Out of the new hymns for Christmas 2025, comes a book : “The Mindful Year: Hymns for Christmastide”.

In the long, measured hours of dialysis, I began to notice how healing is carried not only by machines and medicine, but by the people who sit beside us, the families who steady us, and the landsca…

Beginnings & Thresholds is the first volume in A Pilgrim’s Psalter of Earth and Light, a hymn series shaped by the real landscapes of contemporary Ireland and the quiet courage of those who pray in th...

On this Epiphany morning—Nollaig na mBan—we gather around quiet revelations: frost on bog cotton, bare branches holding promise, and the steady light that guides us home. A new hymn rises from the …

A Christmas hymn shaped by the organ’s waiting lungs and the quiet music that carries hope through the dark, inviting us once more into the story that begins at midnight.

Author Michael McFarland Campbell shares The Circuit of Care, The Church Is Open, and Carried, stories of dialysis, liturgy, and blessing.

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…

On trustworthy leadership, gentle correction, and the rhythm of shared care. Today’s readings and Rule offer a quiet choreography of discernment, dignity, and shared responsibility. In Psalm 116, we hear the voice of one who has survived—not only physical danger, but the slow erosion of trust and belonging. The psalmist’s vow to walk in the land of the living is not triumphant, but tender: a promise to live with gratitude, to notice each mercy, and to remain in communion.

When the timetable shifts, so does the soul. A reflection on dialysis, delays, and small mercies.

When silence becomes praise and mercy meets the rain-soaked soil, even the overlooked find their place in the liturgy of being seen. This week’s reflection honours the quiet dignity of showing up—without performance, without apology.

Wrapped in Sherpa softness, this blanket feels like a teddy bear’s hug—perfect for sensory calm and quiet joy.

Lighting the lamp in a quiet chapel, this reflection weaves Psalmody, rededication, and resurrection into a rhythm of presence—where constraint becomes sacred, and the Psalter still glows with quiet light.

No bear beside me. A funeral in Lisburn. Grief, grace, and quiet courage carried me through. I managed. Just.

Three women. One tomb. A psalm that ends in darkness—and a silence that trembles with the hint of resurrection.

Reflection for the Feast of St James, Brother of the Lord Psalm 119:145–168 | Jeremiah 11:18–23 | Matthew 10:16–22 | RB 18 Today’s readings and rhythm feel stitched together like the quilt on the chapel chair—each square distinct, yet part of a whole. Psalm 119, in its final stretch, is a cry of constancy: “I call with all my heart… I rise before dawn and cry for help.” It’s not a triumphal shout, but a steady pulse—like the dialysis machine’s hum, like the rhythm of Terce, Sext, and None.

A quiet tribute to an elder who saw me clearly—living not hidden in the shadows, but with grace.

Rhythms of Presence in Prayer, Preparation, and Witness Psalm 119:105–128 | 1 Maccabees 3:42–60 | Mark 15:33–41 | RB Chapter 18 There are days when the lectionary and the Rule seem to conspire gently, offering not answers but a rhythm to inhabit. October 22 is one such day. The psalmist speaks of a lamp, not a blaze. The Maccabees prepare for battle, not with noise but with prayer.

Praying the Hours in Dialysis and Grace Psalm 89:1-18 | 1 Maccabees 3:27-41 | Mark 15:16-32 | RB Chapter 17: Today’s readings are not gentle. Psalm 89 begins with promise—“I will sing of your steadfast love, O Lord”—but quickly turns to lament. The psalmist remembers covenant and kindness, yet feels the sting of abandonment. Maccabees shows a people preparing for war, outnumbered and outmatched, yet resolved.

Is the Word enough? A reflection on Scripture, Tradition, and Reason—and the danger of standing alone. #NeuroDivine

Before most of my classmates met Kevin and Sadie in “Across the Barricades,” I had already walked with them through “The Twelfth Day of July”—thanks to my grandmother Catherine’s quiet gift: a summer library filled with stories that taught empathy, context, and courage. This is a thanksgiving for her legacy of books and bridges.

A reflection on praise in constraint, courage in quiet, and the strength of showing up. Psalm 80 | 1 Maccabees 3:1-26 | Mark 15:1-15 | RB Chapter 16: There’s a thread running through today’s readings that feels stitched into the fabric of my days: the ache of longing, the courage to resist, and the quiet strength of surrender. Psalm 80 opens with a plea—“Give ear, O Shepherd of Israel”—a cry that feels familiar to anyone who has waited in the stillness of a dialysis chair, or prayed through the fog of fatigue.

A quiet joy threads through covenant, rhythm, and persistence—where Alleluia waits, justice lingers, and presence becomes its own prayer.

A Feast of Clarity and Care in the Midst of Constraint Readings: Psalms 145, 146 | Isaiah 55:1–13 | Luke 1:1–4 | RB 14 Reflection for St Luke’s Day There’s a gentleness in today’s readings—a kind of invitation that doesn’t rush or demand, but waits with open arms. “Come, all you who are thirsty… listen, that you may live.” Isaiah’s voice is not a trumpet blast but a hand extended across the threshold.

Stitched into silence and shared care, we mark time together—patients, nurses, rhythms—held in the grace of dialysis presence.

Children aren’t distractions—they’re divine disruptions. Let them come, wiggle, wonder, worship. Church isn’t tidy—it’s alive with grace.