Personal Blogs

Going Home

I woke yesterday morning as though I had never quite returned from sleep. Not rested, not renewed—just carried over, like a body moving out of habit rather than will. Cancer has a way of doing that. It does not always shout; sometimes it dulls, softens the edges of being until you feel less like a person and more like a shadow rehearsing the motions of one.

I walked for half an hour, thinking movement might call me back into myself. But even then, there was that strange distance—as though I were watching someone else walk ahead of me, someone I was meant to recognise. The world was there, but I was not fully in it. There are days like that, when energy is not the problem so much as presence.

Later, I sat and read Rip Van Winkle, a story I had been meaning to return to. You probably know it—Rip, careless and drifting, falls in with the wrong company, drinks too much, and sleeps through decades. When he wakes, he assumes it is the same day. But nothing answers to him anymore. Faces are unfamiliar. Home does not receive him as it once did. It is not just time that has passed—it is belonging that has slipped away.

It struck me, perhaps more than it should have, that the story is not really about sleep, but about identity. About how quietly it can dissolve when the threads that hold it—place, people, memory—are loosened. Rip does not just lose years; he loses the context that made him himself.

By the afternoon, still heavy with that same inward fog, I put on Runrig’s Final Concert at Stirling Castle, namely, The Last Dance. There is something about Runrig that reaches into places words alone cannot. As the first part closed with “Going Home,” a flock of geese passed overhead on the screen—winging their way somewhere certain. It felt almost too deliberate, too symbolic to ignore. The instinct of return, written into them. No hesitation. No doubt.

I found myself envying the songwriters. For them, home seems anchored—Skye, the Hebrides, a landscape that holds memory in its bones. Even when they leave, they are still oriented toward something. There is a direction to their longing.

I noticed a woman near the front of the crowd—a German lady perhaps. Her face held something close to tears. I wondered where home was for her. Or if, perhaps, she was feeling that peculiar ache—the Germans call it Ferwweh—a longing not for where you’ve been, but for somewhere you have never known, yet somehow miss all the same. Runrig has a way of awakening that. A kind of homesickness without a map.

I was adopted as a child. My new family moved often. Places came and went before they could settle into anything solid. I attended four primary schools before high school. And so, like Rip stepping back into a world that no longer fits, I sometimes feel that “home” is not something I can return to, only something I circle around. Recognisable, but never quite mine.

Perhaps that is what it means, in an existential sense, to be homeless—not without shelter, but without a fixed centre. To live with the quiet question: where do I belong, when belonging itself has no stable ground?

And yet, even in that, there is something shared. A recognition that many of us are, in our own ways, wandering between versions of home—remembered, imagined, or hoped for. I’m sure the longing itself is a kind of home. Not solid, not certain, but real enough to feel. Ò, cho mealltach.

Going Home by Runrig: Going Home

Image by Copilot

We cannot control every influence that touches our children.

But we can shape the fire they sit beside.

Against the Drift: How Parents Can Reclaim Their Children

In my January 11 post of this year, I spoke of something simple, almost old-fashioned: families reading or listening together. I mentioned Rob Parsons’ book A Knock at the Door as something worth gathering around—whether read aloud or listened to in the quiet companionship of an audiobook. I suggested, too, the creation of that gentle, Danish sense of hygge—warmth, nearness, shared stillness.

But what I had in mind was deeper than atmosphere.

There is, if we are honest, a slow drift taking place. Not dramatic, not always visible, but steady. Children absorb more than we realise—through media, through conversation, through the subtle shaping of what is normal. Spend a little time listening—not instructing, just observing—and you begin to notice it. The tone of speech has sharpened. There is more impatience, more edge, more casual harshness than there once was. Fifty years ago, the language of the home, though far from perfect, often carried more restraint, more gentleness. Something has shifted.

And children, almost without knowing it, are carried along by that current.

This is why what we place before them matters so deeply. Stories are not neutral. Words shape the inner world. Books that cultivate empathy, fellow feeling, quiet courage, and spiritual awareness act almost like a counterweight. They steady the heart. They soften what the world hardens. That is why I occasionally draw attention to recommendations—not as a pastime, but as a quiet form of resistance.

There is something almost unbearable in the opening lines of George Müller’s life story. Not because it is outwardly dramatic, but because it is so quietly destructive. A boy, entrusted with opportunity—with education, with provision beyond his years—turns inward instead of upward. And in doing so, he wounds the very heart that sought his good.

He himself later wrote, with disarming honesty, that he had been “a thief, a liar, and a deceiver.” Not once, but repeatedly. That word matters. This was not a single lapse, but a forming of habit. Small acts, perhaps, but together they shaped a direction. One can picture the moment his father discovered the hidden money—counting coins, testing suspicions, finding what had been concealed. It is a simple domestic scene, yet heavy with sorrow. A trust broken quietly, but deeply.

And the deeper sadness lay not only in the boy, but in the atmosphere around him. Religion, in that household, became a means of advancement rather than transformation and bared lightly on what Godly devotion was. So, Müller would later reflect that he was being prepared for the ministry “for the sake of a good living,” not for the sake of God. And so, the outward structure was there, but the inward life was not.

Without that inward turning, everything else sharpened the wrong edge. He studied, yes, but he also drifted. He read what dulled his conscience, formed habits that deepened his carelessness, and moved further into a kind of moral numbness.

Perhaps the most piercing moment comes with the death of his mother. While she lay dying, he was unaware—absorbed in cards late into the night. And even after her passing, there was no awakening, no immediate grief, only further wandering. It is difficult to read without a kind of quiet ache. Not simply because he sinned, but because he did not feel.

And that, in many ways, is the greater danger for our own time.

Not always open rebellion—but numbness. A dulling of the inner life. A loss of tenderness.

And yet—this is not where his story ends.

What makes Müller’s life so compelling is not the darkness of its beginning, but the depth of its change. The boy who stole and deceived became a man marked by integrity, compassion, and an extraordinary dependence on God. In his later work with orphans, he refused to ask for financial support, choosing instead to trust entirely in prayer. The life that once took became a life that gave.

He would later say that the great turning point came when his heart was truly affected—when he began to read Scripture not as a duty, but as a living word. “I saw that the most important thing I had to do,” he wrote, “was to give myself to the reading of the Word of God and to meditation on it.” Something softened. Something awakened.

He did not simply improve. He was changed.

And this is where the quiet encouragement lies for us, especially within the life of the family.

If a child can drift, he can also be drawn back. If a heart can grow dull, it can also be made tender again. But this does not happen by accident. It happens through what we place before them, what we model, what we make space for.

To gather a family around a book, or an audiobook, may seem like a small act. But it is not small. It is formative. It is, in its own way, a gentle reclaiming of ground that would otherwise be lost. It creates not only warmth, but attention. Not only closeness, but shared reflection.

And perhaps more than anything, it reintroduces a different tone—a language of patience, of compassion, of inwardness—that slowly reshapes the atmosphere of the home.

We cannot control every influence that touches our children. But we can shape the fire they sit beside.

And sometimes, in that quiet circle—listening together, thinking together, feeling together—the drift begins, almost imperceptibly, to reverse.

The Autobiography of George Muller

Autobiography of George Muller by George Müller | Goodreads

“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)

The Freedom of Being Truly Seen

There is a trembling need in every human soul that no creed, policy, or borrowed certainty can satisfy. Beneath all our questions and weariness lies an ache for something real, personal, eternal, something like the wind, unseen yet unmistakably felt. I found myself in that place some years ago, standing in the quiet where the soul finally admits its hunger.

If you’ve left a high‑controlled religion, or if you’re searching for truth with empty hands, you already know this ache. You’ve felt the pull of something truer than the system you were given. Perhaps you felt imprisoned,  not because you lacked devotion, but because the structure around you left no room for your soul to breathe. You spun and strained, trying to find a centre that didn’t collapse beneath you.

And here is the liberating wonder: Jesus, the One appointed as judge, looks not at your labels or your pedigree or your ability to impress others. He looks at your heart; the place where the Spirit’s wind stirs.

Cornelius in Acts 10 is a witness to this. A Roman centurion, a Gentile, a man every religious insider would have dismissed. Yet God saw him. his sincerity, his reverence, his quiet goodness. Into his ordinary life came 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 known. Already loved. Even Peter had to let his assumptions fall away as he realised, “God has shown me that I should not call anyone impure or unclean.” Cornelius had no credentials except a willing heart — and that was more than enough for God.

This is the way of Jesus. He meets you where your humanity is most tender, in your longing for authenticity, in your hunger for something enduring in a world of shifting sands. When He calls Himself “the way, the truth, and the life,” He is speaking to that deep ache for a centre that does not move.

Strip away the noise, the fear of men, the pressure to conform, and what remains is a simple desire: to be seen, to matter, to touch the eternal. And Jesus answers that desire with a promise: “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away.” He looks into the hidden places — the wounds, the fears, the unspoken longings — and welcomes you as you are. Not into a system that suffocates conscience, but into a friendship that frees it. Into a life that transcends the brittle rules of men.

When you embrace that invitation, you begin to taste what John called “the light of life,” a light that reaches into every dark corner and whispers that you were never alone. That light tells you that your honesty matters more than perfection, your trust more than having all the answers, your desire to do good more than your ability to perform. Even your aching questions matter, because they reveal a heart still alive.

Stepping away from control is not stepping away from Christ. It is stepping toward Him — toward a life grounded in your own lived experience of His presence. Many who walk this path describe a dizzying freedom. I know the ache for devoted Christian community; I’ve searched for it too. But in the meantime, I pray without fear. I read Scripture as if receiving a personal letter. I find Jesus in quiet, ordinary places — around the dinner table, under the stars, in whispered hopes and tears. And in the Christians I meet along the way, the ones Christ sends with words that meet my need at just the right moment.

This is what it means to live by the Spirit, to let the wind move you, even when you cannot trace its origin or predict its path. So take heart. Wherever you are on your journey, whoever you are, Jesus already sees you — not through suspicion or legalism, but with deep, tender compassion. You do not need to earn what was freely given. You do not need to hide the fragile parts of your soul. You do not need to chase a 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, already guiding you, already breathing life into your steps. That is salvation. That is belonging. That is the wind of the Spirit, carrying you where you need to go.

“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.”

The Lewis Chessmen: British Museum

Marching Mystery

It is April 2026, and once again I find myself wandering the busy halls of the British Museum. I have been here many times over the years, yet something draws me back, as though there are things still waiting to be understood.

I stand before these small, carved figures—these sorrowful little characters—and linger longer than I intended. There is something in them that resists a passing glance. The queens sit with their heads in their hands, burdened in a way that feels strangely familiar. The kings sit upright, rigid, almost defiant, their swords held close, as if readiness itself were a kind of comfort. Around them, warriors remain poised for action, caught forever in a moment before movement.

The Scottish songwriter Dougie McLean once wrote a song titled Marching Mystery. It feels like the right name for these figures. They were discovered in 1831 on the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland—found, it is said, in a sandbank at Uig, as though they had come ashore from another world. One can almost imagine them rising from the sea, silent witnesses to centuries long forgotten. How they came to rest there remains unknown, and perhaps it is better that way. Some things seem to lose their meaning when fully explained.

They are carved from walrus ivory and whale teeth, materials that speak of colder places—the Arctic, the long northern waters. Experts suggest Scandinavia, perhaps Trondheim in Norway, as their origin. And yet, wherever they began, they have ended here, behind glass, far from the hands that shaped them.

What holds me is not their history, but their faces.

Each one is different. Some seem anxious, others stern, and a few carry something close to humour. There is a humanity in them that feels too deliberate to ignore. It makes me wonder whether these were ever simply game pieces at all, or whether they were always meant to say something more. Somewhere between craft and storytelling, the line begins to blur.

I find myself returning to the queens. Their hands press against their heads—not in thought alone, but in something heavier. Grief, perhaps. Or a quiet resignation. I wonder what the craftsman had seen, or known, to shape them this way. Was he remembering something? Or someone?

Grief has a way of echoing across centuries, finding its own reflections in unexpected places. It leads me, unexpectedly, to a memory that has never quite left me.

It's 1973 and there is an image making front page. Phan Thi Kim Phuc—a young girl, no older than nine, running along a road near Trảng Bàng in Vietnam. Her village had just been struck by napalm. She had torn away her burning clothes as she fled. I remember seeing this image in 1973, when I was seventeen. I remember the shock of it, the helplessness. I remember feeling like crying.

And I find that I am no different now.

I think of her parents—of the weight they must have carried, the kind of grief that has no language. I imagine them, at times, holding their heads in their hands, just as these carved queens do. Across time, across cultures, the gesture is the same. It seems to belong to us all.

War leaves behind many things—ruins, stories, names—but also something quieter, something that settles deep within the human heart. A shared sorrow, passed from one generation to the next.

And so I stand here, looking at these figures, aware of the movement around me—people passing, pausing briefly, then moving on. Most do not linger. Most do not see what I think I see.

But I cannot look away so easily.

Because in these small, silent faces, I do not just see history. I see something enduring. Something unresolved. A reflection, perhaps, of ourselves.

And the mystery remains, not of where they came from, but of who we are.

Note

Photo reproduced for non- commercial use: Visitor guidelines and conditions of entry | British Museum

Stepping Out of Plato's Cave

It happens like this, a video pops up — Intolerance, political drama, social injustice, indoctrination or whatever. It's all there like the Woolworth's pick 'n' mix counter, inviting you to taste. You succumb. Minutes later,  feeling that sense of outrage. Then another video appears. And another. Hours pass, and you’re still there, eyes fixed, brain buzzing like a bees hive with righteous indignation, unable to pull away from this hobbit cave.

You finally switch off, but your mind doesn’t. The anger and fear linger, replaying in your thoughts like a bad song on repeat. Sleep becomes difficult. Even in the morning, the heaviness hasn’t lifted. You feel more irritable but don't know why. 

Emotional contagion the psychologists call it. When we constantly consume content designed to provoke outrage, the brain’s stress systems fire repeatedly like a faulty engine. Cortisol, the stress hormone, stays elevated. Our nervous system is on high alert as if the danger is in the room with us. Over time, this erodes mood, memory, and even physical health. The same happens with soap operas or high-tension dramas. They may not be political, but they keep the mind braced on fight or flight mode.

The truth is, we were not meant to live in this  constant state of agitation. We need periods of calm, of forest bathing, of relaxation for our thoughts to settle and our emotions to reset. But outrage-driven media hijacks the brain’s reward system, giving us little hits of dopamine every time we click for the next shocking reveal. It’s a loop that leaves us exhausted yet craving more. We are addicted.

But there are other implications. I was reading up on the philosophy of Plato's Cave; it's one of the big players in philosophy courses. Plato warned us about this side of our nature long before the age of social media.

In his allegory of the cave, prisoners are chained underground, forced to watch shadows flicker on a wall. They believe these shadows are reality because it’s all they’ve ever seen. Today, we sit in a different kind of cave. The assumed reality  isn’t from firelight but from out computer screens. The shadows are videos curated by algorithms, designed to feed us only what will keep us watching.

Like Plato’s prisoners, we can mistake this narrow stream of images for the whole of reality. We get a distorted view of what is truth; it's like being in the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. We come to believe the distorted reality that the Mad Hatter and the March Hare are trapped in six-o'clock. And, like the prisoners who resist leaving the cave, part of us fears stepping away. After all, what if the world outside feels less thrilling, loveless, worrying?

But freedom comes when we use our critical thinking and turn away from the shadows and walk toward the light, when we choose real conversations over virtual, reflection over theatrical presentations . The sunlit world, a walk in nature, a conversation with a stranger may not give us the same jolt of adrenaline, but it gives something better. Besides, it reduces those cortisone levels that have us on hyper alert 

The most radical thing you can do is close the laptop, step outside, and remember that the world is more than the shadows dancing on your screen.

"Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think on these things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me, put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you." Philippians 4:8 BSB.

Don’t Do That, It Hurts

One lesson I learned earlier in life is that you cannot contend with a proud person.

Pride is strangely resistant—it doesn’t bend when confronted; it hardens. When someone is set on protecting their own image, which is the bottom line with pride, even obvious truth can feel like an attack. So instead of yielding, they defend, deflect, or deny. Trying to “win” against that kind of posture only deepens the divide and will make you feel low with a sense of injustice.

And then there’s the proud person who comes back and apologises every time they damage the equilibrium, only to do it all over again—never changing. On the other hand, there’s the type who rallies others who have some gripe against you and, in an “honour among thieves” kind of way, find evidence that they are right.

What you begin to realise—often after frustration—is this: you can’t force humility into someone else. It has to grow from within them, often through their own experiences, not through being corrected.

“When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom.” (Proverbs 11:2)

That verse carries a quiet weight. Pride leads to disgrace—not always immediately, but eventually. Proud people eventually lose out in many aspects of life. But more importantly, the Bible says that God distances Himself from the proud and draws close to the humble. Humility—that’s where wisdom lives. Not loud, not defensive—just steady and open.

There is also a kind of peace in stepping back from the need to prove someone wrong. It doesn’t mean pretending they’re right. It means choosing not to wrestle with something that won’t yield.

It drains you to keep pressing into someone who will not listen. It slowly pulls at your peace. And if you’re not careful, it can begin to change you—making you defensive, frustrated, drawn into the same spirit. It may mean that eventually you have to step away and change those you associate with. This may involve life-changing decisions—a boyfriend, a girlfriend, a family member, or others. Otherwise, what’s the alternative?

Scripture gives both patience and a boundary:

“Warn a divisive person once, and then warn them a second time. After that, have nothing to do with them.” (Titus 3:10)

There is space to try—but not endlessly, otherwise we get wound up by their arrogance. I’ve known people who have never said, “I was wrong.”

This is not always simple. The person may be a workmate, a family member—someone you cannot avoid. But even then, you can withdraw in how you engage. You can step back before you find yourself becoming like them, as Scripture warns.

That distance gives space—for you to keep your peace, and for them, perhaps, to reflect.

But don’t despair if they don’t change. Some never do.

Your path is still clear.

You can walk in wisdom. You can protect your heart from unnecessary harm. You can let truth stand without forcing it.

And sometimes, the wiser choice is not to win—but to step back, and remain whole, unhurt.

It was not an enemy who taunted me—then I could have borne it

I was you, my companion, my familiar friend.”

 Psalm 55:12

There is a particular kind of disappointment that does not arrive loudly. You begin to notice small fractures—words that don’t quite align, silences that feel deliberate, a subtle shifting of tone when you are absent. And then, with a kind of weary clarity, you understand: something has been happening behind your back.

What makes it most disturbing is not simply the betrayal itself, but the strange normality with which it is carried out. There is no sense, among those involved, that anything is amiss. Their behavior is reinforced by the presence of others doing the same—echoing, affirming, multiplying the harm until it becomes almost invisible within the group. In such an environment, deceit is not an exception; it is a shared language.

The German word hinterhältig captures this with unsettling precision. It speaks of a hidden malice, a quiet treachery that operates beneath the surface of politeness. It is not loud or dramatic. It smiles, it nods, it participates—and all the while, it undermines. There is something especially corrosive about this form of behavior because it depends on disguise. It borrows the appearance of goodwill while hollowing it out from within.

And so, you withdraw.

Not out of arrogance, as they may suppose. Not out of coldness, or pride. But out of necessity. There is a point at which remaining present becomes a form of self-betrayal. To stay, fully exposed to such quiet harm, is to allow something essential within you to be worn down. Withdrawal, then, becomes an act of preservation—a careful reclaiming of your own interior ground.

Yet this, too, is misunderstood.

Your distance unsettles them. It disrupts the unspoken agreement that everyone will continue as before, participating in the same patterns without question. And so, what was once subtle often sharpens. Pride begins to stir—how dare you step away? Anger follows close behind—who do you think you are to refuse what others accept? The behavior, once hidden, can take on a more deliberate edge.

But beneath this escalation, there is something else—something quieter, and far more tragic.

For those who live in such a way, who normalize deception and quietly injure those around them, do not escape unscathed. There is a gradual hollowing that takes place. A loss of depth. A thinning of the soul’s capacity for joy. It is not always visible at first, but over time it becomes unmistakable. Relationships lose their substance. Moments lose their meaning. Life itself begins to feel strangely empty, as though something vital has slipped away unnoticed.

And so you stand at a distance.

Not in triumph, and not in bitterness, but in a kind of sober clarity. You watch—not with a desire for their downfall, but with an understanding of its inevitability if nothing changes. There is a slow disintegration that follows such patterns, as steady and unremarkable as erosion. No single moment marks it. But over time, what once seemed whole begins to come apart.

There is a grief in this. A quiet mourning, not only for what was done, but for what might have been—had honesty taken root where deception was allowed to grow.

And yet, there is also a measure of peace.

Because in choosing distance, you have chosen not to become what you have seen. You have refused the quiet corruption that presents itself as normal. You have stepped away, not only from others, but from a way of being that would have cost you something far greater than their approval.

In the end, that is not withdrawal.

It is a form of keeping your soul intact.

Teipinophresene: The Quiet Strength Within Marriage

Someone once asked me who was newly married if there was a single piece of advice that could help hold a marriage together and strenghen it. 

I remember pausing, not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. All the little lessons life presses into you over time rarely come as neat answers. But one word kept rising to the surface, quiet and steady.

Teipinophresene.

The person had Greek roots, so I offered it gently, knowing it might feel familiar even before it was understood.

Teipinophresene—ταπεινοφροσύνη—is a rich and beautiful word. It means humility of mind, a kind of lowliness of heart, though not in any way that diminishes a person. It is not about shrinking oneself or thinking poorly of who you are. It is something far more balanced, far more honest.

It is seeing yourself truthfully—neither inflated nor diminished.
It is letting go of the restless need to be right, to be seen, to stand above.
It is becoming gentle, teachable, and quietly mindful of the other.

In marriage, this becomes something living.

Not an idea, but a daily posture.

It shows itself in the small things—the tone you choose when you are tired, the way you listen when you feel misunderstood, the willingness to step back when every instinct tells you to press forward and defend yourself.

There is a moment, in nearly every disagreement, where pride waits just beneath the surface. Teipinophresene is the quiet decision to leave it there.

The word appears in the New Testament, in places like Philippians 2:3 and Colossians 3:12, where it describes the spirit we are called to carry. And it is seen most clearly in Jesus Christ—not as weakness, but as a quiet strength that never needed to prove itself.

That is what surprised me most when I first came to understand it.

This humility is not fragile. It is not uncertain. It does not come from insecurity, but from a deeper knowing—a groundedness before God that frees a person from the need to elevate themselves above another.

A simple way to hold it in your mind is this:

Strength without arrogance.
Confidence without self-glory.
A heart willing to bow, not because it is lesser, but because it knows what truly matters.

And if there is one place where such a spirit matters most, it is in the closeness of marriage, where two lives meet without distance or disguise.

I told them, as simply as I could: if you can learn this—imperfectly, patiently, over time—you will have something that steadies everything else.

Goodness, if the whole world practiced Teipinophresene, it would indeed be a gentler place.

But the world is large and difficult. A marriage is smaller. Closer. And perhaps that is where such things are meant to begin.

Not all at once.
Not perfectly.
But in the quiet choosing, again and again.

Don’t let selfishness and prideful agendas take over.

 Embrace true humility, and lift your heads to extend love to others.

Phillipians 2:3

The Voice Bible

Scripture taken from The Voice™. Copyright © 2012 by Ecclesia Bible Society. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

The Quiet Reward of Reading

I must have been eight when the janitor at St Anthony's in Govan brought in a big box of brand new books. The teacher handed us all a copy and I sat and got lost in the pages of mine. Many of the pupils got bored with theirs and asked for a change. "Look at McCrory" the teacher said, "He is enjoying his." The truth is, it was boring, but I got on with it and persevered. And if the truth were told, it was the only compliment I ever got from a teacher.

In Selma Lagerlöf's The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a profound yet straightforward insight is introduced: “The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” This notion implies that the mind, unlike any physical space, expands with its contents. It grows ever vaster with each new thought, idea, or dream. Reflecting on this concept, I recognize its resonance in my experiences, especially in my interactions with others—both enriching encounters with individuals who read and think deeply.

My journey through life has often meandered along paths lined with books, through landscapes rich with paragraphs and ripe with rhetoric. Along these paths, I have met kindred spirits—people whose minds, like mine, seem to thrive on the endless nourishment of words and ideas. There is a palpable depth in conversations with these individuals, a shared understanding that reaches beyond the spoken word, facilitated by our mutual expeditions through literature.

This literary journey does more than just broaden our knowledge; it enhances our capacity for empathy. Like the trees I observe from my window in winter—prepared and eager for the abundance of spring—our minds, fertilized by myriad narratives and perspectives, grow branches and forge connections. Each book, each story, adds a layer of understanding, enabling us to relate more profoundly to others' feelings and experiences.

Moreover, empathy—a quality deeply tied to our ability to understand and share the feelings of another—seems enhanced by reading. Literature serves as a rehearsal space for empathy, inviting us into the minds and lives of others, promoting understanding across boundaries of time, culture, and circumstance. Without this engagement, my capacity to empathize would be stunted.

Reflecting on Lagerlof's wisdom, the more we fill our minds with thoughts, ideas, and emotions, the more expansive they become—not crowded, but enriched and deepened. Those who abstain from reading deny themselves not just the knowledge and entertainment books hold but also the chance to expand their cognitive and emotional capacities.

As I continue to navigate a world populated with both types of individuals—those open to the endless possibilities of thought and those closed off—I strive to advocate for the value of reading. Not just as a source of information, but as a vital exercise in building bridges between minds. My hope is that more people will discover the joy and value of reading, not only for their enrichment but for the greater empathy and understanding it fosters within our communities.

Thus, my journey, much like that of young Nils, remains an inward as much as an outward adventure—an endless exploration where the more I discover, the more I realize how crucial it is to encourage others to open the books, open their minds, and by doing so, open

Care For the Human Family

I popped into the supermarket this morning for a few bottles of Scottish spring water ahead of a long train journey. I’ve always begrudged the price of water in stations and cafés—it feels like such a small necessity made unnecessarily costly. So, I stood there, bottles in hand, quietly satisfied with my small act of thrift.

At the checkout, the man in front of me was searching his pockets, his wallet, his coat—his loyalty card nowhere to be found. There was a kind of gentle frustration about him, the sort we all recognise.

“I did that recently,” I said, almost without thinking. “Got all the way to the checkout and realised I’d left my credit card at home.” I smiled. “A woman behind me insisted on paying for my shopping.” I continued.

The cashier looked up and nodded. She spoke about how often she sees small kindnesses like that—quiet, unannounced, but real. For a moment, the three of us were strangers sharing something unseen but understood.

But then, as these things sometimes do, the conversation shifted. It deepened.

We spoke about the world as it is—fractured, hurried, often self-absorbed. And there was an unspoken question hanging between us: if kindness is not taught, not lived, not passed on, then where will it come from? Who will show the next generation what it looks like?

It felt less like a complaint and more like a calling.

There was something about the cashier—not dramatic, nothing outwardly remarkable—but a quiet sincerity. The kind you recognise not with your eyes, but somewhere deeper. I found myself mentioning a book my wife had listened to a few months ago.

“It’s about human kindness,” I said. “It’s called A Knock at the Door.”

I encouraged her to look it up, though I suspect what mattered more was not the title itself, but the idea behind it—that kindness is not abstract. It is lived. It arrives, often unexpectedly, in the ordinary spaces of life. A checkout queue. A passing conversation. A moment where someone chooses to care.

And so I extend that same invitation beyond that small exchange.

To you, the reader.
To my family.
To my friends and neighbours.

Pause, if only for a moment. Seek out something that reminds you of what it means to be human in the best sense. Let it reshape how you see the world—not as it is at its worst, but as it might yet become through small, faithful acts of kindness.

In thinking about that book, I came to learn more about its author, Rob Parsons. Years ago, he founded a charity called Care for the Family. It stands quietly in the background of people’s lives, offering strength where it is most needed.

Rooted here in the UK, yet reaching far beyond it, their work is centred on walking alongside families—particularly in moments when life feels fragile or uncertain. They support parents, couples, and those carrying the deep and often silent weight of loss.

Sometimes that support comes through gatherings or courses. Sometimes through a voice on a podcast. And sometimes, perhaps most powerfully, through the simple presence of someone willing to listen.

What they offer is thoughtful and accessible, shaped not just by theory but by lived experience—by an understanding of how complex and tender family life can be.

And just as importantly, they invest in others. They equip those who care for families—whether in formal roles or in quiet, unseen ways—to do so with greater confidence and compassion.

It is, at heart, a work of coming alongside.

Steady. Practical. Deeply human.

And that is what stayed with me most as I left the supermarket, water bottles in hand, stepping back into the ordinary rhythm of the day.

Kindness does not need a stage.
It only needs a willing heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that is how we begin to mend what feels broken.

If compression is the thief of understanding, then

clarity is the gift of enlightenment

Somewhere in the median,

they meet.

The Discordance of Self-Awareness

I was a child. You had this routine. Every Sunday at 11 a.m., you’d come round the back of my tenement building and climb onto a soapbox. In your bow tie and Donkey Jacket you looked like a music‑hall act fallen on hard times. You’d take a swig of wine, clear your throat, and launch into Mario Lanza’s Be My Love.

And every week, when you finished, my mother would take out her handkerchief, dab her eyes, open her purse, toss in a few coins, close it again, and say, “Why doesn’t that bloody man sing something new?”

Why are some morals objective?

A Law Without a Voice

The queue barely moves as my wife and I  wait for our flight to Sweden to visit old friends.  Suitcases edge forward by inches, then stop again, wheels turned at slight angles as if they’ve grown tired of straight lines. A child sits on the floor, tracing the grooves in the tiles with one finger. Somewhere behind, a man exhales loudly, not quite a sigh, more a signal to anyone listening that time is being wasted.

Then the couple arrives.

They don’t rush. They don’t rush, they saunter then look at the queue with surprise. Then, they notice familiar faces near the front—laughter, “How are you both? Goodness, it must be about ten years?”  A brief pat of shoulders—and drift inward, folding themselves into that small circle as though they had always belonged there. It is done lightly, almost gracefully. But the effect ripples outward. Conversations stall. Eyes lift. A woman flabbergasted shifts her weight and looks down the line then looks at those around as if to say, “Did you see that?” No one speaks, yet something shared has been disturbed.

It is difficult to name what exactly has been broken. No rule has been written on the airport wall forbidding such movement. No official steps in. Still, the tension is unmistakable. It settles in the space between strangers, in the way people avoid looking at one another for too long.

We live as though this instinct requires no account of itself. It feels native, like balance or hunger. Yet it carries a peculiar authority. It does not present itself as preference. It does not say, I would rather things were different. It speaks more plainly: This is not right.

That distinction matters.

If such responses were only habits formed by convenience, they would bend more easily. They would shift with circumstance, soften under pressure. But they resist. Even when inconvenient, even when costly, they remain. A person may ignore them, silence them, argue against them—but not without effort, and never without some remainder.

There is a passage, written long before airports and council offices, that describes something similar. It speaks of those who have not received formal instruction, yet still act in accordance with a standard they seem to recognise. Not consistently, not perfectly, but often enough to suggest that the awareness precedes the teaching.

That idea lingers.

If our responses were the product of accident alone, it is difficult to see why they would carry this weight. Survival might explain cooperation, or even restraint, but not the quiet insistence that certain actions are wrong regardless of advantage. The person who steps into the queue gains time. Yet the reaction of others does not disappear simply because someone profits.

Perhaps this is why such moments feel larger than they are. A queue at an airport is not a court of law, but with an awareness that seems already present.

Consider the following quote from a book,

 “Indeed, when Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law.”

Ponder on that. If we are products of a blind evolutionary process, why would “nature” drive us towards a sense of justice? The book quote is from the Bible; from the book of Romans chapter two.

The Christian understanding does not treat this as an accident. It suggests instead that what we experience in these small disturbances’ points beyond them. That the quiet protest we feel is not self-generated, but received. Not invented, but recognised from an external source.

If that is so, then the unease in the queue is not merely irritation. It is a faint echo of something steadier. The dissatisfaction at unequal treatment is not simply preference. It is a response to a pattern that does not align with what we sense to be fitting.

And if such awareness is indeed given, then it speaks of a giver. Namely, God.

Note: 

The quotation comes from Romans 2:14. It suggests that although people of the nations were not given the Law of Moses, they nevertheless lived in accordance with its moral principles by instinct. The idea that God’s moral order is embedded within creation itself and can be discerned through human reason.

See Romans 2:14 Indeed, when Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature what the law requires, they are a law to themselves, even though they do not have the law.