Edited by Jim McCrory, Saturday 24 October 2026 at 15:31
But in keeping with God’s promise, we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, where righteousness dwells.
— 2 Peter 3:13, BSB
Shall We Wander for a Day; Somwhere Special?
Sometimes, in the private video of my imagination, I picture stepping into a time machine and escaping this life for a single day. Don’t tell me you’ve never entertained the thought. One press of a button and I’m in a 17th-century Japanese village, mist curling like silk above the paddies, the sound of sandals shuffling on the earth. Another press and I’m wandering through the warmth of an Indian night market, where the air is thick with the scent of cumin and cardamom, the chatter of merchants and buyers weaving together like a living symphony. Or perhaps I’d go further still, away from humanity altogether, and find myself alone in the vast solitude of the Rockies. A tent pitched under a sky brimming with stars, the kind of silence so complete it feels like the earth itself is holding its breath.
But then, the dream fades. I blink, and here I am—back in Scotland on a Saturday evening. Nothing extraordinary. Just reality humming along.
And in those quiet returns, the questions arrive. What’s it all about? Why are we here at all? Are we just a passing arrangement of atoms, the end result of chance evolution, driven to replicate ourselves until we vanish? Some seem content with that explanation. I’m not. Because when I look around, the world doesn’t behave as though it’s meaningless.
Think about it. Flowers bloom in colours that surpass function. Birds sing songs far more elaborate than survival requires. We, too, hunger for what’s unnecessary. We write poetry. We compose music. We fall in love with paintings, stories, the way sunlight filters through a window on a late afternoon. None of this is needed to keep us alive, yet without it, are we truly living? The unnecessary becomes essential.
And then there’s time. We grow older. The doors begin to close one by one. Torschlusspanik, the Germans call it—that panic of the gates shutting as opportunities slip away. Suddenly, we cling to life with a desperation we never knew was in us. Few are ready to say, “Tomorrow is enough.” We bargain for more time, more seasons, more chances. Why? Because something deep inside whispers that life ought not to end.
My sister once spoke with an old man who stood weeping at the sight of the countryside. When she asked if he was alright, he said, “I see all this beauty, and I don’t have much longer to live. But I want to stay.” His tears were the language of eternity. He wanted more not because he was greedy, but because he was human.
The writer of Ecclesiastes once put it plainly: God has “set eternity in the human heart.” That single thought explains much of our restless longing. It explains why sunsets undo us, why we fear the final curtain, why we ask questions that biology cannot satisfy. It tells us that our hunger for permanence is not a flaw but a clue.
Perhaps that’s the point. Maybe life is not a puzzle to be solved but an experience to be lived with eyes wide open. Maybe it is both fleeting gift and signpost. A chance to taste beauty, to wrestle with meaning, to love and to lose—and in doing so, to sense that the story is not finished when the page turns.
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43 (NIV).
Shall We Wander for a Day; Somwhere Special?
But in keeping with God’s promise,
we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth,
where righteousness dwells.
— 2 Peter 3:13, BSB
Shall We Wander for a Day; Somwhere Special?
Sometimes, in the private video of my imagination, I picture stepping into a time machine and escaping this life for a single day. Don’t tell me you’ve never entertained the thought. One press of a button and I’m in a 17th-century Japanese village, mist curling like silk above the paddies, the sound of sandals shuffling on the earth. Another press and I’m wandering through the warmth of an Indian night market, where the air is thick with the scent of cumin and cardamom, the chatter of merchants and buyers weaving together like a living symphony. Or perhaps I’d go further still, away from humanity altogether, and find myself alone in the vast solitude of the Rockies. A tent pitched under a sky brimming with stars, the kind of silence so complete it feels like the earth itself is holding its breath.
But then, the dream fades. I blink, and here I am—back in Scotland on a Saturday evening. Nothing extraordinary. Just reality humming along.
And in those quiet returns, the questions arrive. What’s it all about? Why are we here at all? Are we just a passing arrangement of atoms, the end result of chance evolution, driven to replicate ourselves until we vanish? Some seem content with that explanation. I’m not. Because when I look around, the world doesn’t behave as though it’s meaningless.
Think about it. Flowers bloom in colours that surpass function. Birds sing songs far more elaborate than survival requires. We, too, hunger for what’s unnecessary. We write poetry. We compose music. We fall in love with paintings, stories, the way sunlight filters through a window on a late afternoon. None of this is needed to keep us alive, yet without it, are we truly living? The unnecessary becomes essential.
And then there’s time. We grow older. The doors begin to close one by one. Torschlusspanik, the Germans call it—that panic of the gates shutting as opportunities slip away. Suddenly, we cling to life with a desperation we never knew was in us. Few are ready to say, “Tomorrow is enough.” We bargain for more time, more seasons, more chances. Why? Because something deep inside whispers that life ought not to end.
My sister once spoke with an old man who stood weeping at the sight of the countryside. When she asked if he was alright, he said, “I see all this beauty, and I don’t have much longer to live. But I want to stay.” His tears were the language of eternity. He wanted more not because he was greedy, but because he was human.
The writer of Ecclesiastes once put it plainly: God has “set eternity in the human heart.” That single thought explains much of our restless longing. It explains why sunsets undo us, why we fear the final curtain, why we ask questions that biology cannot satisfy. It tells us that our hunger for permanence is not a flaw but a clue.
Perhaps that’s the point. Maybe life is not a puzzle to be solved but an experience to be lived with eyes wide open. Maybe it is both fleeting gift and signpost. A chance to taste beauty, to wrestle with meaning, to love and to lose—and in doing so, to sense that the story is not finished when the page turns.
“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43 (NIV).