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Jim McCrory

Reflections from the Necropolis on the Loss of Children

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 22 June 2025, 15:23

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I walked through the Glasgow Necropolis as I often have. It was one of those bright Scottish mornings that softens even the hardest thoughts. The Necropolis, that city of the dead perched above Mother Glasgow; the city of the living, where space not only for memory but for quiet conversation with time itself exists. 

As I made my way among the gravestones, I found myself counting years, not just my own sixty plus but those etched into stone: the tiny, abbreviated lifespans of children lost long ago in a Dickensian age to epidemics like cholera, diphtheria, typhus. Names barely had time to settle and establish into the world before they were carved in stones suggesting they were here.

It’s a strange thing to be old in a place filled with the young who died. I felt not so much survivor’s guilt as survivor’s wonder. I’ve had decades of travel, of reading, of walking beaches at sundown, of writing, of grieving and healing, of faith evaluated and restored. What would any one of these children have become with even half of my years?

My cancer, in that moment, seemed less like an ending and more like a milestone. I don’t know how many more years are allotted to me, but I know now how many I’ve already been given, and I know what a privilege it is to reach an age where you look both forward and back like Janus.

The graves made me think of God’s purpose—not as a tidy doctrine, but as a question folded into every name worn smooth by wind, moss, and rain. What becomes of children who never had a chance to choose faith, to assess goodness, to wrestle with meaning? Where are they in the great scheme of things?

Jesus once said, “Let the little children come to me... for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” I must believe that children taken early are held in a mercy deeper than we can grasp. They are not forgotten; they are not lost to God. Not lost to parents who still grieve. If anything, it is we who are still lost, walking among headstones trying to make sense of the living and the dead.

There’s a sobering democracy in cemeteries. All names are equal here, whether child or elder, rich, or poor, known, or unknown. We all close our eyes and rest with our forebears. And yet, those of us still walking have something the dead do not: time. Time to reflect, to forgive, to change. Time to be grateful. My cancer has made me aware of time—not just its scarcity, but its richness.

So, I keep walking, not just through the Necropolis, but through each day, carrying with me the invisible company of children who never saw their 10th or 15th birthday or perceived  the invisible grace of a God.

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Jim McCrory

Why Can't I find God?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 22 June 2025, 13:27

"Do you think that just believing there’s one God is going to get you anywhere?

 The demons believe that, too, and it terrifies them!"

James 2:19 — The Voice

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How Do You See Yourself?

“I’m a good person,” we often say. Perhaps we donate to charity, give up our seat for an elderly passenger on the bus, or offer a kind word when someone looks downcast. And these are good, important things. But what if we look deeper? What lies beneath these outward gestures of goodness?

There’s a sobering conversation in John 3 between Jesus and a man named Nicodemus. They talk about judgment — and as a foregone conclusion, condemnation. It’s not a comfortable discussion. But let’s look closely at a small part of it. Here’s a version of that passage from The Voice Bible:

“Why does God allow for judgment and condemnation?” Jesus asks. Then continues, “Because the Light, sent from God, pierced through the world’s darkness to expose ill motives, hatred, gossip, greed, violence, and the like. Still some people preferred the darkness over the light because their actions were dark. Some of humankind hated the light.”

That’s a jarring truth to take in. The words draw a clear picture — two choices before every one of us: Light or darkness. And this isn’t about surface-level goodness or manners. It’s deeper. It’s an invitation to hold ourselves up to the light and let it show us who we really are.

You might say, “That’s for other people; people who hate or hurt.” But the passage reminds us that darkness can be subtle. Ill motives, gossip, hatred, greed — these can hide even behind a kind smile or a weekly visit to church. The issue is not about the appearance of being good; it’s about what we allow to live unchallenged in our hearts.

And that can feel uncomfortable. Even for those who have been part of a faith community for years, who feel they are “saved” simply by attending church, a Kingdom Hall, or a house meeting, there can be a false sense of security. Going through motions isn’t a cure for darkness. It’s what we do with the light that matters.

This is a call for self-scrutiny, not condemnation. It’s an opportunity. A chance to recognize where we might still “love the dark,” however subtly, and to make a move toward something better. Many pray but never feel God’s presence; often, that’s because they haven’t yet opened the hidden corners of their hearts to the light.

So, let this be an encouragement. The light is here, waiting. It’s an invitation to live in the light fully and to face those hidden places honestly and make room for a deeper kind of goodness, one that shines through our hearts as well as our hands.

Of course, here’s a warm and practical concluding thought you could add to the end of the essay:

Are we willing to pray to God like one person who was willing to say, “Search me, and show me where my heart still leans toward the dark.”

That kind of prayer opens the way for real change. It’s not about wallowing in guilt or fear of condemnation; it’s about stepping into the light with a heart that’s ready to grow.

Perhaps this week, take a quiet moment to reflect and ask yourself, “What habits, thoughts, or attitudes have I overlooked or excused that don’t belong in the light?” Write them down if it helps. Then, one by one, offer them up in prayer, choosing to let God’s light exposes and heals.

And don’t walk this path alone. Reach out to someone you trust: a mentor, a close friend — someone who can encourage you as you move toward the light. Transformation is a process, and every small, sincere step matters. You can contact me at when2aregathered@proton.me if you need any support.

Remember, the light is not there to shame you; it’s there to set you free. The very fact you’re seeking it is proof that your heart is open. That’s where change begins.

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

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Jim McCrory

Happiness and the Soul of a Nation

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 22 June 2025, 10:04

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Happiness and the Soul of a Nation

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

though He is not far from each one of us.

Acts 17:27 (BSB).

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Jim McCrory

Justice, Woven Through Us

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 19 June 2025, 13:49

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 BSB.

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Justice, Woven Through Us

When I was young—long before I could articulate why—I had a deep instinct for justice. Not just the punitive kind, but something gentler, older, more beautiful: the kind that rights wrongs not by vengeance but by restoring balance, by lifting the bowed head, by speaking truth softly but firmly into the world. It was around that time that I came across a passage from the English jurist William Blackstone, whose name still lingers with quiet gravity in the history of law.

He wrote:

“The Creator has so inseparably interwoven the laws of eternal justice with the happiness of each individual, that the latter cannot be attained but by observing the former.”

—William Blackstone, Commentaries on the Laws of England, Book 1, Section 2

That struck me with force. I didn’t understand it in full then, but something in me responded. It was as though he’d named what I had already begun to feel—that justice is not an external code imposed from above, but something woven into us. A thread of divine order stitched through our conscience and joy, reminding us that real happiness cannot be had without honouring what is right.

That quote stayed with me for decades. Through my own experiences of injustice and mercy, through times when I failed to act justly, and through moments when I was on the receiving end of kindness that tilted the scales in my favour.

I’m lying on top of the bed now, under the weight of cancer and the flu. The body is aching, but the spirit still listens. I’ve been moved this morning by the reflections of the Scottish Judge, Rita Rae on the BBCs Desert Island Discs. Her justice rings with the same conviction Blackstone voiced centuries earlier. Her stories of courtroom moments and moral insights into justice reminded me again that justice is never just about rules or verdicts—it’s about people. Broken, hopeful, sometimes guilty people. People who need to be seen with both clarity and compassion like the man whose acquittal changed his life as he moved on an academic career

Perhaps that’s what Blackstone meant. That justice, insight and compassion are not strangers. That one leads to the other, like daylight following the turning of the earth. And maybe that’s why it moved me so deeply as a boy: because justice, when it’s real, feels like the world being mended.

Desert Island Discs - Rita Rae, Lady Rae, lawyer and judge - BBC Sounds

 

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Jim McCrory

The Screaming Child Grows Up

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 22 June 2025, 10:05

 

The Tantrum That Grows Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Jim McCrory

The Burden of Memory

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 16 June 2025, 09:51

“The sea gave up its dead…” Revelation 20:13

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I stepped out of the Titanic Museum in Belfast into the daylight yesterday, but it didn’t feel like the world I had entered a couple of hours earlier. There was a hush in the air, not just among the people, but within me, a kind of spiritual quietness I’ve only ever known after visiting Auschwitz.

Two very different places. One, a triumph of engineering and opulence that ended in catastrophe; the other, a calculated factory of death. Yet both have become sacred in the way graves are sacred, not because they preserve the past, but because they insist on not letting us forget it.

What is this heaviness we carry when we leave such places? It’s not just sorrow. It's something deeper. A sense that we have been handed a memory that doesn’t belong to us, and yet we are somehow responsible for carrying it. That’s what I mean by the burden of memory.

I didn't know the people who drowned in the Atlantic, nor those who perished in the camps. But in walking the corridors of their stories, hearing their laughter caught in letters, seeing their faces frozen in photographs, something passes from them to us. We become keepers. Not of their suffering, perhaps, but of their dignity.

I consider the petty arguments, unkindness, and fallouts that families and friends visit upon one another. And yet, our links to humans of past generations connect us inexorably to our human family—so why not to those in our immediate midst? There’s a tragedy in closing our eyes while someone—or we—nurse some small issue.

Memory, when it is real, demands something of us. The Bible speaks of remembering not as a passive act. In Hebrew, the word zakar—to remember—is deeply active. When God remembers His covenant, He acts. When we remember the poor, the afflicted, the broken, we’re not meant to be spectators in history’s theatre. We’re called to be participants in its repair.

It’s tempting to think that remembering is enough. That by standing in front of a glass case, reading the names etched in steel or carved in wood, we’ve fulfilled some moral obligation. But memory that doesn’t shape our character is little more than nostalgia in funeral clothes.

I think that’s why these places stay with us. They won’t let us walk away unchanged. They whisper: Live more gently. Speak more truthfully. Pay attention. Honour the living by remembering the dead. The burden of memory becomes a kind of moral inheritance. We carry it forward—not as guilt, but as resolve.

And so I walked away slowly from this Belfast Museum of tragedy. Not because I was tired, but because I didn’t want to hurry back into the noise of things. I needed to honour the silence. To let the burden settle into place. Because some memories aren’t meant to be put down. They are meant to be lived with; in order that we live differently.

We are reminded that those who passed away in the tragedy have hope, albeit they are not aware:

“The sea gave up its dead, and Death and Hades gave up their dead, and each one was judged according to his deeds."   Revelation 20:13 (BSB).

 

 

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A Moment of Émerveillement on the Road to Braemar

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 13 June 2025, 13:03

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A Moment of Émerveillement on the Road to Braemar

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

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

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

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

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

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Where To Begin? The Writing Life

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Friday, 13 June 2025, 18:57

 

"Most male writers start from the beginning. Try and break that mould."

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It was one of those remarks that feels small at the time but grows in significance the more you sit with it. The kind of advice you don’t ask for but end up quoting years later. It came from a friend of mine with a PhD in English Literature, sharp-eyed, kind-hearted, and not easily impressed. She knew I was thinking about writing a biography of sorts. Not the sweeping, all-inclusive life story. I haven’t climbed Everest or led a rebellion, but a quieter excavation of a life lived with intent, trial, and a fair amount of stumbling. About being human.

Her words startled me in their simplicity. Most male writers start from the beginning. I knew exactly what she meant. The birth certificate, the childhood, the schooldays. The endless march from A to B, from boyhood to manhood, as though life were a straight line, and we just had to trace it neatly across the page. There’s something comfortable about chronology. Something expected. It’s where we all begin when we’re unsure. But as she pointed out, that’s precisely the problem—it’s often where we hide.

I nodded at her advice, filed it away like a receipt I knew I’d need later, and carried on trying to write in a way that pleased no one—not even me. But now, months later, I find myself overwhelmed not by a lack of material, but by choice. If not the beginning, then where?

Do I start with the year I moved to Norway, chasing the ghost of a childhood melody that had once stirred in me a longing for mountains and trolls and the melancholic music of Grieg? That year was golden. Stavanger’s light still lives inside me. But would that be too far in, too random, for someone meeting me on the page for the first time?

Or should I begin with a my diagnosis that reinforced my mortality?

Or maybe the night on my childhood island when I saw stars, many of them that triggered an epiphany?

Each of these could be a doorway. Each tells the truth, just not the whole truth. But perhaps that’s the point. A life is not a train timetable; it’s a mosaic. And sometimes the broken tile in the corner tells more about the whole than the neat ones in the centre.

My friend’s advice wasn’t just about writing. It was about freedom. About giving myself permission to walk into my own story from the side entrance, even the window if I had to. It was a reminder that the reader doesn’t need everything in order. They need honesty. They need movement. They need the sound of a real voice, not a résumé.

So maybe I begin here—mid-thought, mid-life, mid-sentence. Because the truth is, we never really start from the beginning. By the time we sit down to write, we’re already knee-deep in the story.

Where to begin? Wherever the pulse is strongest. Wherever the truth taps you on the shoulder and says, “Start here.”

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Jim McCrory

These People Mattered.

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 11 June 2025, 21:49


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

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

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

What were they thinking?

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

Her eyes—especially hers—seem to hold questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Cost of a Good Day

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 9 June 2025, 11:02



A vagrant wanders empty ruins.

Suddenly he’s wealthy.

Rumi



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We were just kids, only eleven, growing up in the Glasgow slums in the sixties. Without two pennies to rub together, my two pals and I used to spend our days exploring derelict buildings, poking around the rubble with sticks, always on the lookout for treasure—or anything that might spark our curiosity. 

One afternoon, I think it was Harry who spotted an old, weather-beaten jacket lying in the corner of a half-collapsed room. He rummaged through the pockets, and to our amazement, pulled out three five-pound notes and a ten-bob note. We stared in disbelief, then broke into wild cheers, dancing around as if we’d won the lottery.

With the ten-bob note, we treated ourselves to a slap-up meal from the chippy, and with the rest we each bought a tin of Creamola Foam. We mixed it with water in old jam jars and spent the rest of the day fizzing with delight, laughing and burping in the sunshine.

But looking back now, I sometimes wonder who that jacket belonged to. Three fivers and a ten-bob note; that could’ve been a man's wages for a week. Maybe he lost it on his way home, or maybe he never made it there at all. 

We were just boys, caught up in the thrill. But someone, somewhere, might have paid dearly for that joy. But eleven-year-olds don't think that far down the road.



Note: Creamola Foam,

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Creamola_Foam



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Life Lessons in Short Stories: Tobias Wolff’s “The Liar”

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 8 June 2025, 10:31


“The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.”

Traditional proverb


Life Lessons

on Tobias Wolff’s “The Liar”

There are stories we tell, and stories we live. Some are shaped by memory, others by longing, and still others by the desperate need to make sense of pain. In Tobias Wolff’s short story The Liar, we meet James, a teenage boy adrift in the emotional fog that follows the death of his father. James lies—not in the typical adolescent way to avoid trouble, but in a much more troubling, theatrical fashion. He lies about death, illness, and suffering. His stories are elaborate, even  disturbing. In James, Wolff gives us a character who dramatizes the emotional turmoil that grief often silences.

The central irony is that James’s lies are a form of honesty. They express what he cannot say outright: that he feels abandoned, angry, and helpless. The death of his father has destabilized his inner world, and his outward behaviour mirrors this inner rupture. In a society that prizes facts and frowns upon deceit, James's fabrications seem pathological. But beneath his falsehoods lies a longing for connection and understanding. Perhaps he wants someone to notice—not just his behaviour, but the wound beneath it.

This resonates with a truth that runs through many of our lives: people often behave badly when they are hurting. Grief, especially when left unspoken, can twist into strange shapes. Wolff’s story reminds us that behaviour is a kind of language. What looks like rebellion might be sorrow in disguise. What we call manipulation might, in some cases, be the only way a young heart knows how to cry for help.

James’s mother, worn down and baffled, tries to control her son’s lies, to correct them with reason. She calls in a psychologist. She attempts gentle firmness. She threatens. But none of it works. Her failure is not for lack of trying—it’s that grief doesn’t respond to rules. You can’t discipline sadness out of a child. You can only accompany it. And that is the painful lesson many parents learn too late: that listening matters more than managing.

One of the most moving moments in the story is when James meets an old family friend—a woman who listens to one of his strange, dark fictions without judgment. She doesn't correct him. She doesn't scold. She simply lets the story be. And in that moment, something shifts. James is seen—not just as a boy who lies, but as a boy who feels deeply and needs space to express what he doesn't yet understand. In her quiet acceptance, we glimpse a path forward—not through punishment, but through presence.

The Liar is not about morality in the usual sense. It’s about what truth looks like when life becomes unbearable. It challenges the assumption that truth is always found in facts. Sometimes, truth hides in the fictions we tell, the ones that reveal more about our inner world than any literal account ever could. It’s a humbling reminder to listen closely—not just to what people say, but to what they mean beneath the words.

Wolff’s story offers life lessons not only for parents and teenagers, but for all of us who have ever used language to cover, reshape, or survive pain. It invites compassion in place of condemnation. It suggests that to truly understand another person, we must be willing to sit with their story—especially when it makes us uncomfortable.

In the end, James is not cured. The story leaves us with no tidy resolution. But it leaves us with something better: the recognition that to lie, in his case, was to grieve. And to listen—to truly listen—is to love.

 


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Jim McCrory

Return to Innocence: Life's Fleeting Moment

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I see McDonald’s is using Enigma’s Return to Innocence. Every time I hear it, a film begins to roll in my head.

In 1999, I found myself in a Norwegian Hytte (cabin) overlooking the  serene landscapes of Norway, amidst the rugged beauty of its fjords. One evening, as I sat in a spiritual moment, gazing out over the stillness, a profound sense of melancholy washed over me. Enigma’s haunting melody played softly in the background, as if narrating an unspoken drama that had long been waiting to unfold.

In that moment, an image and a sensation collided. It was something deeper than any golden-hour photograph or carefully rendered painting could capture. The sun, a radiant ball of compressed energy, began to descend, casting its golden light across the water. The world seemed to slow. The evening glow became sacred, almost eternal. As the sun kissed the fjord, the heaviness I had felt gave way to a deep, all-encompassing peace.

For that fleeting moment, I felt completely at one with creation. The boundary between myself and the world seemed to dissolve, leaving only the quiet hum of life. It was an experience that words can barely contain, yet it has never left me—a reminder of the stillness and connection we so rarely encounter in our busy lives.

I have longed to return to that place. But I never will. Still, I have returned to it in quiet moments of memory.


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You Cannot Hide From a Bad Conscience

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“If you know the write way to live and you ignore it, it is a sin—plain and simple.”

James 4: 17 (The Voice Bible).



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Here is how the story goes. Peter Rabbit is warned not to go near Mr McGregor’s Garden. And what does he do? The opposite. So, Mr M returns and Petter is trembling like a …like a …well, bunny rabbit. He eventually gets home and is given some treats to shake off the fright and the bad conscience.

But, in real life, ban conscience doesn’t go away with treats. In fact, if you ignore a bad conscience, it will come and get you.

David, the Bible character tried to ignore his conscience after committing adultery. However, along came phase two, a local man, Nathan, came and told King David an interesting story. We can read about it

“There were two men in a certain city, one rich and the other poor.  The rich man had a great number of sheep and cattle, but the poor man had nothing except one small ewe lamb that he had bought. He raised it, and it grew up with him and his children. It shared his food and drank from his cup; it slept in his arms and was like a daughter to him.

Now a traveler came to the rich man, who refrained from taking one of his own sheep or cattle to prepare for the traveler who had come to him. Instead, he took the poor man’s lamb and prepared it for his guest.” https://biblehub.com/bsb/2_samuel/12.htm

David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan: “As surely as the LORD lives, the man who did this deserves to die! Because he has done this thing and has shown no pity, he must pay for the lamb four times over.”

You see, David never saw himself in the illustration. He was the man, but it wasn’t a sheep; it was another man’s dear wife.


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The Empty Words of the Gossiper: A Universal Story

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Thursday, 5 June 2025, 09:11



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The Empty Words of the Gossiper: A Universal Story

I have blogged now and again about the subject of of Gossip and slander. It gets a considerable amount visitors which indicates many are hurting out there. So, I return to this matter.

Gossipers wear many masks—some colourful, some clever, some cunning—but beneath each is the same crooked smile. Across languages and cultures, the act of speaking ill of others behind closed doors (or wide-open mouths) has a universally negative connotation. Whether passed on in whispers or laughter, gossip’s damage is rarely denied, only disguised.

In Urdu, the word khabarcheen captures the essence of a “news-spreader”—but it is not the noble herald of truth. Rather, the khabarcheen is a figure of mistrust, lurking in social corners with ears pricked and mouth eager. In Cuban Spanish, the phrase Radio Bemba—“lip radio”—offers a biting metaphor: our mouths become unwelcome broadcasters, tuned into the private lives of others and transmitting with no regard for truth or tenderness. The names change, but the ugliness stays.

Even in the warmth of friendship or familial settings, gossip sneaks in during sobremesa, the Spanish term for that leisurely time after a meal when stories are shared. Yet how quickly sweetness sours. The shift from connection to cruelty is subtle, like honey left too long on the tongue.

Gossip rarely presents itself as evil. Like she­momedjamo, the Georgian word for “I accidentally ate the whole thing,” it is indulgence disguised as innocence. One might begin with a simple observation—harmless, surely—and before long, the feast of someone else’s misfortunes is consumed with relish.

Children are taught early to beware of the sharp tongue. Snow White’s downfall is plotted not through swords but through whispers—“Who is the fairest of them all?” The Queen’s envy finds voice long before it finds poison. In The Emperor’s New Clothes, it is not just the emperor who is mocked, but an entire society complicit in falsehood, gossiping behind closed doors rather than speaking with courage.

The brothers Grimm were moral cartographers, warning of wolves not only in forests but also in hearts. Little Red Riding Hood is taught to beware the stranger—but in many ways, the more insidious danger lies in the idle chatter that leads her off her path, that lulls her into complacency.

Gossip is the wolf in slippers.

In Hinglish, we call it badmouthing, a hybrid term that bridges two cultures, neither of which approves of it. In Inuit, iktsuarpok describes the anticipation of someone’s arrival—a word not for gossip, but akin to it in the way we itch for updates, unable to sit still until the latest scandal walks through the door. We act as though we await news, but often we await blood.

Even languages known for restraint, like Swedish, cloak criticism in civility. Lagom, meaning “just the right amount,” suggests balance and moderation—but someone who gossips disturbs this harmony. They upset the balance of the room, the respect in the air. In Japanese, wabi-sabi reminds us to accept the imperfections of others. Gossip is its antithesis: it rejects grace and replaces it with scrutiny.

From Easter Island, we have tingo, meaning to slowly borrow things from a neighbour and never return them. It mirrors gossip’s theft: taking someone’s reputation, piece by piece, and never giving it back.

Even in drag culture, where humour and drama dance hand in hand, the word kiki—a gathering for laughter and gossip—is only joyful until someone becomes the punchline. The smile fades when it is your name under their tongue.

Gossip is a virus disguised as a voice.
It is smoke from a fire you didn’t light—yet it chokes you all the same.
It is a feather pillow torn open in the wind—impossible to gather once released.

The Bible itself warns that the gossiper isolates themselves by losing close friends.

A perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends.” (Proverbs 16:28)

The Hebrew tongue calls the gossiper a rachil, literally a merchant—peddling information for social currency. It is telling that gossip is treated like trade: a transactional act, not a relational one.

Every culture knows it. Every language finds a word for it. And every word is, whether wrapped in humour or habit, an ugly one. There is no beautiful term for gossip, because gossip is, at heart, the betrayal of beauty. It mocks all that is good. It fractures trust. It takes what is private and parades it as entertainment.

As a child I was told, “If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” A nursery saying, but a profoundly grown-up truth.

Because in the end, the tongue can set fire to a forest (James 3:5), and we must choose—daily, deliberately—whether we will be arsonists or architects.

Make the world a better place and walk away from those who gossip. When we listen to them, we reward them and it becomes their addiction. 


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The Guest is God’s Guest

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 4 June 2025, 19:14

Good Evening Oman!



“من فاتته الضيافة، فاته الشرف”

He who misses the chance to show or accept hospitality, misses honour.

Omani proverb



 

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“من فاتته الضيافة، فاته الشرف”

He who misses the chance to show or accept hospitality, misses honour.

Despite the bitter wind coming off the sea, at 7pm last night, I stepped on to the the beach for a long walk. I was feeling fed up and I said a short prayer that I might meet someone to have a conversation with after being locked in all day.

As I circumnavigated the long, lonely beach, I saw a lone figure in the distance; alone but contented.  As I closed in, I met a young man from Oman, present and peaceful amid the storm. He offered me coffee from a flask. I declined, out of habit, not meaning anything by it. We shared a few thoughts—simple, human ones—and I moved on.

But something in that brief encounter stayed with me, warming my thoughts even as the wind bit harder. Later at home, I looked up Omani customs and learned that one should never refuse hospitality.

Too late, I understood. The owl of Minerva flies at dusk, they say—wisdom always a few steps behind the moment.

Now I carry that missed coffee like a lesson embedded eternally in my head: sometimes, what we need is not shelter from the cold, but connection within it.


See Good Evening Bangladesh! What Will Our Journey Be? | learn1

 


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Writing Self Absorbed People: Martin Chuzzlewit

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I am a man of principle, and I glory in the name.”

Mr Pecksniff in Charles Chuzzelwit 

Charles Dickens


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The World According to Pecksniff

On Self-Absorption and Its Everyday Disguises


The above quote from Mr Pecksniff is a character who portrays himself as the very essence of virtue the kind of person who walks into a room and instantly becomes the sun, everything must orbit around him. We know people like that. At first, you might not notice. They smile broadly, speak warmly, and often carry a moral vocabulary that feels reassuring. But linger long enough and something begins to curdle. Their virtue is performative, their kindness self-congratulatory, and their interest in others as fleeting as a ripple in a mirror.

In my life, I’ve encountered many such figures, some in positions of religious authority, others in the everyday world of work or family. And each time I’ve struggled to name what I was experiencing; it was literature that gave me the vocabulary. Specifically, Charles Dickens gave me Pecksniff.

Ah, Pecksniff! Dickens’s most gloriously hypocritical creation. In Martin Chuzzlewit, Mr. Pecksniff is a self-proclaimed moralist, a paragon of virtue in his own mind. He lectures on goodness, extols self-denial, and oozes piety like syrup on a cold plate. But beneath this surface of sanctity lies greed, manipulation, and a hunger for status that he cloaks in sentimental phrases. If hypocrisy had a mascot, it would be he.

Reading about Pecksniff was like suddenly putting on glasses and seeing certain people in my past with vivid clarity. The syrupy self-praise, the inability to truly listen, the way their goodness always required an audience, it was all there. I began to recognize the traits not only in others but in society’s broader patterns, and, if I’m honest, I had to check my own heart for the same seeds.

One of the most telling signs of self-absorption is a lack of empathy. A truly self-absorbed person cannot sit with another’s sorrow without shifting the attention back to themselves. They might feign concern, "Oh dear, that reminds me of when I had it even worse"—but it's all a performance. Like Pecksniff, who sheds tears for show but is incapable of genuine compassion, they mimic empathy while lacking its substance.

Then there is the need for validation. I’ve watched people pursue praise like it were oxygen, needing constant affirmation of their worth, intelligence, or virtue. They share their good deeds publicly, not to encourage others, but to soak in the applause. It reminds me of Jesus's warning in Matthew 6—not to sound trumpets when giving to the needy, as the Pharisees did. Dickens’s Pecksniff, too, cannot do a single thing without somehow narrating it as a testament to his own nobility.

Conversation-hogging is another mark. A self-absorbed person can’t abide silence unless they are filling it. You start to share something meaningful, and they interrupt with “That reminds me of when I…” Suddenly, you’re no longer part of the dialogue—you’re just a prop in their monologue.

Then there’s entitlement—a quiet assumption that the world owes them something. At worst, it becomes domineering: interrupting, overriding, expecting favours without the faintest inclination to return them. It’s masked well. Often these people wear a humble expression, quote scripture, and speak of love, all while subtly climbing over others to secure their own advantage.

Defensiveness is another red flag. If challenged, even gently, they twist the narrative or cast themselves as the victim. In Dickens’s portrayal, when Pecksniff is called out, he gasps in holy outrage—how dare anyone question his motives! It is spiritual gaslighting at its finest.

And then there’s the obsession with image. They care deeply about how they appear, not about who they are. Every conversation is an opportunity to curate a persona: humble, wise, enlightened, kind. But like the whitewashed tombs Jesus spoke of, it’s all exterior polish.

In real life, this can show up in subtle but exhausting ways. The person who never asks about your life. The “friend” who disappears when you’re in need but expects a cheering section for their minor struggles. The one who can’t hear no without punishing you emotionally. Or the religious leader who uses morality as a tool to control rather than liberate. And, of course, the social media saint—always preaching, always posting, always conspicuously good.

Over time, you begin to see that self-absorption is not just narcissism in a mirror, but a spiritual condition. It is the slow suffocation of empathy. It is the inverse of love, which “is not proud… is not self-seeking.”

The antidote isn’t to hate such people. It’s to name the behaviour, guard your soul, and model something better. Boundaries are not unkind. Silence, when someone demands your attention for the wrong reasons, is not cruelty. And real humility—not the sweetened, stage-lit kind—is the deepest form of strength.

Pecksniff is a warning, not just a character. And Dickens, in his brilliance, didn’t create him to condemn others alone. He created him to make us look in the mirror and ask: Where have I worn that mask?



“Let us be moral. Let us contemplate existence. Let us find out what it means, and let us be men of moral elevation and character.” 

Pecksniff’s lofty rhetoric is almost always undermined by his behaviour. This quote is classic Pecksniff: vague, moral-sounding, and completely empty.


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On the Loss of Dad

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 2 June 2025, 10:41


"If it is possible on your part, live at peace with everyone."

Matthew 18:18.



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I was thinking of yesterday’s blog about the father reading to his children. I had fond memories of the father who adopted me. He was a wonderful storyteller. Sure, he could discipline, but I only recall the good. I lost him in my early years, and I am reminded of an evening back some decades ago.

*****

It’s midnight aboard the Princess of Scandinavia, adrift in the middle of the North Sea between England and Sweden. I’m on the top deck, freshening up from two malt whiskies shared over an earnest conversation with a couple—schoolteachers from Södertälje, their names now lost to memory, but not their human kindness.

With no light pollution, the night is a pure, inky black—and every star in the heavens is unveiled. More than I have ever seen. There’s something about standing alone beneath a sky like this that coaxes out the deeper questions. It feels like the Creator’s quiet way of drawing us to Himself through the wonder of His work.

A thought strikes me: only I, at this moment, am seeing this precise scattering of stars. No one else on Earth is looking at what I see.

I think of my father, gone since I was twelve, and wonder where he is. The thought lingers, then settles into musing:

Meet me amidst the ocean,

Under the Northern sky,

To the light of constellations,

As our restless souls pass by.

I am happy that I was in his good favour when he closed his eyes to this life, but, It is a sobering thought that many shun, or fall out with parents over the most trivial matters in life. And as time goes by, it becomes too late, too late to say "sorry" for the lost years

"If it is possible on your part, live at peace with everyone."

Matthew 18:18 (BSB).



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So Much Depends on A Father Reading To His Children

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 1 June 2025, 16:53



Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.”

Emilie Buchwald 




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On the Train from Glasgow to Ayr, I observed a father reading to his two children as they were cosied up and all ears. I asked mum what book was holding so much attention. It was The Broons Annual.


The Broons are a beloved Scottish comic strip family who’ve appeared in The Sunday Post since 1936. They live at 10 Glebe Street in the fictional town of Auchenshoogle. The strip follows their humorous day-to-day lives, often highlighting Scottish culture, family dynamics, and generational quirks.

The family includes:

Paw and Maw Broon – the no-nonsense father and practical, loving mother.

Granpaw – the mischievous old-timer with tall tales.

Eight children – including stylish Maggie, brainy Horace, mischievous twins, and the wee Bairn who often steals the show.

They also holiday at their countryside cottage, the "But and Ben." The Broons represent a warm, humorous slice of Scottish life, cherished across generations.




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Is belief Just a Coping Mechanism for the Absurdity of Life?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 31 May 2025, 09:07




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Is belief Just a Coping Mechanism for the Absurdity of Life?


On the ScotRail train from Glasgow to Ayr, an older man sits reading a book titled The Devil’s Delusion: Atheism and Its Scientific Pretensions.

Across from him, a young man glances at the cover and asks, smirking,
“Isn’t God just a coping mechanism for Christians?”

The older man looks up and replies calmly,
“Isn’t atheism a coping mechanism too?”

The young man raises an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“Well,” the man says, closing his book, “If there’s no God, then nothing is ultimately right or wrong. Everything’s permissible. You can live a completely self-centred life and feel no need to answer to anyone. That's a big if, don't you think?”

The smirk fades. A thoughtful silence settles between them, as the train carries on through the low dark clouds hills and the fading light.


You see, all of creation has collapsed into emptiness, 

not by its own choosing, but by God’s. 

Still He placed within it a deep and abiding hope

Romans 8:20 (The Voice).

 


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


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In What Ways Are Blogs Copyright Material?

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday, 31 May 2025, 16:20


 In What Ways Are Blogs Copyright Material?

Presenting the Law and Its Implications

Blogs are considered copyright material under international and national law because they typically meet the two fundamental legal requirements for copyright protection: originality and fixation.

 

📜 Legal Basis for Copyright Protection

Under the Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works (adopted by 181 countries, including the UK and the Philippines), copyright arises automatically when a work is:

Original – It must be the result of the author’s own intellectual effort, not copied from another source. Fixed in a tangible medium – It must exist in a perceptible form (e.g., published online, saved on a hard drive, printed, etc.).

These principles are reflected in the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, as well as in the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

A blog post is typically:

A literary work, if it consists of original writing (essays, reflections, opinion pieces, etc.). A multimedia work, if it includes images, audio, or video created by the blogger.

Thus, blog content is protected from the moment it is written and published, without the need for registration.

✅ What Copyright Protects in a Blog

Original text – All unique wording, structure, and expression. Original images, photographs, and graphics created by the blogger. Custom page layout and website design, to the extent they reflect creative effort (may overlap with design rights). Titles of blog posts may not be protected on their own, but distinctive branding may be covered by trademark law.

🧾 Registration (Optional, But Useful)

In countries like the U.S., registration with the Copyright Office strengthens legal rights: Enables the author to sue for infringement. Allows the recovery of statutory damages and legal fees. In the UK and most Berne Convention countries, registration is not required—the work


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Connections

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 16 June 2025, 14:04

 

“What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand  and stare" 

 — W.H. Davies

 

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It was back in the days when butchers still had sawdust on the floor—soft, golden curls of it that caught the light from the high windows and made you feel like you were stepping into a workshop more than a shop. I’d shuffle my feet across it, half out of boredom, half out of a compulsion to make something of it. A drawing maybe, or often, I’d write my nickname: Tory. Tory, if you’re asking. It rhymed with McCrory, and like my birth name, it had been designated without my consent. No wonder some girls hold on to their maiden name after marriage. I have gone through life with my name being misspelt, McGrory, McGroarty, McCrorie and so on.

I always fancied changing my name. Something with a bit of flash. I once knew a lad called Ricky Hopkins—now that’s a name with a future. That’s the name of a man whose books would fly off shelves. Names are funny that way. Depending on the era and what hits are playing on the radio, your child might end up a Britney, a Taylor, or a Carrie Ann or Claire. But spare a thought for the poor souls named Alexis, One wrong shout and it’s not your daughter who answers, but some voice from that Amazon gadget from the kitchen asking if you'd like to reorder your gas relief medication.

But back to shopping with Mum.

We’d be in the butcher’s queue, and she’d always get talking to the person in front or behind. It didn’t matter who they were—man, woman, young, old—she had a gift. Soon they’d be deep into a conversation about the price of sirloin or the scandalous cost of haggis. Laughter would spill out and the butcher would glance up with a smirk, knowing he’d have to wait his turn in more ways than one.

Then it would be Mum’s moment, and buying meat was no swift affair. This was a transaction that deserved reverence. A serious squint at the first cut, a slow shake of the head. Then another. And another. And just when you thought the deal was sealed, she’d return to cut number one with a triumphant, “Aye, we’ll go with that.” The butcher, who’d been through this routine a dozen times, would nod as if he’d just closed on a property.

This ritual repeated itself in the greengrocers, then in Curley’s where we got butter and cheese cut fresh from slabs, and even in Woolworths, where she’d lose time talking to a woman about how life isn’t what it used to be.

By the time we caught the 65 bus back to Copeland Road—the trolley bus, as it was commonly known—Mum’s shopping bags were full and her social batteries somehow even fuller. She’d heave her bags onto the seat beside her and, turning to the people behind, saying, “That’s been me all day!” And with that, the chat would start up again. Someone would offer her a humbug. Someone else would ask where she got her cardigan and all the senseless mundane chat would go on.

It was like that, back then. People had time, or maybe they made time. Connections weren’t scheduled or swiped or signed up for. They happened in queues, over lamb chops, between clinks of bus coins and echoes of shoe heels on linoleum.

As we stepped off the bus onto Copeland Road, the street shimmered with the faint smell of coal smoke and Capuano's Fish and  Chip shop. And as if cued by a director, someone called out from the corner of the derelict landscape  behind the house,  “There’s Tory! Hey Tory, fancy joining us for five-a-side?”

And just like that, the world shifted again—from sawdust to football, from Mum’s trolley to a kickabout with friends. Another connection. Another ordinary, unforgettable moment.

I now see the zeitgeist of connection, or lack thereof that has become the norm.  People walking around with headphones and riveted to devices ; unable to communicate. We are heading into Plato's Cave; a world of duality where we don't see nature, the butterfly, the sundown, the gentle conversation with a stranger and the missed romance that never blossomed. (speaking entirely of single people of course). 

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Writing Compassion: Langston Hughes' Thank You, Ma’am

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 8 June 2025, 12:03


"Only the development of compassion and understanding for others can bring us the tranquillity and happiness we all seek." Leo Tolstoy


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Compassion in a Dark Street: Why Writers Should Read Thank You, Ma’am

In the quiet hush of a city night, a boy runs headlong into grace. Thank You, Ma’am by Langston Hughes is a short story, but its heartbeat is strong. It lasts barely a few pages—yet somehow carries the weight of a parable, the warmth of a kitchen, and the soul of a good sermon. For writers, it is more than a tale well told; it’s a lesson in how stories can heal.

A boy named Roger tries to snatch the purse of Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones. He’s young, ragged, and hungry for a pair of blue suede shoes. It’s a petty theft, the kind born not from evil but from lack—lack of money, lack of direction, lack of someone who cares.

What happens next in that small room is more than an act of kindness. It is an act of trust. It is redemptive. And it leaves Roger speechless. 

Langston Hughes does not press this point. He lets it rise gently, like the steam from the plate of lima beans and ham she serves. The story is quiet, restrained, and all the more powerful for it. There is no dramatic flourish, no sentimental swell. Just the steady unfolding of human decency.

For writers, this story offers more than inspiration—it offers instruction. Hughes reminds us that we don’t need sweeping plots or tragic twists to move the reader. A single moment—honest, human, and true—is often enough. He shows us that the ordinary can be made sacred if written with care. That dialogue, when real, does more than carry a plot—it carries the soul of a character. And that withholding judgment, as a writer, can allow a deeper moral truth to emerge without preaching.

There’s also something deeply respectful about how Hughes tells the story. He trusts the reader to feel what Roger feels. He doesn’t tell us how to interpret the boy’s silence at the end, or how long the effects of that night might linger. Instead, he leaves the door slightly ajar, allowing us to step inside the moment and draw our own meaning.

Thank You, Ma’am is a small story, but not a slight one. It’s a story of dignity offered where none was earned, and of mercy extended without condition. And in a world that often feels short on both, it reminds us that a story—well told and tenderly held—can be a vessel for grace.

Writers who wish to understand the quiet power of compassion would do well to read it. Not just once, but often.

Because sometimes, the most powerful thing a story can do is show us how to be better humans. 



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Writing Bad Conscience

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Monday, 26 May 2025, 07:56


"We don’t live alone. We are members of one body. We are responsible for each other."

— Inspector Goole

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Lately, I’ve found myself in conversations where someone asks, “What has God ever done for me?” That question, more than anything, speaks volumes about how deeply the mindset of me-first has seeped into our culture. But I often think—it’s not really about what God has done for us. The deeper question is: what are we doing for God, and for the people around us?

It’s all too easy to overlook how our choices affect others. I keep coming back to J.B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls—a play that captures this idea so powerfully. Set just before World War I, it centres on the wealthy Birling family, whose quiet dinner is interrupted by Inspector Goole. One by one, he exposes how each of them played a role in the unravelling of a young woman’s life. Eva Smith’s death isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a wake-up call about the cost of apathy. Priestley’s message is stark: everything we do has a ripple effect, often beyond what we can see.

In a world that idolizes individual success, the call to social responsibility can feel radical. The Birlings don’t see their part in Eva’s story at first. Their comfort blinds them, letting them believe they live in a bubble. But Priestley tears down that illusion. He reminds us that our lives are linked—that ignoring that connection can have devastating consequences.

There’s a stark contrast between generations in the play. Arthur and Sybil, the parents, hold tight to their pride, unwilling to admit any fault. But the younger two—Sheila and Eric—see things differently. They recognize the harm they’ve caused, and they begin to change. That shift is where hope enters the picture. It shows that while facing hard truths is uncomfortable, it’s also where transformation begins.

Inspector Goole isn’t just a character—he’s the voice of conscience. His presence challenges the Birlings, and us, to look honestly at how we live. He pushes us to listen to that quiet voice we often drown out—the one that asks who we’re becoming and what kind of world we’re helping to shape.

At its heart, An Inspector Calls asks us to be human—to truly see one another, to take ownership of our actions, and to recognize that our choices don’t happen in a vacuum. It’s a call to live with compassion, to be aware, and to understand that even the smallest act of kindness can shift the world around us.

“Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe... the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.” Immanuel Kant


Fifty Fifty Writing Group - DownToMeet


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How To Write Empathy

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Sunday, 25 May 2025, 11:00


"The heaviest burdens, grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being,

 the weight of remembered loss, often leave no visible trace."


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Yesterday morning I was reading Ernest Hemingway’s A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. In the story, the silence of the night carries more weight than the sparse dialogue exchanged within it. The story centres on a nearly empty café, a late-night ritual, and two waiters, one young and impatient, the other older and attuned to the quiet ache of solitude. And, as with much of Hemingway’s work, it’s in what remains unsaid that the real story unfolds. Beneath the minimalist style lies a meditation on what it means to be alone, to endure, and to cling to slivers of dignity in a world that often turns its gaze elsewhere.

That little café isn’t just a spot to sip brandy; it stands as a kind of sanctuary. Clean and lit against the dark, it offers a reprieve. Not just from the physical night but from the emptiness it represents. Hemingway doesn’t shout this message, but he doesn’t need to. The older waiter, who understands why the old man lingers, becomes more than just a server. He is, in his quiet way, the keeper of this refuge, holding space for those who need somewhere to simply exist.

In a world that rushes past pain, the story gently insists that to keep such places open—to be that source of light, patience, or understanding—is a profound kindness. Turning on the lights and staying a little longer can be an act of mercy.

The younger waiter, eager to leave and puzzled by the old man’s sorrow, reduces suffering to a matter of wealth. “He has plenty of money,” he remarks, as though sadness should come with a price tag. But Hemingway asks us to look deeper. The heaviest burdens—grief that ages the soul, the fatigue of being, the weight of remembered loss—often leave no visible trace.

There’s humility in realizing how little we know of what others carry. The older waiter sees this. He doesn’t try to fix the old man, nor does he turn away. He stays, simply and deliberately, because he understands.

And at the centre of it all is that quiet confrontation with nothingness—what the older waiter names nada. His parody of prayer, hollowed out by repetition and doubt, suggests not just loss of belief, but a yearning for meaning that still lingers. It’s a stark, spiritual moment, laced with irony and pain. But it’s not nihilistic. It’s human.

This is perhaps the story’s most resonant truth: even in a fractured world, where old certainties crumble, the longing for a small light, for something kind and enduring, persists. Hemingway doesn’t pretend to resolve the ache. Instead, he affirms it, elevates it. He shows that in facing the emptiness and choosing to remain compassionate, we shape a quiet resistance—a flicker that matters.

What the older waiter offers is presence. Not answers, not platitudes, just presence. He delays his own rest, keeps the café open a little longer, and in doing so, honours a simple, radical grace. In a culture that prizes speed and resolution, this slow empathy becomes its own kind of faith.

Not in systems or doctrine, but in each other.

Hemingway doesn’t hand us a tidy conclusion. The story ends as it begins—modestly, solemnly. But within its economy of words, it reveals a truth both piercing and gentle: the light we offer one another, however small, is sometimes the only thing that keeps the dark from swallowing everything whole.


"With the ancient is wisdom; and in length of days understanding."

Job12:12 KJV

 

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Jim McCrory

Advice on Visiting Scotland This Year

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Edited by Jim McCrory, Wednesday, 4 June 2025, 14:33



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There’s a quiet magic in walking Scotland’s great trails: the West Highland Way, the Southern Upland Way, or the winding roads of the North Coast 500. The landscape speaks in whispers: a breeze over heather, the cry of a curlew, the hush between mountains. It’s a land that invites reflection. But it also welcomes connection.

If you find yourself passing a fellow walker on a lonely path or standing beside someone admiring the same view — say hello, please say hello.

It may feel unnatural at first, especially if you come from a culture where people keep to themselves. But here in Scotland, a friendly word isn’t an intrusion, it’s an affirmation. You’ll find that most Scots are warm, curious, and happy to pass a moment in conversation. Many will go out of their way to help, share a story, or give you a weather forecast more reliable than any app. And don’t forget to share emails and keep in touch.

These brief exchanges, a shared laugh, a tip about a hidden waterfall, the name of a bothy up ahead — can stay with you long after the journey ends. They are the unexpected joys of the trail, part of the country’s unspoken hospitality.

So next time you place your walking boots and shoulder your pack on Alba’s fine land, carry this with you too: the courage to break the silence, to look up, to greet a fellow human with a simple “hello.” You may be surprised where it leads , a tale, a kindness, or even a new friendship.

In the stillness of the hills, even a word can echo far.


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