Personal Blogs

A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends.

Proverbs 16:25

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Language often encapsulates the essence of human behaviour, and the Hindi word Afwah-parast (अफ़वाह-परस्त), meaning "worshipper of rumours," serves as a piercing critique of a universal flaw: the inclination to believe and propagate gossip. This seemingly innocuous habit has the power to dismantle relationships, corrode trust, and strip individuals of their dignity. Gossip and slander, at their core, are not mere idle talk; they are inhumane acts that compromise the moral integrity of society, revealing the darker underpinnings of human nature.

Gossip thrives on curiosity, often cloaked in the guise of concern or shared amusement. Yet its impact can be devastating. Once spoken, words have a life of their own, mutating and spreading beyond their origin. The worshippers of rumours—those who propagate unverified and often malicious tales—fuel this process. They seldom pause to consider the human cost of their actions. The damage inflicted is not always immediately visible, but it leaves deep scars on the individual targeted and the communal trust eroded in the process.

In John Steinbeck’s East of Eden, Cathy Ames embodies the destructive power of gossip. Her character represents the pinnacle of manipulation and malice, using slander as a weapon to achieve her dark objectives. Cathy plants seeds of mistrust with precision, leveraging the gullibility of those around her to sow discord and control outcomes. She is not merely a participant in the spreading of rumours; she is their architect, a master puppeteer who thrives on the chaos she creates. Her actions illustrate the deliberate and calculated harm that gossip can inflict when wielded as a tool of manipulation.

Cathy’s ability to manipulate others stems from her understanding of human vulnerability. She preys on the innate human tendency to trust, to seek validation, and to revel in the missteps of others. This mirrors the cultural universality of Afwah-parast, as it highlights how societies across the globe are susceptible to the allure of rumour. In Cathy’s world, words are weapons, and those who believe and repeat them become unwitting accomplices in her schemes. Her character underscores how gossip and slander can act as both an individual and collective failing, magnified by our propensity to uncritically accept and propagate falsehoods.

The act of indulging in gossip is not a victimless crime. It erodes the dignity of those targeted, reducing them to caricatures or objects of ridicule. It fractures communities by fostering mistrust and breeding resentment. More insidiously, it diminishes the moral compass of those who engage in it. Each repetition of a rumour, every whispered falsehood, tightens the chains of inhumanity, drawing individuals further from empathy and compassion. Like Cathy Ames, the Afwah-parast thrives on division, creating a world where relationships are transactional, and trust is fragile.

The antidote to the inhumane act of gossip lies in cultivating a culture of verification and compassion. Before repeating a story, we must ask ourselves: is it true, is it kind, and is it necessary? To counter the spirit of Afwah-parast, individuals must choose to be stewards of truth, rejecting the seductive pull of unverified tales. As Steinbeck’s narrative warns, the price of indulging in slander is the loss of humanity itself.

In a world rife with rumours, the call to rise above Afwah-parast is not just a moral imperative but a necessity for preserving the integrity of human connection. Whether through the insidious manipulation of a character like Cathy Ames or the everyday gossip shared over coffee, the destructive power of slander must be confronted. Only by refusing to worship at the altar of rumours can humanity reclaim its dignity and rebuild the bonds that sustain us.

"A man who is kind and humble at heart will always see his father as an idol and a hero. Treasure that sentiment while you are still young."

Fyodor Dostoevsky

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Echoes of Natsukashii

My father closed his eyes when I was ten years old. I was adopted by an uncle who was old to be a father. Memories of my adoptive father are like distant candles, too far to emit significant light. What I do recall is that he was kind, but firm; qualities that every child needs.

I have one picture of us when I was seven. He has a Mediterranean look as I recall. Many agree that he looked like the actor, Antony Quinn, rugged with compassionate eyes. He is dressed in white shirt and black trousers. He appears dignified.

His business was successful which allowed us to live in a nice building in the shipyard town of Govan. His proudest possession was not the home, but the view from our third storey. When visitors came, he would point over to Hills Trust Primary School and tell them it was the school John Mclean (1879-1923) taught in. Although McLean was a half century out of the public eye, Mother Glasgow’s memory is infinite and everyone remembered him as the political activist who was dismissed by the Govan School Board for ‘Using language likely to cause a breach of the peace.’

 Mclean taught evening classes in Marxism and political economics. Dad shared his views, and he would put me on his shoulders and march round the house singing John McLean’s March; a song that celebrated Mclean’s release from prison.

"Hey Mac did ya see him as he came doon the Gorgie

Away o'er the Lammerlaw and north o' the Tay

Yon man is coming now the whole toon is turnin' oot

We're all sure he'll win back tae Glasgow today."

I never understood the foreign sounding words, but I enjoyed the bonding as he marched round the living room ignoring the precarious position of ornaments and photos as they defied gravity.

Books were his pleasure: Twain, Dickens, and The Untouchables by Eliot Ness. It was the sense of justice and injustice explored by these writers that appealed to him. Bedtime stories were memorable as I would be privy to abridged versions of Oliver Twist, David Copperfield, and Huckleberry Finn. They were related with incredible feats of memory and accent skills, enhanced by his rhythmic wheeze that was sustained from a childhood bronchial condition.

He always had time for the lonely. I recall an ex-employee regularly visiting us. Jimmy was his name. He was young, but his long brown coat, working boots and seven o’clock shadow aged him. Jimmy stopped working for my father when he was admitted to a mental institution with schizophrenia. He had a severe stutter, and my father, with his hands clasped like a priest would, patiently listen to Jimmy, as he lost all self-respect when rhythmically moving his head back and forth like a Rabbi reading the Mishnah to blurt out a simple sentence. It was stressful for all in his company.

In ‘66 Dad was rushed into hospital with respiratory failure. My last image was a pale looking man gasping for life.

A few years ago, I was at the Edinburgh Festival; a BBC live recording. The folk group, Tonight at Noon performed John MacLean’s March. My eyes filled with pleasing tears. When I related this memory to Kanoko, a Japanese friend, she put both hands to her mouth and uttered ‘natsukashii.’ In this context, she was using a word for a positive nostalgia; a fleeting, but sweet memory, initiated by music.

Nostalgia is a vogue word that’s obscured by abuse, misuse, and overuse in society. Like a last-minute kedgeree, the various nuances of memory are thrown into one pot and labelled ‘nostalgia’ in our English language. But memory is never that simple, the complexity of images and films drawn up in our private vaults hidden away from human scrutiny, reveal a colourful array of thoughts and meanings that change with the transfer of time and space and present themselves in colourful assemblages of meaning, reminding us we are unique and individual.

 Translation of John Mclean's March

Hey, Mac, did you see him as he came down Gorgie

Away over the Lammermuir Hills and north of the Tay?

That man is coming now; the whole town is turning out.

We're all sure he'll make it back to Glasgow today.

“Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent.”

Victor Hugo:

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I saw you at the Andre Rieu concert in Tel Aviv crying. I saw you at Runrig’s 2018 concert crying when the Islay Glasgow Gaelic Choir sung Cearcal a’ Chuin with Donnie Monroe. I saw you at the Andre Rieu concert crying to Highland Cathedral and I saw you crying your eyes out  to Plasear d amour. And guess what? I did likewise.

Have you ever found yourself sitting at a concert, eyes welling up with tears, or noticed someone else sobbing quietly during a song? Maybe their tears set you off too, and suddenly you’re sharing an emotional moment with complete strangers, even from our tv screens It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? Why does music—something so intangible—hold the power to move us to tears? Let’s explore this together.

There’s something about music that bypasses logic. It doesn’t need to explain itself—it simply touches the deepest parts of us. At a concert, when your favourite song plays, it’s not just sound; it’s an experience. A melody can unlock memories, a lyric can speak your truth, and the energy of a live performance can amplify emotions you didn’t know you had bottled up.

Think about the last time you heard a song that took you back to a specific moment in your life. Maybe it reminded you of a lost loved one, a first love, or even a time when you overcame something difficult. That’s the power of music—it connects us to our stories.

Concerts aren’t just about music; they’re about being part of something bigger. Look around at the crowd. Thousands of people, all from different walks of life, are singing along to the same lyrics. For a few hours, you’re not alone in your feelings.

This shared experience is what makes concerts so unique. The collective energy, the cheering, the swaying—it's like everyone is holding hands, even if they’re strangers. When we cry at concerts, it’s often because we feel seen and understood in that moment of connection.

Have you ever noticed how contagious emotions can be? Someone in the row ahead wipes away a tear, and suddenly, you’re choking up too. There’s a reason for this: our brains are wired to empathize. Scientists call it mirror neurons—the little brain cells that let us feel what others feel.

When we see someone else overcome with emotion, it reminds us of our own vulnerabilities. Their tears might not even be about the same thing, but it doesn’t matter. In that moment, their raw, unfiltered humanity speaks to yours.

Sometimes, crying at a concert isn’t about the song or the crowd—it’s about you. Life gets heavy. We carry stress, grief, or even joy that we haven’t fully processed. Music has this way of unlocking those emotions.

Concerts create a safe space for that release. No one’s judging you for tearing up during a ballad or clapping through the tears during an encore. It’s cathartic, like a weight lifted off your chest.

There’s also the awe factor. Have you ever watched a truly breath-taking performance and thought, how is this even possible? Whether it’s the talent of the artist, the beauty of the music, or the overwhelming realization that you are part of something extraordinary, awe has a way of spilling out as tears.

Ultimately, crying at concerts is a testament to how deeply human we are. We’re emotional creatures, moved by beauty, connection, and shared experiences. Tears remind us that beneath all the roles we play—parent, worker, friend—we’re just people trying to make sense of life and feel something real.

So, the next time you find yourself crying at a concert—or crying because someone else is—embrace it. It’s not just about the music; it’s about being alive, fully and completely, in that moment.

"It is never too late to be wise."

Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe

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One of the great charms of the BBC Radio Four Desert Island Discs programme lies in the way it delicately uncovers the soul of its guest. Through the alchemy of music, books, and a solitary luxury item, a castaway’s life is distilled into the essence of their values, struggles, and joys. It’s an enchanting premise. Who hasn’t fantasized about being on that program, curating their eight tracks, choosing a book, and pondering the significance of their luxury item? For a writer, the appeal is especially tantalizing; it offers the ultimate exercise in storytelling, a self-portrait painted in notes, words, and objects.

Yet, despite my admiration for the show and its many luminaries, there is one recurring moment that always startles me: the occasional refusal of the Bible. Guests are invited to accept it as part of their island toolkit—alongside Shakespeare’s collected works—but some decline. This leaves me momentarily speechless. How, I wonder, can anyone maroon themselves without a book that has nourished souls, inspired minds, and shaped civilizations?

For believers like me, the Bible’s importance is profound, transcending its literary virtues. Yet, even for those without faith, the Bible stands as one of humanity’s greatest treasures—a sprawling library of history, poetry, wisdom, and parable that illuminates the human condition with unparalleled depth.

The Bible is not merely a religious text; it is an anthology, a tapestry of genres. Within its pages are soaring hymns of praise like Psalm 23, which has comforted millions: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Its rhythms are timeless, like a heartbeat in the dark, reassuring and grounding. There is the stark poetry of Ecclesiastes, which peers into the fleeting nature of life: “To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.” There are the fiery dramas of the prophets, the tender love poetry of Song of Solomon, and the unflinching wisdom of Proverbs. Few other works of literature encompass so broad a spectrum of human experience.

Consider the parables of Jesus, simple stories with profound truths. The Good Samaritan transcends time and place, calling us to question prejudice and act with compassion. It takes genius to express such complex themes in such plain, unforgettable language.

And then there is the book of Job, arguably one of the greatest pieces of world literature. Here, the problem of human suffering is explored with unsparing honesty. Job’s lament— “Why is light given to him that is in misery, and life unto the bitter in soul?”—speaks to the anguish of every broken heart, and yet it also reaches for the eternal, seeking answers beyond the grasp of mortal understanding.

The Bible, at its core, reveals what it means to be human. It grapples with our flaws and our virtues, our doubts and our faith, our fears and our hopes. Its characters are not paragons of virtue but profoundly flawed individuals, from David, the psalmist and adulterer, to Peter, the impetuous disciple who denied his Lord. Through their failings, we find ourselves reflected.

Even as a child, I sensed this when I first encountered the Bible’s stories. I was drawn to its honesty, the way it never flattered its heroes but presented them warts and all. This unvarnished truth has stayed with me, shaping my understanding of humanity and the grace we so often need.

Even for those who view the Bible purely as a cultural artifact, its influence is impossible to ignore. Shakespeare himself was shaped by it; its cadences resonate through his plays and sonnets. The abolitionists drew strength from its call for justice, as did Martin Luther King Jr. The English language itself owes much to the King James Bible, whose phrases— “by the skin of my teeth,” “the powers that be,” “the writing on the wall”—have entered everyday speech.

To refuse the Bible on a desert island, therefore, is to cut oneself off from a wellspring of language, culture, and thought. It is to lose a dialogue not only with God but with humanity’s deepest questions and struggles. And on an island, alone with the horizon, who would not want such a companion?

If I were a castaway, I could no more refuse the Bible than I could refuse water. Its words have shaped me, anchored me, and consoled me in moments of despair. I would need it not just to sustain my faith but to remind me of the vast, interconnected story of humanity—a story in which we are all characters, struggling, failing, and hoping.

I do not expect to find myself as a guest on Desert Island Discs. But if I did, I would have to think carefully about the books and music I would want stranded with and I will consider this for a future essay.

I have a confession to make—one that might raise an eyebrow or two in certain circles. I love children’s stories. While some might consider this indulgence in tales of whimsy and wonder a bit out of place for adulthood, for me, it feels like coming home. It’s a rediscovery of something fundamental, something pure and timeless that adulthood often obscures.

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Over the weeks, I’d like to share with you the values I’ve found in reading children’s books. They teach us how to be human. This revival in my love for children’s stories didn’t happen by chance. It began during a visit to St Andrews Museum a couple of years ago. I remember it vividly: the upper room of the museum transformed into a scene from Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A long table was set for The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, complete with oversized teacups and mismatched plates. Quotes from beloved children’s books adorned the walls, snippets of joy and wisdom seemingly plucked straight from the pages of my childhood.

I lingered in that room far longer than I intended. It wasn’t just the nostalgia or the charm of the setting—it was the realization that these stories, once dismissed as childhood relics, still spoke to me. Their magic hadn’t dimmed. If anything, it burned brighter in the quiet space of adulthood, where imagination often takes a backseat to practicality.

When I returned home, something stirred. That visit had planted a seed, and it quickly grew into a desire to understand these stories more deeply. I enrolled in an Open University module on children’s literature (Children's literature (EA300), driven by a curiosity not only about the stories themselves but also about the adults who wrote them. Because here’s another secret I discovered along the way: there’s no such thing as children’s literature. Every book on the shelves of the children’s section was penned by an adult, written through the lens of experience, longing, and memory.

This realization only deepened my appreciation. Children’s stories are not just for children. They are for anyone who has ever been a child, who remembers what it feels like to see the world with fresh eyes and boundless wonder. They’re bridges between generations, carrying truths that are universal and timeless.

The Value of Reading The Giving Tree

“Were not all ten cleansed?” Jesus asked. “Where then are the other nine? “

Luke 17:17

Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree is a deceptively simple story. With its sparse prose and whimsical illustrations, it seems at first glance like a tale for very young children. Yet, beneath its surface lies a profound exploration of love, sacrifice, and the complexity of human relationships. Its enduring appeal lies in its ability to speak to readers of all ages, inviting them to reflect on the nature of giving and the gratitude—or lack thereof—that often accompanies it.

At its core, The Giving Tree is about a tree and a boy. The tree gives selflessly, offering its shade, fruit, branches, and even its trunk to the boy as he grows into a man, providing for his happiness at every stage of life. Over time, the boy takes more and more, until the tree is reduced to a stump. Yet, when the boy—now an old man—returns to sit and rest, the tree continues to give, finding joy in its role as a source of comfort.

A Lesson in Unconditional Love

The tree’s love for the boy is unconditional. It gives without expectation of receiving anything in return. This mirrors the kind of selfless love often seen in parental relationships, where sacrifices are made for a child’s well-being. However, the story also reveals the cost of such love. The tree becomes diminished through its giving, leaving readers to ponder the balance between selflessness and self-preservation.

The tree’s actions raise questions about healthy boundaries in relationships. Should love always mean giving everything, even to the point of depletion? Or should it involve teaching others to respect and reciprocate? These questions make the book particularly valuable for adult readers revisiting it, offering them a lens to reflect on their relationships, both as givers and receivers.

A Commentary on Gratitude

The boy’s journey through life highlights humanity’s often unbalanced relationship with nature and with those who nurture us. He takes the tree’s gifts with little acknowledgment or gratitude, a behaviour that reflects how we can sometimes overlook the sacrifices made by others. The tree, like many unsung givers, remains steadfast, finding fulfilment in its role, even when its efforts go unappreciated.

For younger readers, this dynamic offers a gentle reminder to recognize and value the people and things that sustain them. For adults, it may prompt an uncomfortable reckoning with past behaviours or inspire a renewed commitment to expressing gratitude.

What makes The Giving Tree so compelling is its ability to elicit different interpretations depending on the reader’s stage of life. For a child, it is a story about love and the joy of giving. For a teenager, it might reflect the growing pains of relationships and independence. For an adult, it may evoke nostalgia or guilt, reminding them of sacrifices made by parents, teachers, or mentors.

Reading The Giving Tree teaches us that love, while often selfless, flourishes when coupled with gratitude and respect. It challenges us to evaluate our relationships, asking if we are taking too much or failing to appreciate those who give to us which reminds us of Jesus, who healed the ten lepers, but only one returned to show gratitude. Which prompted the words, “Were not all ten cleansed?” Jesus asked. “Where then are the other nine? “

 In a world that often prioritizes individualism and accumulation, The Giving Tree stands as a quiet counterpoint. It whispers to readers that life is most meaningful when it is shared—when we give not out of obligation, but out of love. By reading this timeless tale, we are invited to pause, reflect, and perhaps strive to be a little more like the tree: giving, yes, but also nurturing a culture of gratitude and mutual care.

"Where words fail, music speaks." – Hans Christian Andersen 

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The Atlantic Winds and Human Connection

Hello Bahrain, I am Jim, from the west coast of Scotland, where the Atlantic winds bend me, yet the colours—those sweeping greens and blues and soft greys—keep me young. It’s a land where the waves seem to sing of eternity, and the hills cradle a thousand memories.

This evening, I found myself transported—not by the ocean but by music. I was watching André Rieu’s concert in Bahrain, a symphony of human emotion set against a stage of beauty and light. Were you there? Did you feel it too?

Every note seemed to carry something universal. The camera panned to faces in the audience—smiling, crying, or simply gazing in awe. Strangers to me, yet not really. For as I watched, I began to see how alike we are, you and I. All the great tides of human feeling—love, joy, happiness, empathy, and connection—flowed through that shared moment.

And then I learned a new word: Insaniya (إنسانية). Humanity. Not just a word, but a concept, a truth that resonated deeply within me. I saw Insaniya in your tears as a violin sang of longing. I saw it in your laughter when the orchestra played a playful waltz. I felt it in the way the music wrapped us all together, across continents and cultures, like an embrace from the Divine.

I cried and laughed too, just as you did. And in the quieter moments, I wondered about you. Who are you? What is it like to be you? To walk your streets, to sit at your table, to share your culture? I imagined the stories you carry, the hopes you hold close, and the faith that steadies your soul.

Here in Scotland, I am shaped by the wind and sea, and I wonder—what shapes you? The desert? The city? The stars above Bahrain? Do you look up at the same sky and feel small, yet significant?

As the music swelled to its final crescendo, I felt something more than connection; I felt hope. Hope that in God’s great plan for humanity, we are meant to be more than individuals passing like shadows. We are meant to create bonds that stretch beyond this life into eternity. Bonds not just of family or friendship, but of shared Insaniya.

I pray for that future, where we will laugh together again, and cry, and share stories without the barriers of language or culture. I long for that day when humanity is no longer scattered and divided but gathered as one under the canopy of God’s love.

Until then, I’ll hold on to the memory of that concert, the music that reminded me how beautifully connected we are. And I’ll carry the hope that one day, we will truly see one another—not just across a camera lens, but face to face, in a world made new.

André Rieu played the soundtrack, but it was you who showed me the heart of Insaniya. Thank you.

"If conscience leads you to shadowed paths, take heart; prophets trod there first."

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Leaving a religious group can feel like stepping into an unknown and often lonely space, where the familiar rhythms of community are replaced by silence and questions. It’s an act of courage, born from a longing for something truer, something better. But this journey is rarely straightforward. It’s often marked by a deep desire to find belonging again, to feel part of something meaningful. Yet, in that very search, it’s easy to stumble into the same patterns that led to frustration before.

When we leave, we often carry with us a longing for the ideals we once believed the group could embody—authentic love, shared purpose, and connection. In that longing, the pull toward a new community can feel almost irresistible. At first, it might seem like you’ve found what was missing—a fresh start, free from the old flaws and disappointments. But over time, familiar dynamics can emerge: rigid expectations, hierarchical control, or a sense of obligation that chips away at the freedom you sought. It’s not a failure to find yourself here; it’s human. We all yearn for connection, even when it comes with compromises.

This cycle can feel exhausting, even defeating. You might wonder, Why does this keep happening? And as that frustration builds, it’s natural to look back at the group you left with anger or bitterness, revisiting every hurt, every disappointment, as if doing so might finally release you. But often, this focus on the past becomes a trap of its own. Instead of freeing us, it ties us to what we hoped to leave behind, consuming our energy and keeping us from fully stepping into the present. 

Psalm 146:3 reminds us of a profound truth: “Do not put your trust in princes, in human beings, who cannot save.” These words, written thousands of years ago, still speak powerfully to us today. They remind us that human leaders—whether in the groups we leave or the ones we’re drawn to—are fallible. When we place too much trust in them, we set ourselves up for disillusionment. True peace doesn’t come from finding the perfect group or leader; it comes from anchoring our trust in God, who alone is constant and unfailing.

Jesus himself warned against relying on human authority to mediate our relationship with God. In Matthew 23:9, he says, “And do not call anyone on earth ‘father,’ for you have one Father, and he is in heaven.” These words aren’t about rejecting community—they’re about freeing ourselves from the idea that our faith depends on any one person or group. Christ’s invitation is to find belonging in Him, where our worth isn’t measured by conformity but by the deep, unshakable love of God.

This doesn’t mean that community isn’t important—it is. We thrive when we’re connected to others who encourage us and walk alongside us. But a healthy community should support your personal relationship with God, not replace it. When we approach relationships with discernment, anchored in the confidence that our faith rests in God, we’re free to engage without losing ourselves.

The wilderness seasons of life—the times when we feel alone or untethered—are often where God meets us most intimately. Elijah discovered this when, after fleeing into the desert, he found God not in the noise of wind or fire but in a gentle whisper. It’s in these quiet spaces, stripped of distraction, that we can hear God’s voice most clearly, feel His presence most profoundly.

C.S. Lewis once described pain and solitude as God’s megaphone, awakening us to truths we might otherwise overlook. It’s in these moments of stillness that we’re reminded of a love that doesn’t demand performance or conformity but simply invites us to be. The journey away from a group isn’t just about leaving—it’s about discovering who you are in the light of God’s love, a love that doesn’t change or falter.

If you find yourself walking this road, know that you are not alone. The void you feel isn’t a sign of failure—it’s an opportunity to encounter God in a new and personal way. As Psalm 23:4 promises, “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.” This comfort isn’t distant or abstract; it’s the steady, quiet assurance that God walks with you, even in the uncertainty.

One day, you may look back on this season and see it not as a time of loss but as a chapter of growth—a time when your roots of faith stretched deeper, unshaken by the winds of disappointment. And as you move forward, you’ll carry with you a faith that is freer, truer, and stronger, rooted not in any human institution but in the boundless love of God.

"He has shown you, O man, what is good.

And what does the LORD require of you

but to act justly, to love mercy,

and to walk humbly with your God?"

— Micah 6:8.

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I have often had spiritual discussions with people who have been heard to say, "What has God done for me? "These words some up the infiltration of me-ism in society. On the other hand, it's not about what God has done for us, but about what we have done for God and our neighbours.

How easy it is to ignore the impact of our actions on others. From time to time, I  return to  In J.B. Priestley’s play, An Inspector Calls. In it, he powerfully illustrates how interconnected our actions are. Set in 1912, the play follows the Birling family, whose comfortable lives are disrupted by Inspector Goole. Through his investigation, each family member is shown to have contributed to the downfall of Eva Smith, a young woman whose tragic death highlights the consequences of indifference. Priestley’s message is clear: our choices matter, often in ways we do not realize.

Social responsibility is striking in a world that values individualism. The Birlings’ privilege blinds them to their role in Eva’s suffering, reflecting the illusion that our lives and actions exist in isolation. Priestley shows that we are all connected, and failing to act compassionately can harm others.

Priestley contrasts the older and younger generations in the Birling family. Arthur and Sybil, the parents, deny responsibility, clinging to their privilege and refusing to face the impact of their actions. Sheila and Eric, the children, recognize their faults and embrace change. Their transformation offers hope and a reminder that growth is possible when we confront uncomfortable truths.

Inspector Goole represents conscience, urging the Birlings—and us—to examine the consequences of our actions. His questions remind us to listen to our inner voice, often silenced by distractions and self-interest, and to consider what kind of society we want to create.

At its core, An Inspector Calls asks us to see the humanity in others and recognize that every choice contributes to a larger whole. It challenges us to question our assumptions, take responsibility, and consider how our actions shape the world.

The play’s lesson is simple: act with kindness, take responsibility, and understand that your choices matter. In doing so, we honour lives like Eva Smith’s and help create a more compassionate, connected world.

In Robert Burns' poem, "Tam o' Shanter," 

Burns describes a character, Kate, Tam's wife, who is portrayed as

 “Nursing her wrath to keep it warm."

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This vivid line from the poet, captures the idea of someone holding onto anger and resentment, allowing it to linger and fester. It's a hallmark of Burns' ability to observe and portray human nature with both wit and poignancy.

In the shadow of the Holocaust’s unspeakable horrors, Corrie ten Boom emerged as a quiet but radiant example of grace. During World War II, her family chose to shelter Jewish people in their home, a decision that led to her arrest and imprisonment at Ravensbrück concentration camp. There, she faced the darkest sides of humanity, losing her sister Betsie in the process. Yet, out of this unimaginable suffering, she discovered the freeing power of forgiveness.

Years later, while speaking at a church service in Munich, Corrie was approached by a man she instantly recognized. He had been one of the most brutal guards at Ravensbrück. Now, standing before her, he extended his hand and asked for forgiveness. Corrie froze. She could feel the weight of every cruel moment she had endured under his watch. Forgiveness felt impossible. But then she remembered Jesus’ words: “Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” In that moment, she silently prayed for the strength she didn’t feel, took his hand, and extended grace. What followed was a sense of liberation that transcended human understanding.

We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Someone wrongs us, maybe deeply, and the memory sticks. We replay it in our minds, nurturing the hurt as though holding onto it will somehow make things right. And yet, as the saying goes, “Is someone living rent-free in your head?” It’s a question worth asking. Who’s occupying your thoughts without your permission?

When we refuse to let go of past hurts, we carry them like a heavy backpack, feeling their weight in every step we take. The truth is, while we’re nursing our resentment, the person who hurt us may have moved on—or they may not even know the depth of the pain they caused. Meanwhile, we’re the ones stuck, reliving the offense and letting it shape our lives.

But Jesus calls us to a different way. When Peter asked Him how many times, he should forgive someone—suggesting a generous seven—Jesus replied, “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” He wasn’t asking Peter to count to 77 and stop. He was showing that forgiveness isn’t about keeping track but about living with a heart open to grace.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean pretending the hurt didn’t happen or saying it was okay. It’s not about denying the pain or reconciling in situations where trust has been shattered. What it does mean is releasing the hold that person has on you. It’s about letting go of your right to retaliation and entrusting the situation to God, who sees all and promises justice.

Corrie ten Boom often described forgiveness as a key that unlocks the door to freedom. For her, holding onto bitterness would have been like dragging the horrors of Ravensbrück into every day of her life. By forgiving, she didn’t erase the past—but she stopped it from defining her future.

The process isn’t easy. Let’s be honest—it’s often the hardest thing we’re asked to do. Forgiveness rarely happens all at once. Sometimes it’s a daily decision to loosen your grip on the hurt. Corrie herself admitted that the act of forgiving that guard didn’t come naturally. It was God who gave her the strength to take his hand.

If forgiveness feels out of reach for you right now, that’s okay. It starts with acknowledging the pain. Name it. Bring it to God. Tell Him how much it hurts and ask Him for the strength to move forward. Jesus never asks us to forgive in our own power. Instead, He walks with us, reminding us of His own forgiveness—freely given, no strings attached.

Remember the moment  Jesus prayed for His executioners? “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” If He could extend that kind of grace in His darkest hour, surely, He can help us extend it in ours.

As you think about the people who might be living rent-free in your head, ask yourself: is it time to let them go? Forgiveness isn’t about excusing their behaviour or letting them back into your life. It’s about reclaiming your peace. Corrie said it best: “Forgiveness is the key that unlocks the door of resentment and the handcuffs of hatred.”

You hold the key. And when you’re ready, you’ll find that forgiveness isn’t just a gift for them—it’s a gift for you.

Roots deep, branches high,

Yet my years outstretch the tree—

Time bends, I remain.

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

In the heart of The Golden Square Freedom Park, Barbados, stands a remarkable wall, its every brick engraved with a name. Each name represents a life—some celebrated widely, others known only to a few—yet each one made a mark, played a role, and left a legacy worth remembering. As I stood before that wall, I couldn’t help but think of a far greater record: God’s Book of Life. Imagine a divine ledger holding the names of all whom God has found worthy of everlasting life. It’s a humbling and awe-inspiring thought, isn’t it?

This week, I found myself pondering the possibility of life beyond our universe. I don’t mean alien civilizations but the reality of God, Jesus, and the heavenly hosts—beings existing in a realm far more glorious than our own. Consider for a moment: what would they think of us? What would they see in the way we live, the way we treat one another, and the choices we make?

Suppose such celestial beings spoke to us, asking us to consider our lives. Imagine them gently but firmly pointing out the things that tarnish the beauty of human existence: stealing, dishonesty, greed, selfishness, infidelity, neglect of children, substance abuse, gossip, slander, disregard for the poor, and harm to the planet. Would we listen? Would we change?

These questions aren’t meant to condemn but to invite reflection. To be written in God’s Book of Life is the greatest gift imaginable, and it’s freely offered by God to those He chooses. But it’s not a gift we can treat casually. It’s a call to live differently—to resist the patterns of life that diminish our potential and harm others.

Think about what life could look like if we let go of these destructive habits. Imagine the freedom of an honest heart, the joy of selfless giving, the peace of a clean conscience. Picture a world where love for God and neighbour guides every action.

None of us is perfect; we all stumble. Yet God, in His grace, doesn’t demand perfection. He asks for humility, a willingness to turn to Him, and the courage to make better choices. This isn’t about earning our place in The Book of Life—no one can do that. It’s about responding to God’s love with a heart that seeks to reflect His goodness.

Life outside this universe is real. God and his son, Christ Jesus, are watching, not with scorn, but with a longing to see us flourish in the way we were meant to. They cheer us on, offering their help when we reach out to them in prayer.

So, how do you feel about this? Could it be time to reconsider the path you’re on? Not with fear, but with hope, knowing that the same God who writes names in The Book of Life delights in mercy and is eager to guide those who seek Him.

You are not forgotten. Your name can be more than a fleeting memory etched on a wall. It can be written in eternity, a testament to a life transformed by God’s love. Will you accept His invitation? Will you live a life worthy of His gift? So, where will you be in a thousand years?

 “At that time Michael, the great prince who stands watch over your people, will rise up. There will be a time of distress, the likes of which will not have occurred from the beginning of nations until that time. But at that time your people—everyone whose name is found written in the book—will be delivered.” Daniel 12:1 (BSB). 

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The Power of Fewer Characters

I remember opening War and Peace with a sense of excitement and reverence. Tolstoy’s masterpiece, heralded as one of the greatest novels of all time, seemed to promise an unparalleled literary journey. Yet, as I waded deeper into its labyrinth of characters and historical intricacies, the excitement waned. I found myself flipping back to recall names, relationships, and motivations. Before long, I set the book aside, its complexities outstripping my patience and desire to connect.

This experience sparked a reflection on the kind of stories that truly resonate with me. Over the past decade, the books I have cherished most all share a notable characteristic: they revolve around a few central characters, allowing me to form deeper emotional connections. Stories like The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce, The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne, and the short stories of Flannery O’Connor and Tobias Wolff invite readers into intimate, focused worlds. Their casts are limited, their narratives precise, and their impact profound.

Why is it, I wondered, that these stories linger so vividly while sprawling epics like War and Peace slip through my fingers? The answer, I believe, lies in the simplicity and relatability of their character-driven storytelling.

In a novel like The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, we walk alongside Harold as he embarks on a journey of self-discovery, grief, and redemption. The narrative is stripped down to essentials: Harold, his wife Maureen, and a few individuals he meets along the way. This narrow focus allows us to inhabit Harold’s thoughts, fears, and longings. His journey becomes our journey, his transformation our transformation.

The same is true of The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. With its childlike perspective and restrained cast, the story zeroes in on the innocence of Bruno and Shmuel amid the horrors of the Holocaust. This intimacy amplifies its emotional impact; by the end, the loss feels personal, as though we have been touched by tragedy ourselves.

Short stories, by their very nature, excel in this economy of focus. Flannery O’Connor’s tales, for instance, introduce us to deeply flawed yet vividly human characters, often grappling with moments of grace or despair. Tobias Wolff, too, captures entire worlds within the constraints of a few pages, showing how the lives of one or two individuals can illuminate universal truths.

The challenge with sprawling novels like War and Peace lies not in their artistry but in their overwhelming scope. Tolstoy’s work is a panorama of Russian society, history, and philosophy. It demands intellectual engagement, certainly, but it risks losing emotional resonance amidst its vastness.

By contrast, stories with fewer characters distil the complexities of human experience into relationships we can understand and relate to. These narratives invite us to linger in the spaces between words, to reflect on how a single person’s choices ripple outward. They are, in a sense, microcosms of life itself, where depth outweighs breadth.

From a reader’s perspective, fewer characters often mean a more immersive and satisfying experience. Instead of juggling a roster of names and subplots, we can invest fully in the people before us. This emotional connection enriches the story, making it more memorable.

The academic lens supports this view. Psychologists have found that readers form stronger emotional bonds with characters when narratives are less crowded. This phenomenon, known as narrative transportation, suggests that simplicity fosters empathy, allowing us to step more fully into the lives of fictional characters.

Of course, preferences vary. Some readers thrive on the grandeur of epic tales, where history and humanity collide on a grand scale. Others, like me, find solace and meaning in the quiet brilliance of smaller stories. This is not a judgment of merit but a recognition of what moves us most deeply.

For me, the books I treasure are those that invite me into the hearts of a few individuals and hold me there long after I turn the last page. They remind me that even in life, it is not the multitude of acquaintances that shapes us but the depth of our relationships. Perhaps that is why, as I grow older, I find myself reaching for the familiar comfort of fewer characters, fewer distractions, and a clearer window into the human soul.

Tolstoy will have to wait. For now, I am content walking alongside Harold Fry, sitting at the table with O’Connor’s flawed everypersons, and listening to the quiet whispers of Wolff’s characters. In their company, I have found a richness that even the grandest epics cannot rival.

"In the garden of memory, 

in the palace of dreams... 

that is where you and I shall meet."

– Théophile Gautier

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Serendipity Among the Stones: A Creative Awakening at the Glasgow Necropolis

What surprised me about yesterday’s blog was it received the most visitors since I’ve been blogging. It was just under 6000 visitors. I guess it was universal themes of life, death and hope that connects us all. However, I cannot forget the serendipity of yesterday— (See footnote).

It wasn’t a planned visit. My footsteps to the Glasgow Necropolis yesterday were, in hindsight, guided by something I might call serendipity. Like Newton’s apple, which fell at precisely the right moment to spark a revolutionary idea, my presence there was more than chance—it was a creative alignment of time, place, and reflection.

I hadn’t intended to spend that November afternoon walking among the graves of strangers, contemplating the mysteries of life and death. My original plan was more unsure. But as I passed Cathedral Square, a sudden pull directed my gaze to the imposing structure of the Necropolis, its headstones and monuments silhouetted against Glasgow’s afternoon sun. Something prompted within me—a nudge, an unspoken thought. Without much hesitation, I found myself climbing the hill into that silent city departed where they lay as victims of  Sheol's insatiable appetite. 

It’s strange how serendipity works. The events that led me there felt insignificant at the time: a slight change of direction, a chance look upward, the absence of pressing commitments. But in retrospect, I see how those small, seemingly inconsequential decisions brought me to a place that would inspire more than just an afternoon’s contemplation. It would become the setting for a piece of writing that would connect deeply with others—more deeply than anything else I’d written.

Yet, it wasn’t just the graves that shaped my thoughts that day. Serendipity had one more piece to the puzzle: the group of volunteers I encountered earlier in the city, raising funds for Pancreatic Cancer Action. Their resilience, their fight to preserve life against all odds, contrasted poignantly with the stillness of the Necropolis. The tension between these two encounters—a vibrant struggle for life on one hand, and the inevitability of death on the other—ignited something in me. It felt like Newton’s apple hitting my creative mind, a collision that produced sparks of insight.

Serendipity has a way of weaving threads we don’t notice until the tapestry is complete. My essay, born of that day, became a meditation on life, death, and the hope of resurrection. It was also a testament to the unexpected alchemy of creativity—the way chance encounters, and unplanned moments can converge into something meaningful. I hadn’t gone to the Necropolis seeking inspiration. But inspiration found me, because I happened to be at the right place at the right time, both physically and mentally.

This idea of serendipity is not new. Many creative breakthroughs, from scientific discoveries to works of art, owe their origins to chance encounters. Newton’s falling apple, Fleming’s accidental discovery of penicillin, even Wordsworth’s daffodils—all these moments hinge on being present, receptive, and willing to explore the unplanned. Creativity often thrives not in rigidly controlled circumstances but in the interplay of curiosity and chance.

Reflecting on that day, I realize that serendipity isn’t just about luck. It’s about awareness—being open to the world and its whispers. The Necropolis was there long before I arrived, its stories silently waiting to be told. The volunteers, too, had been standing there in the cold for hours, offering their smiles and hope to passers-by. What changed that day was my ability to notice, to connect the dots, and to let those moments shape me.

In the end, serendipity and creativity share a common thread: both require a kind of faith. Faith that the apple will fall, that the unplanned detour will lead somewhere meaningful, that the graves of strangers might whisper something profound to an unsuspecting visitor. And sometimes, as it was for me that day, faith that an ordinary afternoon can transform into an extraordinary moment of insight.

When I think back to the Necropolis now, I’m filled with gratitude—not just for the inspiration it gave me but for the serendipitous chain of events that brought me there. It’s a reminder to embrace life’s unplanned moments, to be present and attentive. Because in those moments, whether walking among the gravestones of the past or beneath the apple trees of possibility, we might just find the seeds of something extraordinary.

Footnote:

Serendipity refers to the occurrence of events by chance in a happy or revealing way. Call it a fortunate coincidence. The word has its roots in the Persian fairy tale, The Three Princes of Serendip, in which the characters frequently make discoveries by chance.