NeuroDivine

Some stories don’t just belong to the past—they echo in our bodies, our landscapes, and the ways we learn to walk through the world. The Conversion of St Paul is one of those stories. It’s not really about a single moment on a dusty road; it’s about what happens when light interrupts us, names us, and invites us into a truer way of being.

For NeuroDivine, that feels deeply familiar.

Many of us know what it is to be travelling one way—certain, defended, surviving—and then to be stopped by something we didn’t expect: a diagnosis, a moment of clarity, a new language for our inner world, a sudden recognition that the path we’re on is too small for who we are becoming. Paul’s story is dramatic, but the pattern is universal. Illumination often begins in disorientation.

This week, a new hymn emerged from that place of turning. It’s rooted in the Irish landscape—one reference from each province—because land holds memory, and memory holds us. Slemish, the Barrow, the Shannon, the Kerry headlands: each one a reminder that transformation is never abstract. It happens in real places, in real bodies, in the ordinary ground beneath our feet.

The hymn imagines Christ not as a distant figure but as the Light who finds us falling, the Voice who calls us by name, the Way who leads us onward when we’re unsure how to take the next step. It honours the truth that conversion—in the deepest sense—is not about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming more fully ourselves.

For those of us navigating neurodivergence, faith, identity, and belonging, Paul’s story becomes a companion rather than a command. A reminder that change doesn’t erase who we were; it gathers every part of us into a wider horizon.

May this hymn be a gentle invitation:
to listen for the voice that speaks our name,
to trust the light that interrupts our certainty,
and to walk the road ahead with courage —
Christ leading us onward, unafraid.

Christ, the Light who found us falling
on the road we thought we knew,
breaks the storm-clouds with His calling,
speaks our name and makes us new.
Slemish stones in northern quiet
hold the stories of Your grace;
still You meet us on the journey,
turn our hearts to seek Your face.

Saul, the fierce and blinded pilgrim,
felt the fire no rain could drown;
on the earth he learned surrender,
rose in love, laid down his crown.
By the Barrow’s flowing waters,
or where Shannon currents roam,
Christ awakens hidden longing,
guides the wanderer safely home.

Voice that echoed on the Antrim
hillsides where our kin once prayed,
speak again in whispered mercy,
shape our courage unafraid.
Call us from our narrow seeing,
free us from the paths we choose;
Kerry headlands, wind‑worn, steadfast,
teach us what we fear to lose.

Spirit, flame of new beginning,
kindle truth in every land;
turn our stumbling into witness,
write Your gospel in our hands.
May the Church, like Paul, be turning
toward the light that does not fade;
Christ, the Way through all our journeys,
lead us onward, unafraid.

Text copyright 2026 Michael McFarland Campbell. All rights reserved.