-
Eagle. Word. Friend: A hymn for St John the Evangelist – “O Word of God, in darkness born” (CM)
A small gift for St John’s Day: a new hymn for our patron, inspired by the Beloved Disciple and shaped by the familiar strains of St Columba and Ballerma. Continue reading
-
Child. Cross. Crown: Hymn for St Stephen — “The Christ-child comes in lowly grace” (CM)
The Christ-child comes in lowly grace Hymn for St Stephen, First Martyr (CM) 1. The Christ‑child comes in lowly grace, God’s Word in flesh revealed; And Stephen, first in martyr’s place, Bears witness unconcealed. 2. The light that shone in Bethlehem Now crowns him from above; He sees the Lord who once was hemmed In… Continue reading
-
Midnight Garden Diplomacy
Three shapes in the dark, a brief standoff, before the night exhaled again. Continue reading
-
Hush. Hearth. Wonder.
✨ Christmas Day gathers us in church and home, around tables and stories where rhyme becomes its own kind of prayer. I’ve written a new Christmas carol — not for melody, but for the way words can hold family, food, faith, and the Saviour’s quiet nearness. A small song in rhyme for a day full… Continue reading
-
Incarnation. Hearth. Peace.
Two altars, one story, and a quiet Christmas wrapped in warmth, presence, and apple crumble. Continue reading
-
Midnight. Music. Mystery: A Christmas hymn about the organ — “At midnight, when the church is still” (CM)
The hymn reflects on the serene beauty of Christmas Eve, highlighting the organ’s music, hope, and community connections amidst personal gratitude and the festive season’s emotional depth. Continue reading
-
Shift. Grace. Arrival.
A quiet reflection for a day shifted out of rhythm—when plans move, the centre wavers, and yet presence meets you exactly where you are. In the midst of a rearranged moment, a promise settles close. Continue reading
-
Clay. Cornerstone. Calm.
A quiet meditation for a day that doesn’t follow the script, on being clay, being carried, and being steadied by the One who holds everything together. Continue reading
-
Dawn. Light. Rising.
A quiet reflection from the organ bench on the day when light begins to return. Continue reading
-
Doorways. Darkness. Dawn.
In the deepening dark, a key turns—and hope finds its way in. Continue reading
-
Hidden. Growing. Faithful.
A reflection on the quiet places where hope takes root and grace begins to grow. Continue reading
-
Fire. Law. Arm.
A flame that does not consume, a covenant that honours difference, an arm stretched out to redeem. Continue reading
-
Wisdom. Hidden. Tradition.
A cryptic note in the Prayer Book calendar whispers of O Sapientia. Without the story, it slips past unnoticed. Yet here, at Advent’s threshold, Wisdom speaks—ordering all things sweetly, inviting us to pause and learn the way of prudence. Continue reading
-
Waiting. Practising. Proclaiming.
Caught between Advent’s hush and Christmas’ song, even the organ bench becomes a place of paradox—where longing and joy are rehearsed side by side. Continue reading
-
Waiting. Healing. Confession.
Psalm 40 | Isaiah 38:1-5,21-22 | Matthew 16:13-28 This afternoon, as I sit through three and a half hours of dialysis, I find myself living inside the words of Psalm 40, Isaiah 38, and Matthew 16. The psalmist’s waiting is my waiting: tethered to the machine, I wait, and yet I trust that God bends… Continue reading
-
Feast. Joy. Song.
On Gaudete Sunday, the rose candle glows as Isaiah’s feast, Mary’s song, and Christ’s assurance weave together—joy breaking into waiting, light shining within the shadows. Continue reading
-
Awkward. Risk. Grace.
A meditation on queer trust and divine presence, sparked by a motorbike ride in Pillion. Continue reading
-
Mercy. Foundation. Grace.
A week’s end reflection on prayer, stability, and sustaining compassion… Continue reading
-
Autistic. Gay. Creative.
When I first began writing, I often wondered if my voice would ever find a home. As an autistic, gay writer, the world sometimes felt like it was asking me to shrink, to smooth out the edges of difference. Yet writing became the place where those edges could shine—where difference wasn’t something to hide, but… Continue reading
-
Pancakes. French. Love.
This morning began with the smell of batter sizzling on the pan, golden circles stacked high and served with a smile. Tonight, the day closed with sugared French toast, crisp at the edges and soft at the centre, made with the same care. It’s not just about the food — though it’s delicious — it’s… Continue reading
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
NeuroDivine 