Edited by Jim McCrory, Tuesday, 15 July 2025, 19:04
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
A Prayer in Govan
One Saturday being at a loose end whilst my wife was working, I went walking through Govan, tracing the steps of my childhood with that odd blend of nostalgia and ache. Fourteen years of early life were lived here, and though the skyline has shifted, and the shops have changed hands, no Curley’s, no Woolworth’s and no Modern Bookshop. The later, a sanctuary for a child escaping through poverty and a sense of adventure in comics.
The bones of the place remain familiar. It was one of those quiet, reflective strolls—no agenda, just memory. Drawn by the stillness of the place, I wandered into the grounds of the old church at Govan Cross to see the ancient stones, artifacts of history. I wasn’t even sure if the church was still functioning or simply a monument to what once was. It had that solemn presence old churches carry—stone thick with prayers, weathered by time.
I didn’t expect to meet anyone, but within minutes I was in conversation with three strangers—a woman from Peru, a woman from the United States, and a man who, after listening quietly for a while, mentioned he was the minister of the Govan Free Church.
We spoke for a little while—of this and that, life, place, belonging. Somewhere in that natural flow of conversation, I shared my health condition—neuroendocrine cancer, and how it had taken a stealthy toll, spreading to other organs. I hadn’t intended to go there, but sometimes the truth just slips out when the company is kind.
There was no dramatic reaction. Just quiet listening. Eyes that didn't flinch. A nod of understanding.
Sometime later, I heard from someone that the minister had taken my name to their weekly prayer meeting and he had prayed for me.
It moved me more than I can say.
There’s something profound about that kind of gesture. In a world that’s often loud and fast and transactional, it was a moment of pure human kindness. Unasked for. Unobligated. Offered anyway in an act of Christian love.
Prayer, after all, is not just words spoken into the air. It’s an act of care. Of pause. Of bringing someone else's name before God with reverence and hope.
That day in Govan, the town of my boyhood gave me more than memory. It gave me grace. In the form of strangers. In the form of a prayer.
A Govan Prayer Rising
Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Copilot
A Prayer in Govan
One Saturday being at a loose end whilst my wife was working, I went walking through Govan, tracing the steps of my childhood with that odd blend of nostalgia and ache. Fourteen years of early life were lived here, and though the skyline has shifted, and the shops have changed hands, no Curley’s, no Woolworth’s and no Modern Bookshop. The later, a sanctuary for a child escaping through poverty and a sense of adventure in comics.
The bones of the place remain familiar. It was one of those quiet, reflective strolls—no agenda, just memory. Drawn by the stillness of the place, I wandered into the grounds of the old church at Govan Cross to see the ancient stones, artifacts of history. I wasn’t even sure if the church was still functioning or simply a monument to what once was. It had that solemn presence old churches carry—stone thick with prayers, weathered by time.
I didn’t expect to meet anyone, but within minutes I was in conversation with three strangers—a woman from Peru, a woman from the United States, and a man who, after listening quietly for a while, mentioned he was the minister of the Govan Free Church.
We spoke for a little while—of this and that, life, place, belonging. Somewhere in that natural flow of conversation, I shared my health condition—neuroendocrine cancer, and how it had taken a stealthy toll, spreading to other organs. I hadn’t intended to go there, but sometimes the truth just slips out when the company is kind.
There was no dramatic reaction. Just quiet listening. Eyes that didn't flinch. A nod of understanding.
Sometime later, I heard from someone that the minister had taken my name to their weekly prayer meeting and he had prayed for me.
It moved me more than I can say.
There’s something profound about that kind of gesture. In a world that’s often loud and fast and transactional, it was a moment of pure human kindness. Unasked for. Unobligated. Offered anyway in an act of Christian love.
Prayer, after all, is not just words spoken into the air. It’s an act of care. Of pause. Of bringing someone else's name before God with reverence and hope.
That day in Govan, the town of my boyhood gave me more than memory. It gave me grace. In the form of strangers. In the form of a prayer.