Personal Blogs

"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

Image generated with the assistance of Chat GPT

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.

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.

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

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

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

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).

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

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

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.”

A vagrant wanders empty ruins.

Suddenly he’s wealthy.

Rumi

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft word

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

Image kindly provided by https://unsplash.com/@norfolkboy14

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.

Image generated with the assistance of ChatGPT

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. 

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

Mr Pecksniff in Charles Chuzzelwit 

Charles Dickens

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

The World According to Pecksniff

On Self-Absorption and Its Everyday Disguises

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.

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

Emilie Buchwald 

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Word

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.

 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:

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:

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

✅ What Copyright Protects in a Blog

🧾 Registration (Optional, But Useful)

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

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

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. 

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

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

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

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