Personal Blogs

And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him

Micah 4:4

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There’s a moment when the atmosphere shifts—subtle to most, but unmistakable to me. The air thickens, emotions fill the space, and I feel them as if they’re my own. Unspoken words hang like storm clouds, simmering frustrations quietly churn, and the German word Weltschmerz—the pain of the world—takes hold.

This is life as an empath.

For those of us with finely tuned emotional senses, we don’t just witness others' feelings; we absorb them. When tension fills the room, it engulfs me before anyone speaks. My instinctive reaction is to withdraw, to escape the invisible burden pressing down. For years, I thought this response was something to suppress, but I’ve come to understand it’s a core part of who I am.

Yet, being an empath is often misunderstood. In religious settings, where compassion should prevail, I’ve frequently encountered the dismissive phrase, “You’re too sensitive.” This form of gaslighting dismisses genuine emotional awareness as a flaw rather than recognizing its value. Bible principles are sometimes misapplied, used to invalidate emotions rather than support them, as if being attuned to others' pain is a stumbling block rather than an opportunity for deeper connection.

Sensitivity is both a gift and a challenge. It allows me to connect with people in profound ways, feeling their joys, sorrows, and fears—even when they try to hide them. But that same sensitivity makes me vulnerable to discord. When tensions rise, I bear the brunt of emotional turbulence—whether it’s anger, frustration, or resentment.

I’ve learned to respect the need to step away—not to abandon others, but to protect myself. There’s no shame in leaving an emotionally charged room to regain balance. Staying in such an environment only drains my strength. Sensitivity, while a strength, can become overwhelming when exposed to too much negativity.

For a long time, I envied those who seemed untouched by tension, able to brush off conflict or remain indifferent. But I’ve come to accept that my sensitivity is part of who I am. It enables me to offer comfort when it’s needed most or to understand someone’s pain without them having to speak.

I no longer apologize for who I am. Sensitivity isn’t a defect; it’s a way of seeing the world more clearly. Walking out of a room full of tension isn’t about avoiding people—it’s about restoring my peace so I can continue offering empathy in a world that so often needs it. In this broken world, only God’s future Kingdom will bring the ultimate restoration. Thy Kingdom come.

And they have sat each under his vine,

And under his fig tree,

And there is no one troubling him,

For the mouth of Jehovah of Hosts has spoken.

Micah 4:4

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing

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I was only a boy when my music teacher introduced me to the hauntingly beautiful music of Edvard Grieg. It was the kind of music that reaches deep into your soul and stirs something ancient and unnameable. Grieg’s Peer Gynt Suite, especially Morning and In the Hall of the Mountain King, carried me far away, beyond the confines of the classroom, into a place where mountains stretched endlessly toward the heavens and fjords cut through the earth like jagged wounds of breath-taking beauty. That day, I was struck by a peculiar feeling—a homesickness for Scandinavia, as if I had lived there in some other time. I felt, with an intensity that has stayed with me all my life, that I was born in the wrong country.

The Germans have a word for this: Fernweh. It translates as a kind of homesickness but can have a twist. Instead of pining for a place you've been, it describes a longing for somewhere you've never visited. It's the pull of an unfamiliar land that somehow feels more like home than the ground beneath your feet.

As a boy, I couldn’t have understood Fernweh in such terms, but I felt it keenly. It was as if Grieg’s music unlocked a door within me, leading to a distant, mist-shrouded land I had yet to see but already loved. The ache that came with it was as real as homesickness, a longing so profound that it almost felt like loss. To this day, when I hear Grieg’s compositions, that sensation returns—a yearning for mountains I’ve never climbed, forests I’ve never wandered, and the crisp, cold air of Scandinavia that I’ve never breathed but know in my bones.

This feeling isn’t unique, though it is deeply personal. Whilst reading at the dentist yesterday, I read about the story of Pablo the Penguin from Disney’s The Three Caballeros fascinated me. Pablo, living in the icy expanse of Antarctica, dreams of warmth. He builds a little boat and sails toward the tropics, yearning for sunshine and palm trees. But once he reaches the warm seas of his dreams, something unexpected happens. He feels homesick. He misses the icy winds of Antarctica, the very place he had been so desperate to leave behind.

Pablo’s story resonates with me because it captures the paradox of longing. We yearn for something different, something distant and elusive, and yet, when we reach that place, there’s a chance we might long for the familiarity of where we began. I’ve often wondered if I would feel the same if I lived in Scandinavia. Would my heart still yearn for those fjords and snowy landscapes, or would I find myself pining for the rugged coasts and rolling hills of Scotland?

Like Pablo, I’ve come to understand that homesickness, whether for a place we know or one we imagine, is part of the human experience. It speaks to a deeper truth about us: we are creatures of longing. We seek out beauty, peace, and belonging, sometimes in distant lands or in the melodies of foreign composers. But this longing is often as much about the journey as it is about the destination.

For me, Scandinavia is a place where my soul feels it belongs, even though my body has only been there a few times. The mountains and fjords I dreamed of as a child feel as real to me as my own home. I wonder if this is because there is a part of us, perhaps, that has roots in many places. Some of those roots are nurtured by the landscapes we live in, while others are stirred by the music we hear, the stories we tell, or the dreams we dream. Additionally, my surname is Celtic where a rich history of Scandinavian connection once waved over these landscapes. Who knows if this rich connection is still impeded in our psyche.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Fernweh truly is: the recognition that we belong not just to one place, but to many. It is the ache of knowing there are pieces of ourselves scattered across the world, waiting for us to find them, in countries we’ve never visited, in melodies we’ve never heard, and in the hearts of people we’ve yet to meet.

Pablo may have longed for the warmth of the tropics, only to miss the cold of Antarctica, but perhaps that’s the nature of longing itself. It moves us forward, reminding us of the places that call to our souls, while always leaving room for the pull of home—wherever that might be.

My friends and I got to talking about God's future plans. Will faithful humans go to heaven or earth? Could the future Paradise that Jesus spoke of be somewhere that has not been revealed to us yet.? I am not sure. But one thing is sure: we will not be homesick.

You open your hand,

    and satisfy the desire of every living thing.

Psalm 145:16 WEB

"Humans are like two primates fighting over a banana and wrecking the garden in the process."

$14 trillion dollars per year spent on war

Primo Levi, in his profound work The Drowned and the Saved, writes of what he called the "grey zone" within Auschwitz. At first glance, life in the prison camp might seem sharply divided into two groups: the persecuted and their oppressors. But the reality was far more complex. Levi wrote that one might expect to find some measure of solidarity among those who shared the same terrible fate, but instead, the camp was fractured by countless divisions. The enemy, he said, was not only outside but also inside, among the prisoners themselves.

Isn't it unsettling how, whether in the street, the classroom, the family  the workplace, or even in the extreme setting of a prison camp, humans so often seem driven to create barriers, foster hatred, and build walls of division?

I live in Scotland, and I see constant division between Scotland and England, Glasgow and Edinburgh, Celtic and Rangers and teenagers creating gangs and fighting other teens in nearby streets.

Despite sharing the same DNA, the impulse to turn against one another runs deep. Where does this darkness come from? I believe it springs from within—greed, selfishness, and hatred—all the qualities that degrade our shared humanity. Evil is the absence of Good.

There’s a story of an American Indian elder, Achei, teaching his grandson about life’s inner struggle.

"My child," he said, "there are two wolves fighting inside you. One is driven by greed, selfishness, hatred, and deceit. He is full of bitterness and anger."

"He is compassionate, humble, and selfless, full of love and good intentions."

The boy thought for a moment, then asked, "Achei, which wolf will win the fight?"

"The one you choose to feed," Achei replied.

This ancient wisdom echoes a profound truth found in Galatians 5:22-23, where the harvest of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-discipline.

In the end, we are all capable of both good and evil, but it’s up to us to decide which forces we nurture. Let us choose to feed the better wolf—the one that reflects the love and goodness we’re all meant to carry within.

We live in a deeply broken world, but we can all play our part until God's Kingdom comes.

God bless your efforts!

https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2021/02/war-violence-costs-each-human-5-a-day/#:~:text=Conflict%20and%20violence%20cost%20the%20world%20more%20than,a%20day%20for%20every%20person%20on%20the%20planet.

He “gives life to the dead and calls into being what does not yet exist.”

Romans 4:17

I am grateful for the use of the image provided by https://unsplash.com/@loukhs

I guess that you, like me, got the primordial soup theory served up to you? Oh boy—I can’t believe they are still serving this despite all we know, or more to the point, all we don’t know.

The idea was simple: life began billions of years ago in a warm pond filled with basic chemicals, and through a combination of chance and the right conditions, these chemicals formed the first building blocks of life. We were told this was how it all started, but as I grew older, I realized that this theory, despite being taught as fact, has never been conclusively proven. It’s a hypothesis, an educated guess, and yet it continues to be fed to people as though it explains everything.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xg4DjvDYQXw&t=18s

But even then, deep down, I felt there was more to it. From an early age, I had this ache—a yearning to know who created the stars, not just how they came to be. I wanted to understand the why behind it all.

I remember being captivated by the night sky as a child, looking up at the stars and feeling a sense of awe. Who could have placed them there? What power could have brought such beauty into existence? The explanations I received in school didn’t seem to satisfy that deeper question. Science could tell me about stars burning millions of miles away, but it couldn’t touch the ache within me, that pull toward something—or someone—bigger.

It reminds me of a simple analogy: imagine walking along the beach and stumbling across someone doing the Romeo and Juliet thing on the beach—a heart shape etched into the sand. None of us would ever conclude that the wind or the waves just happened to carve that heart. We’d know, instinctively, that someone had drawn it. Design needs a designer. It’s such a simple truth, and yet, when we look at the far greater complexity of the universe, we often overlook it. If a heart in the sand points to a child’s hand, how much more should the intricate design of the cosmos point to a Creator?

As we learn more about life and the universe, the evidence of design becomes even more overwhelming. Consider DNA, for instance. It’s like a language—an incredibly complex code that determines everything about us, from our physical traits to how our bodies function. It’s far more advanced than any man-made software, and yet some still want to believe it happened by chance. Or take photon splitting, where scientists have discovered that when you split a photon into two, the behaviour of one photon is instantly mirrored by the other, no matter the distance between them. This phenomenon boggles the mind and speaks to the deep, interconnected complexity of creation.

The more we discover about the universe and life, the more intricate and finely tuned everything appears. Yet somehow, we’re expected to believe that all this complexity, all of this design, happened without a designer? It doesn’t sit well with me.

And here is where the problem exists for some. Society  is prepared to accept any theory other than God. Could that be that when you accept the God hypothesis, we have to do a deep down search of what all that implies? A responsibility, a change in life's pattern Romans 12:2.

But that may be too simple. Many have a genuine struggle because of human suffering, but neither do we want to throw the baby out with the bathwater and that's a subject best tackled by another forthcoming blog.

As a Christian, I believe the design we see in the world around us reflects God’s creative power. He’s the one who “calls into being things that were not,” as Paul writes in Romans 4:17. Science may offer insights into how things work, but it’s God who gives everything meaning. The stars, the galaxies, the intricate details of life—they all point to Him, the ultimate designer. And that ache I felt as a child? It was the beginning of my journey to know the One who placed the stars in the sky.

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The one who is gracious to the poor lends to^[ the Lord,

and the Lord  will repay him for his good deed.

 Proverbs 19:7 (New English Bible).

My wife asked me what was my happiest childhood memory?

It was the day my two friends came and asked if I was coming with them. It was a spring morning, and we took the ferry across to Kelvin to visit the museum.

We were there for several hours and on our return, we rubbed our tummies with hunger. A man said, ‘Here’s a half-crown, buy yourselves ice-cream.’

We jumped up and down singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’ Then… we stopped…went silent. The man told us to buy ice-cream.

But he just smiled, and we jumped up and down again singing ‘Chips, chips, chips!’

And I would have to say, that was my happiest childhood memory; the day the kind man smiled and thought it was okay to buy chips.

     “We are faced with a moral issue,” the evangelist said

     “A moral what?” the man asked.

     “A moral issue. Let me illustrate: If I was to say I am stronger than you we could settle the matter easily. We could arm wrestle.”

     “Okay, what’s the point your making?”

     “A moral issue is a bit more complicated. I f I was to say that I am more honest than you, it would take our lifetimes to settle the matter. And so it goes with the human family in their relationship with the creator.”

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

Bitachon  (Hebrew) refers to a deep spiritual trust and confidence in God that he is in control and that things will unfold according to divine will, regardless of what we observe around us.

*****

 As I sit and reflect on the meaning of the Hebrew word Bitachon—trust, confidence, or assurance in God—I am struck by how it resonates with my own journey. We live in a world filled with uncertainty, imperfection, and suffering. But for me, Bitachon is the reminder that there is a greater force at work, a divine assurance that, despite all appearances, God is in control. This trust is not a passive belief; it is an active posture of faith that steadies me, especially when the world feels chaotic and unjust.

I wasn’t born with an understanding of Bitachon. My path to faith began at 23, a time when I had parted ways with friends and was searching for something more—something that could give my life deeper meaning and purpose. I was seeking God, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. And through scripture, particularly through the lives of people like Job, I began to understand what it meant to trust in God’s overarching plan, even when that plan is obscured by suffering.

The story of Job in the Bible has always moved me. Job was a man who suffered for righteousness' sake, not because of anything he had done wrong, but because he was caught in a much larger moral issue. God allowed Job to experience deep loss, but even in his anguish, Job spoke of a future hope, a “renewal” of life (Job 14:14). This idea of suffering being undone, of renewal and restoration, is something I hold onto tightly. Like Job, I’ve seen suffering—not just in my own life, but in the lives of others. The key question for me has always been, “Why does God allow this?” And the answer lies, I believe, in the very essence of Bitachon: God is in control, even when we can’t see it.

Romans 8:20-23 provides another layer of understanding for me. In these verses, Paul speaks about the creation being subjected to futility, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay. This speaks to the imperfect world we are all born into—a world that groans as it awaits redemption. We are all on a level playing field, born into a society marred by imperfection and suffering. But the fact that we suffer does not mean that God has abandoned us. Rather, it means that we have the opportunity to seek Him, to prove ourselves worthy of eternal life, as Job did. God is always present, guiding the process, even when it feels like everything is unravelling.

The moral issue at the heart of our existence is something I’ve come to accept as part of God’s plan. It reminds me of an illustration I’ve often thought about: if I were to say that I am stronger than you, we could easily settle the matter by arm wrestling. The winner would be clear. But if I were to say that I am more honest than you, well, that’s not something we could determine in a single contest. It would take our entire lives to assess—through our actions, choices, and the way we navigate the challenges life throws at us. In the same way, God allows humanity to live out this moral dilemma, to prove through our lives whether we trust Him, whether we are honest, kind, and righteous. And that process takes time.

Bitachon assures me that no matter how overwhelming life’s moral dilemmas feel, God’s sovereignty remains unchanged. While we are given the freedom to make our choices, God remains in control, working all things together for good—even when it’s not immediately obvious. It’s easy to feel lost when looking at the history of humanity—the wars, the suffering, the injustice—but Bitachon reminds me that history is not without purpose. God’s hand has always been guiding the grand narrative, allowing space for humanity to prove its integrity, its honesty, and its worthiness of His eternal promise.

For me, Bitachon is a deeply personal trust in God’s plan. It means knowing that the suffering and imperfection of this world are not the final word. Like Job, I may experience trials and heartache, but I also hold onto the hope of renewal. And like Paul, I believe that all of creation is waiting in eager expectation for that final redemption. This trust sustains me, even when the world feels out of control, because I know that God’s control is never out of reach.

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

 "Dragonfly catcher,

how far have you gone today

in your wandering?"

Chiyo-ni’s haiku speaks of a child catching dragonflies, capturing a tender moment of innocence and play. Yet, there’s an underlying sense of distance and loss, as she had lost her own child. Haiku often distill life’s most profound moments, rooted in nature and impermanence. For poets like Matsuo Bashō, the fleeting beauty of life opens the door to contemplation and what might come after. In his final haiku, Bashō reflects on the end of life with acceptance:

"On a journey, ill,

my dream goes wandering

over withered fields."

Bashō, like a wandering minstrel, found in nature the human condition. His "withered fields" evoke life’s end, yet his dream continues, suggesting a journey beyond. This resonates with my own reflections on the soul’s path.

Yosa Buson, too, captured the sorrow of life’s passing in his haiku:

"The end of it all,

and weeping, in the midst of

the flowers blooming."

Here, the blooming flowers symbolize life’s rhythm, while weeping hints at grief. Even in sorrow, nature’s persistence seems to suggest hope—perhaps life, in some form, endures.

Kobayashi Issa, having lost many loved ones, also wrote of life’s fragility and the yearning for something more:

"This world of dew

is a world of dew—

and yet, and yet..."

Life, like dew, is fleeting, but Issa’s "and yet" leaves room for hope—perhaps there is something beyond the transient world.

Santōka Taneda, who lived a wandering life, also embraced this tension. In one haiku, he wrote:

"My begging bowl—

accepts the falling leaves

of this life."

The falling leaves symbolize the passage of time and acceptance of life’s end. The bowl, a symbol of humility, receives life’s final offering, reflecting the importance of accepting what comes next.

These haikus, rooted in nature and impermanence, invite us to contemplate life’s continuity beyond the physical.

Haiku, in its ability to distil life’s most profound experiences into a few words, leaves room for the mystery of what lies beyond. As I walk along the shore in the early morning, watching the waves rise and fall, I find myself thinking of Bashō’s dream, wandering over withered fields. And like Issa, I carry with me that quiet "and yet," as I continue to reflect on life, death, and the hope that there is something more waiting on the other side. These poets covertly and with considerable discomfort  flew against the concept of Mono no aware.

"Do not marvel at this, but the hour is coming in which all those in the graves will hear my voice and come out; those who have done good to a resurrection of life..." John 5: 28.

The psychologist leaned in slightly and asked, “What’s the capital of Scotland?”

“Edinburgh, of course,” he replied.

His next question caught him off guard: “And when was the last time you shared a meal with friends?”

Suddenly, a warm reel of memories began to play in his mind—a slow, cosy film where laughter mingled with the scent of food, and time seemed to stretch in the glow of shared company.

On What it Means to Be Human — Jim McCrory

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

But they shall sit every man under his vine and under his fig tree; 

and none shall make them afraid:

 for the mouth of the Lord of hosts hath spoken it.

Micah 4:4 (KJB)

Sobremesa: The Art of Lingering in a Fast-Paced World

In a world that glorifies speed and productivity, where our days are measured in schedules and deadlines, the Mexican tradition of sobremesastands out like a quiet rebellion. It’s a word I didn’t grow up with, but one that resonates deeply with the quieter rhythms of life I’ve come to cherish over time. Sobremesa is not just the time spent at the table after the meal is finished, but the celebration of togetherness, the shared moments that linger long after the last bite has been taken.

Growing up in Glasgow, meals were often practical affairs. The city moved to the rhythm of its shipyards and industries, and meals mirrored that pace. Food, in my childhood home, was sustenance—something to keep the body going before the next task. Yet, tucked into those hurried moments were the seeds of something slower, something closer to sobremesa. There were nights when conversation stretched long after the plates had been cleared, and I would find myself drawn into the world of my parents’ memories, stories of their childhoods, and the hardships and joys that shaped them. I didn’t know it then, but those moments—the laughter, the sighs, the comfortable silences—were fragments of what sobremesa embodies.

It wasn’t until later in life that I experienced a more intentional version of this tradition. My wife and I began to cherish slow Sunday afternoons, particularly when visiting friends. We would linger over cups of tea, talking about everything and nothing, as time seemed to slow to a comfortable crawl. The conversation wasn’t about achieving something or checking off a task; it was about presence, connection, and the shared human experience. In those moments, I realized that the space after the meal—the sobremesa—was just as nourishing as the food itself.

And here’s the beautiful thing: no matter how often we gathered, no matter how many times we shared those meals, we never tired of it. There was always something new to discuss, some story to revisit or some laughter to be had. It was as if these moments with loved ones, this time spent together after the meal, was something infinite in its appeal. I suspect that even if we lived forever, we would never tire of sitting down to a meal with family and friends. The act itself, like sobremesa, never grows old because it taps into something eternal—our deep need for connection, for communion with others.

There is something almost sacred about this time. In a world where so much is transactional, sobremesa asks nothing of us but our presence. It invites us to be, rather than do. To share, rather than compete. In this space, stories are passed on, wisdom is exchanged, and relationships deepen. It’s a practice that reminds me of the spiritual dimensions of community—the importance of staying a little longer, of listening a little more carefully, of allowing time to unfold naturally without rushing to the next thing.

As I reflect on this, I think about how much we lose when we hurry through life. In the push for efficiency, we forget the richness of connection, the joy of simply being with others. Sobremesa offers us an antidote to this, a reminder that some of the most meaningful moments happen when we let go of the need to be somewhere else.

Perhaps that’s why sobremesa feels so timely and timeless to me. In a culture often focused on what’s next, it offers the gift of now. It’s an invitation to linger, to engage in the deep human need for connection. And in a world where so many are isolated, where divisions grow wider, sobremesa reminds us that the simple act of sitting together, of sharing a moment, can be one of the most profound ways to foster community.

It is in the lingering that we find meaning, in the small, unhurried moments that reveal the fullness of our shared humanity. In those extended conversations after a meal, we are reminded that we were never meant to go through life alone, but in communion with others—whether over coffee, or tea, or something as simple as the warmth of another person’s presence.

And maybe, just maybe, the world could use a little more sobremesa. Because if we were made to live forever, we’d still look forward to those meals, still find joy in the company of those we love, still cherish the conversations that flow long after the last bite is taken. Some things, it seems, are timeless.

Image courtesy of Ryan Hutton at Unsplash

I suppose it must have been the late summer of 1962, Telstar by the Tornadoes had been playing on the radio. I spent the summer days on the idyllic Island of Bute on Scotland’s west coast. We had a rural cabin. It had no running water or electricity. My job was to fill up the water containers from the communal well. Cows would cautiously approach and stare. The smaller calves would shuffle through for front-row viewing. I found their curiosity compelling.

At dusk, we would light paraffin lamps to illuminate the nights. My father would read children’s books borrowed from the library: Chinese Folk Tales, Heidi and 1001 Nights. We were all ears as we ate freshly made pancakes with homemade jam and washed down with small glasses of sweet stout. The lamp caused a sibilant sound as it burned up kerosene. It flickered and fostered sleepiness. It finally slumbered for the evening, and we would retire.

I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; all of them. And I wondered if the Chinese farmer boys, or the Bedouin shepherd boys or the milk maids in the Swiss mountains were seeing and feeling the sense of awe that I felt in my heart as the universe entered in.

At dusk, I lay there in my bed watching the stars cascading through the window; every one of them and I was filled with a sense of awe in my heart as the universe entered my room.

*

Childhood memories like that visited me often and reminded me of my spiritual awareness from an early age, albeit in my own childish way.

I had an ache to know who created the stars, the moon, and the beautiful island that was so distant from my industrial town where idle men lingered on street corners like characters from a Loury painting. Where post-war tenements blocked natural light. Where unkempt dogs savaged through bins for scraps. Where it always seemed, there was better places to be raised.

Years later I read the following verse from the Bible,

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

    the moon and the stars, which you have ordained;

what is man, that you think of him?

    What is the son of man, that you care for him?

— Psalm 8:3, 4.

I live on Scotland's west coast where the Atlantic winds bend me but the colours make me young. I am  working in a book with a working title, On Being Human which juxtaposes my life with biblical wisdom. It's a way of expressing my thoughts regarding the more positive side of life including my Christian beliefs. I am a non-denominational Christian. I don't like the world I'm living in and I write to improve the world by creating my own vision of what humans should be.

Don't be shy; tell me why you came today and what makes you return. It's lonely here.

"Neurodivergence is not a deviation but a different kind of brilliance,

 lighting paths others may never see."

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@martinadams

We are all the same, but different. In view of this, one of the greatest challenges we face as humans is the temptation to misjudge others. From a Christian standpoint, we are called to show compassion, understanding, and love, but too often, we fall short. We see someone acting in a way we don’t understand, and instead of asking why or what might be happening in their life, we make assumptions. This is especially true when people are dealing with invisible challenges like manic depression, autism, dementia, or the effects of medications. These conditions, among others, can profoundly alter how a person behaves, and yet, they are often misunderstood.

The Bible speaks repeatedly about compassion, urging us to bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). This mandate isn’t just for the easy moments, when we can see why someone is struggling—it’s for the hard moments too, when we don’t understand their actions or responses. It’s easy to forget that people dealing with mental health struggles, neurodivergence, or the effects of aging are often not able to present themselves as we expect. They may not be themselves in the ways they or we are used to, and it takes patience and empathy to walk alongside them.

Autism for example can affect how people communicate, express emotions, and relate to others. The differences in behaviour might lead some to mistakenly label someone as aloof or difficult, but these judgments ignore the depth of experience and the richness of personality that lies beneath. When we consider the many ways, God has created each of us, with unique strengths and challenges, we are reminded that differences in behaviour or communication are not deficits—they are simply part of the spectrum of being human.

Consider those with manic depression (bipolar disorder). In their high moments, they may seem full of energy, optimism, and perhaps even reckless enthusiasm. In their lows, they may withdraw into deep sadness and silence, unable to interact or engage as they once did. From the outside, it might be easy to dismiss their behaviours as erratic or confusing, but what we fail to see is the battle they are fighting within their minds. If we could glimpse that internal struggle, perhaps our judgment would turn to compassion.

Dementia, too, presents its own unique set of challenges. A person who was once vibrant and articulate may now struggle with memory, words, and even recognizing loved ones. It can be heart-breaking to witness, but it’s also a powerful reminder of the fragility of life. Dementia strips away the layers we once relied on to understand someone’s personality, leaving behind only glimpses of the person they were. And yet, they are still children of God, deserving of our love and respect. Misjudging them or becoming impatient because they “aren’t who they used to be” reflects a misunderstanding of our Christian duty to care for the vulnerable.

Medication can also alter how people present themselves. Hormone therapies, psychiatric medications, and treatments for conditions like Alzheimer’s can have side effects that change moods, cognitive abilities, or energy levels. When we judge someone solely on the basis of their outward behaviour, we fail to recognize the medical, emotional, or psychological challenges they may be navigating. These individuals may not feel or act like themselves, but that doesn’t diminish their worth or the love they deserve.

As Christians, we are called to follow Christ’s example in how we treat others. Jesus was known for his tenderness toward those who were marginalized or misunderstood. He ate with tax collectors, healed the sick, and showed compassion to those who were often judged harshly by society. He saw beyond the surface, looking into people’s hearts and responding with love. His example reminds us that we, too, are called to love without conditions, to seek understanding before judgment, and to show grace in all things.

It is easy, in our fast-paced and often judgmental world, to forget the humanity behind someone’s actions. When we misjudge people because of things beyond their control—be it manic depression, autism, dementia, or the effects of medication—we are not only failing them, but we are also failing ourselves. We miss the opportunity to show Christ’s love in action, to extend grace, and to see the world through a lens of compassion rather than judgment.

It’s not always easy. When someone’s behaviour doesn’t make sense to us, or when their actions seem frustrating or confusing, our natural inclination might be to pull away or make assumptions. But as Christians, we are called to something higher. We are called to empathy. To patience. To love.

In the end, misjudging others diminishes our shared humanity. The people who seem difficult or different are often the ones who need our understanding the most. They are God’s creation, just like we are, navigating the complexities of life in ways we might never fully understand. But that’s the point—our job isn’t to understand everything, but to love through it all. And when we do, we reflect the heart of Christ in a world that desperately needs it.

"Bear one another's burdens and thus you will fulfil the law of Christ" (BSB).

Image courtesy of https://unsplash.com/@zoshuacolah

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

Image by https://unsplash.com/@nasa

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)

“Resolve to be tender with the young, 

compassionate with the aged, 

sympathetic with the striving, 

and tolerant of the weak and the wrong. 

Sometime in life you will have been all of these.”

― George Washington Carver

https://unsplash.com/@skyesagisi

From an early age, I felt the emotions of others more intensely than most, as though they were my own. Being an empath brings blessings and a challenges—a life where the emotional currents of the world are unavoidable, flowing in and out of my awareness. It enables me to form deep connections with others, but often leaves me feeling overwhelmed and misunderstood, especially by those nearest to me.

One experience that will always stay with me is the day I heard of a tragic accident involving a family in England. A mother and her two children, on their way to church, were killed, leaving the father to face unimaginable grief. Although I had never met them, I felt the weight of his sorrow as if I were standing in his shoes. The devastation swept over me in waves, his loss becoming mine, and I carried it for days. It wasn’t merely sympathy—it was a deep, overwhelming connection to his suffering, a burden I felt called to bear. I found myself praying for him, hoping that somehow, across the distance, my empathy might offer him a small measure of comfort.

This story encapsulates what it means to live as an empath. It’s a constant, often painful, openness to the emotional world around me, where even the unspoken feelings of strangers become part of my inner life. But this sensitivity has not always been recognised, even within those closest, I’ve often felt misjudged. Those close to me have assumed that my emotional awareness makes me resilient enough to manage everything, yet they seldom see the toll it takes. And when confronted with antagonistic, aggressive behaviour, even when passive, I instinctively withdraw. I cannot thrive in environments where tension and hostility—whether overt or subtle—prevail. In such situations, I often find myself making excuses to leave, seeking refuge from the emotional conflict that drains my spirit. I need space from those who fuel their interactions with aggression, for it pulls me into a storm of emotional turmoil that I cannot sustain.

Being part of a religion was also challenging. One would expect to find people with a Christlike spirit of compassion, and there were many. However, there were also many who seemed unchanged, with no evidence of the transformation faith is supposed to bring. This disconnect between expectation and reality often left me feeling disillusioned.

In this way, my journey echoes that of other well-known empaths. Princess Diana, admired for her deep connection with people, often spoke of how misunderstood she felt in her private life. Oprah Winfrey, too, has shared how the stories of others weigh on her, often leaving her to carry more than she can express. Like them, I know what it means to care deeply and yet feel as though the world doesn’t always reciprocate that care in a way that sustains me.

Through all of this, I’ve learned to navigate my empathic nature carefully. I distance myself from people who antagonise or seek to manipulate, recognising that my own peace depends on a safe emotional space. It’s a survival instinct—to avoid environments where emotional aggression, whether direct or passive, threatens to drown out my inner calm.

While being an empath can sometimes feel isolating, it is also my way of truly connecting with the world. It has given me a deeper understanding of what it means to be human, to feel, to grieve, and to love. Even when misjudged or misunderstood, I find comfort in knowing that this sensitivity is my gift, a means through which I can share in the struggles and joys of others, offering silent empathy when words are not enough.

Writing:  © 2024 Jim McCrory