NeuroDivine

the Ministry of Catching Trains

I hate bank holidays.

Not for the reasons most people do. Not for the closed shops or the crowded parks or the sudden pressure to “make the most of it.” I hate them because the trains are less frequent.

Today, to get to dialysis, I have to catch the 09:14 instead of the usual 10:14. That extra hour of morning feels like a theft—of sleep, of routine, of the gentle pacing that makes the day bearable. And coming home? If I miss the 17:35, it’s a two-hour wait for the last train. The final ttt rt aim, as my fingers fumble to type what my body already knows: exhaustion, delay, and the fragile hope that all goes well.

Dialysis is already a ministry of endurance. Add a disrupted timetable, and it becomes a pilgrimage of patience. I pack my bag with Liam’s quiet cheer, Otto’s grounding presence, and Barnaby’s clipboard of compliance. I whisper a prayer—not for miracles, but for mercy. For the train to run on time. For the cannula to behave. For the body to hold steady.

And if it doesn’t? Then I’ll wait. I’ll notice. I’ll name the frustration and the grace. Because even in the delay, there is dignity. Even in the disruption, there is divine rhythm.

Let’s hope all goes well.