Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday 27 December 2025 at 16:34
What Could a Child Possible Know About Life?
It must have been late summer. I was spending my days on a small, idyllic island off Scotland’s west coast. We stayed in a cabin—or perhaps it was more of a hut—with no running water and no electricity. Each day my task was to carry water from the communal well. Cows would edge closer, cautious yet curious. The larger ones stood and stared; the smaller shuffled forward for a better view. Under their unblinking gaze, I grew oddly self-conscious.
At dusk we lit paraffin lamps, their warm glow pushing back the darkness. My father would read aloud from children’s books, and we listened, utterly absorbed, as he carried us through Heidi, Tales from the Thousand and One Nights, and Chinese folk tales. We ate freshly made pancakes, thick with jam, and drank small glasses of sweet stout.
The lamp hissed softly as it burned the kerosene, its flicker inviting drowsiness. Eventually it surrendered to the night, and we went to bed.
Lying there, I watched the stars pour through the window—countless, unmistakable, alive. I wondered whether Chinese farmer boys, Bedouin shepherds, or milkmaids high in the Swiss mountains were seeing the same sky, feeling the same quiet awe at God’s creation that filled my heart as the universe seemed to draw near.
What Could a Child Possible Know About Life?
What Could a Child Possible Know About Life?
It must have been late summer. I was spending my days on a small, idyllic island off Scotland’s west coast. We stayed in a cabin—or perhaps it was more of a hut—with no running water and no electricity. Each day my task was to carry water from the communal well. Cows would edge closer, cautious yet curious. The larger ones stood and stared; the smaller shuffled forward for a better view. Under their unblinking gaze, I grew oddly self-conscious.
At dusk we lit paraffin lamps, their warm glow pushing back the darkness. My father would read aloud from children’s books, and we listened, utterly absorbed, as he carried us through Heidi, Tales from the Thousand and One Nights, and Chinese folk tales. We ate freshly made pancakes, thick with jam, and drank small glasses of sweet stout.
The lamp hissed softly as it burned the kerosene, its flicker inviting drowsiness. Eventually it surrendered to the night, and we went to bed.
Lying there, I watched the stars pour through the window—countless, unmistakable, alive. I wondered whether Chinese farmer boys, Bedouin shepherds, or milkmaids high in the Swiss mountains were seeing the same sky, feeling the same quiet awe at God’s creation that filled my heart as the universe seemed to draw near.
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10
Image by Copilot