NeuroDivine

From when I came too soon to life,
a fragile, early thread,
you held me with a steady care
and watched beside my bed.
As Slemish keeps its ancient guard
above the Antrim air,
so you kept vigil round my crib
with steadfast, shaping care.

Through childhood fevers, growing pains,
and fears I could not name,
you sheltered me as Braid’s calm flow
moves gently, much the same.
The GPs who would listen long,
the nurses who would stay—
through each of you, God’s mercy ran
to guide me on my way.

And later, when new chapters came
with words that changed my days,
I carried HIV from time
in London’s restless maze.
Yet Belfast held me through the years
with wisdom, skill, and grace;
through every clinic, ward, and test,
God met me in that place.

And now within the Midlands’ heart,
where quiet fields remain,
you meet me in the daily rounds
of dialysis and strain.
Your watchful hands, your patient skill,
your kindness day by day—
through all of you, God keeps my life
and lights my fragile way.

For all who keep their watch with me,
for all who yet will stand
beside my bed in future times
with knowledge, heart, and hand—
I offer thanks for every gift,
for every act of care;
for God, who heals through human love,
has met me everywhere.

Reflection

Care has been one of the most faithful rhythms of my life. It has come to me not in grand gestures but in the steady, almost prayerful attentiveness of people who showed up, day after day, to tend what was fragile in me. Their constancy has taught me something essential about God: that divine love often arrives clothed in the ordinary, in the repeated, in the work that must simply be done.

From the earliest days, when I was too small to understand anything except the nearness of hands and breath, others kept watch. That watchfulness became my first experience of grace—not spoken, but lived. As the years unfolded, the same grace appeared again: in childhood nurses who understood the healing power of gentleness; in GPs who listened with a patience that steadied me; in the HIV teams in Belfast who met me with truth and dignity; in the dialysis staff in the Midlands whose daily routines have become a kind of shared liturgy of survival.

What I have learned is that care is a form of presence. It asks for attention, for steadiness, for a willingness to remain with another person in their need. These are not dramatic virtues. They are quiet, disciplined ones—the kind that shape a life from the inside out. And in receiving them, I have come to recognise the shape of God’s own faithfulness.

The truth of my story matters. Naming HIV matters. Naming dialysis matters. Naming the long journey of my body matters. These are not sources of shame; they are places where God has met me through the compassion and competence of others. To speak them aloud is to honour the people who have carried me and to refuse the silence that distorts what is real.

When I look back, I see a long line of people who have tended me with a reverence they may not have recognised as holy. Yet their work has been a kind of prayer—a steady offering of skill, patience, and presence. Through them, God has kept me, shaped me, and taught me that the sacred is often found in the ordinary patterns that sustain a life.

And so I give thanks: for the hands that have held me, for the hearts that have stayed with me, and for the God who has worked through them with such quiet fidelity.

Copyright

© Michael McFarland Campbell. 2026. 
Permission granted for local church or parish use with attribution. Not for commercial reproduction.