.

Yet psychologically, asking questions is a sign of maturity. It shows that we are taking responsibility for what we believe. Faith inherited is not the same as faith owned. Questioning, in the deepest sense, is not rejection—it is seeking. It says, "I want to know the truth, not just believe it because I was told to."

To question your religion is, in many ways, to face the void. When you remove the scaffolding of inherited belief, what remains? For a time, it may feel like nothing. There’s a disorienting space where answers used to be. But in that space, something sacred can happen—an authentic search.

Existentially, 

 this is where the deepest human questions live: What does it mean to be good? What is the purpose of life? Is there a God—and if so, what is He really like? These questions cannot be silenced forever. Even if the answers are difficult, even if they cost us everything, they are worth pursuing. As Kierkegaard said, “The greatest hazard of all, losing oneself, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.”

Leaving a religion doesn’t just affect you; it reverberates through every relationship formed within that faith. This is especially true in high-control religious groups, where identity and loyalty are fused tightly with doctrinal conformity. To question is to unsettle the equilibrium. To walk away is to disturb the system.

And yet, must we always bear the responsibility for others’ reactions to our honesty? Is it truly love to pretend in order to maintain peace? Jesus himself warned that his message would divide families (Matthew 10:34-36). Sometimes truth drives a wedge not because we wield it like a weapon, but because it reveals who is truly willing to love us unconditionally.

Ultimately, for those of us who still believe in God and Christ, the final authority must be the Bible—not tradition, not religious hierarchy, and not the expectations of others. The Bereans were called “noble” because they examined the Scriptures daily to see if Paul’s teachings were true (Acts 17:11). Jesus rebuked the religious leaders of his day not for lack of faith, but for placing human traditions above God’s word (Mark 7:6-9).

We are commanded to test every spirit (1 John 4:1), to work out our own salvation with fear and trembling (Philippians 2:12), and to be transformed by the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2). These are not passive acts. They require courage, discernment, and above all, honesty.

So, should we feel free to examine the religion we were taught? Not only should we—we must. The freedom to question is not a threat to true faith; it is the soil in which real conviction grows. Yes, the cost can be high. You may lose relationships, social belonging, even the image others held of you. But in return, you gain something that cannot be taken away: a faith that is your own, anchored not in fear or inheritance, but in truth and conscience before God. And why would family, fellow Christians and former friends not rejoice in my action to follow scripture? Why indeed.

And for me, though it has cost dearly, I can say this: the path of integrity, even when lonely, is the only one I can walk. I trust the God who sees the heart and holds every tear. I follow Christ, who never condemned the seeker, but always made space for the honest question.

Some thoughts to ponder on:

John 6, Colossians 2, Matthew 10

Nothing eventful happened on April 2, 1956—except that I was born. My mother passed me on to another family just a few weeks later. So, I was adopted. And so, sometime that April, I found myself in a makeshift cradle, a drawer with four people staring down at me. Two older girls and a middle-aged couple who would become my new family, for reasons I still don’t fully understand.

My new home was a tenement in Govan, overshadowed by the towering shipyards that dominated the skyline. From our third-story window came the sounds of riveters, the pounding of angry hammers, and the erratic sizzle of torches flaring like fireworks as they sculpted metal into majestic vessels. The reasons for my arrival in that household remain a mystery, obscured by time and tangled threads of secrecy.

Govan, in those days, was a claustrophobic maze of crumbling tenements. The buildings leaned close, conspiring to shut out the light, leaving the streets as drab and shadowed as sepia-toned photographs from the Victorian era. In narrow side streets, stray dogs roamed freely while vermin scurried in the darkness, always foraging for scraps. Life there was governed by the harsh economics of survival, a place where razor gangs, loan sharks, and corner pubs shaped the rhythm of daily existence. Ambition struggled to breathe in that stifling atmosphere, and every corner whispered of escape, of a better life elsewhere.

Decades later, during a routine dental visit, I came across Avril Paton’s painting Windows to the West. It struck a deep chord, transporting me back to a winter’s day in my ninth year. Full of youthful curiosity, I had crossed the Clyde with friends, eager to explore Kelvin’s Museum. But as boys do, we wandered off track and into an old, condemned tenement.

Windows In the West by Avril Paton and the story behind one of Glasgow's most iconic paintings - Glasgow Live

Lost in the adventure, we meandered through Glasgow’s West End until dusk crept in, catching us unawares on Saltoun Street—the very one Paton captured in her painting. Though her inspiration came from a blizzard in 1993, her depiction mirrored my own memory. I peered into warmly lit windows and saw families gathering for meals, decorating for Christmas. Two old men, mirror images of each other, dozed beneath their moustaches. The scene stirred something in me—a longing, a recognition of something missing in my own life.

If I could name what was absent in my early years, it was a sense of home—stability, warmth, belonging. Paton’s image of Saltoun Street, transformed by snow, became a metaphor for my own fleeting joys and the elusive permanence I had yearned for since childhood. As the snowflakes in her painting settled, so too did my thoughts, revealing a life woven from threads of adventure, displacement, and an enduring search for a place to truly call home. A weight I have carried all my life.

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Coffee, Music, and a Quiet Admiration

Sometimes, when I sit down with a coffee, I turn on YouTube and listen to one or two pieces of music. It’s a quiet ritual, a kind of modern sobremesa for the soul. One of my favourites is a small Filipino Christian family whose channel I stumbled across by chance. Their music is eclectic—ranging from gospel harmonies to gentle folk tunes to rock presented in warmth and sincerity. You can feel the unity, the love, and the joy of simply making music together.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlIUwQ46AZo

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There is a God-shaped vacuum in the heart of every man which cannot be filled by any created thing, but only by God the Creator made known through Jesus Christ.”
                                                     — Blaise Pascal

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As a Christian, I often encounter challenges from those who demand that I "prove" my beliefs—as if faith could be demonstrated with the same kind of empirical certainty one uses to verify a chemical reaction. Many of these critiques come from a materialistic worldview, one that assumes only what can be measured or observed can be considered real. And I’ll grant this much: I cannot present a proof for my beliefs as though they were an equation on a blackboard. Yet the absence of absolute proof does not equate to the absence of meaningful evidence. Our experience as human beings is never reducible to mere data, and what I find profoundly telling is that some of the most important aspects of existence resist our attempts to fully understand them.

Consider the very basics of reality as we know it. What, at its core, is energy? We might invoke Einstein’s famous equation, E = mc², but this is a relational formula, not a definitive answer to energy’s essence. Even our most brilliant physicists cannot truly say what energy is—only describe its behaviour.

Or take consciousness. Neuroscience can map the activity of a brain, trace its electrical pulses, and explain certain correlations between brain states and behaviour. But consciousness itself—the inward experience, the awareness that you are you—eludes full scientific definition. We cannot extract it, weigh it, or look at it under a microscope. It is the most familiar thing to us as living beings, and yet the most mysterious.

And what about life itself? Even after decades of research into DNA and the building blocks of cells, we cannot explain exactly why a particular collection of chemicals “becomes alive.” The origin of life remains an open question. In fact, the deeper we look into these things, the more we see the vast complexity and interconnectedness of the systems sustaining life, and the less we can say with certainty about their ultimate cause.

This is what drives me to an existential reckoning. Whether one approaches these questions as a Christian or an atheist, one must acknowledge that some mysteries sit at the heart of existence. Energy is, consciousness is, life is. But why? Why do we believe what we believe when our empirical knowledge reaches its limit? Could it be that these mysteries invite us into a deeper understanding of ourselves, one that cannot be satisfied by materialistic assumptions alone?

As a Christian, I believe that God—the Creator—exists outside of space and time. This is not an arbitrary assertion; it is precisely what science suggests when it points to a beginning of time, matter, and energy at the Big Bang. To believe that a personal God initiated this unfolding universe is to embrace a view that speaks to the deep questions that pure materialism cannot answer.

Why do I hold these beliefs? Let me offer a few observations that bear existential weight for me:

1. The transformative power of the Bible. Throughout history, people have had their lives turned around by its teachings. These are not just superficial changes—they often involve profound inner shifts toward compassion, humility, and honesty. That kind of moral renewal is difficult to explain if we are merely the sum of our biology.

2. The evidence of design in nature. Walking the hills of Arran or Rothesay, I notice cairns—those simple, human-placed stones that say, "Someone was here with intention." How much more intricate is DNA, the blueprint of all life? It’s not just complexity; it is specified complexity. That suggests an intelligence at work. Scientists themselves marvel at this and often speak of DNA as “information,” as if some mind had written the code.

3. The enigma of consciousness. Our capacity for thought, beauty, imagination, and conscience cannot be measured, yet these are what most profoundly shape our humanity. Genesis describes humans as bearing the image of God; that resonates with my existential experience of myself as someone who loves, hopes, dreams, and grieves. Could this inner world really have arisen from random processes?

And there’s the moral dimension: we intuitively believe some things are right and some wrong, despite materialism telling us these are mere evolutionary adaptations. But if there is no higher purpose—no personal God behind reality—on what basis can we call anything truly evil or good? Why do we feel responsible for more than our own survival? Even the most ardent materialist cringes at injustice and feels awe at beauty, sensing that life is more than blind mechanism.

Finally, a child is born with the capacity to learn any language. The software is there before the experience arrives. How do we account for this intricate design? Why do we feel a deep desire for meaning and relationship? These existential questions whisper that we are not mere accidents swirling through a purposeless cosmos.

Of course, this is not “proof” in the strictest sense. Proofs belong to mathematics or geometry; they cannot capture the full depth of being. What we can do is acknowledge these mysteries, listen to what they imply about our world, and respond honestly. The Bible paints a picture of human life as loved, intended, and redeemed. It speaks of a future where suffering and evil will be undone, and it invites us to live according to a higher moral and spiritual vision.

When I look at this universe and my own experience as a human being, I find that belief in God, as revealed in Jesus Christ, not only makes sense—it fits the deep contours of my existence. In a world of shifting uncertainties, my belief is not a blind leap into darkness, but a measured response to the light I see shining through these existential mysteries.

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"The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound,

but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.

So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”

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There is a deep, trembling need in every human soul that cannot be satisfied by mere creeds, policies, or someone else’s definition of righteousness. Beneath all our questions, beneath all the struggle and weariness, lies a profound ache, a sense that we were made for something more real, more personal, more eternal. This is where I found myself some years ago. 

If you have left a high-controlled religion, or if you are searching for truth, you already know this ache. You’ve felt the pull of something truer than what you were told. Perhaps you felt imprisoned — not by a lack of devotion, but by the weight of a system that left little room for your soul to breathe as you were whirling like a Dervish trying to find something central to life.

And here is the beautiful, liberating reality: Jesus, whom God appointed as judge, looks directly at your heart. Not at the labels pinned on you. Not at whether you can recite doctrines or impress other people.

Consider Cornelius, a Roman centurion in Acts 10. A soldier. A Gentile. Every religious insider of the day would have thought, He cannot possibly belong to God. Yet what moved God was not Cornelius’ pedigree, but his sincerity, his reverence, his goodness, his quiet prayers.

And God broke into his life with a radiant message:

“Your prayers and your acts of compassion have come up as a memorial offering before God.”

That was enough. Cornelius was already seen. Known. Loved.

Peter himself had to let go of inherited assumptions and marvel, “God has shown me that I should not call anyone impure or unclean.” Here was a man who had nothing but sincerity and a heart willing to receive — and that was more than enough.

That’s the wonder of Jesus. He meets you where your humanity is most tender,  in your hunger for authenticity, in your longing for something enduring in a world of shifting sands. Jesus calls Himself “the way, the truth, and the life,” knowing full well that all our questions and searching originate in the soul’s ache for the one unchanging centre.

When you strip away the noise, the fear of men, the need to fit into someone else’s expectations, what remains is a simple desire to be truly seen. To matter. To touch the eternal.

And that is exactly what Jesus promises:

“Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.” — John 6:37

He looks into the soul’s hidden places, the wounds, the fears, the unspoken longings, and welcomes you as you are, calling you into deeper life.

That is the radical heart of the gospel. Jesus is not demanding that you submit to a human structure that makes you feel uncomfortable and robs you of freedom of conscience. He is drawing you into friendship with God and Himself — into a life that transcends all the brittle rules of men.

And what happens when you embrace that? You begin to taste what John called “the light of life” — an unquenchable light that shines into every dark corner of your soul and reminds you that you were never truly alone.

That light says to you:

Your honesty matters more than perfection.
Your trust matters more than having all the answers.
Your desire to do good and just in this world matters.
And your aching questions — all those trembling whys and what-ifs — matter too, because they mean you care.

When you step away from control, you step toward authenticity, toward a life grounded in your own soul’s experience of Christ. Many who have walked this path describe a dizzying sense of freedom. Don't get me wrong, I also have an ache to be with devoted Christians, but alas, I have searched.

Meantime, I pray without fear. Read scripture as if hearing a personal letter written just for God. And discover Jesus and God present in quiet, honest places, around the dinner table, under the stars, in whispered hopes and tears. In fellow Christians I meet in life's pathways. Because Christ sends people, writers, apologists my way with specific words that direct and fill my needs.

That is what it means to live by the Spirit, alive to the voice of Christ calling your name.

So take heart. Wherever you are on your journey, whoever you are, Jesus already sees you, not through a lens of suspicion or legalism, but with deep, tender compassion.

You needn’t strive to earn what was given freely, nor hide the most fragile, honest parts of yourself, nor chase some polished image of religious acceptability. You were made for more. You were made for Him. And when you lean into that deep, soul-level hunger,  that quiet pull toward what is real and good, you will find Him already leaning toward you in return. And he will lead you to where you should go in life.  That is salvation. That is belonging. That is Christ, to the glory of the Father. 

“The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
— John 3:8 (ESV)

“Scripture quotations are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version (ESV), copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.”

Updates : Where the Small Names Sleep | learn1

“Those places most densely inhabited, by the poorest of the people, have suffered most severely. The epidemic, having once got into a densely crowded land or close, never ceased until it had visited every house, and in many of the houses every inmate.”

—Doctor Robert Perry

Happiness and the Soul of a Nation

It was clear: people sense something deeper happening. Unhappiness  mirrors a broader shift in our culture, a friction between freedom without restraint and the inner peace that moral boundaries bring.

I don’t speak as a psychologist or sociologist. I speak as someone who has lingered long enough in life’s rhythms to see how unchecked habits grow into unchecked hearts. And one of the foundations we’ve steadily eroded is the moral and spiritual infrastructure once upheld by faith communities.

Centuries ago, churches weren’t merely buildings, they were pillars of conscience, spaces where communities formed around shared purpose. The Bible was not just a text; it was a guide, a teacher, an anchor. Through its words, people learned accountability, humility, the weight of choices. There was comfort in tradition, in confession, in communal reflection.

As society shifted toward a more “enlightened” individualism, we began trading external anchors for internal certainty. But that trade came with a cost. In the pursuit of autonomy and self-expression, we’ve seen a rise in loneliness, anxiety, and moral drift. It’s not that people today are unfeeling—they’re unmoored.

Yet in the lives of practicing Christians, I still see something different. I see steadiness, moral clarity, and quiet joy. And research backs up this lived experience:

• A comprehensive review of 224 studies found that in 78% of cases, religious participation was associated with higher life satisfaction, happiness, or morale (pewresearch.org).

These aren’t perfect statistics—there are always exceptions—but they suggest a strong correlation: intentional faith and community often bring gratitude, purpose, and resilience.

That inner joy, that rootedness—it makes life richer.  When families gather to pray or read Scripture, they practice gratitude and accountability. And when communities worship together, they weave bonds that protect against isolation.

So here’s my invitation to you, gently offered:

Set time aside today in a moment of quiet. Open one of the Gospels—or the Book of Acts. Read not as a critic, but as a seeker. Let the stories and letters wash over you. If your heart is open, you may encounter something profound—not in words alone, but in a presence that speaks beyond explanation. You’ll know it. And that knowing may be the anchor our collective life is quietly thirsting for.

God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him,

though He is not far from each one of us.

Acts 17:27 (BSB).

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The Tantrum That Grows Up

 "There’s a profound difference between expressing honest feeling and using feeling as leverage."

We’ve all seen it. A child in a supermarket throws a fit—shouting, stamping, maybe even collapsing to the floor. This is not a baby. This is a child who is old enough to begin to realise that life has limits. They want a toy or some sweets, and they’re not taking no for an answer. Nearby, a parent looks weary or flustered as he sits on the centre of the supermarket isle, refusing to budge. Unsure how best to respond. We glance over, perhaps with sympathy, perhaps with relief it’s not our child, and we carry on.

What we don’t often think about is this: that child will grow up.

Tantrums are part of childhood. Every child tests limits. Most parents do their best in the moment, often in public, while juggling fatigue, pressure, and a host of other responsibilities. But if certain patterns—especially ones that revolve around getting one’s way through emotional pressure—are never gently addressed, they don’t always disappear. Sometimes they simply shift form.

As children mature, they learn to adapt. If early on they discover that raising their voice, making a scene, or pulling at emotions brings results, they may carry those lessons forward—though often in subtler ways. A teenage version of the tantrum might look like guilt-tripping a sibling. An adult version might involve emotional manipulation, passive-aggressive behaviour, or even playing one person off another. The core dynamic—struggling with limits—can persist.

Psychologists have long observed that children need boundaries to thrive. Boundaries are not about control, but about safety, love, and preparing for real life. Sociologist Erving Goffman once said that life is like a stage—we learn how to behave by watching others. And when certain behaviours bring rewards, we tend to repeat them.

We sometimes see the echoes of unlearned boundaries later in life. A grown-up child who constantly asks for money. Another who creates conflict when they feel overlooked. On social media, in workplaces, even within families, we see emotional pressure used to influence outcomes. What began as a frustrated outburst in aisle three becomes a pattern for navigating adulthood.

The Bible, which speaks deeply to human behaviour, offers a wise reminder: that children left without guidance may bring distress, not only to others but to themselves. And that growing up means putting aside childish ways—not emotions themselves, but the misuse of them. There’s a profound difference between expressing honest feeling and using feeling as leverage.

Of course, not every tantrum is a sign of trouble. Children are learning. And many outbursts pass quickly with love, reassurance, and time. But if we shy away from saying no, or avoid teaching how to handle disappointment, we risk raising adults who find it hard to hear “no” too. And life, inevitably, brings its share of no’s.

Discipline, in its truest sense, is not about punishment. It’s about teaching. Helping a child understand their place in the world, consider others, and learn how to respond when things don’t go their way. That’s how they grow into resilient, gracious adults.

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

A Moment of Émerveillement on the Road to Braemar

The road from Blairgowrie to Braemar climbs gently into the mountains, winding through a landscape that feels both vast and intimate. As we drove, the world opened up around us. A wide, breathless beauty that invited  us to stop.

At a viewpoint along the way, my wife and I stepped out into stillness. Before us stretched rolling hills and distant valleys, cloaked in that soft, shifting Scottish light; a kind of quiet majesty that words struggle to hold. We stood there for a while, not needing to speak, only breathing in the silence and letting the moment settle around us.

Then, as if drawn by the same pull of wonder, a French family from Martinique stood beside us. Conversation came easily, warm and light, bridging our worlds. And in that shared pause —, strangers beneath the same sky. We found a kind of kinship.

It was just a few minutes, yet something in it lingered: the wonder of the land, the grace of encounter, the feeling that beauty, when shared, binds us more than words ever could.

As I drove away, I felt like Mary Wollstonecraft who once spoke of parting with newfound friends as a “melancholy, death‑like idea – a sort of separation of soul; for all the regret which follows those from whom fate separates us, seems to be something torn from ourselves.”

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

From the ash-covered ruins of Pompeii, from a wall painted nearly two thousand years ago, the faces of a man and a woman meet ours with startling directness. The fresco is modest in size, unpretentious in its technique, and yet it holds a rare power—an invitation to peer not only into history, but into the private minds of two long-dead souls.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_Terentius_Neo#/media/File:Pompeii-couple.jpg

The man, believed to be Terentius Neo, was a baker. His face is broad, his beard carefully trimmed, his expression solemn but not cold. He wears a white toga, a scroll clasped in one hand—a symbol perhaps of civic duty or aspiration. Beside him, his wife holds a stylus to her lips and a wax tablet in her other hand. Her gaze is composed, intelligent, unwavering. Together, they project something we seldom associate with ancient portraits: presence.

What were they thinking?

It’s easy to see their faces as just another artifact—catalogued, explained, admired in passing. But if we slow down and really look, we might begin to wonder: were they anxious? Hopeful? Tired from running a household or keeping a business alive in a Roman world that rewarded status and punished missteps? Were they thinking of the artist at work, or of the guests who might see the finished image? Were they proud? In love? Bored?

Her eyes—especially hers—seem to hold questions.

There is an intensity to her that cannot be ignored. She is not an ornament to her husband’s success. Her expression suggests literacy, yes—but also self-possession. The stylus is poised at her lips, as if she were about to speak, or perhaps hesitating to. Does she wonder if the world beyond their walls will ever see her for who she is? Does she know how rare it is to be captured as an equal?

His face is more guarded. Perhaps he is aware of the expectations on a man in his position—a baker, a provider, maybe even a local official. His gaze is firm but not boastful. There is no arrogance in him. Perhaps a hint of fatigue. Of responsibility. He seems to be saying: this is who I am, and I stand by it.

Together, they share a certain stillness. A dignity that outlives them.

What they thought as they posed may never be known, but what we project into their faces tells us something about ourselves. We look at them and imagine a marriage, a shared table, disputes about bills or family, hopes for their children. We imagine them moving through life with the same blend of wonder and weight that we do. And in doing so, they cease to be “figures from the past.” They become fellow travellers.

Perhaps that is the deeper lesson of the fresco. Not just that time is fragile or that death is certain—we know that—but that even in an age of emperors, it is the faces of ordinary people that endure. Not mythic heroes, not sculpted gods, but a baker and a woman whose name we don’t know.

And isn’t that what it means to be human? To be seen. To wonder if anyone will remember us. To live lives that seem small until someone looks closely, deeply, and says: these people mattered.

Terentius and his wife may not have known what Vesuvius would bring. But they gave us a gift. Not in their wealth or status, but in their gaze—a mirror through which we can glimpse the quiet nobility of simply being alive.