Tag: faith

  • My Fight for Truth — Part Two

    My Fight for Truth — Part Two

    This is the follow-up to My Fight for Truth — Part One, where I shared how a misdiagnosis and a botched procedure destroyed my lungs and the NHS refused to acknowledge it. This part is about the aftermath — and how Christ sustains me in it.

    How Christ Sustains Me Through the Day-to-Day Aftermath.

    Part One of “My Fight for Truth” ended with the damage already done. I had a simple blood test and a healthy pair of lungs, and with one misdiagnosis and one botched EBUS bronchoscopy, which is now a permanent disability.


    My months of fighting for accountability and truth with the NHS complaints department was swept under the rug, signed by the NHS County executive.
    The verdict was “no misdiagnosis, no malpractice.”
    And there was nothing more I could legally do. My healthy lungs were destroyed, but they say, they did nothing wrong. It’s what they always say to every life the NHS destroy.

    I had to accept their truth, the NHS had broken both my lungs, and the system had buried the real truth and changed their evidence to cover-up something that should stay in urban myths and horror movies. It should never have happened!

    So, I tried to move forward. I had no choice. I needed to try and find a way to accept this and not give up completely and finish the job the NHS started.

    The next month’s hit hard — the aftermath, the slow realisation and collapse into a new way of surviving physically alone, and the deeper truth I discovered in it all: Christ is still the One who carries me when my body and circumstances cannot.

    Before the Lung Damage.

    I must say at this point, I was already coping with the bad news that I have cervical multi-level disc degeneration and spinal fracturing, Nerve damage, bilateral tennis elbow, a history of bilateral Bell’s Palsy, diffused chronic back axial neck and shoulder,  and bilateral upper and lower limb pain, bilateral carpel tunnel syndrome, and degenerative osteoporosis. Because of all this,  I have lost three inches in height so far, I was 6ft 3 inches tall ten years ago and I was told after two years of pushing for MRI and CT scans it was caused by wear and tear.

    At fourteen I worked as a scaffolders apprentice, at the weekend and holidays for one year, working above 100ft loading out for the scaffolders, walking on one nine-inch-wide scaffold board, at fourteen that was pretty hair-raising, but I loved the views. I went and passed my UK City and Guilds in advance carpentry and joinery and  four decades on site as a chippy, as we say in the UK. Also, five years building bridges and tunnels, this was when health and safety didn’t exist. I was a rescue diver, or shepherd as we were called, every weekend for roughly two decades. The trauma and orthopaedics specialist calmly told me that my work had caused all these life changing illnesses, and I was unlucky to get it all earlier in life than most people.

    Living with the consequences, day after day.

    The aftermath didn’t arrive all at once.
    It unfolded over months — a quiet dismantling of normal life.

    Breathing while lying flat became impossible.
    The orthopaedic bed I had bought for my back pain — a substantial expense — was suddenly useless.
    My large sofa  became the only place where sleep didn’t suffocate me.

    I had an idea and ordered specialist foam from a company who made to measure pieces, basically they could make anything out of different specialty foams at any length, width, depth, and shape. After receiving my instructions, they created exactly what I needed to add to my large sofa, and to my exact measurements, curved where I needed, and the foam company in the UK covered them for me as well to be washable.
    Eventually I had to move to a medical chair on wheels which was a considerable expense, so I could rest partly upright and move through the bungalow without collapsing. I used my feet and walking cane to row myself around my bungalow.

    Practically, everything changed in my day-to-day survival.

    Washing myself became impossible with showering, as it is situated in the bath area.

    Cooking became exhausting and painful.

    Standing became dangerous, even with a new walking cane.

    Cleaning anything became unrealistic.

    Bending down became a risk to my lungs.

    My home slowly turned into a system of survival tools,

    grabbers to reach clothes, utensils, or anything on the floor.

    disposable trays, spoons, and utensils

    wipes — boxes upon boxes — for washing myself, cleaning, surviving.

    Disposable plates of every size I need, everything replaced with the disposable versions, everything I found I needed and could think of and purchase. I have it organised now, subscribed to everything disposable through the Amazon.uk website, it just turns up just before I run out.

    I found pure rubber hot water bottles with fleece covers and kangaroo pouches, these are my feet and lung warmers, which help somehow.

    My recycling bags that pile up because the “simple task” of sorting and taking out two weeks of recycling is now a military operation, especially due to my tap water being undrinkable, which if you’ve read this far, you know it caused my original symptoms of hypercalcemia, high creatinine, and kidney dysfunction. Not Cancer!

    It’s not a lifestyle; it’s triage.
    And every day requires discipline just to get through the basics.

    But here’s the truth:
    None of these things keep me going.
    They only help me cope.
    Christ is the One who keeps me alive.

    Then the letter arrived — seven months after the damage.

    Months passed after the NHS brushed everything under the carpet.
    I had accepted their refusal to admit wrongdoing.
    I had accepted that no solicitor would touch the case.
    I had accepted that no newspaper wanted to publish anything negative against the local hospital.

    I had accepted that this was my new life.

    Then, in late November, a new letter dropped through the door.

    Same executive.
    Same signature.
    Same verdict.

    But this time, it claimed the months of repeated biopsy procedure and CT appointment letters I had received weren’t sent by the doctor who pressured me —
    they were “automated.”
    A system error.
    Nothing personal.

    And then the sentence that revealed everything:

    “Other consultants have agreed with Dr Lok’s approach.”

    This made me furious all over again. Dr Lok never met me in person, not once, he went on the SDEC staff gossip which could possibly been about a different patient, which Dr Lok admitted on the phone call I recorded., he never listened to my healthy lungs, but other consultants agreed with the approach of never doing a physical inspection on any  patient before ordering an extremely invasive procedure.

    Of course, the NHS claimed others agreed with Dr Lok’s approach from his desk, never on the same day emergency unit ward.
    That’s how institutions defend themselves.

    The letter wasn’t about truth.
    It wasn’t about answers.
    It wasn’t about accountability.

    It was about posturing — a defensive manoeuvre, a way to cover themselves again and rewrite history:

    Ignoring the biopsy that proved there was no cancer or sarcoidosis.

    Ignoring the fact that the EBUS bronchoscopy was unnecessary.

    Ignoring that the junior registrar was not under supervision.

    Ignoring my tap water tests, which proved my tap water was the reason for my original blood results and symptoms, which all normalised in seven days drinking British spring water.

    Ignoring their own notes.

    Ignoring the reality that those repeated appointment letters were attempts to pressure me into another EBUS procedure that could have destroyed what remained of my lungs.

    Ignoring the main fact that Dr Lok never once met me or listened to my healthy lungs.

    That letter reopened everything, I was planning, organising, and buying survival kit for this new life forced on me.
    The injustice, The procedure, which was completely unnecessary.
    The memory of one hour that was torture.
    The harm that they all got away with by the cover-up by the NHS
    The loneliness of standing against a system that refuses truth.

    It took the wound I had tried to live with and tore it back open.

    And that’s exactly why I pray in His name, my Lord Jesus, the Christ.

    Christ in the collapse.

    This is the part that matters most.

    When the anger and grief resurfaced,
    when the memory of being ignored, pressured, and harmed hit me again,
    when the physical struggle of each day pressed down even harder —
    Christ held me.

    Not in a sentimental way.
    Not in a poetic way.
    In His way of faith, hope and love, all gifts to me.

    Christ steadied my mind when the letter tried to drag me backwards.
    Christ stopped my thoughts from spiralling into hopelessness.
    Christ reminded me that the world may refuse to acknowledge the truth,
    but God sees all things clearly.

    Christ carried the weight that my lungs and my heart could not.

    This is not positive thinking.
    This is not self-help.
    This is not “finding the strength within.”

    This is grace.
    This is the Spirit at work.
    This is what it means when Scripture says His power is made perfect in weakness.

    My strength ended months ago.
    Christ’s strength never has.

    The small hours no one sees.

    There are nights where the isolation is louder than the breathlessness. There are times when the physical, emotional, and mental pain is overwhelming.
    There are moments where the physical limitations feel endless.
    There are times where I scroll through every streaming service, unable to find a single thing that speaks to the human condition, to truth, to reality, to anything with meaning.

    I still listen to music. I enjoy my daily bread, but entertainment means nothing now.
    Distractions take a lot of effort. Christ means everything. Only truth matters. Only grace sustains. Only faith carries weight.

    Everything else is just the mechanics of surviving the day.

    Is this still life?

    It’s a question that rises sometimes.
    Is this living or just existing?
    Is this survival or purpose?

    But every time the question comes, the answer comes with it:

    “My grace is sufficient for you.”

    If His power is made perfect in weakness,
    then even this life — broken, restricted, painful, limited —
    is still a place where His glory is at work.

    I don’t have the life I had before.
    But I have Christ.
    And that is the life that cannot be taken from me.

    If Christ can carry me, He can carry you.

    I’m writing Part Two because so many people are suffering so much more than me, because someone else is fighting to breathe —
    physically, emotionally, spiritually.

    Someone else feels forgotten.
    Someone else feels crushed.
    Someone else feels like their world is falling apart and nobody sees it.

    To every person going through any personal storm, I say:

    Christ sees you, Call on His name.
    Christ sustains you, Pray in His name.
    Christ is enough, Thank Him by name.
    Christ can carry you through the storm and the  aftermath.

    My fight for truth continues.
    But thanks to Him,
    I am still here.
    Still breathing, though only about half as much as I could before.
    Still writing and reading more of other people’s writing through WordPress reader.
    Still held by His Glorious Grace.

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  • Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3.

    Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3.

    Why there’s an audio version
    Some readers prefer to read at their own pace. Others (especially when eyesight, energy or health make reading harder) may find listening easier. So, I’ve added an audio option—feel free to relax, sit back and listen, or carry on reading—whichever suits you best.

    A Time for Everything: Learning to Live in God’s Seasons.

    Ecclesiastes 3 is one of those passages that seems to belong to everyone. Even people who have never opened a Bible recognise the cadence: “a time to be born, and a time to die… a time to weep, and a time to laugh… a time for war, and a time for peace.” It’s been quoted in songs, at funerals, at weddings and in films.

    But the writer of Ecclesiastes – often called “the Preacher” – is doing far more than offering a comforting poem about life. In chapters 1 and 2 he has already dismantled our illusions about what will finally satisfy us. Life “under the sun” (life as we see it, limited to this world) runs in weary circles. Pleasure, success, projects, even human wisdom cannot bear the weight of ultimate meaning. And at the end of it all, death levels us all.

    So, when we reach chapter 3, a deeper question surfaces: if life is this brief and fragile, if I cannot control outcomes, if even wisdom and hard work cannot outrun death – how am I meant to live? Ecclesiastes 3 answers with something both humbling and strangely comforting: God rules the times and seasons. Our calling is not to master time, but to trust the One who does.

    A Time for Everything: Life’s Contrasts on the Page.

    The chapter opens: “For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). What follows is a beautifully balanced poem: fourteen pairs of opposites that sweep across the whole range of human experience – birth and death, planting and uprooting, weeping, and laughing, mourning, and dancing, silence and speech, love and hate, war, and peace.

    This is not a sentimental calendar quote. It is a painfully honest description of real life. We have days of joy and days of heartbreak. There are moments when we must tear things down and other moments when we slowly build again. There are times when speaking up is courageous and right, and times when silence is the wisest, kindest choice we can make.

    The Preacher is not saying that everything on his list is morally equal. “A time to kill” is not a free pass for murder; it reflects that in a fallen world there are God-ordained moments of judgement and just defence, as opposed to unlawful violence. “A time to hate” is not a nod to pettiness or prejudice, but to a right hatred of evil that destroys what God loves.

    Nor is this poem inviting us to do whatever we like whenever we feel like it. The real point is much more unsettling: real life includes all these experiences, and we are not in charge of when they arrive. We did not choose our birth. Few of us choose the moment of our death. We cannot schedule sorrow or predict when unexpected joy will break in.

    In chapter 1, the Preacher watched the cycles of nature – sun, wind, rivers – circling under God’s hand. Here, in chapter 3, he shows human life moving to the same unseen rhythm. There is a pattern to our days that we did not write.

    What Gain Has the Worker? The Question That Lingers.

    After the poem, the old question returns: “What gain has the worker from his toil?” (Ecclesiastes 3:9). We have already heard this question in chapters 1 and 2, as he wrestles with whether anything truly “profits” in the end. Now the question is asked again, but inside a world where God appoints times and seasons.

    You can work hard and create something beautiful, only to see it broken down in a later season. You can pour yourself into relationships, and then a time of distance, disappointment or loss arrives. You can enjoy a season of laughter and lightness, and then without consulting you, life moves into a time of weeping.

    The Preacher says, “I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with” (Ecclesiastes 3:10). He is not saying that work is pointless. He is saying that work is not ultimate. We do not stand outside time, managing it. We live inside it, subject to it. That realisation will either drag us into despair or drive us into trust.

    Eternity in Our Hearts: Beauty in Its Time.

    Then we reach the beating heart of the chapter: “He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end” (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

    Here are two massive truths held together.

    First, God “has made everything beautiful in its time.” Not everything is beautiful in itself. Illness, injustice, grief, and war are truly evil. Yet God is so wise and so sovereign that he can weave even painful seasons into a larger pattern of beauty in his time. You and I see a handful of tangled threads. God sees the whole tapestry. The timing belongs to him, not to us.

    Second, God “has put eternity into man’s heart.” Deep down, we know we were made for more than “birth → work → death.” We long for permanence. We ache for justice that is not postponed or buried. We feel, sometimes almost physically, that death is wrong and life is too short. That ache is not a glitch in the system or a psychological trick. Ecclesiastes says it is something God himself has planted in us.

    And yet, the verse continues, we “cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end.” We are big enough to sense that there is a story larger than our own, but we are small enough that we cannot fully grasp that story while we are inside it. We want the full blueprint; God gives us enough light for the next step.

    So how do we live inside that tension? The Preacher says: “I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also, that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in all his toil—this is God’s gift to man” (Ecclesiastes 3:12–13).

    This is not shallow escapism. It is an invitation to receive the ordinary gifts of life – food, drink, work, friendship, rest – as gifts from God’s hand, not as little gods in themselves. Enjoy your meals as gifts, not as your comfort saviour. Enjoy your work as service, not as your identity. Enjoy your relationships as blessings, not as foundations that must never crack. Real joy in God’s gifts is part of trusting him, not a distraction from it.

    The God Whose Work Endures Forever.

    The next verses shift our eyes from our fragile activity to God’s enduring work: “I perceived that whatever God does endures for ever; nothing can be added to it, nor anything taken from it. God has done it, so that people fear before him” (Ecclesiastes 3:14).

    Our plans are temporary and easily interrupted. God’s purposes stand. We cannot “improve” his wisdom or undermine his final design. That is not meant to crush us, but to humble us into reverent trust. If we could see and control everything, we would forget him entirely. Because we cannot, we are invited to bow before him.

    Verse 15 echoes the sense of repetition from earlier in the book: “That which is, already has been that which is to be, already has been and God seeks what has been driven away.” The cycles of history are not random. The “I’ve seen this before” moments of life unfold under a God whose purposes are consistent, even when his timing puzzles us.

    When Justice Fails and Death Looms.

    Just when we might be tempted to turn this into a neat “everything is beautiful, so everything is fine” message, Ecclesiastes drags us back to hard reality. “In the place of justice, even there was wickedness, and in the place of righteousness, even there was wickedness” (Ecclesiastes 3:16). Courts can be corrupt. Safe places can be dangerous. People who should do right often do wrong.

    What then? The Preacher answers in two ways. First, there will be a time of judgement: “God will judge the righteous and the wicked, for there is a time for every matter and for every work” (Ecclesiastes 3:17). Justice delayed is not justice abandoned. The God who orders times for birth and death also has his own time for putting things right. If judgement fell instantly every time we sinned, there would be no room for repentance, faith, or growth.

    Second, God uses the delay to expose what we really are. He is “testing” the children of man so that they may see they are “but beasts” (Ecclesiastes 3:18). Physically, we share the mortality of animals; we breathe, weaken, and return to dust. And if we live as if this world is all there is, with no God, no eternity, no final justice, then in the end we have no lasting advantage over the beasts.

    He even asks, “Who knows whether the spirit of man goes upward and the spirit of the beast goes down into the earth?” (Ecclesiastes 3:21). He is not denying the difference; by the end of the book, he will clearly say that “the spirit returns to God who gave it.” But inside the cycle of life and death, from our limited vantage point, we see so little. Ecclesiastes wants us to feel that smallness, not to mock us, but to loosen our grip on self-sufficiency.

    Rejoicing in Your Lot Today.

    The chapter closes very practically: “So I saw that there is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his work, for that is his lot” (Ecclesiastes 3:22). Work is not your god, and it is not your curse. It is your portion – part of the daily calling God has entrusted to you.

    You and I do not know how long our work will last. We cannot see “what will be after” us. We have no idea how God might use what we do beyond our own lifetime. But we do know this: today has been given to us. The tasks in front of us are not accidents. The ability to enjoy them, even in small ways, is a gift. The right response is not anxious control, but thankful faithfulness.

    Learning to Trust the Lord of Time.

    Ecclesiastes 3 does not offer a shortcut around pain. Instead, it gives us a way to live honestly and hopefully in a world we do not control. You do not manage the seasons of your life; God does. Your deep longing for “something more” than this short, fragile existence is not madness; it is eternity written on your heart.

    For Christians, this chapter also points us towards Jesus Christ, the One who stepped into our times and seasons. The New Testament says, “when the fullness of time had come, God sent forth his Son, born of woman, born under the law” (Galatians 4:4). In Jesus, God entered our “under the sun” world to bear our sin, taste our death, and open up eternal life beyond the cycle.

    If you are a believer, Ecclesiastes 3 invites you to loosen your grip on control and receive today as a gift from a Father whose wisdom outlasts you. If you are exploring or sceptical, it gently asks why your heart insists that life should be more just, more permanent, more meaningful than it often feels. That ache may be God’s way of drawing you towards the One who makes “everything beautiful in its time” and who promises a world where time itself is healed.

    You do not need the full map. You have today’s portion: today’s work, today’s relationships, today’s opportunities to do good and to rejoice. Walk faithfully in that and dare to ask whether the God who holds your times in his hands might also be holding out his hand to you.

  • The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    Why there’s an audio version
    Some readers prefer to read at their own pace. Others (especially when eyesight, energy or health make reading harder) may find listening easier. So I’ve added an audio option—feel free to relax, sit back and listen, or carry on reading—whichever suits you best.

    The Restlessness That Points to Something More.

    Wonder begins early in life. As children, we asked questions with unguarded honesty—questions that cut beneath the surface of everyday life. We looked at the sky or the rhythm of the seasons and felt instinctively that the world was meaningful. We sensed intention, beauty, and purpose long before we could articulate any of it. The world felt alive.

    Yet growing up brings noise. Responsibilities tighten. Modern life hums relentlessly—emails, deadlines, notifications, expectations. Eventually those earlier questions fade into the background. They never truly vanish; they simply sink below the surface. Still, every now and then, something interrupts our pace—a quiet morning, a late-night drive, a moment when the world feels strangely still. And there, in the silence, the old questions rise again, as though patiently waiting to be acknowledged.

    These questions are not signs of weakness. They are, in many ways, a map leading us toward a deeper reality.

    How We Lost Our Shared Compass.

    Only a few generations ago, many in the Western world lived with a shared sense of orientation. Faith, community, tradition, and a belief in a higher purpose sat at the centre of daily life. People disagreed, yes, but most felt connected to something beyond themselves—something more stable than personal preference.

    Today that grounding has shifted. We are encouraged to craft our own identity, determine our own truth, and build our own meaning from scratch. The language is empowering, promising unlimited self-expression and total personal freedom. But this freedom comes with a hidden cost: if meaning comes only from within, then we must continually sustain it. We must invent it, protect it, and perform it.

    For many, this has not produced confidence but exhaustion. A quiet, unspoken hollowness sits just beneath the surface. The slogans of modern life promise liberation, but they leave us carrying the full weight of our own significance.

    The Quiet Experiment of Building Meaning Without God.

    Across the last century, something subtle happened. Society began an experiment—one many never consciously agreed to. Faith moved from public life to private life, then from private life to irrelevance. God shifted from the centre to the margins and, eventually, out of the picture altogether.

    At first, this shift felt like progress. But without God, the foundations that once supported identity, worth, love, dignity, and moral meaning grew thin. When the human heart loses any reference point beyond the self, everything becomes negotiable. Truth becomes personal. Purpose becomes fluid. Identity becomes fragile.

    And when life becomes difficult—as it inevitably does—self-constructed meaning begins to wobble. Hospital corridors, grief, loss, and loneliness often reveal the limitations of carefully curated self-defined purpose. In those moments, many discover an instinctive longing for something solid. Something transcendent. Something real enough to hold the weight of suffering.

    Why We Still Feel the Ache.

    Despite our technological comfort, our constant entertainment, and our unprecedented convenience, a quiet restlessness lingers in nearly every corner of modern life. Many describe a sense of spiritual depletion they cannot quite name. They change jobs, relationships, locations, habits, and online personas, yet the same unshakable ache returns.

    Perhaps that ache is not a malfunction. Perhaps it is a message.

    When we remove God from the centre, we inevitably place ourselves there—but the human heart was never built for that role. Most people, even in a secular age, continue to live as though love is real, justice is real, truth is real, beauty is real, and human dignity is real. Yet these realities sit uneasily within a worldview that insists everything is accidental and impersonal. Deep down, we sense that these things point beyond us. They whisper of a source.

    Why Our Deepest Questions Still Matter.

    We can distract ourselves for years—sometimes for decades—but we cannot outrun the deeper questions that come for us in quiet moments. If suffering exposes the limits of self-invented meaning, and if the ache of restlessness reveals a hunger that comfort cannot satisfy, then perhaps the assumptions of our age need re-examining.

    John 14:6 (ESV 2007) speaks with striking clarity:

    “Jesus said to him, ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’”

    This is not an argument for nostalgia, nor is it a call to return to a past era as though it were golden. Rather, it is an invitation to consider whether removing God from the centre may have unintentionally removed the very foundation on which value, meaning, and hope rest.

    An Invitation to Look Again.

    You do not need certainty to begin exploring these questions. You do not need to call yourself religious or even know where you stand. You simply need to acknowledge that the stirrings inside you—the longings, doubts, and moments of wonder—may be pointing toward something more substantial than personal feeling.

    This is not a verdict on your life or a demand for instant belief. It is a simple invitation: look again. Consider the possibility that the restlessness within you is not an enemy to silence or suppress, but a signal. A signpost toward the One who made you.

    If God is real, then seeking Him is not a hobby or a side interest. It is the most important journey any person can take. And that journey often begins not with certainty, but with curiosity.

    What if the ache you feel is an echo of the One who calls you?
    What if meaning is not something we construct, but something we discover—something already woven into the fabric of reality?
    What if those quiet questions are not interruptions, but invitations?

    The restlessness may, in the end, be the door.

  • Blogging Blogging Blogging.

    Blogging Blogging Blogging.

    Why there’s an audio version
    Some readers prefer to read at their own pace. Others (especially when eyesight, energy or health make reading harder) may find listening easier. So, I’ve added an audio option—feel free to relax, sit back and listen, or carry on reading—whichever suits you best.

    When Life Changes Overnight and the Words Start Pouring Out.

    There are seasons in life when everything seems to fall still. Nothing moves. Nothing grows. Days blur together, and you wonder whether anything meaningful will ever come from the place you’ve landed.
    And then there are seasons like the one I’m in now—unexpected, unplanned, and overflowing with more questions than answers. I didn’t intend to become a blogger. I didn’t expect writing to become a lifeline. And I never imagined that my circumstances, difficult as they are, would open the door to a whole new way of living. But here I am, a newcomer to WordPress and a head full of ideas, and enthusiasm that is old news to the veterans of blogging.

    I should probably explain how I got here.

    A Life Changed in a Single Week.

    In April 2025, a GP started a chain of events that led to a misdiagnosis and a botched medical procedure which went horribly wrong and left me with permanent damage to my lungs. My breathing has never returned to normal. I can’t stand for long, can’t do most of the physical things I used to do, and I sleep sitting up because lying flat simply isn’t possible anymore. Nights are broken into short bursts of rest—three or four hours at most in my large layback office chair—and long stretches of wakefulness. Gradually the urge and want to write has grown inside me, my mind and soul flooding with new ideas every moment, new to me anyway.

    It took time to accept that life from now on had completely changed. That the world I once moved through as a free spirit had, in an instant, shrunk to a much smaller environment—housebound now, and no longer able to travel or chase the adventures I once loved. But those long waking hours did something unexpected: they gave me space—too much space sometimes—to think, to pray, and eventually, to actually start to write all these thoughts down.

    Then what began as a necessity to keep me sane became a doorway.

    Discovering Blogging at the Exact Moment I Needed It.

    I arrived on WordPress almost by accident. I set up a simple blog website, not expecting much from it. One subscriber felt like such a victory—thank you, Christopher. Posting anything felt like a mountain climbed. I didn’t know what I was doing—I still barely do—but the moment I published my first post, I prayed, guided by Scripture:

    “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
    (Phil 4:6–7 ESV 2007)

    Something woke up inside me.

    The quiet hours of the night suddenly weren’t empty anymore. Ideas flooded in. Thoughts that had been sitting quietly at the back of my mind began knocking loudly. Passages of Scripture lit up with new clarity. Old questions resurfaced. New questions arrived before I’d finished answering the previous ones.

    And before I knew what was happening, I was writing. A lot.

    I Felt Elation While Writing.

    I had found a new purpose in life. With cruel new limitations, I’m always breathless.
    If you’re new to blogging, no one tells you what happens when the floodgates open. One minute you’re tentatively posting your first little piece; the next minute you’re wrestling with whether publishing seven posts in three days is normal at first, or why you should worry how often you post. I can write a post every two hours with a coffee break—what does it matter anyway?

    I found myself producing content quicker than I’d imagined. I thought of my one or maybe two subscribers’ inboxes going off like spam. I’d publish something, sit back, listen to it read aloud with Microsoft cloud voices for a few minutes, and immediately feel the urge to write the next one. I wondered whether this was normal or whether I was alone in this unstoppable momentum. Was I supposed to slow down? Was it bad form to post every few hours? Did experienced bloggers look at this and think, “Oh dear, here we go—another newbie in overdrive”?

    The irony of it made me laugh—blogging about blogging like so many have, worrying about blogging, thinking about blogging, praying about blogging… and then, of course, blogging again.

    But the truth is, it doesn’t feel excessive to me, but natural. I hated writing at school and college; I was more of a story maker and teller but never wrote them down. In my twenties, my good friend said, “You should write a book, you’ve lived five lives already.”

    When God Gives You Something to Say.

    There is a spiritual dimension to this that I can’t ignore. There are moments in life when God sharpens your focus, clears the fog, and turns a whisper into something like a calling. I didn’t expect that to happen in this season of struggle, but it did. In fact, it happened because of it.

    When your health changes, your world shrinks. But God does not shrink with it. Instead, He fills the space you have left.

    Writing has become more than an experiment or something to keep my mind occupied. It has become a way to share the gospel. A way to process what I’m living through. A way to offer hope to someone who may be going through their own dark chapter. A way to obey the command to speak of Christ—to point people towards the One who holds us through every breath, even the painful ones.

    And somehow, this new purpose sits comfortably inside the limitations I didn’t choose. It doesn’t require strong lungs, or long walks, or heavy lifting. It requires only the willingness to sit, to reflect, and to let the thoughts fill my mind.

    Finding Purpose in a Life You Didn’t Plan.

    I won’t pretend it’s easy. There are days when I miss the person I used to be—an advanced carpenter, a Rescue Diver/Divemaster, travelling, working in my trade as a carpenter to keep travelling and scuba diving in many countries. Now it’s a real struggle to clean my bungalow and cook, but if I can’t go back to that life, then I choose to move forward with this one.

    I’m not meeting people anymore. I’m not out in the world in the way I once was. But I am writing, thinking, learning, praying, and starting to pour out everything God gives me.

    And strangely enough, that feels like living again.

    Writing hasn’t replaced everything I lost, but it has given me something new to hold on to. Something meaningful. Something that connects me to others, even if only one or two people who sneak a peek at one blog in a month. It may take decades to reach five people who want to share their thoughts with me or ask a question. However long it takes, it will be the perfect exact time.

    The Joy of Beginning Again.

    If you’re reading this as a new blogger yourself, maybe you know this feeling too—the rush of ideas, the excitement, the worry that you’re posting too much or too fast. Or perhaps you’re reading this while going through your own unexpected chapter of life, wondering whether anything good can come out of it.

    Let me tell you what I’m learning: purpose can appear in the strangest places. Hope can take shape in the quiet hours when sleep won’t come. Creativity can rise out of a life that feels like it’s been turned on its head. And God can bring new calling out of circumstances that were never part of your plan.

    I didn’t choose this path. But I’m choosing what to do with it.

    It’s been an hour since my last post — I’d better crack on.
    And if writing is the way forward—then I’m going to keep writing.

    2 responses to “Blogging Blogging Blogging.”

    1. Christopher Francis Avatar
      Christopher Francis

      Good day Jo. I hope you are doing well. I resonated with some of your thougts in this post, especially this one: “New questions arrived before I’d finished answering the previous ones.” I know this experience all too well. Regarding how often to blog, of course that is up to each blogger. Personally, seeing people post every few hours reminds me too much of other social media, like Facebook or Twitter. A lot of people use their blog in the same way, albeit, maybe a little bit deeper as they like to respond to daily prompts, instead of posting about how they overslept, had nothing to eat for breakfast except stale cereal since they had not gone shopping lately. Daily prompts don’t really appeal to me as far as posts for my blog- they just don’t fit what I am trying to do on my blog (even if responding to them drove more traffic.) Considering the type of writing I produce, I don’t think I could keep up a pace of being able to write something new daily.

      Anyway, as I was reading your post, an old favorite verse of mine that has given me a lot of hope over the years came to mind. Isaiah 42:16: “And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things will I do unto them, and not forsake them.” I think this verse may fit your situation in conjunction with Isaiah 29:16: “Surely your turning of things upside down shall be esteemed as the potter’s clay: for shall the work say of him that made it, He made me not? or shall the thing framed say of him that framed it, He had no understanding?” Sometimes God allows our world to be turned upside down and we become blind in the sense of where things are going and where He will take us. But as you have shown above, a world turned upside down can still be redeemed and used by God greatly- even more we ever thought before. Never give up on God and let Him use you. Don’t worry about your blog stats but just being faithful. At the end of our days, that is the true measure of success in His eyes. God bless.

      1. Jo Blogs Avatar
        Jo Blogs

        Christopher,
        Your comment sent me back to Scripture, which is always a good thing. Isaiah 42:16 reminded me that when my world was turned upside down, God is upholding me through it all. He is the One who carries me, strengthens me daily, comforts me, and gently leads me forward into this new season of writing. I’ve always seen myself as clay in the hands of the Potter, our Creator, and these verses confirmed that again. My life, my limits, and this unexpected path are in His hands. And just as the body of Christ has many members with different gifts, we each serve in different ways. You write beautiful poems and reflections that connect with others like me; some write studies, some share stories — but it is the same God who arranges and uses it all. Thank you for sharing those verses and for the encouragement. P.S. If your notifications start pinging every five to seven hours because I’ve posted again, just put my notifications on vibrate :-) — God seems to be setting my schedule these days! God bless you.

  • The Meaning of Faith

    The Meaning of Faith

    Grace, Faith, Hope, and Love Series. Part 2.

    Introduction.

    Faith is often misunderstood as blind optimism or a kind of religious positivity. But the Bible speaks of something deeper — trust formed through God’s character, not our feelings. Faith is the hand that receives the gift grace offers. It’s the steadying confidence that grows not from perfect circumstances, but from a God who walks with us in every season. Whether you feel strong or uncertain today, this reflection on faith is for you — because faith is not about how tightly we hold on, but about who holds us.

    Faith is a word spoken often yet understood unevenly. For some, it feels like a leap into the dark. For others, it is a quiet confidence born from experience. Many carry questions: What is faith, really? Why does the Bible emphasise it so heavily? And how does faith shape the way we live, hope, and respond to God? These are not abstract questions. They touch the very centre of what it means to trust, to believe, and to look beyond what our eyes can see. Four pivotal Scriptures help us explore this together.

    Faith as Trust Beyond Sight.

    Hebrews 11:1 offers one of the clearest statements in Scripture: “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” This verse sits at the beginning of a chapter often called the “Hall of Faith,” yet it begins not with heroic examples, but with a definition grounded in everyday human longing. Faith is described as assurance—something solid, something steady, something that holds weight even when circumstances don’t. It is the conviction of realities we cannot yet observe with our senses, but which God assures us are true.

    For many seekers, the idea of believing in what is unseen can feel troubling. Isn’t it risky? Doesn’t it require switching off the mind? The biblical picture says the opposite. Faith is not fantasy, nor is it blind guesswork. It is trust rooted in the character of God—who He is, what He has done, and what He promises. Christians believe Jesus truly lived, died, and rose again in history, but faith goes further: it draws confidence from these events for the present moment. It bridges the visible and the invisible, the known and the hoped-for. Faith invites us to step into a deeper reality; one not limited to what we can measure.

    Faith as a Gift We Receive.

    If faith were merely human effort, it would be fragile and uncertain. But Ephesians 2:8 reframes the source entirely: “For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God.” This verse speaks to the heart of the Christian message—salvation is never earned. It is granted. Grace means undeserved kindness; faith is the means by which we receive that kindness. And crucially, none of it originates from our own spiritual strength.

    Many people imagine faith as climbing a ladder toward God. But Scripture paints the reverse picture: God descends to us, offering rescue, forgiveness, and new life, and faith is simply the open hands that receive what He gives. This changes everything. It removes pride from the equation. It eases fear about not being “good enough.” It replaces striving with gratitude. And it reassures those who feel their faith is small or fragile: what matters most is not the size of your faith, but the generosity of the One who gives it.

    For those searching or unsure, this verse can bring surprising relief. You do not need to muster some heroic inner belief before approaching God. You can come with questions, with doubts, with a heart that barely whispers trust. Faith grows not from pressure, but from grace—God’s grace drawing you nearer.

    Faith and the Peace It Brings.

    Romans 5:1 reveals another dimension of faith’s meaning: “Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” To be “justified” means to be declared right with God—to have the barriers of guilt, accusation, and distance removed. Faith is how this justification becomes ours, and peace is its result.

    Peace with God is more than a feeling. It is a restored relationship. Many people carry an internal sense of spiritual dislocation, a quiet ache that something is unresolved between them and the God who made them. Faith does not pretend everything is fine; it acknowledges reality and then receives the peace only Christ can secure. When Jesus died on the cross, Christians believe He bore the weight of sin—everything that breaks us, wounds others, and separates us from God. Faith unites us to Him, bringing His peace into our story.

    For believers, this peace shapes daily life. It steadies the heart in uncertainty. It brings humility when we stumble. It strengthens hope when we’re weary. And for seekers, it is a reminder that Christianity does not call you into anxiety about God’s posture toward you. Through Jesus, God extends peace—not as a distant dream, but as a present reality available through faith.

    Faith Born from Hearing Christ’s Message.

    Romans 10:17 explains another essential aspect: “So faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of Christ.” Faith does not appear out of thin air. It grows as we encounter the message of Christ—His life, His teaching, His death, His resurrection, His invitation. In the original Greek, Paul uses the word rhēma, referring to the spoken or proclaimed message. Hearing the story of Jesus awakens faith.

    This matters greatly for those who feel unsure where to begin. Faith often starts simply by listening—listening to Scripture, listening to Jesus’ words in the Gospels, listening to Christians share their stories. Hearing does not demand immediate acceptance; it invites openness. Exploration itself becomes fertile ground where faith can take root. And for long-time believers, the verse is a gentle reminder that faith must continually be nourished. Returning to Christ’s words refreshes trust, deepens understanding, and strengthens perseverance.

    Some imagine faith as something they must manufacture within themselves, but Scripture consistently points outward—to Christ, His message, and His work. Faith grows not by staring at ourselves, but by hearing Him.

    The Thread That Holds the Four Verses Together.

    Across these four passages, a unified picture emerges. Faith is trust in the unseen rooted in God’s character. It is a gift we receive through grace. It brings peace with God because it connects us to Christ. And it grows as we hear His message. Faith is not an escape from reality, but an anchoring in a deeper one. It does not demand perfect certainty but invites honest seeking. It does not rely on personal strength but rests on divine generosity.

    For believers, these truths encourage a steady, humble walk of trust. For those exploring Christianity, they offer a starting point free from pressure: listen to the words of Christ, explore His story, and allow faith to unfold at its own pace. Jesus always welcomed those who came with questions and uncertainty. He still does.

    A Closing Reflection.

    Faith is both simple and profound. It begins with trust and grows into a lived relationship with God. It connects us to grace, it restores peace, and it invites us into hope that reaches beyond what we can see. Whether you come today with longstanding belief or quiet curiosity, the invitation remains open: look toward Christ, listen to His words, and allow the possibility of faith to rise within you. You may find that God is already drawing you closer than you realised.