NeuroDivine

The night seemed to summon me north, though the call began far beyond me.

A friend set out from Donegal, driving the long road south through the spine of Ulster and into Leinster, just so he could reach Kildare—and then keep going to Monasterevin to collect me. Only then did he turn the car north again, carrying me back toward Antrim, toward the place where my life began and where my father, Brian, now lies sleeping at the edge of the great crossing.

There was something ancient in that gesture—a kindness that felt like the old monastic rule of welcome, where distance and inconvenience meant nothing beside the need of another. The road itself seemed to recognise it, opening before us in long, dark ribbons.

When I stepped into the room, the air felt changed—not heavy, but hallowed.

My mother, Mary, keeping vigil with the quiet endurance of someone who has loved across a lifetime.

My brothers, Duncan and Peter, each carrying their own thread of our shared story.

For a brief, precious time, all of us were gathered around Brian, whose breath still steadies the room even in sleep.

Peter slipped away again to tend to his animals—because even on nights like this, life continues in its small, faithful rhythms. Creatures depending on him must not be forgotten, and there was something right in that: love expressed in care, in returning, in keeping the world turning gently.

Brian has lingered at thresholds before.

He has surprised doctors, defied predictions, held on with a quiet, stubborn strength that is entirely his own. I can feel that same endurance now—a pulse beneath the stillness, a presence that has not yet loosened its hold.

And yet, alongside that, another truth rests in me without contradiction:
the hope that when the moment comes, it will be soft.
That he will be carried across whatever lies beyond this night with ease, with peace, with the same quiet dignity with which he lived.

For now, we keep watch.
Not to hold him here,
but to walk with him as far as we can—
to honour the long road of his life with our presence,
our breath,
our love.

And when Christ calls him—
as surely Christ will—
may it be like the old Celtic blessing:
a hand on the shoulder,
a light in the dark,
a path opening toward the dawn.
May the angels of God guard his passing,
and the saints of Ireland welcome him home.
May the risen Christ, who has gone before us,
meet him on the threshold
and lead him into peace.