Personal Blogs

Why is there something rather than nothing?

Why are we further away from abiogenesis than ever before?

Why is our planet so beautiful and fit for habitation?

Why would Altruism exist in an evolutionary world?

How come numbers work?

How come we have an anthropic planet?

Why are we moved by a sunset, wonderful music and seeing others happy?

 Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

The Spirit of Exclusion: Why Science Without God Falls Short

Imagine a painter meticulously crafting a masterpiece. Each stroke tells a story, and the interplay of colours reveals purpose and meaning. Now imagine someone stepping into the gallery, admiring the painting, but insisting it came about by accident. They marvel at the complexity of the brushstrokes, hypothesize about the physics of paint application, and yet refuse to acknowledge the artist. This, it seems, is where much of modern science finds itself—standing in awe of the universe while denying the existence of the painter behind it.

Science, at its best, is a glorious endeavour. It’s a tool that has helped humanity uncover the laws of nature, cure diseases, and explore the farthest reaches of space. But there’s a troubling trend: a spirit of exclusion where, as long as God is left out, any explanation will suffice. It’s as though science, once humble and curious, has decided that it can go it alone, refusing even to consider the idea of a Creator.

The Blindfold of Methodological Naturalism

Science today often operates like a detective investigating a crime scene but refusing to consider one crucial suspect. Methodological naturalism—the principle that science seeks natural causes—has become not just a tool but a rigid ideology. It’s like building a house with only a hammer, refusing to acknowledge that other tools might be necessary.

This approach has produced remarkable results, but it’s also left science boxed in, unable to answer life’s deepest questions. Why does the universe exist at all? Why is it so finely tuned for life? Why do we, mere collections of atoms, yearn for meaning? These questions lie outside the reach of a microscope or telescope, yet they are the ones that matter most.

The Limits of Science

To be clear, science is brilliant at what it does. It can explain the mechanics of how things work—how stars form, how DNA replicates, how water boils. But it stumbles when asked to explain why things exist in the first place. It’s like being able to describe the ingredients of a cake without understanding why someone baked it.

Take, for example, the fine-tuning of the universe. Physicists have discovered that the constants of nature—things like the strength of gravity or the charge of an electron—are calibrated with such precision that even the tiniest deviation would make life impossible. The odds are staggering, like flipping a coin and landing on heads a trillion times in a row. Yet rather than consider the possibility of design, some scientists propose the existence of countless other universes—none of which we can observe—to explain this fine-tuning. It’s an elegant-sounding idea, but isn’t it more like sweeping the evidence under the rug than solving the mystery?

The Bias Against Design

There’s a deeper issue here: a bias against design. Some scientists, like Richard Lewontin, have openly admitted that their commitment to materialism drives them to exclude God, regardless of where the evidence might lead. This bias is like a jury deciding the verdict before the trial even begins. It’s not science—it’s ideology masquerading as science.

This bias also leads to absurdities. Consider the origin of life. The complexity of even the simplest cell is mind-boggling, filled with information-rich molecules that resemble software code. Bill Gates once remarked that DNA is like a computer program, only far more advanced than any software we’ve created. Yet some scientists would rather believe that life emerged spontaneously from a “primordial soup” than entertain the possibility of an intelligent designer.

If you have proof of God, why would you deny it?

At its core, this exclusionary spirit reflects human pride. To admit the existence of a Creator is to admit that we are not the ultimate authority—that we are accountable to something greater than ourselves. 

This pride is dangerous. It blinds us to the evidence of design all around us and leaves us searching for answers in all the wrong places. It’s like trying to navigate a map without acknowledging the compass in your hand.

A Symphony Without a Conductor

The irony is that the very success of science points to something beyond itself. The laws of nature are so orderly, so precise, that they resemble a symphony. Yet a symphony without a conductor is unthinkable. The more we learn about the universe, the more it seems to whisper of a Designer—a mind behind the mathematics, a purpose behind the particles.

Even Albert Einstein, no theist in the traditional sense, remarked, “The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible.” Why should a random, purposeless cosmos be so beautifully ordered? Why should the human mind be capable of understanding it? These questions point beyond science to something—or Someone—greater.

Science Needs God

The exclusion of God from science doesn’t make science more rational; it makes it less so. It’s like trying to assemble a puzzle while deliberately leaving out the central piece. Science without God becomes a house of cards, impressive but precarious, unable to support the weight of life’s biggest questions.

The universe, in all its vastness and complexity, is not a closed system. It is, as the Bible says, a testament to God’s glory. “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands” (Psalm 19:1). Science, when pursued humbly, can help us marvel at that glory. But when it refuses to consider the Painter behind the masterpiece, it misses the point entirely.

It’s time for science to take off its blindfold, to embrace not just the how but the why, and to acknowledge that behind the symphony of creation stands a Conductor. Only then will science truly fulfil its purpose: not just to uncover facts but to point us toward truth.

But ask the animals, and they will instruct you;

ask the birds of the air, and they will tell you.

Or speak to the earth, and it will teach you;

let the fish of the sea inform you.

Which of all these does not know

that the hand of the LORD has done this?

The life of every living thing is in His hand,

as well as the breath of all mankind.

Does not the ear test words

as the tongue tastes its food?

Wisdom is found with the elderly,

and understanding comes with long life.

Job 12:7-10 (BSB).

"God bless the man who invented sleep" 

 Sancho Panza in Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes. 

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

So, there we were, somewhere between 55 and 60 degrees North. My wife and I mingling with our friends and soaking up the present like sponges. Our British/Indian friend, like straight from a Bollywood movie,  decides  to teach the room the "Bollywood Dance" (बॉलीवुड डांस). 

         “Turn the handle and change the light bulb.” Voilà! or should I write Dekho! Just like that, everyone transforms into backup dancers for "Kala Chashma," but without the invisible sunglasses.

Next up, the Mexicans take centre stage with Salsa moves so intricate and fast, I’m convinced they’ve secretly replaced their limbs with blenders set to "Chop." The dance looks like a fun and dangerous game of Twister—one false move, and someone’s visiting the A&E. (Warning: Not suitable for those on beta blockers).

Then, the younger generation decides to show off their best school dance moves, pulling out a skilful “Gay Gordons” to the sound of the Brolum.

It's an energetic mix of skipping, hopping, and what looks suspiciously like inventing new ways to trip over their own feet while somehow making it look cool.

After witnessing this multi-cultural dance-off, I drag my exhausted self home acquiescing  with the sentiment of Sancho Panza and the light bulb goes out.

“I kept always two books in my pocket, one to read, one to write in.”

― Robert Louis Stevenson

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

During the turbulent period of Covid-19, I embarked on a master’s in creative writing. At the time, I was seeking to understand what it truly means to be human. Listening to and reading various series on the subject. I often found that the perspectives shared were confined within narrow bounds.

To encapsulate humanity in its essence, one need look no further than Micah 6:8, which reads:

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.”

These words resonated deeply, inspiring me to begin keeping a writer’s notebook, juxtaposed with my biographical reflections.

Throughout my studies, I observed that mankind appears to be following a downhill trajectory, losing sight of our innate goodness and potential for kindness.

This concern drove me to document my thoughts and experiences, hoping to capture a more comprehensive understanding of the human condition. Some of these reflections, in shorter extracts, are found in this blog, and the developed thoughts will come later in my book, A Writer's Notebook: Reflections on Being Human.

A happy New Year to all you 233,000 visitors who have accessed this blog over the past two years, and may you learn to love kindness and goodness. The source of true happiness. 

"If we are not able to ask skeptical questions,

 to interrogate those who tell us that something is true,

to be skeptical of those in authority,

 then we are up for grabs for the next charlatan, political or religious, who comes rambling along."

Carl Sagan

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Lessons in Literature: Critical Thinking

In an age where information is abundant but often deceptive, critical thinking has become an indispensable skill. It is the ability to analyse, evaluate, and discern truth from falsehood, which allows us to navigate a world filled with weasel words, pretzel logic, and ad hominem attacks. Literature has long been a powerful medium to teach and reinforce critical thinking skills. Through engaging narratives and thought-provoking themes, novels and non-fiction works can illuminate the dangers of deception and the importance of intellectual vigilance.

Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow provides a foundational understanding of how our minds work. Kahneman distinguishes between two modes of thought: the fast, intuitive system, and the slow, deliberate system. By exploring the cognitive biases and errors that can arise from our fast-thinking system, Kahneman encourages readers to slow down, question their assumptions, and engage in more analytical thinking. This book teaches readers to be aware of their mental shortcuts and to strive for a more reasoned approach to problem-solving.

George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four is a seminal work that explores the manipulation of truth and the consequences of unchecked authority. Set in a dystopian society where the government controls information and enforces strict conformity, the novel serves as a stark reminder of the importance of critical thinking. Orwell’s protagonist, Winston Smith, struggles to maintain his individuality and sanity in a world where reality is constantly distorted. Nineteen Eighty-Four emphasizes the need for scepticism and the courage to challenge oppressive systems.

In The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark, Carl Sagan champions scientific scepticism and the pursuit of knowledge. Sagan warns against the dangers of pseudoscience and irrational beliefs, urging readers to adopt a scientific mindset. Through compelling anecdotes and logical arguments, Sagan illustrates how critical thinking can protect us from deception and guide us towards truth. His work is a call to arms for intellectual rigor and open-minded inquiry.

Ben Goldacre’s Bad Science exposes the ways in which data can be manipulated and misrepresented. By dissecting various instances of bad science, Goldacre empowers readers to scrutinize scientific claims and develop their own critical thinking skills. The book highlights the importance of evidence-based reasoning and the need to question authority, especially when it comes to health and wellness.

Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business examines how media shapes public discourse and influences our thinking. Postman argues that the medium of television has transformed serious public discourse into mere entertainment. He urges readers to be critical of the information they consume and to recognize the impact of media on their perceptions. By fostering media literacy, Postman’s work underscores the necessity of critical thinking in a media-saturated world.

Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World presents a dystopian vision of a society where critical thinking is suppressed, and individuals are controlled through manipulation and conditioning. Huxley’s novel serves as a cautionary tale, highlighting the dangers of complacency and the loss of individuality. The characters in Brave New World exemplify the consequences of a society that values conformity over critical thought.

These works of literature provide valuable lessons on the importance of critical thinking. They encourage readers to question assumptions, analyse arguments, and recognize deceptive tactics. In today's world, where we face myriad forms of deception that challenge our reasoning and ethical clarity, these lessons are more relevant than ever. By embracing critical thinking, we can navigate the complexities of our world with wisdom and integrity, avoiding the subtle traps that seek to ensnare us.

Who are your favourite characters in literature and film? Perhaps Bruno from The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird, Oscar Schindler in Schindler’s List, Gandalf the Grey in The Lord of the Rings, Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, Abbé Faria in The Count of Monte Cristo, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, or even Othello in Shakespeare’s play of the same name?

Did you notice the common trait they share? They are all embodiments of kindness. But why are we naturally drawn to characters like these? Why don’t we gravitate towards characters like Amon Göth from Schindler’s List, Fernand de Morcerf from The Count of Monte Cristo, or Iago from Othello?

The answer lies in a profound force that influences us all—a benign force known as the Law of Universal Justice. As Martin Luther King, Jr. eloquently stated, "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice." This principle is deeply connected to our attraction to noble characters. If we were merely biological entities, driven solely by survival instincts in a cold, indifferent universe, concepts like love, kindness, and self-sacrifice wouldn’t exist. Good and evil would lose their meanings entirely. We wouldn’t be drawn to moral characters because morality itself would be irrelevant. Good and evil can only exist in a moral universe.

But if goodness exists, how do we define it? Why do we feel compelled to do good if our existence is merely a result of chance, dictated by the "survival of the fittest"? Consider how one person gives generously and finds happiness, while another inflicts pain and suffers from a guilty conscience. The difference lies in that gentle nudge we all feel—a natural inclination toward what’s right.

Romans 2:14-15 (NIV) captures this idea succinctly:

"Indeed, when Gentiles, who do not have the law, do by nature things required by the law, they are a law for themselves, even though they do not have the law. They show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts sometimes accusing them and at other times even defending them.”

Interestingly, science has also uncovered the therapeutic value of random acts of kindness, contrasting sharply with the outcomes of random acts of evil. So, why do we lean toward kindness? Perhaps it’s because we are inherently designed to do so.

"There is something in travelling that makes one vain. 

The feeling of the traveller is like that of a love affair 

when one has to part from an agreeable companion."

Mary Wollstonecraft

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Hygge for me is a quiet train or plane with a good book.

So, when my wife and I boarded the train to Edinburgh from Queen Street on Boxing day, we had a mutual understanding: find a quiet section. As we stepped onto the train, my heart sank—my worst fears were realized. The carriage was filled with young people.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m fond of young people. But in today’s fractured society, the evidence of its brokenness seemed laid bare on this train. Some talked loudly—several at once—and no one was really listening to the others. A few seats away, one lad had his feet sprawled across the seats. And scattered throughout were the usual suspects—kids glued to their screens, watching videos without headphones, as if the rest of us didn’t exist. It felt, frankly, dystopian.

We resigned ourselves to the fact that our quiet, idyllic reading time wouldn’t happen. Instead, we found seats near a respectable-looking couple who seemed to be tourists, though the man, as we soon learned, was back home in Scotland for a visit.

What followed was something unexpected—a conversation so engaging that the hour flew by. We uncovered shared interests, exchanged ideas, and found a surprising connection that made the journey feel much too short. I was genuinely disappointed when we had to part ways.

It recalled a thought expressed by Mary Wollstonecraft:

"There is something in travelling that makes one vain. The feeling of the traveller is like that of a love affair when one has to part from an agreeable companion." Or companions.

Her words capture it perfectly. In those fleeting moments, you forge attachments that linger in the heart even as you move on.

John said to Him, “Teacher, we saw someone else driving out demons in Your name, and we tried to stop him, because he does not accompany us." 

"Do not stop him,” Jesus replied. “For no one who performs a miracle in My name can turn around and speak evil of Me. For whoever is not against us is for us. 

Mark 9:38-40. BSB

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

Reclaiming Spiritual Autonomy

Leaving a high-control religion to reclaim a personal relationship with God can feel like walking away from a part of yourself—something that’s shaped your identity, your sense of belonging, and even your family relationships. For the person who’s leaving, it’s a deeply emotional and often painful journey. But the ripple effect doesn’t just impact them—it can shake up family dynamics in ways that might feel harsh or even hostile.

One of the hardest things to understand is why family members can react with such strong feelings of anger, betrayal, or hurt. For many, religion isn’t just a set of beliefs—it’s a lifeline, a way of defining who they are and how they relate to the world. When someone steps away from that shared identity, it can feel like a personal rejection. The family may love the person, but they can’t reconcile that love with the idea of abandoning something so central to their lives.

On top of that, there's the fear. In many high-control religions, leaving isn’t just a change of heart—it’s seen as a spiritual danger, even a ticket to damnation. So when a loved one walks away, it’s not just a heartbreak; it’s seen as a crisis. Family members might feel desperate to “save” the person, but instead of reaching out with understanding, their fear can turn into anger or judgment. They might say or do things they never would have in normal circumstances, driven by the belief that it’s their duty to bring the person back.

Another pressure point is the community. These religions often place enormous weight on the image of the group—how people are seen by others. When one family member leaves, it can feel like a public shame. The family might worry about their reputation, their place within the community, and how others will view them. That external pressure can fuel feelings of embarrassment, making it even harder for family members to separate their personal pain from their religious duties.

Then there’s the internal struggle of cognitive dissonance. When someone in the family leaves, it’s like a crack in the foundation of everything they’ve believed. It’s hard to keep the peace when the very beliefs that have held everything together are now being questioned. The reaction? Defensiveness. It’s easier to blame the person who left than to admit that maybe, just maybe, there’s room for doubt.

This emotional turbulence often leads to a breakdown in communication. Instead of talking openly, misunderstandings build up. The person who leaves might feel abandoned or misunderstood, while the family members might feel betrayed and helpless. The emotional pain can create a cycle of anger, confusion, and guilt that’s tough to break.

I know it’s not always easy to make sense of why things can get so tense. I’ve seen friends and family go through similar struggles. It’s easy to get caught in the feeling that you’ve done something wrong when others react so strongly. But when you step back and understand the layers of fear, tradition, and emotional investment at play, it becomes a little clearer.

The journey of leaving a high-control religion isn’t just about the decision itself; it’s about navigating the emotional and psychological fallout that comes with it. It’s not easy for anyone involved. But if we can bring some empathy to the table, acknowledging that fear, confusion, and old wounds are part of the picture, healing can begin. It might take time, patience, and open-hearted communication, but reconciliation is possible—even when deeply ingrained beliefs are involved.

Ultimately, it’s about finding a way to hold onto love and respect, even when life’s hardest decisions put everything to the test. The journey may be messy, but it doesn’t have to break the family bond. With empathy, there’s always room for understanding and growth.

"He has made everything beautiful in its time. 

He has also set eternity in the hearts of men, 

yet they cannot fathom the work that God has done from beginning to end."

 — Ecclesiastes 3:11

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

I was born and raised in the maritime city of Glasgow. Inevitably, it looks outward. And yet, where we travel shapes who we are inwardly. Now, I am crossing over to the Island of Bute on the MV Bute, reading about the fascinating philosophical thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus, first proposed by Plutarch.

Theseus, the mythological hero, sailed from Greece to slay the Minotaur. After completing his task, he returned to Athens and left his ship to decay. Over time, carpenters gradually replaced each plank of the ship. This raises a question: which ship is the Ship of Theseus—the newly restored one or the old parts rotting on the beach?

Our bodies are not unlike that paradox. Red blood cells form, embark on an arduous journey through the grand rapids of our arteries, veins, and capillaries—facing proportionally life-threatening obstacles—only to sail into oblivion after their two-month voyage. Skin cells decay, leading to weakening avalanches and shifting continental plates. They fall from their plateaus, aided by cascading water, gravitating toward terminal, anticlockwise whirlpools before their second day ends. Estimates vary, but the body replaces itself every seven to ten years. Like Plutarch’s thought experiment, this raises questions of identity and thoughts of eternity as I ponder the body’s self-renewal mechanism.

But here lies the paradox: neurons, those cells that drive the brain, remain with us, in some cases, for life. Though I am advancing in years, there’s still a young man living inside me. I can call him up at any time to visit the places he once visited, meet the people he met, and relive the joys he experienced. This convinces me of an action God took before I was born: setting eternity in my heart.

There is something profoundly beautiful in understanding that while our physical form undergoes continuous change, the essence of who we are remains anchored in something eternal. As I stand on the deck of the MV Bute, the wind tousling my hair and the vast expanse of the sea stretching out before me, I am reminded of the eternal nature that God has set within us. The same sense of eternity that inspired the ancient philosophers to ponder the Ship of Theseus and the same eternal truth that we find in the Scriptures.

In this ever-changing world, the constancy of God’s creation and His eternal purpose for our lives offer a reassuring anchor. Our journeys, much like those of Theseus and his ship, involve renewal and transformation. Yet, in each phase, there is a beauty that God has ordained, a purpose that transcends time.

Reflecting on these thoughts, I find peace in the knowledge that while the external may change, the core of our being is eternally held by God. This realization brings a profound sense of wonder and gratitude for the life I have been given, and for the eternal journey that lies ahead.

"One wants to be loved, failing that, admired… 

One wants to inspire some sort of sentiment. 

The soul recoils from a void and desires contact at any price."

Hjalmar Söderberg — Doctor Glas

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft copilot

The Invisibility of Seasonal Loneliness 

“A friend loves at all times.” 

—Proverbs 17:17

For many, this time of year carries the ache of loneliness, a feeling amplified by the festive cheer around us. Memories of isolation often linger, living quietly in the recesses of our minds, surfacing when we least expect them.

I remember one such time vividly. It was Christmas Eve, many years ago, during my youth. I had friends, but I was in a season of transition. The friendships I once cherished no longer resonated, leaving me feeling adrift. In search of solace—or perhaps just a distraction—I ventured into Glasgow city centre. The bustling streets, alive with shoppers and laughter, seemed to mock my solitude. There was no logic to my actions; if anything, being among the crowds only deepened my sense of emptiness.

Eventually, I wandered into a coffee shop. I was shy, and though I longed for someone to strike up a conversation, no one did. The chatter of patrons and clinking of cups became a background hum to my thoughts. Then, someone played a song on the jukebox: Chicago's "If You Leave Me Now." Even after all these years, every time I hear that song, it transports me back to that painful Christmas Eve—a moment etched in time, a snapshot of my loneliness.

Yet, that experience was not without purpose. It taught me empathy—a deep, abiding compassion for the lost souls who, like I once did, walk through life feeling unseen and unheard. Loneliness is a quiet scourge in today’s society, often hidden behind smiles or busy routines.

This memory fuels my resolve to reach out. I’ve learned the transformative power of a simple “hello,” a kind word, or a thoughtful question. Even now, despite my age, I often stop to talk with young people. They, too, crave connection, and it’s moving to see their faces light up when you ask about their studies or their interests. It’s a reminder that no one is immune to the need for love and affirmation. We all carry stories—stories like mine, stories of quiet battles fought in the heart.

And today, many of those stories will be written. Somewhere, someone is feeling what I felt that Christmas Eve. Why not be the one to reach out? To smile, to start a conversation, to show someone they are not invisible? Let’s step into the lives of others, even if only for a moment, and remind them—and ourselves—of the healing power of human connection.

"Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." — Matthew 6:10 (BSB).

There’s a beautiful Nigerian word, Ubuntu, that captures something we all deeply need: connection. It means, “I am because we are.” It’s the idea that our humanity is bound up in one another, that life is better when we’re connected and caring for each other. But as I look around today, I can’t help but wonder: where has Ubuntu gone? Families feel more fractured, friendships thinner, and nations more divided than ever. What’s happened to the glue that holds us together?

Let’s talk about it.

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot

You don’t have to look far to see how much the world has changed. Time was, life revolved around the community—families, villages, neighbours who leaned on each other. Today, it feels like everyone’s running their own race. "Look out for number one" has replaced "How can I help?" We’ve shifted from thinking about “we” to focusing on “me.”

A lot of this comes from the push toward individualism. Now, don’t get me wrong—there’s something beautiful about being able to stand on your own feet and make your own choices. But when that becomes the priority, it’s easy to lose sight of the bigger picture. We forget how much we need each other.

Think about how much technology has changed our lives. We’ve never been more connected, at least on the surface. You can send a message across the world in seconds, share a photo, or video call someone continents away. And yet, we’re lonelier than ever.

Why? Because scrolling through social media isn’t the same as sitting across the table from someone. Likes and comments can’t replace a hug or the sound of laughter in the same room. Technology is a tool, but it’s also a trap—it’s easy to get so caught up in it that we forget how to truly connect.

Then there’s the way work and money pull us apart. These days, people move across the country—or the world—for jobs, leaving family and friends behind. It’s great to have opportunities, but it comes at a cost. You can’t pop by your parents’ house for dinner if they’re on one side of the globe and you’re on the other.

And let’s not forget the stress that comes with trying to make ends meet. When you’re working two jobs or worrying about bills, there’s little time left for meaningful relationships. Money problems have a way of driving wedges between people, whether it’s couples, families, or whole communities.

Remember when extended families lived close together, or when neighbourhoods felt like little villages? That’s becoming rare. Divorce rates are up, families are spread thin, and many people don’t even know their neighbours’ names.

Churches and community groups, which used to be places where people came together, are shrinking in many parts of the world. We’ve traded these deep-rooted connections for more surface-level ones, often built around shared interests rather than shared lives.

And then there’s the elephant in the room: politics. It feels like the world has become one big shouting match, with people taking sides and refusing to listen to anyone who disagrees. Social media only makes it worse, feeding us opinions that match our own and making “the other side” seem like enemies.

On a global scale, nationalism is on the rise. Instead of coming together to tackle big issues—climate change, poverty, pandemics—we’re retreating behind borders, focusing on “us” and “them.” It’s hard to feel connected to the wider world when the message is all about division.

So, where do we go from here? Is it possible to rebuild what we’ve lost? I think so. But it’s going to take effort.

We need to start small, with the people around us. Check in on a neighbour. Call an old friend. Spend time with family—not just on holidays, but regularly. It’s these little things that rebuild the connections we’ve let slip away.

We also need to rethink how we use technology. Instead of letting it replace real relationships, we can use it to enhance them—planning meetups, sharing moments, and staying in touch when distance keeps us apart.

And maybe we need to slow down. Life moves fast, but relationships take time. It’s okay to stop chasing the next big thing and focus on the people right in front of you.

Ubuntu reminds us that none of us can truly thrive alone. We’re at our best when we’re together, supporting each other, and looking out for the greater good. The world might feel fractured now, but if we each do our part—if we each live like we believe, “I am because we are”—we can start to put the pieces back together.

It’s not too late to reconnect. The question is: will we? We are reminded that,

 "Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor. For if one falls down, his companion can lift him up; but pity the one who falls without another to help him up!"

Ecclesiastes 4: 9 (BSB).

"Mortality is a reminder that time is both fleeting and precious, 

urging us to cherish the connections we choose to keep."

Image generated with the assistance of  Microsoft Copilot

The Value of Time: Navigating Relationships in the Face of Terminal Illness

When you are faced with the reality of a terminal illness, time suddenly becomes an entirely different, unfamiliar  currency—a fleeting, invaluable resource to be spent with care. I have found myself weighing each connection, each interaction, with a new kind of gravity. This recalibration of priorities has led me to limit my relationships, not out of selfishness but from a deep awareness of what little time I have left and how best to use it. Yet, this choice, though deeply personal, has not gone unnoticed or uncontested or the subject of hyper criticism. That disappoints me. 

What strikes me most is how the news of a terminal diagnosis can pull people out of the woodwork, individuals who had faded into the periphery of my life, now reappearing with sudden urgency. It’s easy to cast judgment on this phenomenon, to view it cynically as a reaction borne of guilt, fear, or social expectation. But beneath these surface motivations, I’ve found a tangle of emotions and intentions that reveal something profoundly human.

Guilt, undoubtedly, is a significant factor. I see it in the faces of those who reconnect after years of silence. It’s as though the knowledge of my illness has held a mirror to their lives, reflecting the gaps and absences in our relationship. Perhaps they remember a kindness I offered, a shared moment now tinged with the regret of neglect. These pangs of remorse compel them to reach out, to atone for the distance they allowed to grow. And while I understand this instinct, I’ve also come to realize that guilt-driven connections often serve more as balm for their conscience than solace for mine.

Fear, too, plays its role. There’s a certain urgency that illness imposes, an unspoken countdown that presses on both the diagnosed and their circle. For those who have drifted, my situation becomes a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the opportunities they’ve let slip by. They come, not wanting to carry the burden of unresolved words or unspoken feelings. They want closure, or perhaps a chance to leave on better terms than the ones we’d resigned ourselves to. It’s a fear I understand, but one that can feel oddly transactional when viewed from this side of the table.

Then there is the weight of societal expectations, the unspoken rules that dictate how we should behave when illness strikes. People feel a duty to express their concern, to offer support, even if their presence has been sporadic or absent in the past. These gestures, though often well-meaning, can carry an air of obligation. There’s a script to follow: the phone call, the flowers, the promise to visit soon. While I’ve appreciated these overtures, they sometimes feel less like genuine connection and more like a box being checked, a societal norm being fulfilled.

As I’ve reflected on these reappearances, I’ve come to see that their motivations—guilt, fear, obligation—are not inherently negative. They are simply human. We are flawed creatures, stumbling through relationships with a mix of selfishness and sincerity. What matters most, I’ve found, is not why someone reconnects but what they bring to the table when they do. Are they present, willing to engage honestly, or merely passing through to ease their own discomfort?

For my part, I’ve chosen to focus on the relationships that feel reciprocal, where time spent together is a shared gift rather than a one-sided act of absolution. This doesn’t mean I’ve shut the door on others; I’ve simply chosen to prioritize the connections that align with the values I hold closest: authenticity, mutual respect, and the ability to be fully present in the moment.

The Gift of Time

If there is one lesson I’d share from this experience, it is the profound importance of treasuring time and being intentional with it. For those who find themselves on the receiving end of these sudden reconnections, it is okay to set boundaries, to choose where and with whom to spend your precious hours. And for those reaching out, I would urge sincerity—not out of guilt, not out of obligation, but out of a genuine desire to be part of a moment that truly matters rather than causing added frustration by firing surface judgements. 

In the end, relationships, like life itself, are finite. They are imperfect, complicated, and sometimes messy. But within their imperfection lies their beauty: the chance to connect, to forgive, and to find meaning even in the shadow of mortality.

Image generated by Microsoft Copilot

I’m in this strange place called School. They tell me I’m an “infant,” but I don’t know what that means. I’m five—how can I be an infant? Babies are infants, and I’m not a baby anymore. Am I?

The room feels so big, with windows that let in pieces of the sky. The rows of little chairs make me feel even smaller. The teacher talks, and her voice floats over us like a gentle hum. I don’t know what all the words mean, but they feel soft and safe somehow; not like my mum's.

At playtime, I'm alone, I see some big girls in the corner of the playground. They’re clapping their hands together, their faces bright with smiles. Their voices sing out, and I stop to watch:

Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man,

Bake me a cake as fast as you can;

Pat it, and prick it, and mark it with B,

And put it in the oven for baby and me.

Their hands move so fast, slapping and clapping like magic. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The sound of their laughter fills the air, and it’s like the world is made of songs and games I don’t know yet.

I just stand there, wondering about all of it— about how this strange, new place, can feel so full of secrets.

"We cannot change the world, but we can change our own hearts and create ripples of peace and joy."

– Unknown

Image generated by Microsoft Copilot

It happened like this, I was packing stuff into my car and a carpenter came out and said, “Look! She never charged me for this.” He showed me a couple of cheap things amidst a trolley of stuff.

          I said, “You will never be happy going through life like that.”

He looked puzzled.

Now, why do I mention this? I will come right out and say it: I deeply loathe some of the culture I’m living in. Perhaps that sounds harsh, but my disdain isn’t for Scotland or its people in itself—far from it. I love this land: its rugged mountains, its misty lochs, the scent of bracken in the highlands, and the call of the curlew, the tap of the woodpecker and sound of the morning cuckoo. Scotland’s natural beauty and rich culture, with its song and poetry, its humour and resilience, remind me daily of what is good and worth loving including the people who are open and friendly for the most part.

But some people—ah, some of the people—that’s where my frustration lies. And it's not just Scotland, it's worldwide. 

I’ve been a victim, repeatedly, of dishonesty. Builders who charged for work they never did. Car mechanics who fiddled with repairs only to leave me worse off than before. Internet companies that quietly siphoned money from my account despite repeated cancellations. Each experience chipped away at my trust and fuelled my weariness of the world we inhabit. but it’s not everyone, of course. There are good people—many good people—who brighten this life with kindness and generosity. And yet, there’s no escaping the dark shadow cast by dishonesty, violence, selfishness, and exploitation. Those who dominate their fellow humans for personal gain. Those who wound and take without thought for the injury they leave behind. These are the ones who make me feel displaced, as though I don’t belong here, in this time, in this culture.

Our German friends have a wonderful word for this feeling: Fernweh. It can mean a homesickness for a place you’ve never seen. Can it be a longing for somewhere otherworldly? C.S. Lewis, with his usual eloquence, offered a similar sentiment: “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” His words resonate deeply with me.

Perhaps that’s the crux of it. My frustration with this world stems not from its design—because the earth, with its endless beauty, is breath-taking—but from its corruption. We are creatures who long for truth, justice, and love, but we so often fail to uphold them. And in that gap between the world as it is and the world as it could be lies my discontent.

But that discontent isn’t hopeless. Rather, it stirs something within me—a sense of yearning, not just for escape, but for a restoration of what is broken. Maybe this dissatisfaction is itself evidence that we were made for something more, for a place where dishonesty doesn’t exist, where violence is a distant memory, and where selfishness has been replaced by generosity.

Until then, I’ll continue to love what is good in this world while lamenting what is not. I’ll walk the hills of Scotland, soaking in the grandeur of creation, and hold fast to the hope that one day we might find ourselves in that better world Lewis spoke of—the one we were always meant for.

As for the carpenter I spoke of, I don’t think he will forget what I said when I replied, “You will never be happy living like that.”

Hmm! Go ponder.

Blessed are the meek,

for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness,

for they will be filled.

Matthew 5:5,6 BSB.