On Tuesday 30 December 2025, Timothy died.

Even as I type those words, my brain kicks immediately into action, wrapping me in cotton wool, to protect me from feeling them. Maybe it’s too early to write about him. But I have a desire to create, to use words to communicate something of my experience, our experience as a family, even while I remain on leave from work and my usual ways of expressing truth, belief and beauty – pastoral conversations and Sunday services – are currently beyond my reach.

A gentle warning – this post could upset you, and if you don’t need that right now just move on, it’s okay.

Just over a year ago we heard the scary news that Timothy’s leukaemia had relapsed. It had happened before, several times, over the nine years since his first diagnosis. But there was always a resolution, an answer to prayer, that saw him move into remission – ie, no more nasties in his blood or bone marrow – and then gradual recovery of health and strength. He experienced a near-catastrophic pulmonary embolism at the end of December 2023, which really unsettled him and brought great anxiety to his daily life for much of 2024, so he was determined to not let a wee thing like another relapse derail his life again in 2025, although it did spell the end of his academic journey – A-levels were not his top priority!

He needed regular transfusions of blood and platelets in the Spring of 2025, initially weekly but sometimes twice a week as his bone marrow continued to fail. An extreme anaphylactic reaction to one particular platelets transfusion was an eventful interlude to these routine clinic appointments. Gradually the blast count started to rise, and there were no more options left. We tried going back to the treatment he’d been receiving pre-relapse, and were encouraged (/astonished) when it was effective again. The blast count reduced, the transfusions stopped, and he was back in remission.

Timothy spent the next six months getting out and about as much as possible, visiting friends, attending events, participating in Exodus Lisburn programmes, as well as working his way through Netflix series and playing FC25. He passed his driving test and got a wee red car through Motability, putting over 8000 miles on the clock. He auditioned for and was accepted into the IMYC Events Band, singing at Soul Mates and Autumn Soul. His newly-acquired adult status led him to taking control of most aspects of his life, quickly becoming an independent young man who made some mistakes along the way, learned from them, resisted parental control or wisdom but was quick to apologise, and always came home at night to tell us he loved us. Timothy’s friends were his life, but his family was his launching-pad, and times with his brothers at Castlewellan Holiday Week, the Big Church Festival, daily dinners, watching movies and Marvel at home, and visits to grandparents, uncles, aunties and cousins were deeply significant to him.

Everything was going so well. I think in all our heads, and particularly in his, Timothy’s story was going to be one of medical challenges frequently overcome, of new treatments and eventually a cure becoming available, one step at a time. So at the end of November, it was a scary evening when one side of his body became numb for a while, leading to an overnight trip to the Emergency Department with Kathryn to rule out a stroke. But I didn’t panic, wasn’t it just another episode of ‘all’s okay in the end’? However, the week that followed saw headaches develop, a growing sensitivity to light and a quieter Timothy resting in the living room in the dark.

When the pain increased and became persistent it was time to return to the hospital with Kathryn, and later he and I became residents of the Children’s Cancer Unit once more. His symptoms worsened, tests were undertaken and after a few days the crushing news arrived that the leukaemia had found its way into his Central Nervous System, with blast cells in his spinal fluid and lesions on his brain. His eyes were under pressure and in danger. Our prayer movement kicked into gear again, and my calm-loving mind hoped all would be well. Lumbar punctures and injections of chemotherapy directly into his spinal fluid brought some relief and, we rejoiced, cleared the blast cells to near zero! The symptoms pulled back a bit. We got home.

But the headaches continued. His appetite was suppressed. His coordination was a bit off. Energy was low. Nausea was overwhelming at times. Though fear niggled at us, we hoped it was side effects of the chemo and the several new drugs that were introduced to help counteract one thing or another. Timothy heard a voice say, “the verse of the day” in the middle of the night when he was awake and frightened; the Bible app ‘verse of the day’ was Luke 2:8-12 in The Message version, the shepherds’ dramatic encounter with the angel of the Lord announcing Jesus’ birth. I prayed it over him. Christmas Eve brought vomiting and a return to the ward. We woke on Christmas morning to an unexpected Santa sack in the hospital room but he wasn’t especially excited. I went home to preach on that passage:

“You might feel terrified at the moment, but God’s message is, “Don’t be afraid. There is good news. Jesus is here.” In the middle of our dark and desperate moments, Jesus is here. In our pain, Jesus is here. In our grief and loss, Jesus is here. In our pride, Jesus is here. In our helplessness and despair, Jesus is here. A Saviour has been born, who is Messiah and Master… Jesus is here.”

In truth, I was preaching to myself. Timothy’s condition was unnerving and upsetting and I needed to be reminded of God’s presence in the middle of it. He got out of the ward for a few hours on Christmas night and Boxing Day, and then home overnight on the 27th. That evening, the six of us sat together in the tree-lit living room, the dog and cat present too, watching a Christmas movie, eating snacks, the fire blazing. However, the next morning Timothy was awoken by vomiting again and we returned quickly to the ward.

That Sunday was different. His strength was spent, the room was quiet as he slept during the day. He needed to be lifted from bed to wheelchair. Kathryn came in for the evening. When she left, he said his usual, “Night night, love you, see you in the morning” – his last words to her. He was fasting the next morning for the routine Monday lumbar puncture (in paediatrics done under general anaesthetic), not that he noticed the lack of food. We went together up to theatres, and when it was time for the procedure I held his hand as the gas and air began – unlike the normal routine, there was no singing to see how far through a song he could get before he succumbed – and he looked into my eyes as he fell asleep with the usual trust that we’d see each other again shortly.

I went back to the ward, had a late lunch, watched some TV, wrote in my journal. The wait seemed longer than usual. And then some news – Timothy wasn’t waking from his anaesthetic, and the team was becoming concerned. I should call Kathryn to come immediately. He was brought to have a CT scan and then to PICU (Paediatric Intensive Care Unit). I sent a brief, worried message to our prayer warriors. And then the worst conversation of our lives. The lesions on his brain had grown dramatically, and deep. The pressure in his head had become too much and all brain activity had stopped. He was still intubated post-procedure, as in, a small pump was keeping him breathing. We could spend as much time as we wanted with him, but he wasn’t going to wake up.

And everything within me said, “It can’t be true. This is the last great test. We will pray, and there will be a miracle, and Timothy will wake up.” And my gut said, “This is different. He’s gone.”

I called our parents, our brother and sisters, our closest friends, our minister. Over the hours that followed, they came to say goodbye, to hold his hand, to whisper, “In the name of Jesus, rise up and walk!” Kathryn and I sat with him through the wee hours of the night, telling him of our love, our remorse, assuring him of God’s presence, commanding even then his resurrection. But this time, the prayer was not answered the way we wanted. Several different people in the days to come would tell us that they were woken that night to pray for Timothy and us, and that they had images of warrior angels standing guard over him, ready to take him home.

Tuesday morning, Timothy was brought back to the Cancer ward, to a room specially prepared on the east side of the unit. The sun streamed through the window onto his face. We invited the staff team to join us, and we stood together in silence. I cut the ribbon holding his breathing tube in place, just as I had cut his umbilical cord nearly nineteen years earlier. A short while later, he was at rest, calm, peaceful.

…

On Tuesday 30 December 2025, Timothy died.

…

I don’t know why he had to deal with so many challenges in his life, why God brought him through so much and prolonged his life for so long, but for it to end now. Having said that, even at the end God was kind. It wasn’t the routine procedure that caused his death, it was the trauma that happened in his head, and if he hadn’t been under anaesthetic he would have left us very suddenly and without those beautiful moments in PICU and on the ward. The nurses and doctors who were with us gave him the most dignified and compassionate treatment. And Timothy didn’t die in the dark, which he was scared of, but in glorious sunlight.

As I write, it’s Ash Wednesday – the beginning of Lent, a time for lament and solemn reflection. This year, I bring Jesus my broken heart, and remember that death is an inescapable part of life, and sit in the tension of an unwanted ending with the hope of resurrection, and experience the reality of the beatitude as our loving, wide community surrounds us: blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

From the dust we came
To the dust we shall return
God everlasting, age unto age the same
We are a moment, then like a breath we fade

From the dust we came
To the dust we shall return
God everlasting, we are cut down as grass
Seeds in the morning, then by the night we pass

O Lord have mercy
O Lord have mercy
O Lord have mercy

_{Written by Paul Zach, Kate Bluett; Performed by Paul Zach and The Sing Team}

During the four-day event we sang a lot of psalms, hymns and spiritual songs, accompanied by grand pipe organ, full band, just a guitar or piano, or simply our voices. Music for a procession of presidents, music while we shared communion or received anointing, music that faded to silence. Sometimes, all that’s left to do is lift a hand high, declare ‘I love you Lord Jesus’, and wait in his presence.

At a different conference in November 2024, the 24-7prayer Gathering in Rotterdam, I was ‘just’ singing as part of the congregation, but found myself tearing up and/or unable to sing from time to time. I was overwhelmed by the passion and desire of the 1000+ people present to give their very best to Jesus in worship. Somewhere in there was also the crystallising of a calling that has been with me for over thirty years, to ‘make more worshippers of Jesus Christ’.

We’re still in the Christmas season, when we hear the angels sing to the shepherds, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests” – our work in heaven will include singing God’s praises; our job on earth is to be prepared for that role! An interesting thing to me is that often when Christians sing their hearts out in worship there is a moment when the music stops and there is simply: peace. This cycle of praise and peace is one I yearn to be part of forever, and long for as many people as possible to experience.

It’s been nearly twenty years since I led the Autumn Soul Band; nearly ten since Soul Purpose stepped down from playing at Castlewellan Holiday Week. But, Sunday by Sunday, for thirty years, I have helped to lead small groups of God’s people in praise and prayer, or tried to encourage those who are ministering. Kathryn has been doing the same, and it’s cool that our boys are joining in too! At the start of a new year, I’m looking forward to more occasions of leading and being led in worship, whether on my own in the car, with friends in Dromore, or joining with hundreds or even thousands of others who love Jesus.

There is nothing better.

PS This post on New Year’s Day 2025 is a nod to a nudge that I should try to create content in the middle of all the consuming that I do. More than two posts this year, I promise!

Anyway, here’s the file. Please do let me know if you find this helpful!

You can make your own ‘twelve stones/memories’ record for the year that’s past by picking some of the questions from this morning, or even create your own little family prayer and reflection time, using this document:

As it turned out, we weren’t able to be present for that event, but the concept of our brokenness being beautiful and helpful to others has remained with us. As the Covid pandemic stretched into the 2021 lockdown I could feel my own levels of anxiety grow and capacity shrink, and was struck that many people in our community might experience similar things in the coming months and years. I stumbled across Kintsugi Hope again and felt a nudge from God to start a group for the people of Dromore, which took place over Zoom in the Winter of 2021/2 in partnership with local Elim church leaders. Some of the tools for emotional health that we practiced then have continued to help me ever since.

With assistance from others, I’m looking forward to running another group soon ‘in-person’, offering a safe and supportive space for folks to flourish, whether or not they have a church connection (let me know if you’d like to join in, or even help).

Meanwhile, Patrick Regan has written a new book, “Brighter Days”, and we have the exciting privilege of hosting his launch tour on Saturday 14 October 2023 at 7pm at Dromore Methodist Church! The event promises music, inspirational stories, humour and practical tools to help us all look forward with hope to the future. Tickets (only a fiver) can be purchased beforehand – Brighter Days Dromore. Who do you think you could bring with you, for an encouraging evening together?

As we pass the solar equinox and head into literally darker days for a few months, it’s good to lift our hearts and our heads, reminded that brighter days will come again.

And here are the rules: I’ve made a playlist of lots of songs and each time I decide to write, I’ll hit play while it’s on shuffle. Whatever plays first is what I’ll write about – hence this post’s title, “Oh My God”.

The track is on Jars of Clay‘s 2006 album, “Good Monsters”, and is one from which I recall very few lyrics, nor does it hold any strong memory for me. However, there is some sort of melancholy within the song that reaches me every time. The first three verses are a prayer of concern about the state of the world, the church and my own soul. They rebel against the desire to put a happy sheen on everything, and instead note the reality of the mess in which we live and the weakness of our own faith.

“We make it worse when we don’t bleed” resonates with Derek McKelvey’s teaching at this year’s Castlewellan Holiday Week, as he shared about the freedom that comes from accepting the brokenness of the world and ourselves. It’s from that place of weakness that God’s power is demonstrated amongst the people and systems that we can affect. Donald English spoke at the Irish Methodist ‘Renewing the Church’ conference way back in 1997 about ‘vulnerable availability’ being a quality that every leader would need to hone in the new century. I think he was right on the money. The posture of humility and openness helps us to identify with people who are going through the mess of life and, like the litany of those needing rescue in the second half of the song, simply cry out, “Oh my God”.

View the lyrics to ‘Oh My God’ here

This is the reflection I wrote for our service in Dromore last evening.

Matthew 27:45 – “From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.”

Dark Places

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places. Some of them have been literally, dark places. Not scary. Just dark. Like Nature’s Valley in South Africa, on the Garden Route east of Cape Town. A nature reserve with no streetlights in the small village or anywhere else in the area. Standing in the dark, on the south coast of Africa looking 2500 miles south towards Antarctica, the Southern Hemisphere sky was bejewelled with stars, dazzling in their clarity, impossible to record on my camera, just a polaroid memory of darkness and stillness and pinpricks of light above.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places. Some of them literally dark, and a little bit scary. Walking from my family home to the church to play badminton only took three minutes for a twelve-year-old with long legs. But the first two of those minutes used to be pitch black, with tall dark hedges on either side and a pot-holed surface meant I couldn’t risk running. I used to mutter-sing ‘my God is so big, so strong and so mighty’ to get me through those 120 seconds before turning the corner and seeing the lights from the church car park reach out towards me.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places. Some of them perhaps not as literally dark, but more spiritually dark. My Team On Mission were walking in an area close to the church we were working with one evening, when suddenly none of us wanted to go any further. There was street lighting and no problem in seeing, but it felt to each of us individually that there was something menacing ahead of us. We returned to our base, prayed victory in the name of Jesus, and went back to continue our walk, the darkness displaced.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places. Some of them have been literally dark, with an accompanying heaviness. I was in Berlin a while back and visited the Jewish Museum. It’s a very physical and emotional experience. One part includes a maze of narrow, upward-sloping corridors, one of which leads to a big, heavy door. Walking through the doorway, you enter a pitch-black concrete room with a high, high ceiling. As your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, the heavy door slams behind you with an echoing crash. Looking up, you realise there is a slit in the roof allowing a thin shaft of light to enter the space. It’s like a slice of hope, but its presence makes the space seem even more hopeless, as you realise just how inaccessible that hope is. It is a visceral insight into the helpless situation that millions of Jews faced during the Second World War.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places. Some of them haven’t been physically dark at all, but have been a ‘dark night of the soul’. When my own sinful nature, or the illness of a child, or a distressing situation at work, have made everything seem duller and darker. Where sleep has been a welcome relief and dawn an enemy to flee for as long as possible. Singing worship to Jesus has helped lift the darkness, even for a while.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

I have been in some dark places.

But I have never been alone.

Sometimes I sense it at the time, sometimes it takes a while to recognise God’s presence.

Three hours of darkness. Darkness came over all the land for three hours. And then, “About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”)” (Matt 27:46)

Perfect Jesus, the one of whom God had said, “My child, whom I love,” experienced three hours of darkness and pain. Carrying my darkness and yours as he gasped for breath in tortured agony. And then the worst thing. Something we will never know. The Father turns his face away. Our shame on Jesus’ shoulders. Our stripes on his back. The holiness of God and the sin of the world cannot co-exist. So Jesus can no longer sense God’s presence.

From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.

And then, in this God-forsaken place, Jesus cried out, and he died.

I have been in some dark places. But not like this. Never abandoned by God. Oh, what a price was paid so that you and I might never be in total darkness again.

Colossians 1:13 – “God has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.” God has rescued us from the darkness, from fear, from evil that thinks it has won, from sin, grief, loneliness and depression. God has rescued us not by removing us from those dark places, but by bringing us into the state of knowing that Jesus will never leave us nor forsake us.

Jesus, we know there is more to come. We know the Father did not leave you in the land of shadows for long. But right now, we pause. And remember, before rushing to the light and life of Easter, that you were pierced for our transgressions, and crushed for our iniquities (Is 53:5). And we are thankful. Tonight, we will walk with you towards the cross.

A poorly-timed dose of covid on the first week back from a lovely sabbatical has given me space to reflect on the months that have just passed. The three aims of my sabbatical were to ‘Rest’ together with family and friends, to discover a ‘Rhythm’ of daily life that works for this season, and to ‘Refocus’ my leadership and calling.

An early discovery, which in truth I already knew, was that extended family holidays in a touring caravan are rarely restful when young children are involved! But, as the days passed and beautiful and fun places were visited, some of that auld background anxiety over the responsibilities of parenthood and pastoral care, weekly service prep, leadership decisions and the brokenness of the world began to lift.

The old adage of the urgent crowding out the important had become true in my life, and a complete cessation of work allowed me to see where I had been wasting time and filling it with activity that added little to our community of faith or my family. The challenge now is to stick with a rhythm of prayer, family, rest and work that brings life.

One particular joy has been rediscovering reading, having cancelled Netflix and committed to leaving my phone in the kitchen at night in order to curtail the never-ending scroll. The net level of unread books on my shelves has reduced – though not by as many as I might have imagined. Sometimes I set myself unrealistic goals and need to be content with achieving a portion rather than the whole, and enjoy the time spent doing it.

As the weeks passed by, I was struck by how easy it is to remove oneself from Sunday worship, and therefore from the whole life of a congregation. How easy it could be to lapse in membership of a church, your name moved to the Congregational Register, and then removed when new leadership doesn’t know who you are. ‘Quiet quitting’ is not a post-pandemic trend confined to the workplace. And while church systems and leadership should do their best to stay connected with folks, Acts 2:42-47 suggests that we grow (in faith and numerically) by meeting often to worship, moving in the Spirit’s power, and sharing resources, communion and meals together.

Through years on circuit, persevering the pandemic, and now a sabbatical, I have become more and more convinced of Wesley’s focus on putting people into smaller groups – Everyone needs a community to belong to, an intergenerational family on mission that prays, eats and goes together, helping one another and our neighbours to ‘taste and see that the Lord is good’.

Visiting other congregations in the town, attending some larger Christian gatherings and spending time with good friends, brought great encouragement and joy. However, being absent from my own community of faith gradually became an ache that I am glad to relieve – it’s good to be back!