Personal Blogs

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I find myself at a crossroads when it comes to modern children's literature. As I sit with memories of my own childhood, I can't help but reflect on the books that shaped my early years—tales like Peter Rabbit, Pinocchio, Heidi, and the magical world of One Thousand and One Nights and adventures of the Secret Seven. They transported me to places where innocence reigned, where good triumphed over evil, and where the harsh realities of life seemed distant, wrapped in a cocoon of adventure, fantasy, and moral lessons. These stories left me with a sense of wonder and a belief that the world, while sometimes dangerous, was ultimately a place of hope.

But today, the landscape of children’s literature has shifted. It seems that the stories now available to young readers reflect the increasingly complex and, often, darker world they are growing up in. Books addressing issues like parental depression, alcoholism, bullying, and even abuse have found their way onto the shelves. I wonder: is this a healthy evolution, preparing children for the world they will inevitably face, or are we stealing something sacred from their formative years by exposing them to the darker sides of human experience too soon?

On one hand, there’s an argument for realism. Today’s children are, by no means, insulated from the difficulties that life can bring. Many are growing up in homes where they are already exposed to struggles far beyond their years—be it financial hardship, mental illness, or broken family dynamics. These books, which dare to tackle such themes, can serve as a mirror to their own experiences, offering them characters who understand their pain and challenges. Literature like this might provide comfort, reminding them they are not alone in their struggles. It can open up conversations, allowing children to express what they may not yet have the vocabulary or the courage to articulate on their own.

Moreover, proponents of this modern wave of children's literature often argue that it equips young readers with emotional intelligence. They learn empathy by seeing the world through the eyes of characters who face adversity. They develop a sense of resilience when they witness how those characters persevere. After all, isn’t the role of literature, at any age, to help us make sense of the world?

Yet, despite these potential benefits, I can't help but feel an internal tug towards protecting a child's innocence. There is something sacred about the untainted imagination of a child. When I recall the tales of my own youth, I remember how they nurtured a sense of safety and possibility. They offered an escape from any unpleasantness that might have been lurking in the real world. Stories like *Heidi* gave me hope that no matter what misfortunes might befall us, kindness, faith, and goodness would always win out in the end. Such books may not have reflected the darker realities of life, but they preserved something I think is often overlooked in today’s fast-paced, hyper-connected world: the joy of simplicity.

There’s an unspoken magic in a child’s early years, a fleeting window of time where the world can—and perhaps should—remain a place of wonder, free from the weight of adult worries. When we introduce stories about broken families, mental illness, or addiction, are we asking children to grow up too quickly? Are we taking away their opportunity to experience a world that, for a short time, is filled with wonder and delight? There’s a purity to those early days that seems too precious to tarnish with the harshness of reality. Does a seven-year-old need to understand the complexities of addiction or depression? Can’t they just have a few more years where the biggest challenge is whether Peter Rabbit will get caught in Mr. McGregor's garden?

And yet, I see the counterarguments too clearly to dismiss them. The world has changed since I was a child. Children today are bombarded with information, with or without our consent. Technology and media have stripped away much of the protective veil that once shielded childhood from the more distressing aspects of life. Perhaps, in this context, stories that reflect the struggles of modern life can provide children with tools to navigate the world they’re already part of.

But the dilemma remains. Should children be exposed to these realities through literature, or should books be a safe space, preserving the innocence of youth for as long as possible? I don’t have a clear answer. Part of me leans towards the belief that childhood should be a time of simplicity, where joy, wonder, and imagination are at the forefront, allowing children to build a foundation of hope before they face the inevitable challenges of life. Yet, another part of me wonders if we do them a disservice by shielding them too much, by failing to prepare them for the very real difficulties they will face as they grow older.

Perhaps the balance lies somewhere in between. Maybe there’s room for both—stories that preserve innocence and wonder, alongside those that gently introduce the realities of life. As I ponder this, I find myself still searching for that elusive balance between protecting a child’s heart and equipping their spirit for the world they must one day navigate. Perhaps it’s a question that each generation must answer for itself, as we navigate the ever-changing landscape of both childhood and literature.

"Any extra-terrestrial life would be less disappointed by our technology

 than by our failure to live up to our humanity."

Jim McCrory

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NASA, the North American Space Administration, has invested billions of dollars developing technology to detect extra-terrestrial life. But to what end, I wonder? Is it merely a quest for knowledge, or are we yearning for validation from other worlds? If there is indeed life beyond Earth, what would these beings think of us, of our planet, and how we treat it?

Consider this: Earth, a planet abundant in resources, produces food in quantities that could feed all its inhabitants. Yet, we are bombarded with heart-wrenching images of emaciated children, flies buzzing around their eyes, in regions stricken by poverty and famine. How do we justify such stark contrasts? People die from ailments that could easily be cured with a simple course of antibiotics, while others live in unimaginable luxury. In our cities, the streets are filled with the homeless, despite an abundance of land that could provide shelter. Drugs tear at the fabric of society, and our leaders—entrusted with the responsibility to guide and protect—seem unable to agree on even the most basic issues. It’s like trying to herd fish in a stormy sea.

And yet, we imagine we are ready to meet other life forms.

What would these extra-terrestrials make of us? Perhaps they would be astonished by our achievements—technology that stretches beyond our atmosphere, art that speaks to the soul, and scientific discoveries that unravel the mysteries of the universe. But what of our failings? Would they be baffled by the contradictions in our nature, the way we hoard resources, while others starve? Would they wonder how we can be so divided on issues of justice, fairness, and human dignity, even while standing on a planet designed to sustain us all?

 And perhaps more thought-provoking still: What would we make of them? Imagine if these visitors from another world didn’t come with superior weapons or advanced technologies, but instead came with a message of morality—asking us to live by principles that, deep down, we already know.

What if they asked us to love our neighbours as ourselves, not just in theory but in practice? To truly commit to being loyal, never casting a glance in envy or desire toward another? What if they encouraged us to speak the truth in all matters, to be transparent in our dealings? What if they reminded us to consider the poor, the widow, the aged, and the fatherless with the same concern we have for our own families? How would we react if they implored us to respect all forms of life, including animals, and to treat them humanely?

Imagine if they instructed us to lend without interest, to refuse exploitation of the hired worker, to resist the temptations of jealousy, greed, gossip, and slander. To simply be human—compassionate, honest, and humble. Would we embrace that? Would we even recognize the wisdom in it? Or would we dismiss them, much as we often dismiss the moral teachings that have been passed down to us through millennia?

It’s sobering to think that the values we might expect from enlightened beings beyond our world are the same principles we’ve been given for centuries—principles we often fail to uphold. Could it be that the answers we seek in the stars are already within us?

What if these extra-terrestrial visitors are already watching us, not in curiosity but in judgment? They may not need to land ships on our lawns to assess the state of humanity. Perhaps their eyes are already upon us, evaluating how we handle the gifts we’ve been given. In this regard, they might resemble the God who, as it says in 2 Chronicles 16:9, “For the eyes of the LORD roam to and fro over all the earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose hearts are fully devoted to Him. "

The apostle Paul, in his speech to the people of Athens, touched on a similar theme: “that they should seek the Lord, if perhaps they might reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from each one of us.” (Acts 17:27). Perhaps, in our quest to reach beyond the stars, we are missing the profound truth that the divine—the eternal—has always been close, waiting for us to recognize it.

So, as we search for extra-terrestrial life, we might do well to pause and reflect on the life we already know—the life we share with one another here on Earth. For if we cannot live in harmony with those around us, what hope do we have of understanding life beyond our world? What if, before looking outward, we first learned to look inward, to search not for life among the stars, but for humanity within ourselves?

Bible verses from the Berean Standard Bible (BSB)

Updated: The Fragile Gift of Empath | learn1

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Last Autumn I went through some medical examinations. It came the day to see the consultant for the results.

My wife and I read a scripture that morning as we do every morning. It was Psalm 91: 1,2:

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

Will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.’

I will say to the Lord, “You are my refuge and my fortress,

My God, in whom I trust.”

I said to my wife, “we are going to get bad news today.” She agreed with a pensive look on her face. God had often given us messages through the scriptures that were specific. God continues to speak as he has always spoken, but at times, the right verse miraculously lands in our lap when needed.

And sure enough, cells in the prostate that served me faithfully, turned hostile and have created a rebellion in the pancreas and liver and who knows where else.

The consultant, a kind Asian man, who seemed worried that I never received the full impact of the diagnoses said, “You are very bravado about this?”

“There’s a young man inside me. He has followed me around all his life. His age, I do not know, but he is always there. He comforts me and his presence convinces me God has eternity in view for me,” I replied.

"For me, the process of writing personal essays during my master’s 

was not only an academic exercise

 but a way of processing the world and my place in it 

at a time when both seemed uncertain."

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Writing personal essays as part of a Creative Writing degree is an experience that draws you into an intimate relationship with your own life. For me, completing my master’s at the end of the Covid pandemic, much of that journey involved writing personal essays—reflecting on who I was in a time when the world itself was in a state of deep reflection and isolation. The personal essay, by its very nature, forces you to look inward, to craft narratives that not only feel true to yourself but also engage with broader human experiences. But that is where the journey begins.

On the one hand, writing about personal experiences demands a kind of authenticity that doesn’t always come naturally. It’s not simply about recounting a story or an event but shaping that memory into something meaningful, something that resonates with others. There’s this constant tension between telling the truth of your experience and presenting it in a way that meets the demands of the genre—structure, voice, literary techniques, all of which have to be woven into the emotional core of your story. That can feel like a tightrope act. You’re trying to be honest, yet you’re also crafting a piece of art, refining and manipulating your experiences for the sake of the story. Sometimes, in the process, it’s easy to wonder whether the pursuit of craft pulls you further away from your own truth.

The vulnerability of writing personal essays was especially intense during my time in the master’s program. The workshop setting adds another layer of emotional complexity. Sharing something deeply personal in a group of peers, knowing it will be picked apart for the sake of improvement, can feel deeply exposing. I often found myself wondering how to separate my own feelings from the essay itself when I received feedback. Was their critique of the narrative, or were they indirectly critiquing the person I was revealing on the page? The boundary between the self and the written self becomes blurred in that kind of environment, and it takes time to develop the emotional fortitude to accept feedback without internalizing it too deeply.

At the same time, I also faced the pressure to perform, to produce essays that not only explored meaningful experiences but did so in a way that impressed. There’s this unspoken competition in academic writing programs where you’re aware of how your work measures up against your peers. It’s tempting to dramatize your experiences or choose topics that you think will hit harder in a workshop setting, but that can sometimes lead to a kind of performative vulnerability, where you sacrifice your own emotional truth in the pursuit of recognition or approval. I had to constantly remind myself that the power of a personal essay doesn’t come from how sensational the story is but from the depth of insight and the honesty it brings.

This was compounded by the fact that I was writing in a time when the world felt precarious. Finishing my degree in the aftermath of Covid, when life itself was filled with uncertainties, I found myself navigating difficult emotions—grief, anxiety, loss, and isolation. The pandemic pushed all of us inward, forced us to confront ourselves in ways that felt raw and unfiltered. Writing personal essays during this period felt, at times, like peeling away layers of myself that I hadn’t quite come to terms with. Finding the right distance from those experiences to write with clarity, while still being emotionally connected, was one of the hardest parts of the process. How do you write about something that still feels unresolved within you?

Yet, even in that struggle, there was something profoundly human about the process. Writing personal essays is a way of processing, of turning over experiences, seeing them from different angles, and eventually finding some meaning in them. For me, it became a way of making sense of not only my personal history but also the collective experiences we were all going through during the pandemic. However, there were moments of emotional exhaustion. Continuously mining your own life for material, especially when it involves revisiting painful or unresolved memories, can lead to burnout. There’s only so much emotional energy you can pour into your writing before it starts to feel draining.

As with many others in my program, I found that navigating identity, culture, and expectations added another layer of complexity. The personal essay often draws on themes of identity—who you are in terms of race, gender, class, or culture—and the workshop setting, with its diversity of voices, can sometimes feel like a spotlight on those aspects of yourself. It’s easy to feel like there’s an expectation to write from a specific perspective, to represent something larger than yourself, even if your experience is far more nuanced or complex. I often questioned whether I was writing for myself or for an audience that had certain expectations of what my story should be.

Ultimately, the personal essay is both a deeply rewarding and challenging form of writing, especially in the academic context of a Creative Writing degree. While it offers a platform for exploring and making sense of your own life, it also asks for a great deal of vulnerability, emotional labour, and the willingness to confront parts of yourself that may not always be comfortable to examine. But despite those challenges, or maybe because of them, it remains one of the most powerful ways to connect with others—through our shared humanity, our stories, and the truths we uncover along the way. For me, the process of writing personal essays during my master’s was not only an academic exercise but a way of processing the world and my place in it at a time when both seemed uncertain.

"Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them,

Image by https://unsplash.com/@galleryofmyeye

As I reflect on Pearl S. Buck’s words, "Our society must make it right and possible for old people not to fear the young or be deserted by them," I can’t help but feel the deep truth and urgency behind her statement. To me, how we treat the elderly is not just a reflection of how compassionate or organized a society is—it's a test of our humanity. When the elderly are neglected, forgotten, or made to feel like they no longer matter, it's not just their lives that are diminished; it's the entire fabric of society that begins to fray.

Growing up in a culture that often celebrates youth and ambition, I have noticed how easy it is for the elderly to fade into the background, especially in modern, fast-paced societies where individualism reigns. But in my heart, I know there’s something deeply wrong with this. It is a sign of brokenness when the wisdom, experiences, and stories of older generations are ignored. Their lives matter. They are not relics of the past, but the very foundation on which the present stands. When we allow them to slip into loneliness, we lose more than we might realize—we lose connection, purpose, and a part of our shared humanity.

 This brokenness is not something we see in every culture, however. I’ve always been struck by the contrast with more communal societies, like the Gemeinschaft communities where bonds are personal, and the elderly are woven into the very heart of the social fabric. There, the older generation isn’t treated as a burden but as a living library of experience, contributing to the community’s identity. It's a reminder that we thrive best when we hold tightly to one another, valuing every person for who they are, not just what they can do.

In these societies, I’ve noticed that the elderly live longer, not only because they have physical care, but because they are emotionally and spiritually nurtured. They know they are loved. They know they are needed. That sense of purpose sustains life in a way that no amount of material provision ever could. When people are made to feel valued, they flourish. They have a reason to keep going because their existence still matters in the eyes of others.

A culture that truly respects its elderly allows them to continue being active participants in life, sharing their wisdom and knowledge with younger generations. This is something I particularly admire in Chinese culture, where respecting one’s elders is ingrained in the social fabric. The concept of filial piety—deeply rooted in Confucian ideals—reminds me that it’s not just about caring for older relatives out of obligation but recognizing the incredible value they bring to the table. The elderly in these societies remain central figures, revered for their wisdom and insights. It’s a world away from the loneliness and invisibility I often see among the elderly in the West.

It is heart-breaking to witness the opposite—a society that treats its elders as though they are no longer needed, as though their worth is tied solely to their productivity. When the elderly fear the young, or worse, feel abandoned by them, I can’t help but feel that society has lost something essential. It has lost its soul. For me, it’s not just an issue of morality; it’s an issue of identity. Who are we, really, if we cannot care for those who raised us? If we leave them to languish in isolation, we are severing our connection to our past, to our roots, and ultimately to ourselves.

I believe that a society which fails to honour and include its elderly is a society that is fractured at its core. The brokenness doesn’t just show up in the lives of the elderly; it seeps into every corner of our world. It’s a sign that we’ve lost touch with the things that matter most—community, continuity, and love. I’ve seen first-hand how older people light up when they feel included, when their lives are infused with meaning and purpose. In these moments, they are not just surviving—they are truly living.

And isn’t that what we all want? To feel like we matter, that our lives have purpose, and that we are loved, no matter our age or ability.

For me, the way forward is clear. We need to heal this brokenness by restoring our relationships with the elderly, by making them feel valued and loved again. If we don’t, we risk creating a society where not only the elderly, but each of us, feels more alone. We lose the chance to learn from those who have lived through life’s greatest challenges and triumphs. We lose the chance to grow as individuals and as a community.

Caring for the elderly is more than just meeting their physical needs; it’s fulfilling a God-given duty that restores a vital part of our own humanity. When we care for those who once nurtured us, we uphold a sacred cycle of love and purpose—one that, by God's grace, may one day return to us in our own old age.

“If a man dies, shall he live again? 

(The prophet Job)

Job14:14 (KJV).

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A friend of mine, who worked with a charity supporting refugees, once had a Chinese man visit his office. The man didn’t speak English, but with the help of a translator over video, they were able to understand his question. He asked, “Can you tell me what happens when we die?”

This question is not unique to him. It’s one we all ask at some point, and as we age, the question often surfaces more frequently. Why is there something rather than nothing? Why do we, with our brains—mere matter and electrical impulses—have the capacity to be aware of ourselves? What makes us so uniquely positioned to explore these mysteries?

Science, for all its remarkable advancements, doesn’t provide the answers to these ultimate questions. Despite the grand ambitions of certain theories, these are the boundaries science cannot cross. 

Some might say, “There can’t be a God—there’s too much evil in the world.” But doesn’t the very recognition of evil prompt another question: why is there so much good? And where does this deep sense of morality, of right and wrong, come from? If we are just the product of blind chance, why do we seek justice? In a purely indifferent universe, justice shouldn’t matter. And yet, we feel it deeply. There’s a reason we strive for it.

Several years ago, I was visiting Krakow, Poland. One evening, I wandered through the old town and found myself near the old Jewish cemetery. I like visiting graveyards—they remind me of life’s fragility and the importance of how we live. 

Standing outside the synagogue near the graveyard, I met a rabbi. “The cemetery is closed,” he told me, “but soon, they’ll be coming out.” His words caught my attention. I knew what he meant.

    I replied,  “Yes, Ecclesiastes 9:5, ‘For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing.’”

The dead are dead according to the Hebrew scripture. There’s no hellfire or heavenly calling for them, only silence. This might sound unsettling, but it’s not the end of the story.

There was no resurrection until Jesus came and offered himself as the bearer of humanity’s sins. His death opened the way for life beyond the grave. As the Gospel of John tells us, “Do not be amazed at this, for the hour is coming when all who are in their graves will hear His voice and come out—those who have done good to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil to the resurrection of judgment” (John 5:28-29).

Isn’t that an incredible thought? Doesn’t it resonate with the depth of who we are? We aren’t merely physical beings bound to 70 or 80 years. We have the capacity for love, selflessness, and thoughts that stretch toward eternity. Life, as we know it, is only part of a much larger plan—a plan that makes sense of both the goodness we experience and the justice we seek.

And I heard a great voice, coming from the throne.

https://unsplash.com/@birminghammuseumstrust

Some days, I feel like an ant lying in a red wheelbarrow inside a green garden shed, pondering the universe with existential angst. Inside that wheelbarrow, my world is small and confined. Yet, beyond the wheelbarrow, another world exists, and outside the shed, an even greater world awaits. Just as the ant's mind has its limits, so do we as humans, limited in our understanding of the vastness around us.

This brings us to the profound question: Why does God allow suffering? It's an age-old question that challenges our faith and our comprehension. But perhaps a simple story can help us reflect.

One spring, a robin tirelessly built her nest, carefully gathering straw to create a safe home for her future family. Each evening, the farmer would come and knock the nest down. The robin, persistent, would begin again the next day. This continued for several days, until the robin finally sought a new place to build her nest. Shortly after, a storm arrived, felling the very tree where she had been trying to build. The farmer, knowing the tree was diseased and that the storm was coming, was protecting the robin from greater harm by encouraging her to find safer ground.

Sometimes, like the robin, we may not understand why things fall apart. But there is often a purpose we cannot see. Many people turn away from God when faced with suffering, unable to comprehend the reasons behind it. Yet, God's wisdom is greater than ours, and His reasons often lie beyond our immediate grasp.

The Bible speaks to this in Romans 8:18-25, where we are reminded that the suffering of this present time cannot compare to the glory that awaits us. God allows suffering, but He also promises deliverance. He knows the pain we endure, and He calls us to patience and trust in His greater plan. 

Imagine you had the means to create a perfect paradise—an island with beautiful houses, rivers, gardens, and abundant wildlife. What could spoil such a paradise? Human choices. To maintain the peace and harmony of your creation, you would carefully observe those who inhabit it, seeking those who appreciate your gift and respect the laws necessary for its preservation.

In Genesis, God gave humanity free will—a gift that carries immense responsibility. We have the freedom to choose good or evil, but our choices affect not just ourselves, but others as well. In His wisdom, God observes how we use this freedom, shaping a future where those who live with love, loyalty, and respect for His creation will inherit His paradise.

“For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose heart is loyal to Him” (2 Chronicles 16:9).

Suffering, then, is not meaningless. It reveals the true nature of our hearts, testing our character in ways that comfort never could. In Luke 23:39-44, one of the criminals crucified alongside Jesus mocked Him, while the other recognized His innocence and asked to be remembered in His kingdom. Jesus, seeing the heart of the second man, assured him of his place in paradise. 

God is preparing those with loyal hearts to inherit the paradise He has promised. Though we may not always understand why suffering is permitted, we are called to trust in the One who sees the bigger picture, guiding us toward a future free of pain and filled with glory.

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

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The English language is not flush with untranslatable. Serendipity is the most well-known, but there is one we don’t here much of these days. It is crestfallen, the idea of being bitterly disappointed. The thought took me back to my youth.

It’s Saturday night and I’m lying on the couch reading commando comics while my pal, Jay is trying to do the crossword. After twenty minutes, he throws the magazine on the coffee table and goes to the toilet. I pick it up to see what he’s done. When he comes back, I address his lack of ingenuity.

            “Pal?” I ask.

            ‘Ye, what about it?’ he says.

            “Friend of Adam, three across”, and you put down “pal?”’

            ‘So?’

            ‘You’re a moron, it’s Eve, not’ “pal.”’

‘I hate it when you do that, just pack it in, will you?’

            ‘Look, don’t get upset. Do you want to do something?’

            ‘Like what?” he replies looking like one of those Easter Island statues.

            ‘Fancy phoning up folk in Norway?’

            ‘How do you do that?’

I get out the telephone directory and show him the country and regional codes.

            ‘Look, you just write those numbers at the start and pick any four numbers. I’ll show you.’ I dial the number for Directory of Enquiries.

            ‘Directory, which country please?’

            ‘Yes, … hello, it’s Norway.’

            ‘May I have the number?’

            ‘It’s 32…’

            ‘I’m putting you through now?’

As the phone starts to brrr brr! I tremble. No one seems to be answering. I wonder what’s the time in Norway. Then I hear ‘Hallo, Anna Snakker.’ I freeze. ‘Hallo,’ she says again. It sounds like an old woman.  Can she hear me breathing and Jay is giggling with his hand over his mouth? Maybe she thinks I’m a perv. I put the phone down.

            ‘Well, what happened?’

            ‘A was feart.’

            ‘You’re a dummy. Let me try. Get me another number?’

As the phone is ringing, I notice that Jay is as cool as a Wall’s Woppa.

            ‘Hallo, Astrid Snakker?’

            ‘Hello, do you speak English?’ Jay asks.

            ‘Ja.’

            ‘Hello, I hope you don’t mind, I just felt like phoning someone in Norway?’

            ‘You are from where?’

            ‘Scotland.’

            ‘Oh! It’s a long way, yes?’

            ‘You sound young, what age are you?’

            ‘I’m twenteen.’

            ‘You mean twenty? So am I. You speak good English.’

            ‘Oh, we do much at school, and now, I study at universitet.’

            ‘I’m at university too. I’m studying to be a plumber.’

            ‘I don’t know this word, I will sheck it later. Do you have hobbies?’

            ‘Aye, horse-riding. What about you?’

            ‘I like to write poetry?’

            ‘My friend, Jim likes to write poetry, but he’s not very good at it. Tell me, do you have a boyfriend?’

            ‘Oh, I’m just at home with my cat Gandalf, my parents are out with friends.’

            “Gandalf?” Aye right, like The Lord O’ The Rings an’ that?’

            ‘I don’t understand, what does “I” mean?’

            ‘Aye? It’s Scottish for yes.’

            ‘Oh!’

‘You sound pretty?’

            ‘Oh, not so pretty.’

            ‘My friend Jim thinks all Norwegian girls are pretty. Tell me, do you have long, blonde hair and blue eyes?’

            ‘My hair is black, and I have brown eyes?    

            ‘I’ve got black hair and brown eyes too. Some say I look like Tony Curtis. Tony Curtis the actor, have you heard of him, he’s in a picture called The Vikings?’

            ‘No, I don’t hear of this man.’           

            ‘Is it okay if I call you again sometime?’

            ‘Sure, why not? What is your name?’

            ‘It’s… Kirk, aye, it's Kirk. I’ll call you next Saturday. I’ll put the phone down Astrid. Goodbye.’

            ‘Goodbye.’

 ‘What was all that about? Kirk, university, twenty and horse riding?’ 

He stands up and swaggers round the room, wiggling his backside like Twiggy modelling a Pierre Cardin dress and singing ‘I’ve got a date a pretty Norwegian date.’

‘Aye, Norway? Lock up your daughters, the Brylcream lady-killer is on the loose?’

‘Will you chuck that?’

            ‘You better write down her number?’ I tell him.

            ‘Number, did you no’ write it down?’

            ‘Naw?’ I say, observing his smile suddenly shifting.

            ‘Why no’? You were just sittin’ there. Find it?’

            ‘Find it? How can we find it? It was you who dialled the random numbers.’

            As he sits there looking crestfallen, I get up and sing.

            ‘Prince Einer had a date, a pretty Norwegian date.’

            ‘You know this, you get right on my nerves so you dae!’

            Einar is the Viking prince Kirk Douglas plays in The Vikings movie. He is Jay’s hero. 

            Jay was like a snow-globe sometimes, easily agitated, but on this occasion, he had a right to be upset.

As the day ends, I’m lying awake feeling sad for him. I could see when he came back from the toilet, he had been whipping his eyes.’

 Still, these disappointments in life will one day be the ‘good old days’ we’ll laugh about one day.

"Chan ann leis a’ chiad bhuille thuiteas a’chraobh."

"It is not with the first stroke that the tree falls."

 Portree Harbour by https://unsplash.com/@breebuddy

I was watching Billy Collins on a YouTube podcast answering the question, “How to be a Poet,”

Oh dear, you may not like the answer; ten thousand hours of reading poetry including the heavies like Milton.

I have an MA Creative Writing Degree, but I have not indulged much in poetry although I like to read it. But like any other endeavour in life like learning a language or playing an instrument or tennis, you need to discipline oneself and do the hours.

The Gaelic proverb reminds one that discipline, persistence and engagement are involved in accomplishing your goals.

Billy Collins: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eP9reBY7EwM

"But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion..."

Image by https://unsplash.com/@timwildsmith

I was in the Philippines, enjoying a meal with my wife, when a group of women and children entered the restaurant. They were accompanied by two men. One of the men approached us to say hello, which was quite unusual for the Philippines, where many men tend to be shy. But this man was different. He had a dignified presence and wore a white barong. After a brief introduction, he explained that the single parents and their children were part of his church group, and they were being treated to this meal by him and his male colleague.

I was deeply moved. Immediately, I thought of James 1:26-27:

"If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not bridle his tongue, he deceives his heart and his religion is worthless. Pure and undefiled religion before our God and Father is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress…"

Despite my initial affection for this man, I felt a sense of caution. I’ve been in similar situations before experiencing what is often called "love bombing." It's a tactic used to attract people to a religion, but I’ve come to recognize that it can be temporary, often driven by a desire to either convert someone or to gain favor with God. At times, I must separate this kind of religious love from the genuine love Jesus spoke of.

This distinction reminds me of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. In the story, the son makes reckless decisions, squandering his inheritance on a wild, self-indulgent life. Eventually, he realizes the mess he's made of his life and decides to return home.

I've often wondered what must have been going through his mind as he walked that lonely road back home. He must have known his father well because many people wouldn’t dare return after such disgrace. But this father was different. In the story, as the father is working in the fields, we read:

"And he arose and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion and ran and embraced him and kissed him. The son said to him, 'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.' But the father said to his servants, 'Bring quickly the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet. And bring the fattened calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate. For this my son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' And they began to celebrate." (Luke 15, BSB).

The Figurative Seat of Repentance

Many years ago, I visited an ancient church in Scotland. Up at the front and facing the audience was a seat of repentance where the sinner would sit and be humiliated in front of the congregation. But what strikes me most about Luke's  passage is how immediate the repentance and forgiveness were. There was no waiting period, no sitting at the back of the congregation awaiting forgiveness, and no interview with the pastors or leaders  to assess repentance. The father’s love was unconditional, and the son was forgiven before the father even knew the full state of his heart.

There are many young people and not so young who have followed similar pathways but would never return to their former religious organisations  due to the unmerciful hoops they would have to jump through in order to be accepted. 

Have you sinned, then go and speak to God, asking forgiveness.

The Father in the Prodigal son story is the kind of love the father—and Jesus—manifested.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory

"The best writing gives a voice to our deepest humanity—it's not just about the story, 

but about the truth that lies within." —  Unknown

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When a student asked me, “What kinds of stories do we need more of?” I knew they were asking the wrong person, or at least someone with a different focus. For me, writing isn’t just about adding another voice to the noise; it’s about creating a space where I can explore ideas, reflect on the human experience, and, ideally, contribute something meaningful to the world. I want to offer something nourishing in a landscape that often feels cluttered with superficial or harmful content. There’s already an abundance of stories that revolve around sex, gratuitous violence, morally bankrupt characters, and even the occult. But what are these stories really doing to the minds of those consuming them? Countless studies in the social sciences have raised concerns about the effects of such content, yet much of modern storytelling seems determined to push the boundaries, often to the detriment of the audience.

I completed my MA in Creative Writing in 2022, and during my studies, I was introduced to the personal essay—something that deeply resonated with me. I specialized in creative nonfiction, and the personal essay became a form I cherished, a vessel for exploration. I often think of it like a camel on the Silk Road: capable of carrying an eclectic mix of quotes, news, stories, and personal anecdotes—whatever is needed to drive the narrative forward toward that powerful “aha!” moment.

If I had to name a single book that has profoundly influenced my approach to writing, it would be Henning Mankell’s Quicksand: What it Means to be a Human Being. It’s not his well-known crime fiction, but his collection of personal essays that left a lasting impact on me. Writing courses often stress the need for tension, insisting that it’s essential for holding a reader’s attention. And while that’s true to an extent, I’ve found that much of what’s marketed as “tension” today is just an excuse for ugliness, designed to shock rather than engage the reader on a deeper level.

What I learned from Mankell’s essays is that you don’t need overt conflict or sensationalism to craft something compelling. His writing draws you in, not with tricks or cheap thrills, but with genuine insight and reflection. It’s about life’s complexities, not life’s staged dramas. I’m often put off by modern television dramas that insist on major conflict every five minutes, as if we, the viewers, have no patience for anything else. It feels manipulative, like the writer is constantly trying to pull strings rather than trusting the strength of the story itself.

That’s not to say conflict doesn’t have its place—of course, it does. Any writing course will tell you that conflict is essential, especially in fiction. Life itself has its moments of struggle, and the hero’s journey depends on those peaks and valleys of tension to push the narrative forward. But surely, like all things, conflict is best in moderation. Too much of it, and the story becomes a mere exercise in endurance, rather than a meaningful exploration of human experience.

So, what kinds of stories do we need more of? In my view, we need more writing like Mankell’s Quicksand—writing that can captivate and resonate without being drowned in conflict for conflict’s sake. Stories that offer depth, nuance, and insight into what it truly means to be human, without relying on gratuitous violence or contrived tension. We need more stories that nourish, that challenge the mind without assaulting the senses, and that leave us better, more thoughtful people than when we first picked them up.

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The Prose

"It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour. The sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two. Jesus, crying with a loud voice, said, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” Having said this, he breathed his last.

 When the centurion saw what was done, he glorified God, saying, “Certainly this was a righteous man.”  All the multitudes that came together to see this, when they saw the things that were done, returned home beating their breasts. All his acquaintances and the women who followed with him from Galilee stood at a distance, watching these things."

*****

 The passage is from the Book of Luke chapter 23: 44-49 in the World English Bible. It’s one of the most powerful moments in the Bible, isn’t it? The scene opens with this eerie, unsettling darkness that falls over the land in the middle of the day. It’s as if the whole world is responding to what’s happening—like nature itself knows something monumental is taking place. And then you get this stark image of the temple veil tearing in two. For people back then, that veil wasn’t just a piece of fabric—it represented the separation between humanity and God. The moment it tears, it's as if the barrier between heaven and earth is being ripped open, signalling that something has changed forever.

 And then Jesus speaks, with his last words being both a cry of surrender and trust: "Father, into your hands I commit my spirit." You can feel the weight of that. He’s not just physically giving up his life, but spiritually handing himself over to God. It’s such an intimate, deeply human moment. He’s been through unimaginable suffering, and yet his last act is one of trust in his Father.

Then there’s the centurion—of all people—who looks up at Jesus and realizes, “This was a righteous man.” It’s unexpected, isn’t it? Here’s a Roman soldier, part of the machinery that just crucified Jesus, and even he can’t ignore what’s happening. He glorifies God. It’s a recognition of something beyond just a man dying on a cross. The sheer gravity of the moment strikes him, and it’s like he’s speaking for the reader, too—like we’re meant to realize that something far bigger is going on.

And then, the crowds. They came to watch, out of curiosity or even cruelty, but by the end, they’re leaving in this strange silence, beating their chests in sorrow or guilt. There’s something haunting about that—the way the spectacle of death turns into this moment of collective realization. Everyone feels it, even if they don’t fully understand it.

Meanwhile, the people who loved Jesus—the women who followed him, his close friends—they stand at a distance, watching. You can imagine their heartbreak, their helplessness. They’re not just onlookers; they’re people who’ve been with him, who’ve shared meals and life with him, and now they’re witnessing this unbearable loss. They don’t say anything, but their silent presence says everything. It’s a grief that’s too deep for words.

All of it—the darkness, the tearing veil, Jesus’ final words, the centurion’s confession, the crowd’s change of heart—it pulls you in. You feel like you’re there, standing among the crowd, witnessing something that transcends the ordinary. It’s a moment where the physical and the spiritual collide, and it leaves you thinking, “What just happened?”

What just happened? Indeed.