Advent does not begin with silence or perfect order, but with interruption. Luke tells us there was no room in the guest room — not an inn turning people away, but a family home already stretched to its limits. Relatives gathered for the census. Animals brought inside for warmth. A house doing what it can with what it has. And it is there, in the lower room, that Jesus is born.

This week, a single phrase stayed with me: “For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.” (Matthew 18:20, NIV) It’s a sentence I’ve heard many times. Usually it lands as reassurance — a gentle comfort that a small gathering still counts. But recently it has begun to sound far more weighty, even dangerous. What first struck me was an image from Daniel.

As another birthday arrives, I find myself pausing at the riverbank of time — noticing how far I’ve travelled, and sensing the pull of waters still ahead. Birthdays aren’t just numbers. They’re invitations to reflect on the shape of the current and the God who guides it. This year has surprised me.I’ve stepped into things I didn’t even know were in me:

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to live faithfully as a Christian today — what covenant I’m part of, who I listen to, and how we discern what God is saying in a world full of noise. It all started, oddly enough, when my daughters were watching Peppa Pig on YouTube. The episodes just kept rolling — no end credits, no natural stop, just one continuous stream of content.

I’ve been working my way slowly through 1 Peter with the help of Karen H. Jobes’ commentary, and even in the opening verses I’ve been struck by the language Peter uses to describe his audience: foreigners, exiles, diaspora. These aren’t just throwaway labels. They carry the weight of Israel’s covenant story — Abraham living among the Hittites, Israel scattered in exile, God’s people wandering as those who don’t quite belong.

Sometimes I feel this tension in my spirit about what’s going on in the world. Some Christians are so sure that modern events are fulfilling prophecy. Yes, Israel is God’s chosen people — but Scripture shows again and again that those who are truly chosen are the ones who follow His ways. Even outsiders like Rahab and Ruth were welcomed into God’s covenant family and are part of the line of Jesus.

I read recently that Suffolk County Council is trialling pavement gulleys for EV chargers. Some people mocked the idea outright. Others were quick to jump to problems — what if you can’t park directly outside your house? Won’t it create disputes? Won’t it clutter pavements? I don’t dismiss those questions. But what struck me was how easily new ideas can get written off before they’re given the chance to prove whether they work.

When the world feels loud with competing narratives, God is still at work—quietly weaving, mending, and reviving. Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is look up to Him, and sit in the ache with Him. The world feels louder than ever. Every day, competing narratives shout over one another—about politics, religion, tragedies, and who is “right” or “wrong.” Facts seem secondary to the stories crafted for attention, clicks, or influence.

This weekend I’m taking Jessica to her very first football match. Not Old Trafford, though that’s on the dream list one day, but The Eyrie — home of Bedford Town. They’re up against Dagenham & Redbridge in the FA Cup second qualifying round. It’s a non-league ground: one stand for seating, the rest standing terraces. But that’s the beauty of it.

I am weary of the noise.Everywhere I look, the headlines scream, the online forums erupt, and public discourse seems more interested in division than understanding. The cycle of blame, the pursuit of power, the shouting—it feels endless. Compassion is often the first casualty. Yesterday, there was a stabbing in my town centre. I do not know the condition of the victim.

When we speak, we create. As God spoke the world into existence, we speak new ideas, conversations, laughter, love, passion, desires, meals shared, and memories made. Our words can inspire movement…

When we speak, we create. As God spoke the world into existence, we speak new ideas, conversations, laughter, love, passion, desires, meals shared, and memories made. Our words can inspire movements, open hearts, and build community. But unlike God — who is purely good — we are tainted with sin. That means our words can be twisted. Speech meant to bring joy can be laced with jealousy.

We don't always know what to do with pain. Our culture — and often even our churches — rushes past it. We want healing without the wound, resurrection without the cross, Sunday without Good Friday. But real life isn’t like that. There are seasons of sorrow, grief, unanswered questions. There are moments when the only thing we can do is sit in the ache.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. Life’s been busy—family, work, church—and through it all, sometimes I haven’t known what to say. But recently, through Scripture, a vivid dream, and moments in Prince Caspian, I’ve sensed a fresh stirring: a desire not to shout at the world but to speak with conviction shaped by the Word. Because amid the clamor, …

A New Song in My Head Recently, something unexpected has started to take root in me — songwriting. It’s not something I planned. I’ve blogged for a while now as a way to process faith and life, but writing songs? That’s new. And it’s taken up more of my mind and heart than I expected. It began with poems and images.

This week I’ve found myself in a kind of waiting room. Not still, exactly — there’s plenty on the horizon — but a pause between one thing and the next. I’ve been tired. A bit mentally foggy. And aware of the deep tension between what has been and what’s coming. Two pictures came to me recently, both involving rivers. The first was wild and chaotic.

It was September 2012, and I was out on a run — not something I did often then, and still not something I do much now! But that run became one of the most significant moments in my spiritual journey. At the time, I was part of a Newfrontiers church, wrestling with questions that had been building quietly in my heart.

I’ve never liked my writing being read. Grammar and I have never got on. I sometimes write things I think are fine, only to discover they’ve landed badly. Not because I meant harm—but because even things we don’t mean can still hurt. That’s been part of the journey: realising that being challenged is part of growth. And it’s not always comfortable.

This isn’t a call to division or debate. It’s a quiet reflection born out of concern. Because I believe the way of Jesus calls us to pay attention, to the stories we’re told, the powers we trust, and the voices we follow. We’re living in a time when nationalism is on the rise again. It’s loud in some places, on billboards, in headlines, in rallies.

We’ve been journeying as a church. Not just metaphorically, but literally — through Scripture.We’ve stood beside Mary and Joseph on the road to Bethlehem.We’ve watched the injured man on the Jericho road in the parable of the Good Samaritan.We’ve met Saul on the road to Damascus.Heard the gospel preached on the road to Gaza.And followed Jesus step by step on the road to Calvary.

Earlier this week, around the time of my church warden service, I heard something on a podcast that stuck with me.It was about how Christians often feel like they’ve only really “made it” when they become a missionary, a preacher, a worship leader. Some visible role that sounds impressive. It made me stop. Then today, at an Evergreen retreat day for young worship leaders, it all came together.

I feel increasingly called to challenge the narrative around climate change, the environment, and our role in it—not just as individuals, but as a church and as a society. For too long, the convers…

I often feel like Moses—full of thoughts but not always sure how to speak them. Like him, I sometimes need an Aaron, someone to help express what’s on my heart. In recent years, AI has become a kin…

A journey through doubt, calling, and discipleship.