It was Christmas Eve afternoon, just one more sleep until Christmas. The weather was mild and the sky shone a clear pale blue over the Staffordshire village of Oxley. Sophie Ashton negotiated the potholes of the church drive, accompanied by Henry, aged two and a half, in his smart outfit, new shoes polished. Sophie was feeling remarkably relaxed… Read More »
My Life Has Purpose and Meaning
Whether you know it or not, God has a purpose for your life that is greater than you could possibly think or imagine.
I want to begin by telling you a personal story. I was brought up in London in a Polish family… Read More »
When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them.
A few months ago, one of those videos of Read More »
‘There’s a strange disease killing people in Kikyo,’ Kisembo tells me, a frown spreading across his face. Whenever I go in to pay my bill at his drug shop – the one with a black and white fence a few houses down from Nyahuka Health Centre – if I settle onto a bench and lean my head against the wall, I know I’ll get more than just a receipt. This morning I hadn’t intended to stay.
‘A strange disease? What could it be?’ Crossing my legs, I notice… Read More »
At Death’s Door
Someone was ill… very ill indeed. I could hear voices – doctors’ voices, low and concerned, whispering.
I knew I was in the ICU. I also knew it was night-time, but not because it was dark. Day and the night were the same in the ICU… Read More »
East Riding of Yorkshire, early spring 1349
A few spluttering and stinking tallow candles added little light to the meagre glow of smouldering damp logs in the fireplace of the Warren Horesby tavern. A seated figure in coarse travel robes sat with hands tucked in wide sleeves to keep warm. His hood flopped forward, deeply shadowing his eyes. Around him huddled the men of the village… Read More »
Sermons go to work on us in strange, almost inexpressible, ways. Sometimes, what we recall years after the event are not specific words or illustrations, or even the identity of the speaker. Instead, what lingers is an impression made upon us, a feeling of conviction or excitement which remains even if the detail of what was said has not stayed in our long-term memory… Read More »
One of the strangest parts of growing up was always getting the strangest look when I gave my name when introducing myself. I guess back then there were many confused British people who couldn’t put a Pakistani together with an English name. Born in London in 1984… Read More »
Losing Things, One by One
In the first year after Shoko’s diagnosis, life continued much as normal. She could still manage day-to-day activities – looking after the house, cooking, sewing, writing letters, cycling here and there… Read More »
Who is this book by?
When I started writing this book, the very first question I asked myself was not the usual Who is this book aimed at? but Who is this book by? Not because I’m having some sort of identity crisis, but more because there are a number of different perspectives from which… Read More »