Inside Martyn's Thoughts

Please Stop Deciding For Me

2026-11-07T01:30:00.000+00:00

One of the hardest parts of disability is when people quietly decide things for you.

I don't think they mean to or that they’re being malicious. If anything, they're trying to be kind, but that's the problem.

It takes Hannah thirty minutes to drive to our church. For me, it's closer to ninety minutes. Fifteen minutes to the station, twenty waiting for the train, eighteen on the train, then thirty-six from the station to church. Add uneven pavements, kerbs, and holes, bad weather, train delays, and a body that gets battered by the chair because my core strength is failing. It's a difficult journey.

I know that. Everyone does. The difference is, I've chosen it.

There are closer churches that are accessible, inclusive, and easier to reach.

I don't go to them. I go to mine because I want to.

I love the people, worship, and life I've built there.

The journey hurts, but it’s worth it.

That's my choice, but people look and decide for me rather than asking me to do something.

People worry. They think:

"It's too far."

"He'll be tired, cold, or be in pain."

"It isn't fair on him."

"He probably wouldn't want to."

"He has a train to catch."

"It’s too much hassle."

Every concern comes from a good place, but misses the point. The choice should be mine.

This affects friendships, church, events, celebrations, conferences, and everyday social situations.

I don't get invited to people's houses like Hannah does or like I used to before I stopped driving. Some of that will be accessibility issues, travel concerns, uncertainty around becoming a carer and helping me without Hannah, protecting me physically, or because Hannah is what I call "nippable".

This should be a real word.

Hannah can pop in, drop something off, have a coffee, and leave.

That's rarely what happens.

Five minutes becomes an hour. Then lunch. Then an afternoon or longer. Social situations evolve.

My life doesn't work like that.

Everything takes planning. Before long, people decide I'm not part of the equation before asking.

My ASD adds another layer.

I can be hard work. I over-explain, send long messages, interrupt, take things literally, come across far more serious than I am, and make any plan more complicated before my involvement.

Constantly masking is exhausting. Even at forty-four years old, I'm still learning and coming to terms with bits.

People find Hannah easier. It doesn’t mean she’s better or that they like her more. I get it. She fits naturally into social situations, adapts easily, and has a fantastic masking, social laugh that puts everyone at ease.

I can't and don’t do that.

People eventually see the real me: caring, clever, quick-witted, sarcastic, silly, funny, and not filtering every thought into a social or professional facade, like the side that makes inappropriate jokes in church WhatsApp groups because my brain spots the joke before it spots the consequences. The screenshots below are a perfect example. My guard dropped, my mask slipped, and the real me came out.

Everyone else just sees the mask or the label. It’s only after spending time with me that they discover the real me. However, if they’ve already decided the obstacles are bigger than the friendship, they’ve unfortunately lost that opportunity.

A few years ago, a large group from church went to see the Christian band, Housefires.

I love them, but wasn't invited. Maybe the venue was difficult. Maybe they thought accessibility was terrible. Maybe they didn't want me separated from everyone else. I'll never know because nobody asked.

Instead, I saw photographs on Facebook and spent the following Sunday hearing how amazing it was.

Nobody stopped to think that I’d have loved it too, or how hard it was to hide the hurt of being excluded from something I’d have said yes to.

That happens all the time. So much, that the above example really shouldn’t be the focus. I miss out on concerts, parties, conferences, retreats, volunteering, meals out, and last-minute plans.

The issue isn't missing the event. It's discovering afterwards that an entire conversation happened without anyone considering whether I wanted to join in.

This post really isn't about one person, a couple, church, community, or event. It's a pattern I've always experienced.

I also know people care because they often ask Hannah.

They ask how I am, how my health is, how things are going, or how I’m sleeping. They talk about me because they care, but while they're talking about me, they often aren't talking to me. They could WhatsApp, text, or ask me how I am, but instead Hannah becomes the conduit to my life. My autonomy, presence, and independence get stripped away. My friendships, conversations, opinions, and relationships are reduced to someone else's answer.

That hurts.

If there’s one thing I’d ask people to take from this, it’s stop deciding things for disabled people or me. Instead, include us.

Don’t decide if the journey is too hard, if we’re too tired, in too much pain, or if we wouldn’t enjoy something.

Ask us.

As the social justice saying goes, “Nothing about us without us.”

Decisions, policies, services, and discussions affecting disabled people shouldn’t be made without disabled people participating in them.

We might not be able to make it. We might decide it’s too difficult.

That’s fine.

At least it was our choice.

The invitation, conversation, and consideration matter.

Inclusion starts with something simple.

Include the disabled person.

Include me.

Daniel Part 2: Beasts, Empires, and the Son of Man

2026-11-06T06:47:24.457+00:00

Last time we explored exile, identity, and the challenge of remaining faithful in a culture that doesn't always share our values. Daniel and his friends discovered that living in Babylon didn't mean abandoning their faith. They could serve within the empire without allowing the empire to define them.

As the book continues, however, the focus shifts. The familiar stories give way to visions. Strange visions.

Daniel 7 introduces us to four beasts rising from the sea, a heavenly courtroom, the Ancient of Days seated in judgement, and a mysterious human figure who receives authority and an everlasting kingdom.

It's one of the most important chapters in the entire book, not because it predicts newspaper headlines or offers a detailed timetable of future events, but because it asks a question that remains surprisingly relevant:

What happens when power stops being human and becomes beastly?

A Different Way or Seeing Empire

If Daniel 2 gave us a statue, Daniel 7 gives us beasts. That contrast matters.

In Daniel 2, the kingdoms of the world appear as a magnificent image made from gold, silver, bronze, and iron. It is impressive and imposing. It looks exactly how empires want to be seen.

In Daniel 7, the same kingdoms appear again, but from a very different perspective.

This time they are beasts emerging from a chaotic sea.

The imagery feels strange to modern readers, but the point is remarkably clear.

Empires often look glorious from above.
They build cities, establish institutions, project strength and stability, and tell stories about their own greatness. For those living under them, however, the experience can be very different.

Power can become oppressive and exploitative. They demand conformity. The empire can reduce people to numbers, resources, or obstacles.

Daniel's vision strips away the appearance of greatness and asks us to see power for what it sometimes becomes.

Not noble or glorious, but beastly.

The Problem With Beastly Power

One of the most striking features of Daniel 7 is that the beasts are never presented as God's answer for the world.

They dominate, terrify, consume, and exercise power through fear and force.

The vision is challenging because it forces us to ask uncomfortable questions about how power operates.

We naturally admire strength.

We are drawn towards influence, success, and authority.

We often assume that whoever has the most power is winning.

Daniel encourages us to look deeper. The kingdoms in the vision possess enormous power, yet they are not held up as examples to follow. Instead, they become symbols of what happens when power is separated from God's purposes.

That is why they are beasts.

The Illusion of Permanence

One reason empires can seem so overwhelming is that they present themselves as permanent.

Babylon looked permanent. The empires that followed looked permanent too. History tells a different story.

Kingdoms rise. Kingdoms fall. Rulers come and go. Institutions change. Movements that once dominated the world eventually fade into history. For people living in exile, that truth offered hope. Their future was not ultimately tied to Babylon, but to God instead.

The same remains true today.

Political movements change. Cultural values shift. Social priorities evolve. The issues that dominate today's headlines will not dominate forever. Daniel, therefore, invites God's people to take a longer view. History belongs to God.

The Ancient of Days

Just when the vision appears at its darkest, the scene changes. The focus moves away from the beasts and towards heaven. Daniel sees the Ancient of Days seated on a throne.

It's one of the most powerful images of God in the Old Testament.

Everything about the scene communicates authority. The beasts may appear terrifying. The kingdoms may appear unstoppable. Yet God is not threatened by them.

He is not surprised or overwhelmed by them. Whilw earthly powers compete for control, God is already on the throne. For people facing uncertainty, injustice, or oppression, that message would have been deeply reassuring. The vision reminds us that no ruler stands above God.

No empire escapes His notice.

No injustice falls outside His judgement.

The beasts do not have the final word.

The Son of Man

After the beasts and after the judgement scene, another figure appears.
Daniel describes him as "one like a son of man". For modern Christians, it can be tempting to jump straight to Jesus. That is understandable, particularly because Jesus later uses the title "Son of Man" more than any other description of Himself.

Before we get there, however, we need to understand what Daniel's original audience would have seen.

The phrase simply means a human being. That is significant because Daniel is deliberately creating a contrast.

The kingdoms are represented as beasts. This figure is represented as human. The beasts seize power. The Son of Man receives authority. The beasts dominate. The Son of Man serves God's purposes. The beasts emerge from chaos. The Son of Man comes before God.

Throughout the vision, Daniel paints two radically different pictures of power. One is beastly. The other is genuinely human. In many ways, that is the heart of the chapter. The future does not belong to the beasts. The future belongs to the kingdom that God establishes. For Daniel's original audience, this would have been a powerful message of hope. The kingdoms surrounding them might appear invincible, but they were not the end of the story. God's purposes would ultimately prevail.

Hope in the Middle of Suffering

It's important to remember who this vision was written for. Daniel was not writing to people enjoying comfort and security. He was writing for people living with uncertainty. People living under foreign powers. People wondering whether faithfulness was worth it. Daniel doesn't dismiss their suffering.

The beasts are real. The oppression is real. The fear is real. Yet none of those things are ultimate.

God remains sovereign.

That's the message running through the entire chapter. Not that suffering is imaginary or that evil doesn't matter, but that neither has the final word.

Why Daniel Still Matters

One reason Daniel continues to resonate with modern readers is that many of its questions feel surprisingly current.

• What happens when institutions become more concerned with power than people?

• How do we remain faithful when powerful systems seem unshakeable?

• What does genuine leadership look like?

• How do we hold onto hope when the future feels uncertain?

I've written before about identity and belonging, and those themes continue to echo throughout Daniel.

Exile isn't simply about geography.
It's about learning who you are when the world around you tries to tell you who you should be.

Daniel reminds us that God's people are not defined by the kingdoms around them.

They are defined by the God who reigns over them.

Final Thought

Daniel 7 is not primarily a puzzle to solve.

It's a vision designed to sustain hope. It reminds us that earthly power is not always what it appears to be, that kingdoms and institutions are temporary, that God remains sovereign even when circumstances suggest otherwise, and, most importantly, that beastly power doesn't have the final word. God does.

That was good news for God's people in exile.

It's still good news today.

Study Questions

• Why do you think Daniel describes kingdoms as beasts rather than rulers?

• What examples of "beastly" power do we see in the modern world?

• What does the image of the Ancient of Days teach us about God?

• Why is the contrast between the beasts and the Son of Man important?

• How does Daniel 7 challenge our understanding of power and success?

Next time we'll explore why Jesus repeatedly called Himself the Son of Man and why that title carried far more significance than many people realised.

My Orange Heart

2026-11-04T01:30:00.000+00:00

The other day, while playing War and Order, someone asked me a simple question.

“Why do you use an orange heart instead of a normal red one?”

It made me stop and think.

Most people use ❤️ It’s the universal symbol of love, friendship, kindness, and affection. Nobody really gives it a second thought. Yet I’ve used 🧡 for a while now.

The short answer is that orange is the colour of FSHD and muscular dystrophy awareness. Every June you’ll find people sharing orange segments over their mouths, wearing orange ribbons, and filling social media with orange hearts as part of World FSHD Day. It’s our colour.

The longer answer is far more personal.

FSHD doesn’t stop and start for one day of the year. I wish it did, but it doesn’t. It affects me every second of every minute of every hour of every day. It has been part of my life for over thirty years. It has always been here.

It’s older than all but one of my friendships. It’s older than all of the most important things to me, like marriage and my children.

It has shaped almost every part of who I am.

That doesn’t mean it defines me. I still cringe when people reduce disabled people to their diagnosis. Nobody wants to become a medical condition. I’m a husband, dad, theologian, artist, writer, friend, church leader, and a hundred other things before I’m a collection of symptoms.

Even so, pretending FSHD hasn’t shaped me would be dishonest.

It influences my relationships, the work I do, how I see the world, how I think about justice, belonging, accessibility, faith, and community, and the way I love.

That’s the part I struggled to explain in a game chat.

Every act of love I give comes from this body, this life, and this lived experience. The patience I’ve learned. The empathy I’ve developed. The awareness of other people’s struggles. The determination to make people feel included. The desire to leave places better than I found them.

All of those things were shaped by the journey I’ve had and how I muddled through.

You’re receiving a small piece of my story too. 🧡

The Hoist I Never Wanted

2026-11-02T01:30:00.000+00:00

There are some pieces of disability equipment that arrive with relief. A wheelchair was one of them. Well, eventually it was.

A hoist is not.

I’ve finally had to accept that I need one, and I hate it.

What’s frustrating is that I’ve spent a long time fighting this particular battle. It is partly stubbornness. They never look dignified. They remind me of bricks being unloaded off a lorry. I mostly fought it because I genuinely believed there was another way.

Last year, when we applied to have our bathroom converted into a wet room through Occupational Therapy, she was happy to support the adaptation, but she was also very clear that she thought I needed a hoist.

That’s understating it.

She thought I needed a hoist, a ceiling track, and a different bed.

Hannah and I said no.

Part of the problem was that she saw a patient, not a person. Everything was reduced to risk management.

Our bed became the sticking point.

We already have what works for us. I sleep in a profiling bed that’s built into a normal double bed frame. From the outside it looks like any other married couple’s double bed. That’s entirely the point.

I’m a married man. Hannah is my wife.

We want what every other couple wants. To lie next to each other, hold hands until we fall asleep, watch something together, and simply be married.

The proposed solution was different. Hannah could have a single bed. I could have a hospital bed. One with the side guards to “stop me rolling off,” despite not being able to turn any more.

No.

Absolutely not.

This wasn’t about refusing help. It was about protecting something important. Disability takes enough without voluntarily handing over more. I won’t let it affect my marriage like that. Neither will Hannah.

We found alternatives instead. We raised the bed. We used transfer boards. A friend made custom boards that worked far better than the standard equipment we’d been shown. We reduced the lifting Hannah needed to do.

None of this satisfied the OT. Her solution remained the only "safe" option.

We repeatedly said no.

Then the OT crossed a line.

After months of discussions, meetings, and disagreements, she told me that I needed to think less about myself and more about Hannah.

I was furious.

She assumed I hadn’t thought about Hannah. The reality is that Hannah’s wellbeing sits behind every disability decision I and we make.

She loses sleep repositioning me three or four times a night. Every morning she helps me dress. Moves me even when she knows it hurts. She carries responsibilities that neither of us want her to carry. All because she loves me.

I see it all. I cannot express how much it breaks my heart.

I think about the impact on Hannah more than myself. I apologise constantly. She tells me to stop.

That’s why the comment hurt so much.

I told the OT that if she pushed that line again, I'd be kicking her out of my house.

We ignored the pressure, raised the bed, used the transfer boards, and carried on. It worked.

Until it didn’t.

Despite thirty years of FSHD, I forgot something crucial. Exercise and movement matter, but they're a balancing act. Many people with FSHD benefit from staying active, yet pushing weakened muscles too hard can cause fatigue, pain, and prolonged weakness rather than improvement. My specialist always encouraged me to do what I can, while avoiding overworking muscles that are already struggling. That's why I fought using a wheelchair for so long. Walking wasn't just mobility. It was also helping me maintain the strength I still had.

Part of the problem is a protein called DUX4 switching on in muscle cells when it shouldn't. That damages muscle tissue over time, meaning weakened muscles don't always respond to effort in the same way healthy muscles do. Where many people can strengthen an overworked area through exercise, I can't always rely on that approach. Pushing already weakened muscles beyond their capacity lead to the aforementioned fatigue, pain, and further weakness.

This matters because FSHD constantly changes how the body works. As some muscles weaken, others compensate. Some become overworked. Others weaken through lack of normal use. The result is that my muscles end up carrying far more than they were ever designed to handle, and eventually those muscles lose their strength.

Before becoming a full-time wheelchair user, my core was working constantly. Standing. Walking. Turning. Reaching. Correcting balance.

Those movements disappeared and my core became responsible for slide transfers, leaning, repositioning, and holding me upright.

At first, it coped. Then it didn’t. The wobbling and falls started. My balance disappeared. Without realising it, my core weakened and Hannah stepped back in and started doing lifts again.

That’s when reality caught up with us.

Hannah needs the hoist because I do.

I still hate it. The Occupational Therapist's voice still rattles around in my head. It feels like another line crossed. FSHD keeps moving forward.

Yet I’ve been here before.

I spent fourteen years fighting the wheelchair until Hannah looked at me and said, “I think we really need to consider it now.”

She was right. I don’t hate my chair anymore. I know the hoist will probably become exactly the same thing. Just another tool. Importantly, a tool that protects Hannah’s back.

The one positive is that I can go privately for one, which means we can keep living the life we want to live. That's crucial for us.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t still hate it, but sometimes acceptance arrives long before happiness does.

This feels like one of those moments.

My Sunday Sermon: When the Answers Don't Come

2026-11-01T01:30:00.000+00:00

I'm preaching again this week, so I'm sharing it here, as I've done before. It's always good as a resource and a place for me to revisit later.

Matthew 24:1-14

I’ve struggled a little bit recently.

My health makes things hard, but I can cope with that. That’s something people don’t always understand. People worry about sharing their own difficulties with me. I often get “I shouldn’t moan. You have it so much harder.” Yes, it’s horrible. The pain is immense and everywhere. It can be a battle.

This is hard every second of every minute of every hour of every day. This is also my normal, but it’s amazing how well we normalise things.

Do you know what I actually struggle with?

The little things.

The headache that won’t shift. Anxiety. An itch I can’t scratch. A paper cut. Catching a finger nail. Oh, Hannah will tell you how much I whinge.

Then there’s my autism stuff. Social situations. Saying the wrong thing. Being misunderstood. Spending days over analysing. Oh goodness, that’s super stressful.

I even have moments when I find myself saying to God,

“Seriously? Don’t you think I’ve got enough to handle already?”

And guess what? I don’t get an answer.

That’s where this passage becomes very relevant because that’s exactly where the disciples are.

They want answers.

Jesus gives them something else.

The disciples have just heard Jesus say that the Temple will be destroyed. That’s a major problem. The Temple was the centre of their world, religion, identity, history, and security.

So they ask,

“When will this happen?”

“What will be the sign?”

“How will we know?”

They want information, certainty, and a forecast for the future.

Jesus doesn’t give them one.

Instead he starts talking about faithfulness. There will be wars, famines, earthquakes, persecution, suffering, and struggles.

And then Jesus says: “Do not be alarmed.”

That’s like a red rag to a bull, isn’t it? That’s like us husbands stressing our wives out and then telling them to calm down. How are we not meant to be alarmed?

But, we do get the answer: suffering is not evidence of God’s absence. I think that’s something many Christians need to hear because we often assume the opposite.

God is good. Therefore, we must have a good life. If I’m struggling, perhaps God has gone quiet or I did something wrong.

Yet Jesus says exactly the opposite.

The disciples should expect hardship, persecution, betrayal, isolation, and to be killed.

The promise is not that they will always be strong enough, but that God remains faithful.

That’s a much better promise.

There are things in life that exceed our strength. There are situations we never wanted. Questions we can’t answer.

Yet the faithfulness of God is not measured by our ability to cope.

The absence of pain is not proof God is present. Just as the presence of pain is not proof God is absent.

The thing is, we all want answers.

Why did this happen?

How long will it last?

When will things get better?

What is God doing in all of this?

The disciples wanted answers too. That's why they ask about signs and timelines.

What surprises me is that Jesus never really gives them the answers they're looking for. Instead, he prepares them for how to live when the answers don't come.

Not because the future is unimportant, but because discipleship happens in the present. In the mess.

Following Jesus has never been about knowing everything in advance. He doesn't say he’s removing uncertainty.

He teaches the disciples how to live within it. That's very different.

For many of us, there comes a point when the question changes.

It's no longer: "How do I make this disappear or become better?"

It's: "How do I remain faithful while this is still here?"

That's what Jesus is teaching. Then comes what I think is one of the most important verses in the passage.

Jesus says these things are birthing pains. That's such a strange image. Jesus doesn't say these events are signs that everything is ending. He says they're signs that something is being born.

Painful. Real. Significant. True, deep pain. But pain that isn't the final chapter.

That's Christian hope. Hope that looks like the cross before it looks like the resurrection.

Everything won't automatically work out perfectly. Suffering is still horrible. God still won't explain everything. But God specialises in bringing life out of places that look beyond hope.

That's the message here.

Nearly two thousand years later, we're still asking the same questions.

Why? When? What happens next?

While we want to know what happens next, Jesus doesn’t answer those questions.

Instead he says:

Don’t be deceived or alarmed. Endure, and keep going. Trust Him and proclaim the good news. Don’t stagnate.

Stay faithful in the present struggles because Christian hope was never built on having all the answers. Despite everything, God remains faithful. Let’s say it together. [REPEAT]

Let us pray

Lord Jesus, when life is hard and the answers don’t come, help us to trust in your faithfulness. When we are tired, strengthen us. When we are afraid, comfort us. When we are tempted to look for certainty, teach us instead to trust your presence. Remind us that suffering isn’t the end of the story, that your cross leads to resurrection, and that you remain faithful even when we cannot see the way ahead. Teach us to endure, to hope and to follow you day by day.

Amen.

Happy Birthday Hannah

2026-10-29T01:58:40.343+00:00

Today is Hannah's birthday.

If you're doing the maths, yes, she's 37, or, as the kids say, pushing 40. I know she'll hate that but as I'm pushing 50, I don’t think she'll mind too much.

We've celebrated nine birthdays together now, which feels both impossible and completely right. This blog carries seven of those years before her, but, at this point, it's difficult to remember what life looked like before Hannah. She's woven herself into every part of my life. I often feel like I've been with her for so much longer. Maybe knowing her as a blogger has done that. Maybe it's just how we are together.

I often write about disability, church, family, ministry, and friendship. Over the last few weeks I've written a lot about loneliness, changing friendships, and the people who come and go throughout life.

Hannah hasn't.

She's still here. More importantly, she still chooses to be.

When I think about Hannah, I think about the fact that she's my person. That probably sounds simple, but it means more than I can explain.

She sees the real me. The side no one else gets. The silly side. The dark humour. The ridiculous cackle that appears when something is far funnier than it should be or at something so inappropriate that Hannah and the kids instantly know it's bad. She sees the side that doesn't need to perform, explain, or pretend.

ASD makes relationships complicated for me. Disability does too. Friendships have always been difficult to navigate. Yet Hannah just gets me. She understands how my brain works, sees the good and bad, and loves me anyway, even when my brain makes life harder for her!

It's also one I never take for granted.

I knew very early on that she was special. There wasn't a dramatic moment, great declaration, or romantic movie scene.

It was a phone call.

We were simply talking about our day, the kids, the stress of parenting and she was completely herself. She spoke like I spoke. She voiced a way of living that matched mine. I remember finishing that conversation and knowing she was different. Different from anyone else, but perfect for me.

Nine years later, that's still true.

One of my favourite birthday memories is her first birthday after we got together. She came to visit me in Strood. I drew her a picture of her favourite game character, bought her a study Bible, and a few other presents. Unknown to us, her mum had arranged a surprise trip to the Harry Potter Studio Tour with the real surprise being that her sister appeared too. It was a lovely family days where everything comes together, like watching her knock the door for Hogwarts for her birthday.

This year is much quieter.

Her parents are staying with us for the week. Her mum is making lemon meringue pie, which has become a birthday tradition. We have slight issues kids wise, but we're making it work. Midge has work. Will has commitments at his Mum's. James and his girlfriend, E are heading to her Mum's. This makes our normal family dinner tough. Instead, we're all going for breakfast.

Later that evening, we've got a surf and turf dinner planned. At some point we'll undoubtedly sing our completely normal and sensible family birthday song, "There's a Cat Licking Your Birthday Cake."

I know it's not normal, but this is us. It's what we do. I'm proud of this tradition.

The thing most people see about Hannah is that she's kind and caring.

They're right. People love her because she makes an effort with people. With everyone. She invests in friendships. She supports others, remembers things, and genuinely cares. She brings so much help and support. Even when she feels she's rubbish.

What many people don't see is just how much she carries.

She's a wife, mum, carer, church administrator, church warden, safeguarding champion, cat mum, environmental enthusiast, Rebel Club member, Care Bear collector, and somehow still finds time to socialise with people and maintain friendships. Honestly, I'm exhausted just writing that list.

The reality is that she does so much that people rarely stop to thank her for it.

I certainly don't do that enough, but living with a progressive muscle wasting condition isn't easy. Being married to someone with a progressive muscle wasting condition isn't easy either.

There are good days and difficult days. There are realities about the future that would make many people run in the opposite direction.

Hannah doesn't. She keeps showing up. Every day.

She takes on challenges that most people never see and carries responsibilities that many never fully understand. She does it all while still worrying about me, supporting my ministry, encouraging my calling, and somehow keeping everything else moving forward.

I couldn't do any of this without her. Not ministry. Not family life.

Sorry my love, but this is also the woman who managed to get stuck in a dog crate during a family game of hide and seek. Her defence is that ADHD encourages spontaneity.

My defence is that I will be telling that story forever.

For all the Care Bears, Friends references, takeaway curries, Great British Menu episodes, random adventures, birthday songs, the cat voices, and the odd disadters, that's what matters I simply want to say thank you.

Thank you for your love, patience, support, friendship, faith, loyalty, and the countless things you do that often go unnoticed.

Thank you for seeing the real me and sticking around anyway.

Most of all, thank you for being you.

Happy Birthday, Hannah.

I love you. ❤️ Mo

Midge Got the Job

2026-10-24T01:30:00.000+01:00

Fifteen months ago, Midge finished the first year of a Beauty Therapy course at college. She did really well but struggled with the physicality. As she looked ahead to the second year, it became clear that some aspects of the course weren't going to work alongside her health needs. It wasn't that she couldn't do the work. It was that reasonable adjustments and understanding were in short supply. Her tutor just wouldn’t adjust. The attitude seemed to be, "This is how we've always done it. We can’t change it." She could have. It wasn’t hard. I wanted to fight, like I have done for James and Arty. Midge didn't. She wanted to move on.

The problem was she didn't know what "moving on" looked like. She originally wanted to do more beauty courses independently. She has done some, but each course is expensive. For her to do what she wanted, she needed to work.

Her biological dad also thought she should get a job. He sees all reasons based on health issues as an excuse. A mentality issue. In principle, I understood. My disability has never been an excuse. I've always worked and pushed myself to do the best I could. The difference was in how the message was delivered. His push unfortunately dismissed the difficulties she did have and the effort she was making. She was applying for everything. Every vacancy. Every opportunity. Everything she could possibly do.

When an opportunity came up through Hannah's sister, she travelled to Nottingham, completed training, built new skills, and gained work experience with Boots. Afterwards she applied for Christmas jobs and managed to get a position at Tesco.

She worked incredibly hard.

There was a possibility that some seasonal staff would stay on after Christmas, so she gave it everything she had. Unfortunately, it didn't happen.

Then it was back to the drawing board.

Application after application. Interview after interview. Rejection after rejection. You could see how frustrating it was becoming.

Still, she kept going.

She attended Job Centre mentoring sessions. She explored every option available. She volunteered with the church children's team and became PCC Secretary. Neither role came with a wage, but they added experience, responsibility, and something positive to her CV.

A few months ago she also signed up with an agency as a supply teaching assistant. This time of year isn't exactly busy for supply work, but she still managed to pick up a day's work. One day isn't a career, but it was another step forward.

The reality is that the challenge wasn't simply competition. Plenty of people are looking for work.

There was also the issue of explaining her health needs. They're not particularly complicated. She can work. She wants to work. She simply needs sensible adjustments and an employer who understands the difference between working hard and making yourself unwell.

No employer will ever tell you that's the reason they didn't choose you. There are always other explanations available. Still, it was hard not to wonder sometimes.

Yet she kept applying.

Last week, another opportunity appeared. This time it was Frankie & Benny's.

The interview went well. A few days later they called and asked whether she'd be willing to do a Saturday night trial shift because they were short-staffed.

It was a difficult decision. On one hand, she desperately wanted to prove herself. On the other, we've all heard stories about "trial shifts" ending with free labour and a polite rejection.

Midge said yes. Of course she did.

She learned quickly, worked hard, got stuck in with the team, and came home exhausted but hopeful. They told her she'd hear by Monday at the latest.

Sunday came. Nothing. Monday came. Nothing. At one point she received a missed call and spent ages trying to ring back, but couldn't get through. Then the silence continued.

Tuesday passed. Wednesday passed. By then, I think we'd all quietly convinced ourselves that the call, if it came, would start with "Sorry, but..."

Then Thursday happened.

Midge was out with Hannah in Pets at Home when her phone rang. She rushed outside to answer it.

She got the job.

We are unbelievably proud of her. Not simply because she got the position, but because of everything it took to get there.

The applications, interviews, mentoring sessions, disappointments, self-doubt, and the constant need to pick herself up and try again.

Most people only see the phone call at the end of the story. We saw the fifteen months that came before it. That's what makes this so special. We hear about how hard it is to get a job nowadays, especially for those who are young, inexperienced, and have little qualifications to wow employers and stand out against the competition.

Midge never stopped trying. Never stopped learning. Never stopped believing that eventually somebody would give her a chance.

She earned it. Every step of the way.

We're so proud of you, Midge.

Now go show them what we already know.

Love Maddy 🧡🧡

He's My Husband First: Reflections Of A Carer

2026-10-23T01:30:00.000+01:00

Martyn asked me a very long time ago to write him a post about being a carer. As an award-winning procrastinator, I had successfully avoided this task for a good few months. Until now.

Why do I avoid this subject? Well, how do I write about it all? How do you get to a place where you're comfortable talking about how hard, how challenging, and how sometimes painful caring can be, especially when the person who's going to read it is the very person you actively try to protect from hearing it?

I am a carer to Martyn. A full-time carer. He needs me during the day, and he needs me during the night. I can go out for a couple of hours, but I need to make sure he's set up. I can go for longer, but only go if I know one of our children are also there to help him if he needs it.

I'll tell you something he already knows: how physically hard it is. I do manual handling that would never be allowed in a care setting, and so do thousands of carers all over the country. My back is totally ruined. Sometimes it feels so painful that it could just give way.

Lack of sleep is really tough. Everyone knows sleep is so important, not just physically but mentally, too. It's been years since Martyn was able to turn himself over in bed. If he wakes in pain, needs to turn, needs to turn back, needs his legs moved or his knees bent; you guessed it, I need to wake up. Not every night, but most nights.

What is harder to share with him, and with the world, is how caring makes me feel in relation to him and the world around us.

See, I've watched, and will continue to watch, the man I love most deteriorate in front of me. From walking, to a manual chair, to a power chair, to sliding boards, lifting cushions, stopping transfers, profiling beds, toilet lifts, feeding arms and lord knows what else. It's all been there, and there's more to come.

It is heartbreaking. There are no words I can find to describe watching the loss of independence and loss of dignity, no matter how much all these professionals claim otherwise. There is nothing dignified about some of the things we have to do. Some of the things we'll have to do soon.

I've watched Martyn's eyes as we look at hoists. He hates the idea of using one. I find it hard. I struggle knowing that if my back wasn't so bad, if I weren't so weak, he wouldn't need one yet. He will lose his ability to stand because of something I need to do to help care for him.

I've watched him practise piano over and over, stumbling over keys that, just a few years ago, his fingers danced over.

I've watched his friendships disappear. People moving away. People moving on. People who can't invite him inside their house because he can't get in, but who don't invite him anywhere else, either.

The truth is, it's hard to make friends as you get older. It's even harder when you can't access people's homes or places on your high street. Places that aren't near a train station. I've seen him left out.

I've held him as he's wept for the lost friendships and the slow stripping away of his talents. I've comforted him when his muscles twitch and cramp, when the medicine and patches don't work, when he calls himself a burden and hates his body. I remind him I love him.

Caring for my husband is painful, both physically and emotionally. It can be isolating and tiring. It can be frustrating and rage-inducing, seeing and hearing how he gets treated outside the home. It can be utterly disheartening, fighting for every little thing.

Caring for my husband is also an honour. A privilege.

He is intelligent and wise, and he thinks his way out of many of our mess-ups! He is funny. He has his childish sense of humour and his dark sense of humour, and both are wonderful. He is patient and kind.

I often forget that his muscles are thin and that his legs are bowed. I forget that he twitches and breathes in funny ways at night. That he has to wear eye masks because his eyes can't close. I often forget that he slurs his speech or can't do something he could do last year.

Not because I'm a rubbish carer or a forgetful person.

Because he's my husband. One part of my entire world.

Maybe that's what I want people to understand about being a carer. That you can love someone more than words can say and still find the caring hard. That being grateful for the person you have doesn't mean you can't grieve the life you had, or the life you thought you'd have.

Both things can be true and perhaps we need to be allowed to say that out loud.

Hannah, his Wife.

Daniel Bible Study Part 1: What Does Exile Mean for Christians Today?

2026-10-22T01:30:00.000+01:00

I've recently been tasked to start a new bible study group at church. I thought I would share it here, as I have done in the past.

When most people think about Daniel, they think about lions, fiery furnaces, and strange prophecies. Those stories matter, but the book starts somewhere else.

It starts with loss.

Jerusalem has fallen. The Temple has been looted. Young people have been taken from their homes and carried into exile. Everything familiar has disappeared.

That raises a question many Christians still ask today:

How do you stay faithful when you're living in a culture that doesn't share your beliefs?

Daniel Begins with a Crisis

Read Daniel 1:1-7 and Daniel 2:31-45.

Daniel wasn't written during a time of success. It was written in two parts, one was during a national and spiritual crisis. God's people had lost their land, their independence, and many of the things that helped shape their identity. For many Jews, exile must have felt like abandonment.

Had God forgotten them?

Had Babylon defeated him?

Had his promises failed?

The opening chapter quietly gives a different answer.

Babylon may have conquered Jerusalem, but God was still in control. That's an important distinction. Daniel doesn't present God as defeated. It presents God as sovereign even when life makes no sense.

When Daniel and his friends arrive in Babylon, they receive new names, a new education, and a new culture.

The goal wasn't simply relocation. It was assimilation. The Babylonian Empire wanted to reshape how they thought, lived, and understood themselves.

That challenge isn't limited to ancient history.

Most Christians know what it's like to live with competing voices, competing values, and pressure to fit in. The details are different, but the question remains the same:

How do we remain faithful without withdrawing from the world around us?

Daniel's answer isn't isolation or compromise. It's faithful presence. As we see that Daniel serves within Babylon while refusing to let Babylon define him.

Questions for Reflection

•What pressures shape our identity today?

•Where do Christians feel pressure to compromise?

•What helps us stay grounded in our faith?

•Have you ever found yourself feeling spiritually "out of place"?

The Problem With Empires

Daniel 2 shifts the focus from individual faithfulness to political power.

Nebuchadnezzar dreams of a huge statue made from different materials. It looks impressive, strong, and permanent. Then it falls.

Every kingdom that is represented through the different materials in the vision eventually passes away. That's a message God's people needed to hear.

Empires always present themselves as permanent. Governments, institutions, leaders, and movements often act as though they'll last forever. History tells a different story.

Every empire rises, expands, and eventually falls.

The vision, therefore, reminds us that human power, however impressive it appears, is temporary.

The most important part of the dream isn't the statue.

It's the stone.

Unlike the kingdoms of the world, the stone is described as being cut without human hands. It doesn't represent human achievement or political power. It represents God's kingdom.

While earthly kingdoms come and go, God's kingdom endures.

For people living in exile, that's a message of hope. Their future wasn't ultimately tied to Babylon. It was tied to God. The same remains true today.

Political movements change. Cultural values shift. Institutions rise and fall. Yet, God remains faithful.

Why Daniel Still Matters

One reason Daniel continues to resonate with modern readers is that many of its questions feel surprisingly current.

•How do Christians live faithfully in a changing culture?

•How do we maintain our identity when society pushes in different directions?

•How do we keep hope when powerful systems seem unshakeable?

•What does trusting God look like when circumstances feel uncertain?

I've written before about belonging and identity, and those themes echo throughout Daniel. Exile isn't just about geography. It's about learning who you are when everything familiar is stripped away.

Daniel reminds us that faithfulness doesn't require control. It requires trust.

Final Thought

Daniel begins with defeat, but it isn't a story about defeat. It's a story about God's people discovering that God's presence isn't limited to a city, a building, or a set of circumstances.

Jerusalem fell. The Temple was plundered. God remained.

That's the hope running through every chapter of Daniel, and it's the reason this ancient book still speaks to Christians today.

Study Questions

•Why do you think exile felt like abandonment to God's people?

•What pressures challenge Christian identity today?

•What modern institutions appear permanent?

•How does Daniel 2 challenge our view of power?

•What encouragement do you find in the image of the stone and God's kingdom?

Next time we'll explore Daniel 7 and one of the most important visions in the entire book.

When Prayer Becomes an Agenda: Why New Guidance Matters for Disabled People

2026-10-20T01:30:00.000+01:00

Last week I read a Church Times article about new Church of England guidance on prayer ministry and pastoral prayer. At first glance, it looks like a safeguarding resource. In reality, I think it could become one of the most important disability inclusion documents the Church has produced in recent years, outside the Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report.

The guidance warns against confusing God's voice with our own opinions, agendas, assumptions, and desires. It speaks about the dangers of prayer becoming controlling, harmful, or abusive, even when those involved have good intentions. It also encourages humility, discernment, and a willingness to hold our impressions provisionally rather than treating them as unquestionable divine truth.

The examples discussed in reporting focus heavily on conversion therapy, sexuality, safeguarding, and spiritual abuse. Those issues matter deeply. Yet the principle applies far beyond sexuality.

For disabled and neurodivergent people, this could be groundbreaking.

Many disabled Christians, like myself, have experienced prayer that wasn't really prayer. It was an agenda. Someone had already decided why disability existed, what God wanted, and had already decided what healing looked like. Prayer simply became the mechanism used to deliver that belief.

I've experienced healing prayer where the expectation was that disability would disappear. I've experienced theology that connected disability with spiritual deficiency. I've heard sermons linking disability to demons, dark spirits, and sin. I've watched disabled people blamed when healing did not happen because they supposedly lacked faith.

I once went to Ashford for a blogging event in the shopping centre. Unlike many of the other bloggers, I didn't want to miss church that morning. Within minutes of walking through the door, my friends and I became a prayer spectacle and were pushed towards things that simply weren't physically possible. When nothing happened, the blame quietly shifted towards us. Then, years later, came the experiences I've written about before with "Simon”.

The script is often predictable.

You are prayed for. Nothing changes. The explanation becomes your responsibility. You didn't believe enough, pray hard enough, or have enough faith. The disabled person always carries the burden. The theology never gets questioned.

What stands out in the new guidance is its recognition that human judgement can be mistaken for the voice of God.

That sentence should stop us in our tracks.

How much disability theology has been shaped by exactly that confusion?

How many assumptions about disabled people have been presented not as opinions, but as God's will?

How many people have been told they have demons because someone believed it?

How many people have endured exorcisms because somebody confused their interpretation with divine revelation?

How many disabled children and adults have been taught that God sees them as broken because a church leader believed it to be true?

The guidance does not specifically address disability in these ways, it’s focus mentions sexuality and conversion therapy, yet the implications are enormous.

If prayer ministry must remain humble, provisional, and aware of human fallibility, then many harmful assumptions about disability immediately become questionable.

Prayer is a gift.

The guidance rightly describes prayer as something that can bring comfort, healing, connection, and a deeper awareness of God.

It also reflects concerns raised in Fearfully and Wonderfully Made. One of the report’s recurring themes is how disabled and neurodivergent clergy are often interpreted through assumptions rather than understood through lived experience. When churches mistake their assumptions for God’s voice, harm follows.

That is the prayer ministry I believe in.

Prayer that listens, accompanies, supports, and honours the dignity of the person standing in front of you.

Not prayer that begins with the assumption that somebody's body or mind is a mistake. Not prayer that treats disabled people as projects, assumes every wheelchair user wants to walk or neurodivergence needs correcting. Not prayer that starts with a diagnosis and ends with somebody else's agenda.

Prayer should create space for God's voice, not amplify our prejudices.

If churches take this guidance seriously, disabled people might finally be asked what prayer they actually want. Healing could become broader than bodily correction. Prayer could focus on strength, justice, belonging, accessibility, community, courage, and hope rather than assuming a disabled body is the problem.

Most importantly, a culture where disabled and neurodivergent people are recognised as image bearers, gifts to the Church, and valued members of God's kingdom. This won't change overnight. The harm will continue until the culture catches up.

I am, however, hopeful. The most powerful part of this guidance is not what it says about prayer.

It's what it says about power.

It acknowledges that well-intentioned Christians can be wrong, that prayer can become controlling, and that spiritual practices can cause harm.

That honesty matters.

Prayer should always leave room for God's intervention. It should never become a vehicle for somebody else's assumptions about disability. That's the difference between prayer and projection.

One seeks God's will. The other seeks confirmation of our own.

For disabled people who have spent years being prayed at rather than listened to, that's not a small distinction. It's the difference between being welcomed as God's image bearer and being treated as somebody's project.

When Everything Connects: Running on Empty

2026-10-19T01:30:00.000+01:00

On Saturday, I wrote about loneliness and last week about friendship and the barriers I’ve built around myself.

Writing has always been therapeutic, but I hadn’t reached the end of that reflection. It’s been stirring around me constantly. A thought that’s become an itch that moves whenever I scratch it.

Over the last few weeks I’ve found myself carrying around a growing list of frustrations. On the surface they all looked unrelated. A difficult interaction. Leadership challenges. Questions about friendship. Feeling lonely. A sense of exhaustion I couldn’t quite explain beyond my normal issues with sleepless nights.

My instinct was to treat them as separate problems. They’ve been all consuming as such too, but the more I’ve reflected and prayed about them, the more I’ve realised they’re all connected.

Recently, a situation involving someone I support and advocate for left me feeling unsettled. I won’t go into details because the specifics aren’t important and the post I shared last week explores some aspects around it. What surprised me, however, was how deeply it affected me.

I’ve spent years working within disability inclusion and disabled communities. I understand support needs, barriers, misunderstandings, and the complexity of navigating relationships when disability is involved. I have written many disability justice posts.

What caught me off guard wasn’t what happened.

It was my reaction to it.

The situation left me feeling vulnerable in a way I haven’t experienced for a long time. It completely knocked my equilibrium. Even now, weeks later, I can still feel the effects. I am incredibly uncomfortable around that person, including the various roles we share.

That led me into another uncomfortable realisation.

During this time, several people who would normally share responsibility within church life were unavailable for perfectly understandable reasons. Family commitments, holidays, and life.

What struck me was not their absence but what their absence revealed.

I started to notice how much responsibility is often carried by a very small number of people.

Churches speak a lot about being a body with many parts. Sometimes the reality can feel more like a handful of people desperately trying to keep everything moving while everyone else assumes somebody else is dealing with it.

For the first time, I found myself appreciating just how much people have quietly carried over the years without recognition, but one distinction was still clear. Even though some carried these responsibilities, they usually did together. Whereas, I was alone.

I also found myself asking difficult questions about leadership.

Not my calling. Leadership.

There’s a difference.

The reality is that leadership can be frustrating. Sometimes you invest time, effort, energy and care into a situation only to discover people will do whatever they were planning to do anyway. Boundaries get ignored. Advice goes unheard. Responsibilities become blurred. What should be a co-operative working relationship becomes a battle ground of personal agendas disguised within personal ministry priorities.

I’ve realised that one of the hardest parts of leadership isn’t making decisions. It’s accepting that your influence has limits.

That has been a difficult lesson for me.

At the same time, another realisation has been forming.

Over the years my world has become smaller.

Not intentionally, as Saturday’s post highlighted.

Disability and becoming a permanent powerchair user changed far more than how I move around. Activities became harder. Travelling became more complicated. Friendships gradually changed shape.

Then blogging changed. Covid happened. Life kept moving.

Without really noticing, church became my main community, social outlet, and in many ways the primary place where I connected with people.

Recently I’ve realised that’s become a problem. Not because church is the problem, but because when the place you're serving becomes the only place you're connecting, every difficulty feels heavier.

I still love ministry, serving, and fulfilling my calling. I still care deeply about the people around me.

Yet lately I’ve realised I’ve been giving out far more than I’ve been receiving. I suspect many people in ministry, formal or informal, will understand that feeling.

You keep turning up, serving, and supporting others.

Then one day something relatively small happens and you discover you’re not reacting to that one thing at all.

You’re reacting to everything.

The difficult interaction. The loneliness. The loss of friendship. The leadership frustrations. The exhaustion. Carrying more than you realised.

What I’ve slowly discovered is that none of these things exist in isolation.

They’re all pointing towards the same reality.

I’m tired. Not tired of ministry, church, or my calling.

Just tired.

I can now fully understand why leadership has clear and defined days off work each week, have a “holiday church” they attend sporadically, and go to conferences. They need a space to be fed away from the “work.”

For weeks I thought I was dealing with multiple separate problems. Now I think I’m dealing with one issue showing up in lots of different ways.

I need replenishing, friendship, and things in my life that don’t revolve around responsibility, ministry, deadlines, meetings, or supporting everybody else. I also need to stop pretending I’m running on a full tank when the warning light came on a long time ago. It's time to pull over and fill the tank.

My Sunday Sermon: Render Unto Caesar and Render Unto God

2026-10-18T01:30:00.000+01:00

I'm preaching this week, so thought I would share it here. It's always good as a resource and a place for me to revisit later.

Matthew 22:15-22

Today's Gospel begins with a question, but it isn't an honest question.

The Pharisees aren't looking for wisdom. They're looking for a way to get rid of Jesus. They come to him with a question that seems impossible to answer:

"Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?"

Now that might not sound very exciting to us. Most of us don't spend much of our week thinking about Roman taxation, but this was a loaded question.

If Jesus says, "Yes, pay the tax," ordinary Jewish people will think he's siding with the Roman occupiers.

If he says, "No, don't pay it," then he could be reported to the Roman authorities as a troublemaker or a rebel.

It's a trap.

Whatever answer Jesus gives, somebody will be unhappy. At least, that's what the Pharisees think.

The trouble is that Jesus sees the trap coming. In fact, before long, the trap has completely turned around. Jesus asks them for the coin used to pay the tax.

Then Jesus asks:

"Whose image is this? And whose inscription?"

"Caesar's," they reply.

That's the moment everything changes.

The Pharisees came to question Jesus. Suddenly they are the ones being questioned. They came hoping to expose him. Instead, Jesus exposes them. The very people trying to trap Jesus are carrying around the very coin that demonstrates their participation in Caesar's system.

The trap springs shut.

Only now it isn't Jesus who's caught in it.

All of this happens because of a coin.

A coin with a particular image and mark.

I understand that because Hannah and I are collectors of geeky things.

Some of you know that Hannah collects Care Bears. Not every one, type, or colour. They need to be the right Care Bears with the correct tags.

The details matter. The mark matters. They're genuine.

I'm exactly the same with He-Man figures.

In fact, for my birthday on Monday I was fortunate enough to receive a couple more for my collection, but Hannah had trouble getting them. They're not all the same, and collectors know better.

I don't want just any version. I want the original Mattel figures from the 1980s.

Like the Care Bears, you know they're genuine by the Mattel stamp.

The mark tells you where it came from, what it is, and who made it.

If you love something and are passionate about it, the details matter.

That's exactly where Jesus takes this conversation.

He points to the coin and asks:

"Whose image and mark is on it?"

When they answer, "Caesar's," Jesus says:

"Give Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."

More Than a Coin

Jesus isn't talking about coins anymore. The coin is simply the doorway into a bigger question. Caesar's image is on the coin, so it belongs to Caesar.

But what bears God's image?

You do.

I do.

Every person does.

The image of God is stamped onto humanity. We belong to God.

That's what Jesus wants his listeners to see.

The Pharisees are interested in politics. Jesus is interested in identity. The Pharisees are arguing about taxes. Jesus is talking about belonging. The Pharisees want to know what Caesar deserves. Jesus wants them to remember what God deserves.

If the mark on something tells us where it comes from and who it belongs to, then God's image tells us the same thing.

Unfortunately, life has a habit of putting other labels on us.

Some are wonderful.

Parent. Grandparent. Husband. Wife. Friend. Volunteer. Church member. Train enthusiast. Collector.

We get professional ones too.

Teacher, carer, accountant, builder, musician, artist, and leader.

Some labels are harder.

Bereaved. Disabled. Anxious. Lonely. Unemployed. Rejected. Struggling.

Sometimes those experiences become so heavy that we start to believe they define us. Sometimes we begin to think that our labels define us. But Jesus points us back to something deeper.

Before any other label, before success or failure, before good news or bad news, we bear the image of God and belong to him.

Remember Whose Mark You Carry

This coming week, some of us will have a wonderful week. Others will face challenges. Life will happen. That's what life does.

Yet if even a collector can recognise the value of something because of the mark it carries, how much more does God, the greatest collector, value those who bear his image?

As we go into the week ahead, let us remember whose mark we carry. We bear the image of God, and we belong to him.

What labels do you carry? Which ones help you, and which ones threaten to overshadow the deeper truth that you are made in the image of God?

Six Years Is Too Long To Feel Lonely

2026-10-17T01:30:00.000+01:00

Last week, I wrote about how friendships change.

Originally, I was reflecting on something I’d noticed with my parents and experienced myself, but the next few days changed that.

My birthday was on Monday. When Hannah asked what I’d like to do, I said I’d like to have a meal with a few favourite people, but who am I actually close enough to invite?

Not because there aren't people I like. I met with one couple on Wednesday. The problem was something else entirely.

Eventually, I settled on a couple we’ve grown close to over the last year and genuinely enjoy spending time with, but it was ridiculous. I’d been chatting with one all week, had multiple opportunities to ask, but couldn’t do it. Intense anxiety kicked in.

Hannah stepped in and invited them.

The evening was brilliant, enjoyable, and a reminder of why I value them in the first place.

So why had I spent days tied in knots over a simple invitation?

I spoke to Hannah. She asked a hard-hitting question.

“What’s up with you? Why are you being so insecure? This isn’t like you.”

She was right. This isn't like me. Yet I couldn't explain what was happening. I spent all night talking to God to untangle thoughts I hadn't really examined for years.

Part of that reflection took me back to a misunderstood friendship fifteen years ago that has left a lasting mark on how I viewed friendship, boundaries, and relationships. I realised I still carry some of that experience around with me, despite nothing in my life today resembling that situation.

I've learnt and grown. My understanding of relationships, mental health, and myself has changed dramatically. Hannah is nothing like my first wife, and our relationship is built on trust, honesty, and communication. Yet that situation lingered long after the danger was gone.

Reflecting further highlighted how much my social life changed when I became a permanent powerchair user. I used to meet people for coffee or dinner, play snooker, go fishing, camping, swimming, watch live bands, attend church events, and generally spend time with people face to face. All by myself. Then accessibility, travel, and distance started becoming barriers. Within a short period, those friendships and activities quietly disappeared. At the time, it didn't feel like a huge loss. I still had close blogging friendships. Then Covid arrived.

People stopped blogging. Life changed, communities faded, friendships drifted, and I retreated behind my guard. Then it hit me. Six years since I had a proper friend. Six years since I went for a coffee, exchanged pointless messages, or sat opposite someone who wanted to spend time with me.

On Sunday morning, everything finally caught up with me. I was in church and I looked around and realised how many friendships had changed, drifted, or simply ended. The songs spoke about belonging, family, friendship, and community. I felt disconnected from all of it.

The months of jokes about Hannah stealing my friends, comments about wanting friends, trying to find ways to do more, wondering why people connected with her more easily than me, or her confusion about why she was friends with someone when I had more in common. I just hadn’t named it.

I’m lonely and isolated.

A few days later, a church friend reached out. They’d noticed my upset on Sunday and wanted to check in. We talked through everything. They agreed with some conclusions, but challenged others.

Yes, I’d put barriers up and sabotaged opportunities and friendships, but it wasn’t necessarily sabotage. It was self-protection.

I was trying to protect my marriage, avoid being hurt again and repeating mistakes that haunt me fifteen years later. I took that too far, but it didn’t come from a bad place.

They also reminded me to be me. Just because social dynamics suggest focusing solely on male friendships, I shouldn’t, as it’s not straightforward for me. I have too much trauma there. Male friendships aren’t impossible, but female friendships are more natural. Friendships shouldn’t be forced or manufactured to fit social convention, someone else’s expectations, or the barriers I put up.

The problem wasn't that those concerns existed, but that I allowed them to become walls.

This isn't entirely my fault. Disability, Covid, life, and fading friendships changed things. At the same time, I have played a part in it.

I stopped reaching out. I expected rejection before it happened. I still do. I convinced myself it was protection when I was simply isolating myself.

I miss friendship, laughter, pointless conversations, the ease of feeling connected. I wish rejection didn't carry so much weight and I could believe people genuinely enjoy having me around. I know I can't recreate the past, force friendship, or make people choose me.

What I can do is stop letting old fears make decisions for me. If friendship appears, I need to let it, and risk being truly known again because six years is too long to feel lonely.

Picking Up A Pencil Again

2026-10-15T01:30:00.000+01:00

One of my birthday presents this year was a new light box.

That might not sound particularly exciting, but I've wanted one for a while. My old light box broke and I'd been borrowing Midge's. Unfortunately, hers only works when plugged in and, even then, it's temperamental. It stopped me from doing more when I last drew. Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped drawing altogether.

Looking back, I hadn't realised quite how long it had been.

The last drawing I completed was in September 2024. It was a picture of Jesus embracing a woman, potentially Mary Magdalene. A few weeks before that, I drew another image of Jesus, smiling with bright, radiant light surrounding Him.

I'll share both drawings below.

They were significant pieces for me because I hadn't really drawn people since university, more than twenty years earlier. Drawing faces and expressions is very different to drawing animals. Capturing a personality and the spark of life in an animal I can do, but doing that for humans is difficult. My own drawing ability isn’t at the level that makes it look realistic. I was, however, pleasantly surprised by how they turned out. Coloured pencils can be unforgiving, especially when working with skin tones, light, and detail.

Before those drawings, I'd spent several years drawing animals.

There was a tiger, a chimpanzee cuddling its baby, and a smiling bear that I created in 2021. Those will appear below as well.

I loved creating them. I really felt that I was drawing to my best ability again.

Headphones on. Worship music or an audiobook playing. Hours disappearing without me noticing.

It was therapeutic. It allows me to express everything I bottle up inside and release emotions that I often worry about releasing normally.

Ironically, even those drawings came after a sizeable gap. Prior to 2021, I hadn't done any artwork since 2019, some of which I shared on the blog at the time. Before that, most of my paintings and pencil work were created between 2014 and 2015.

Apparently, I have a habit of stopping for years at a time.

I don't really know why.

Part of it is probably how long each piece takes. Most of my coloured pencil drawings require somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five hours before I'm satisfied with them. That's a lot of time to dedicate to one creative project.

Life also gets busy.

Over the years there has been theology study, ministry, blogging, church responsibilities, the ordination process, family life, and everything else that fills the calendar. Sometimes drawing simply slips down the list. Other times, I suspect I just don't feel inspired enough to start.

The strange thing is that I always miss it when I stop. I miss how it helps me regulate. I miss being so consumed in it that it’s the one thing that can shut the whole world away.

Over the last decade, I've found that coloured pencils are definitely my preferred medium. My brain seems to understand colour, layering, and texture better than paint. I can visualise what I'm trying to achieve and slowly build towards it.

Paint never quite clicked in the same way. Neither did traditional graphite drawings. Coloured pencils feel natural, as if I should have always used them.

The process is slow, but that's part of what I enjoy. There is something calming about watching a blank page gradually become something recognisable.

The artwork itself isn't really the point. It's the process.

Back in 2024, Hannah became convinced my artwork was good enough to sell. I disagreed. She persisted. Eventually, I gave in and took a stall at our church Christmas fair. We printed artwork onto mugs, postcards, and prints of different sizes.

Did I sell out?

Not even close.

Did I make enough to cover the table hire and give myself a little spending money?

Surprisingly, yes.

The biggest lesson was that people preferred the smaller items. The original artwork is all A3, but the postcards, mugs, and smaller prints were far more popular. I still don't really think about art in those terms. I don't draw for other people. I draw for me.

That doesn't mean others can't enjoy it. It simply means the enjoyment comes from creating the piece, not from what happens afterwards.

Another Christmas fair is approaching and, at the moment, I don't have anything new to display.

That's something of a problem. It also feels like a good excuse.

A new light box is sitting beside me. There is a pile of drawing paper waiting to be used. The coloured pencils are still exactly where I left them.

Everything I need is already here.

Maybe that's why receiving the light box felt so significant. It wasn't just a birthday present. It was a reminder of something I've neglected and genuinely miss. Now I just need to pick up a pencil, open the A3 pad, and start drawing again.

Does Angels, Demons, and the Devil Change My View of Sin?

2026-10-14T01:30:00.000+01:00

Following my recent post on disability theology, sin, and separation from God, a few people reached out with a challenge.

If sin isn’t some external force infecting humanity, what do we do with angels, demons, the Devil, hell, and the spiritual battle Christians talk about? Doesn’t this undermine the idea that sin is primarily about separation from God rather than a cosmic force battling against us?

For me, no, it doesn’t.

The issue is that many modern Christians ideas about sin, angels, demons, hell, and the Devil don’t actually come from the parts of Scripture people think they do.

Take angels. The popular image of angels as beautiful people with wings, glowing halos, and gentle smiles is surprisingly recent. The angels described in Scripture are far stranger and more intimidating. Ezekiel’s visions involve wheels, eyes, and creatures (Ezekiel 1:4–21 and Chapter 10) that look nothing like angels within Christian artwork.

Many of the ideas Christians associate with a cosmic spiritual war come from the Book of Enoch.

Most Christians haven’t read it, but it has enormously influenced Christian culture.

The book was written during the Second Temple period, roughly between 300 BCE and the first century CE. It isn’t part of the biblical canon used by most Christians. Instead, it’s what theologians call a pseudepigraphal work, a text that helps understand the beliefs and debates of the period between the Old and New Testaments.

That makes it important. It doesn’t make it Scripture.

One section, the Book of the Watchers, expands the Genesis 6 story. Angels rebel against God, descend to earth, marry human women, father giants, and introduce corruption into the world. This forms much of the imagery now associated with fallen angels, demonic powers, spiritual warfare, and cosmic evil.

The difficulty is that Enoch treats sin as something brought into the world by rebellious angels. Mainstream Christianity and biblical theology generally sees sin differently. The problem isn't spiritual invaders, it’s humanity itself.

Mainstream Christian thought, especially following thinkers like Augustine, understands evil as a lack of good rather than a thing or presence in itself. Sin is a turning away from God’s wisdom, love, and intention. It damages relationships with God, others, ourselves, and creation. This views sin differently to a spiritual virus or war as it shifts responsibility towards humanity instead of supernatural beings.

The same issue occurs when discussing the Devil. In the Old Testament, “Satan” isn’t a personal name, it’s a title meaning adversary or accuser. This wasn't originally seen as a spiritual entity but as any human working against God's intent. Even in the New Testament, Jesus calls Peter “Satan” when Peter attempts to divert Him from His mission. Peter wasn’t possessed. He was acting as an obstacle and adversary.

That’s very different from the red-skinned ruler of hell found in popular culture.

Hell follows a similar pattern. Ancient Judaism largely understood death through the idea of Sheol, the grave. When your body returns to the earth. The ashes to ashes, dust to dust concept. During the Second Temple period, texts like Enoch developed elaborate pictures of cosmic prisons, fiery punishment, and rebellious angels.

When Jesus speaks about judgement, He often uses the language of Gehenna, a real valley outside Jerusalem associated with waste, destruction, and historical shame. His imagery is grounded in physical reality rather than the elaborate cosmic architecture found in Enoch. Later tradition largely conflated the two.

For me, this matters because of something called Creatio ex nihilo, the belief that God created everything from nothing. If God is entirely good and created everything that exists, evil cannot be a substance, force, or thing independent of God. Evil becomes the corruption or absence of good, much like darkness is the absence of light. The devil and fallen angels cannot be independent forces because that would imply God created them and evil and is not inherently good.

It’s the same volcano example I used in my previous post. Volcanoes are good. They fulfils their purpose. The danger appears when humanity ignores wisdom and places itself in harm’s way through them.

Sin works similarly. It’s not a cosmic infection or corrupting force entering humanity from outside. It’s separation from God’s wisdom and intention. That doesn’t mean spiritual realities don’t exist. It simply means I don’t think the primary problem facing humanity is a supernatural force or figures attacking us.

The primary problem is much closer to home. Sin is where humanity consistently chooses its own way over God’s, creating a chasm of divine separation. The devil is someone who corrupts others against God’s intentions. Hell is a colder and more terrifying space than fiery torment and becomes a nothingness void, a future without heavenly connection with God and your loved ones. A place where you become nothing but dust and soil for the earth. As for angels and demons, I see them less as supernatural monsters fighting an invisible war and more as spiritual realities within human actions that either draws people towards or away from God.

That’s the true story running through Scripture from beginning to end.

Once you understand these topics in this way, it challenges the idea about a evil cosmic war, focuses the battle within humanity itself, and explains sin, suffering, and our need for grace.

My 44th Birthday

2026-10-13T01:30:00.000+01:00

Yesterday was my birthday and, while it technically started in the morning, the celebrations really began on Saturday.

We had some friends from church over for dinner.

Actually, no.

I need to stop saying "friends from church". We had friends over for dinner. That feels more accurate. We ordered an Indian, chatted, laughed and, thanks to my opinionated teenagers, Will and James, somehow ended up discussing social issues. The evening was lovely. We've been spending more time with this couple recently and genuinely enjoy their company. Hannah and I have often said how good they are at getting us talking.

We even prepared a few questions to ask them. Admittedly, "a few" might be overstating it. I think we came up with two or three at most.

The funny thing is that they don't really need conversation starters. They're the sort of people who make you feel comfortable enough to just keep talking and spill everything. The more we chat, the more we want to know about them. It was a lovely evening and I'm really glad we chose to spend part of my birthday weekend with them.

My birthday started far earlier than I would've liked.

We had James' ADHD medication appointment first thing. After waiting so long following his diagnosis, there was no way we were cancelling it just because it happened to fall on my birthday. Sometimes adult responsibilities don't stop for birthdays.

The appointment took a couple of hours and, thankfully, we came away with a prescription and a treatment plan. I'm sure I'll write more about that another time.

Hannah didn't escape responsibilities either. She had to attend a meeting as part of her Churchwarden role. She hated that. If she'd had the choice, she'd have avoided it completely, but some things simply can't wait. While she was there, I also had a “work” call about church. The world just keeps on tuning.

Once all that was done, the day became exactly what I needed. Rest.

With how little sleep I've been getting recently, especially when I’ve been thinking so much about life, a quiet day felt like the best present possible. I spent some time reading, played a game for a while, and replied to the birthday messages arriving through Facebook, WhatsApp, texts, and church groups.

When Hannah got home, we opened cards. I've always opened cards first, have dinner, then do the presents.

Dinner was a fakeaway.

We're a big fakeaway household and, after an Indian takeaway on Saturday, it seemed the best option. I made a Nando's-style sauce using roasted peppers, onions, garlic, and tomatoes, blitzed it smooth, and covered a chicken with it before slow cooking. We served it with mash. It was delicious.

[Image 2. Pulled chicken with a orange sauce nex to mashed potatoes]

Then came the presents.

[Image 3. A selection of presents presented upon a bed. The full list is found below in the post]

I received a lot of chocolate. Our friends from Saturday bought me a Mint Terry's Chocolate Orange, while James and Arty added Dairy Milk, Twix, and a Galaxy Ripple to the collection.

Hannah's aunt bought me some Marvel socks. Hannah bought me fluffy socks, long-sleeved shirts I've wanted for ages, and some He-Man pins.

Although that does raise an important question.

If you collect He-Man figures and pins, do they belong in a pin collection or a He-Man collection? I'm still not sure.

[Image 4. 2 circle He-Man Pins. On the left is purple with Cringers green and yellow stripped face on with the words, Emotional Support Kitty. On the right is an orange pin, with Germans blue face with writing saying Henchmen problems]

Hannah also looked at some of the new He-Man figures currently filling the shops, but we've still got gaps in the previous range and the Funko collection. Starting another collection felt slightly dangerous.

Midge kept the theme going with a Skeletor keyring, which I'm very happy about.

*A small update as two presents from Hannah came late*

Here I have Moss man and Grizzlor to add to my collection. I'm so happy about these.

I'm particularly excited about my new light box. My old one broke, Midge's hasn't worked properly in ages, and I haven't done any artwork since last year. Hopefully this gives me the nudge to draw again.

My aunt also bought me a church history book focusing on Britain. Church History was one of my favourite subjects at college. When am I not excited about a theology book?

We then did the cake and, as always, it was a battenberg. Given while we sing our normal birthday song.

[Image 5. I am seen sitting upright. Smiling towards a battenberg cake with 8 multicoloured lit candles as the kids sing our birthday song]

I finished the evening watching Insidious: Out of the Further.

I really enjoyed it. It wasn't as focused on jump scares as some of the earlier films, but I liked the world-building, the new characters, and the way it expanded the wider story. It felt as though it was setting up future possibilities rather than simply repeating what had come before.

So that's me at 44.

Truthfully, birthdays still feel strange.

I still feel younger than my body insists I am.

Today was lovely. I’m sure my 44th year will be just as good. My ordination process is still moving forward and I'm still committed to my calling. There's plenty to focus on over the year ahead: ministry, study, family, friendships, health, and whatever surprises God decides to throw my way. If the next twelve months bring growth in even a few of those areas, I'll be more than happy. For me, today was pretty much perfect and I’m thankful for that.

Why Birthdays Have Never Been Simple For Me

2026-10-12T01:30:00.000+01:00

As I write this on Sunday afternoon, I've been reflecting on my birthday tomorrow (the day I’ve posted this).

I'll be 44 years old.

I shouldn't feel old but I do when I'm fumbling through conversations with my teens, I'm the oldest person at the table, I notice how white I've become, how my smile ages my face, how thin my hair is getting, or when I stop and work out how old I actually am.

Other times, it doesn’t. I’m just me.

Being adopted, birthdays have never been straightforward for me.

For most people, a birthday is a celebration. For some adopted people, it's more complicated. It's the anniversary of your birth, but also a reminder of separation, loss, and questions that never go away. Even though I was happily adopted, birthdays always felt like that .

I wasn't abandoned immediately. My biological remained around for four months before leaving in search for her latest male interest. I then moved through three different homes before being adopted shortly before my fourth birthday.

Looking back, the foundations of safety and security were disrupted several times during some very significant years of development.

As someone who traced their biological family and found more mess than answers, there’s still an emotional tension carried within birthdays.

Anyone who's read this blog knows how much I adored my mum. She gave me everything she possibly could. I'll always be a mummy's boy. Yet birthdays sometimes bring a strange sense of guilt, as though acknowledging the losses connected to adoption somehow takes something away from what she gave me.

It doesn't, of course. Just because my mind considers biological things doesn’t mean I wanted that life instead of the one I had. Emotions aren’t always logical.

I only have flashes, faces, and feelings of those years. I often wonder whether that's part of why birthdays have always felt difficult. Something about the date stir things up, even when I don't consciously expect it to.

Perhaps the simplest way to describe it is this: birthdays have always carried baggage.

My mum understood that better than most. She never pushed me into huge parties. Instead, she'd invite a few close friends, keep things manageable, and make sure I felt comfortable.

She got it right. The videos of at least one shows how overwhelmed I was.

Over the years, other things happened. Difficult situations at home, school, among friends, and in life. Birthdays seemed to become the place where difficult things happened.

If you know Hannah, you’ll know she goes all in with birthdays.

When Midge turned sixteen, there was music, excitement, and enough enthusiasm to let the entire world know it was her birthday.

Hannah has spent years trying to help me experience birthdays differently. There have been incredible cakes, thoughtful surprises, and genuine effort. She has really tried and I’ve had some good birthdays, but good experiences don't automatically erase old ones.

This year we decided to do something different.

At first, Hannah suggested inviting friends for a meal. The more we thought about it, the more we realised not all my friends know each other, and not everyone enjoys being dropped into a room full of strangers.

So we went smaller.

Last night (Saturday), our two friends came over for dinner. We ate, laughed, and enjoyed being together. It was a lovely evening and meant a lot to me. It didn’t need to be big. Being with them was enough.

I've got another meal planned with a couple from church this week.

That’s it. Simple and manageable.

The older I get, the more I think that's probably what I need.

Big parties have always overwhelmed me. I worry whether everyone is comfortable, getting on, or feeling left out. Just because they’re your friends doesn’t mean they’ll all get on.

My thirtieth birthday proved that.

Mum died three months earlier, yet everyone encouraged me to have a large celebration. I did it anyway. It was a terrible time in my life, but everyone was like “Mum wouldn’t want you upset. Unfortunately, everything I worried about happened.

What I remember most is feeling lonely in a room full of people. There were lots of friends, but few close ones. A problem I've always had.

Birthdays changed when Mum and Dad died.

I know I'm not alone in that.

When the people who raised, loved, and anchored your childhood are no longer here, birthdays become a reminder of their absence as much as your age. A part of you wants them there, and no amount of logic changes that, but you carry on because you have to.

All this has been spinning around my head this week.

I'm sure it will be lovely. I'll enjoy it and be grateful for another year. I won’t be sitting in a wallowing mess. That isn’t me. This post is just me taking a moment to voice something underneath. It’s not a cry for help. It just voices the strange mixture of gratitude, grief, love, loss, and reflective thoughts that birthdays still bring with them.

The Best Worst Christian

2026-10-11T01:31:45.463+01:00

I’m not the best Christian. At least not in the way people expect. In fact, many of my old friends used to describe me as “The Best Worst Christian.” It’s a title I’ve carried with pride, especially through the ordination process.

That probably sounds strange. For me, it isn’t. It shows I’m not a stereotypical Christian. I'm happy about that.

If you ask most people what a Christian looks like, they’ll often describe someone respectable, patient, perfectly spoken, and somehow free from the messiness of life. Someone who doesn’t swear, doubt, get angry, moan, dress differently, or challenge expectations.

The stereotype leaves very little room for being an actual person.

Back in January, Midge, Will, and James attended a Youth Alpha and Youth Alpha Easter event run by churches across Sittingbourne. My children sit somewhere between goth, emo, and punk. They’re not what typical Christian teenagers look like. The other young people turned up in nice shirts and smart jumpers. My three looked like a group of pagan worshippers had accidentally wandered into a Christian summer camp.

It was funny, but it highlights something important. Christians and churches often talk about “come as you are,” but some really mean, “Come as you are, then become like us.”

There’s a difference.

My church isn’t perfect, but we’re good at letting people be themselves, despite being called the “reject church” for years. For me, that’s a compliment. We’re a place of inclusion and belonging. We recently had a wonderful lady and her family join us after another church suggested they might “fit us better” because of her “strange” habits. What one church saw as a problem, we saw as a person looking to belong.

I don’t dress differently on Sundays. I regularly wear a hat, whether that’s a baseball cap or a woolly hat, and it stays on in church, even when I’m leading or preaching. God knows my heart whatever I’m wearing. If hats prevented God from knowing us, I’m fairly sure atheists would wear them for protection.

The same applies to other parts of life. I’m me no matter what. For example, I swear. I tried not to for years. All I achieved was making myself feel guilty every time I failed.

Eventually something shifted.

God already knows everything about me. The good, the bad, and the bits I’d rather keep hidden.

That doesn’t mean I go around insulting people, speaking however I like, and swearing all the time. Jesus was clear about loving others. I try hard not to use language that tears people down, belittles them, or causes harm. There’s a huge difference between careless words and weaponising them.

I think this is where many Christians pile unnecessary pressure onto themselves.

We worry about clothes, language, hobbies, appearance, relationships, behaviour, personality traits, and a hundred other things. We spend so much time trying to be a good Christian that we forget to be an honest one.

Part of the issue comes from how we view sin.

Many people treat sin as a force waiting to infect us every time we make a mistake. I’ve never found that particularly helpful.

Some traditions and theological viewpoints understand sin solely as separation from God. Sin damages relationships with God, others, ourselves, and creation. The issue isn’t that we’ve broken rules, but that we’ve stepped away from God’s wisdom, love, and intention.

Instead of asking, “Am I behaving like a Christian?” we should ask, “Am I moving towards God or away from Him?”

Jesus spoke a lot about love, mercy, forgiveness, generosity, hypocrisy, pride, and how we treat people. He said remarkably little about hats, fashion styles, dress codes, or whether someone looked religious enough.

We’re also called to share our faith, but I believe the “good Christian” stereotype gets in the way. If people think they must change everything about themselves before they belong, most won’t even walk through the door.

People connect with real people.

One friend started attending our church after feeling judged elsewhere. Their child’s ASD, Tourette’s, and behavioural needs didn’t fit “church” and spent years feeling unwelcome. At one point I jokingly said, “If they accept me, they’ll accept anyone.” They laughed and came anyway.

Today they’re part of the church family. Not because somebody changed who they were, but because somebody welcomed them.

That’s why I think we need to stop trying so hard. Stop worrying that we're constantly doing something wrong.

We all fall short. Not because we’re uniquely bad, but because God is uniquely good. Even the best Christian isn’t good enough. That’s the reason grace matters. There’s a saying that the church isn’t a museum for saints, it’s a hospital for sinners. I’ve always liked that idea. The well don’t need a doctor. The sick do. The church doesn’t need perfect Christians because they don’t exist. It needs real people carrying flaws, struggles, and failures.

The goal isn’t becoming the person we think Christians should be but the person God created us to be, then allowing Him to shape us from there. It’s why I’m still proud to be the best worst Christian. I’m imperfect, but still His.

Taking Accountability: Disability Shouldn't Be An Excuse

2026-10-10T01:30:00.000+01:00

Recently, a friendship and professional relationship changed for me. It started me reflecting on disability, inclusion, and something I hadn't really considered before.

This person, like me, has suffered under institutional harm and judgement within church environments. They've experienced ableism, restrictive doctrine, and people deciding what they can and cannot do because of disability. Scripture has been used against them. Opportunities have been limited. Their gifts have been dismissed. People, like “Simon,” have mistreated them.

I've seen the eye rolls, sighs, negative facial expressions, and subtle shifts in tone. I've seen people speak to them differently and opportunities withheld. It hurts. I recognised the story. I've lived it.

For years, I championed them.

I fought for opportunities, encouraged leadership, promoted their gifts, opened doors where I could, and wanted them to thrive because I know what it feels like when everyone assumes you can't.

The difficult part is that the problem isn't always the system. Sometimes it’s this person.

That's uncomfortable to write.

Over thirty years of living with disability, spending time in disabled communities, advocating, studying theology, and talking with disabled people, I've realised there’s a huge difference between understanding a barrier and making it your identity.

Some disabled people have support needs that significantly limit autonomy. They require care, advocacy, and a strong support network. That doesn't lessen their value. My sister is one example. She lives in assisted accommodation and requires extensive support. Yet she’s full of joy, humour, and love. Her worth isn't measured by productivity or independence.

Others carry years of social, cultural, and institutional ableism. They've been told they're incapable for so long that they believe it. The world acts on them and they stop expecting anything different. If enough people tell you who you are, eventually you start believing them. You end up becoming a victim, where disability becomes your main identity.

Then there are those who turn disability into a competition. Every difficulty becomes a comparison. Every medication, symptom, diagnosis, or struggle has to be worse than everyone else’s. Conversations become disability top trumps where the goal is proving who suffers most. I find it hard. Disability becomes the centre of their identity rather than one part of a much bigger person.

Then there are people who acknowledge their limitations without allowing those limitations to define them. Disability affects their life, but it doesn't become their entire identity. They adapt, find workarounds, challenge barriers, ask for support when needed, and keep moving forward despite the reality of their situation. They thrive in each setting because they are forced by the world and themselves to do so. Despite their limits, they push on, taking more on than they should, and achieve well.

I place myself in that group.

I need care and support. I have no choice but to rely on Hannah or others. There are many things I simply cannot do. Yet, I still try, adapt, and find ways to participate, use the world around me, and maintain autonomy. Disability affects my life, but it isn't my identity.

The distinction matters.

Disability can explain a situation.

It shouldn't automatically excuse one.

Recently, this friend was given an opportunity they had wanted for years. It was a chance to lead, thrive, and demonstrate their abilities. I was genuinely excited for them. The result was good, but the journey there was difficult and, unfortunately, they let themselves down in how they acted. They will never admit that though.

Instructions were ignored. Agreed plans changed. Feedback was rejected. Mistakes were made. They acted unprofessionally. Argued. Whenever concerns were raised, responsibility landed somewhere else. A partner. Colleagues. Circumstances. Disability. Neurodivergence. Anyone and anything but them.

I hate this.

Compassion and grace matter because disability creates barriers, but that shouldn’t remove accountability.

If my ASD causes a misunderstanding, then that explains what happened. It doesn't stop me apologising. If my FSHD physically stops something, I still need to communicate that clearly. If trauma influences my reaction, I remain responsible for how I act. In all cases, I’m still an adult, accountable, able to regulate, and learn.

What made this harder was that the pattern eventually turned towards me.

Suddenly I was responsible for problems I hadn't caused. I hadn't communicated properly, understood, or supported enough. I didn't believe in them enough. Disagreements became arguments.

I realised I wasn't advocating for inclusion anymore. I was enabling behaviour. Behaviour that I didn’t agree with.

That's a difficult distinction to recognise.

Many disabled people, including me, have spent our entire lives proving ourselves. We work harder because we know people question our capabilities. We adapt, push, learn, change, and grow because we have no alternative.

When I make mistakes, I try to own them. Not because I'm perfect but because accountability matters.

Maybe that's what changed for me. I can still see the barriers, fight for their opportunities, and believe in their potential. As a leader, I want to empower those around me. I just can't carry misapplied responsibility. They need to own that themselves. Sometimes the greatest act of belief is letting people learn from their own mistakes.

Friendship Changes

2026-10-09T01:30:00.000+01:00

I didn’t sleep at all Wednesday night. After trying my sleeping rituals, breathing techniques, and prayer, I ended up reading blog posts to help drift off. I didn’t. Pain kept me awake, my mind was active, and my body wanted positions it can no longer rest in.

Despite leaving me exhausted yesterday, it did bring positives. After reading a post I wrote two months ago, I had a proper chat with God about mine and my parents’ friendships.

When I was little, my mum and dad had friends from work, hobbies, and general activities. They were always around our house. For birthdays, Mum didn’t just invite my friends. She invited her friends and their children, even when they were much older than me. I remember parties, BBQs, picnics, and events with these people.

Then something changed. Dad and Mum stopped the activities that connected them. We still got Christmas cards and bumped into them at shops, but the gatherings ended. I didn’t notice it then, but looking back I can see it clearly. It happened before I started Secondary School. I don’t know why and, without them here, these will be stories I won’t get answers for.

They could have drifted apart. It could have been age differences. My parents adopted us in their forties. Their friends had children in their early twenties who were then old enough to be my parents. It could have been interpersonal. Mum was strong willed, opinionated, and determined. Dad was inappropriate, sexist, and racist. I heard comments and rumours growing up that matched this. Something shifted and their friends stopped coming round.

It makes me question whether friendships slow down, change, and fade as you get older. Maybe there wasn’t any drama. Maybe it’s just something that happens.

I’ve always struggled with friendships and being disabled doesn't help them. Despite learning tricks, like laughing with everyone else when I don’t get it, ASD makes social situations difficult. I over communicate and send essay‑like responses with too much detail. I struggle with eye contact, physical closeness, reading expressions, and eating in front of others. I only do that with people I trust. My brain also moves differently, sometimes I interrupt, say the wrong thing at the wrong time or misjudge a moment.

FSHD complicates things too. My chair limits where I can go. Some friends find watching my degeneration hard. Travel takes longer. Socialising takes more energy. People ask how I am, but they want the polite, positive version, not the reality behind my disability or how I'm actually feeling.

Despite these reasons, I don’t actually know why friendships fade. They just do. People just disappear.

A lot of my friendships ended around covid, especially my closest ones. I don’t know why, but I haven’t had a close relationship since and miss having a best friend, confidant, and someone outside of Hannah to rely on.

Part of that's my fault. I’ve put a guard up. I was mischaracterised, blamed, and shamed for having an “emotional affair” with my sibling‑like best friend fifteen years ago which shattered my already fragile marriage and made me wary of female friendships.

This made friendships harder. Childhood trauma shaped how I relate to and engage with men. I gravitated almost entirely towards girls at school, apart from one male friend who shared intelligence, geeky interests, and the feeling of being out of place. He was my best man when I married the boys mum, but life shifted. He moved away, built a family, and our paths drifted. I’m lucky if I see him once a year now.

I received psychotherapy after my breakdown and divorce. This helped me understand more about how those early experiences shaped the way I form relationships. I learnt from that and acted better. It helped me build boundaries, like removing kisses from texts, and better friendships with women, but, unknowingly, I became more emotionally guarded with anyone I talk to.

Over the last decade, that guard has grown. I had and then lost three close female friends. They vanished. My routine and ASD struggles and communication were difficult for them, but I don’t know what directly caused it. Something shifted. Our friendship faded. It hurt deeply and left me protecting myself from being hurt again.

I know it’s not just me. Others struggle too. We’re not in our twenties or thirties going to pubs, clubs, nights out, or seeking escape while our kids are little. We’re in our forties. A time where friendships fade, settle, or reshape. Just like they did for my parents.

My guard makes it difficult for anyone to get close, but I do get lonely. I still struggle making friends with men, even if I've gained a few male friendships over the years and am open to having more. Female friendships are still easier, but my guard, trauma, and ASD makes maintaining friendships rather difficult.

Friendships change, people come and go, yet I’m still hopeful that some will grow into something steady, honest, and safe. My guard has been up for too long. It's time to try and be open again.

How Do We Carry Disability Theology Forward? Balancing Faith, Healing, and Harm

2026-10-08T01:30:00.000+01:00

Following the disability conference, I’ve had a few people ask how to move forward. They loved the Bible studies, the closing talk, and the honesty about ableism, Scripture, and lived experience. They left encouraged, but unsure how to move forward while honouring disability theology and the spiritual belief in healing, wholeness, and sin. They want to support disabled people without falling into the traps we named. It’s a valid question.

My studies sit comfortably within disability theology, yet they conflict with typical Christian practice that have existed for several millennia, are recorded in Scripture, and were undertaken by Jesus and the disciples. Many churches still push healing as correction. It’s a familiar narrative and, when it happens, a powerful message of God’s love and Scriptural authority. Some churches still frame disability as spiritual warfare. I’ve even experienced exorcism attempts, cleansing prayers, and ableist theology.

It’s easy for those without faith to dismiss these things. For Christians, they exist in Scripture and were undertaken with confidence as acts of faith. People want to know how to balance this belief and disability theology without causing harm and repeating the mistakes disabled people face in inaccessible spaces, unequal processes, and inherited assumptions.

The question becomes simple. How do we balance disability theology and Christian spirituality together without hurting people.

My answer sits in the same place as my posts on equality and equity, accessibility and usability, independence and autonomy, presence and participation, and the Image of God. The balance is found in how we see disabled people before we decide what to do.

Take sin. Many Christians treat sin as a spiritual force. Various areas of theology and doctrine see sin differently. Creatio ex nihilo teaches that God creates freely. Nothing existed before God. No flawed material. Everything created was good. Volcanoes are a good example. They create fertile soil, regulate the planet, and release essential gases. They also destroy and hurt. Some see destruction as divine punishment. I disagree. Sin is the separated state from God. In this case, it is human separation from God’s wisdom. We build close to volcanoes, interfere with their purpose, and ignore their danger. If we honoured their creation and purpose, we would not sin. Sin is separation, not a force that impacts us.

This matters because when we see sin as a force that affects disabled people, we find reasons to believe the healing narratives that go with it, like removing sin, demons, or dark spirits. If sin is considered as the separation from God’s intent, healing becomes the restoration of God’s intent. With all ideas of sin‑based disability removed, healing becomes less about fighting spiritual magic or bodily correction and more about realignment. Healing becomes a movement back toward the life God intended.

Some things can be healed. An injury, environmentally impacted illness, or harm caused by human action. These are disruptions to God’s creative intent. They can be restored. Healing exists.

Healing is not the correction of disabled bodies. It can benefit disabled people, but through the restoration of relationships, community, dignity, and belonging. Healing is the removal of barriers, not disabled people.

Disabled and neurodivergent embodiment is different. These bodies and minds were formed intentionally. They bear God’s image fully. They are not deviations or mistakes but part of creation’s diversity. Healing doesn’t apply in the same way. God’s will matters, and sometimes healing doesn’t happen even when it fits the criteria above. That’s not failure. It’s simply the truth that God works differently in different lives.

This should change how we offer prayer. People often assume disabled people want healing from disability. Some do. Some don’t. The balance is found in asking what the person wants prayer for. Ask clearly. Listen carefully. Offer prayer that aligns with disability theology. Pray for strength, comfort, courage, peace, community, accessibility, usability, equity, justice, or the removal of ableism. Pray for healing that restores life, not bodies. If healing doesn’t happen, explain why through disability theology. Stay positive, grounded, and honouring.

We must change how we talk about spiritual harm. Disabled people are not evidence of demons, curses, or divine judgement. They are indispensable members of the church who bring joy, wisdom, leadership, resilience, humour, and perspective that shows God’s creativity. They widen welcome and teach the church how to love.

The conference gave people a foundation. They saw the distortions, harm, and truth. They want to move forward without slipping back into old habits. The answer is found in how we see, treat, and respond to disabled people. If we see them as gifts, image bearers, and indispensable members of the church body, everything else follows. Prayer, healing, theology, and church life changes. The balance becomes natural.

Disability theology and Christian spirituality can be held together but it takes a shift in understanding, faith and theology. Able bodied people need to read, learn, and listen more to disability theology and experience. The more you read, the more you learn. The more you learn, the more inclusive you can be. Communities that honour disabled people through equity, usability, autonomy, participation, and accessible worship become places where healing happens in the way Scripture intends. Barriers fall, belonging grows, and God’s kingdom draws closer.

Ordination: Placement

2026-10-07T01:30:00.000+01:00

The idea of doing a Placement has floated around for almost a year now. It first appeared in my Carousel Conversations feedback. I fumbled a question about how I’ve tested my calling. Instead of explaining fifteen years of discernment, challenge, and growth, I spoke about being put on the spot and thriving in an area of my existing church life. Subsequently, they suggested a placement to give me breadth, experience, and space to see how things fit. I didn’t mind. Experience is valuable.

Then came the meeting with the bishop. They wanted me on placement, away from my church and my late friend and colleague Sue. It felt like a punishment. If it had been framed around my process and growth, I would’ve been fine, but it wasn’t. The bishop also seemed convinced that most churches in the diocese were fully accessible, easy to reach by public transport, and led by disability theology informed priests. Anyone who’s read Fearfully and Wonderfully Made or Church times reports knows that’s rarely the case.

My ADDO later rephrased the need for placement as something that would help me flourish. In the meeting with my DDO and ADDO, I raised the obvious point: my church is in the furthest north region of the diocese and takes ninety minutes to travel to. Travelling further south adds time, strain and physical consequences. Thankfully, he agreed and suggested a placement within the diocese I live in. He also agreed to the accessibility, theology, and travel requirements, and committed to finding one that fits.

Five months later, he sent three options.

I visited one with Hannah. It was fine, but was a combination of styles, which seemed to clash. Another looked closer on paper but would’ve taken just as long to reach. The third caught my attention immediately. A thirty‑minute walk from home. Modern outlook but traditional inside, yet something felt right.

It had a strong social media presence, ticked our eco boxes, having become an Eco Church with a silver award, was part of the Inclusive Church network, something I’ve wanted my own church to join for years, hosts the Food Bank, a weekday children’s group, social events, and has a growing children’s and youth connection, and does all of this while still being a “High Church” with weekly communion, three Sunday services, hymns blasted out on the organ, and a traditional, Anglo-Catholic style.

It was everything I’ve avoided and everything I’ve wanted.

I’ve experienced multiple denominations over my life. Most validated the harm disabled people face. I learned to equate traditional services with traditional viewpoints and spiritual danger. That’s true for some churches, but the Church of England is an ecosystem of local parishes, each with individuality and nuance. Yet my mind still goes, “If they sing hymns with an organ, they won’t be forward‑thinking.” This church challenged that assumption. Everything anyone would want from a modern mission, eco, and inclusive church was there, with a traditional heart.

It also made me realise that I’ve been at my current church for fifteen years, worshipping within its parish for eighteen, and that I’ve settled into one experience for too long. This placement should change that.

Hannah and I prayed about which to choose, but we both kept circling back to this church. So I told my DDO, he set it up, and introduced the priest I’ll be working with: Rev Sue. Going from one Rev Sue to another felt like a quiet reassurance.

Last Friday, I visited the church and met her. She’s brilliant. She understands neurodiversity, being so herself and raising neurodivergent children, so will be fine with me, gets disability theology and practice, and already made changes and wants my help to make more. She’s inclusive, thoughtful, and passionate about the community. We talked about her journey, the church, activities, and what she hopes to do next. I couldn’t have asked for a better placement.

The moment I walked in, it felt right. The moment Hannah walked in, she said “Wow.” Then a friend said yesterday that she can see me there. It all seems to fit.

We have one small problem. Rev Sue wasn’t sure what I’m allowed to do. Am I there solely as an observer? Or, can I be thrown into the deep end and do what I do at my church, but there? From what she said, I think she wants the latter. I hope so. I want that too.

I’ve decided to split my time 50/50 between my church and placement. I could do six solid weeks, but I’m doing too many things at my church and while others can cover, it becomes difficult when only a handful do everything. This way, I can continue my calling there while exploring and growing on placement.

Once we hear back about what I can and cannot do, I’ll let Rev Sue know and we can start. For now, I’m excited for my Placement. Here are some photos we took.

[Image 2. The image shows a traditional church sanctuary. Green cushioned chairs are arranged in rows facing a raised altar covered with a green frontal and decorated with flower arrangements. Behind the altar are three tall stained‑glass windows showing biblical scenes. Above them, the curved apse features a painted mural of Jesus Christ flanked by two angels, with the words “Holy Holy Holy Lord God of Hosts” across the top. Hanging lantern‑style lights descend from green ceiling beams, and the surrounding walls display plaques and religious artwork. The overall atmosphere is calm, reverent, and historic.]

[Image 3. The image shows a section of a church wall dominated by five stained‑glass windows: three tall arched panels in the centre and two smaller circular windows above. The glass depicts scenes including the crucifixion of Jesus, figures in prayer, and decorative geometric patterns in vivid colours. Beneath the windows stands a simple wooden altar with a wooden cross, two candle holders, and floral arrangements. The surrounding wall and ceiling include painted and carved Christian symbols, adding to the sense of craftsmanship and tradition]

[Image 4. The image shows a decorative ceiling mural. Two winged angels in flowing robes and golden sashes face inward toward a central circular medallion containing a stylised face surrounded by pink and gold tones. The background is deep blue with scattered golden stars, creating a celestial theme. The border is richly patterned with geometric and floral designs in gold and green. The artwork is detailed and symbolic, typical of traditional church or chapel decoration.]

[Image 5. This image shows a spacious chapel with rows of teal upholstered chairs arranged facing a wooden stage area. A staircase leads up to a balcony with a wooden railing and a large wooden structure containing a door and a black rectangular panel. The ceiling is high with green beams and hanging lantern‑style lights. On the left is a large pipe organ with green and wooden detailing. On the right, tall arched windows with stained‑glass panels allow natural light into the room. Notice boards and wooden cabinets line the back wall. The room feels historic and designed for worship, gatherings, or performances. I am sat to the bottom left of the image]

Parenting James: Five Months Later and Facing a New Battle

2026-10-06T01:30:00.000+01:00

I last wrote about James in May. As expected, it’s taken three weeks into the school term and I’m writing about him again. That’s not surprising considering the last five posts have mostly centred around his school life.

I ended my last update waiting for the Trust to respond. They never did. I made my viewpoint clear, but the representative didn’t get back to me. Then, just as the term started, they emailed asking how things were. I replied and voiced what I had said before with a small update about James. Again, nothing. I was talking to Hannah about it today. I’ll contact the Trust. It’s ridiculous at this point.

Now on to James.

He ended the school year in a good place. He loves his tutor and they’ve been completing work well. Some days they even finished early. I’m happy he worked hard enough for that to happen, but I didn’t like the earlier finishes. In four years, James has attended three secondary schools, has twice been pulled out due to EBSA and other issues, and has been home educated. Regular readers know I’m a positive home school promoter, but it wasn’t a great experience for him.

I was a primary school teacher. I worked across multiple schools, year groups, needs, and positions. It was ideal when James and Will were little. I was never a secondary teacher. I could teach some subjects, but it wasn’t my thing and wouldn’t have been the best education for them. We tried splitting home schooling between households, but it didn’t work. That’s why he went back into a new school.

By the third school, I’d learned the system. Pulling him out always left the responsibility of education on us. Letting the school reach a point where they had to enact Section 19 was better. They had no choice but to refer James to the council, and the council found relevant education. It’s benefited him, but the calculation around all that time in, out, and receiving substandard education meant James was probably, at best estimate, around a year behind his peers. Even if he’s a clever lad.

So finishing early stung a bit. I kept thinking, “Can he not do more? Fill in the gaps?” The structure doesn’t allow for that. I had to accept it and be grateful he was happy, learning, and having a positive schooling experience.

That changed this term. Kind of.

James still loves his tutor. She’s lovely. The problem is sleep. He’s had one day of tutoring since term started. He isn’t sleeping and often doesn’t fall asleep until 6am. When we wake him at 10am, it’s met with, “No. Cancel today. I’m exhausted” or the more expletive version.

The doctors had prescribed medication. It didn’t work. We tried alternating it to challenge any immunity his body might have built. That didn’t help either.

I get it. I’ve written twice before that I don’t sleep. Sometimes it takes two or three days until I finally sleep. I was given the same medication. It’s worked at times, especially if I alternate it, but recently even that hasn’t been enough. So I fully understand.

There’s a difference though.

I had a horrible week of sleep pain, my body wanting to move in ways it no longer can, emotional whiplash from reality‑shifting dreams, or staying wide awake begging my brain to sleep last week. I reached Friday, went to bed as normal, was yawning and tired, but stayed awake all night. By 6am I had to be up for the Disability Conference. I forced myself to go. I did what was needed because I had to.

That night, I was exhausted. My body wanted to surrender, but Saturday night was still broken. I wanted to stay in bed and recover the sleep I needed, but I was leading the service at church. So I got up and fulfilled my commitments. Last night my body gave in and I slept almost all the way through. I’m still exhausted today, but I’ve carried on.

James needs to do the same. He’s 15. It’s not easy, but the more it happens, the more he misses.

We went back to the doctors on Friday. They can’t do much. He’s still a minor. They upped his medication slightly but think he needs ADHD meds that we’ve waited nine months for. They’ll write to the centre, but we’re caught in the eighteen‑month system.

There’s a positive though. I called today. While waiting in the phone queue as the 101st caller, his medication appointment came through for next Monday. Many thankful prayers were said.

So what happens now?

James and I spoke a couple of times today. I explained what I’ve had to do for my commitments and how he’s got to do the same. We’re also running the risk that the tutor will have to cancel. Not working means not getting paid, and she’ll need a new student. She even asked today whether James wanted to continue. We said yes. He has a good bond with her. He just needs to fight this problem. I’m hoping he can manage until next Monday. Then we’ll see what happens with that appointment.

In the meantime, it’s a battle.

Maddy Time: Avengers Endgame Encore

2026-10-05T01:30:00.000+01:00

Spoiler Warning: This post contains plot details from Avengers: Endgame Encore.

Midge and I went to see Avengers: Endgame Encore last week. It promised four minutes of new footage that would link Endgame to Avengers: Doomsday. We were curious. Maddy Time is our thing. We do other activities, but cinema trips are where we mostly connect. This felt like something we had to see, even if it was only for those extra minutes.

I’ve felt unsettled about the multiverse saga, like many fans have. Some films have been brilliant. Some haven’t. Shang‑Chi was one of the best stand‑alone films in this era. It deserved a sequel. I expected the same universe building we had before. It’s a shame Marvel didn’t follow that strategy.

Spider‑Man: Far From Home was great. No Way Home was even better. We loved the multiverse connections and the idea that the other Spider‑Men returned home to healed villains. It would be cool to see. We love Tom Hollands version. It’s why our last Maddy Time was spent watching Spider‑Man: Brand New Day.

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever handled Chadwick Boseman’s death with care. It continued the story well and set Namor up for future arcs, hopefully with Sue Storm, like the comics. Doctor Strange: Multiverse of Madness had strong universe links and cameos. We enjoyed it, although Wanda deserved a better conclusion. Deadpool and Wolverine did the multiverse well and continued his story arc nicely. The Marvels introduced Rambo’s crossover into the X‑Men universe, but it seems separate from the Fox universe we know. It needs explaining. I hope they don’t pretend it never happened.

We weren’t sure what to expect with Endgame Encore. We didn’t know if the extra footage would be inside the film or added at the end. Spoilers: it’s all in the credits. The film itself is unchanged. I know Endgame word for word. Nothing shifted. They didn’t fix any continuity errors. Ant‑Man is still giant, pushing a space whale through a wizard portal, when he’s also in the van with Wasp hot wiring it. Captain America’s shield is still whole when it should be shattered in a wide shot. You’d think a rerelease would correct details fans have pointed out for years. It didn’t. It annoyed both of us.

The new footage begins right after the ending, with Steve and Peggy. They’re dancing, peaceful and happy, when a knock interrupts them. Steve hides. Peggy answers and asks if she can help. A voice replies, “No, but I can help you. Both of you.” Loki walks in wearing his TVA uniform. Steve steps out looking confused. It cuts there.

The next scene shows Bruce Banner in a cement cell miles underground. It links to Spider‑Man: Brand New Day, where we last saw him being carried into an ambulance. He says it’s been more than ten years since the Hulk last came out fully. He moves to a workstation and explains he’s been working on a gamma‑suppressing serum. A green light fills the room. Bruce asks who the person is. A voice replies, “Mr Banner. I’ve come to collect you.” A burnt green rune spreads across the floor. Hulk’s voice rumbles. They escape.

The third scene takes place in the TVA. Mobius walks into the office as alarms sound. An incursion is happening between the X‑Men and Deadpool universe 1005 and another universe. Missiles fire between earths as both collapse. Another incursion follows. Then another. It reaches three. A voice shouts that it’s not three. It’s three hundred. Then three thousand. The announcement declares that the multiverse is collapsing. Midge and I wondered if the number linked to Tony Stark’s “I love you 3000.” It might, but could just show how fast everything is falling apart.

The final scene mirrors the ending of Endgame and the first Iron Man. You hear metal being hammered. The camera reveals Doctor Doom’s mask being made.

Reviews online are mixed. Some say the rerelease is unnecessary. I get why. It didn’t add anything new. Those clips could’ve been released separately. Some say it’s a welcome bridge between sagas. I’m not sure it bridges anything. The ideas in the clips are cool, but the film didn’t need to be the platform. Some say the new scenes add excitement for Doomsday, and Midge and I agree with that. It’s nostalgic and fun, but imperfect.

Sitting next to Midge made it better. I quietly said every line, but thankfully didn’t ruin it for her.

One last thing. We went to Nando’s before the movie. We didn’t get any photos. It was nice, except for one detail. Midge ordered the wrong spice level for my food and accidentally chose the hottest one. My brain and tongue nearly melted. My lips were throbbing. She laughed then. She still laughs now. I’ll pretend I’m over it.

It was another lovely Maddy Time together. That’s what matters.

[Image 2. Midge sits on the left as she leans into to me on the right wearking a blue shirt, a dark and a white cowboys hat. The photo is dark as we sit in the screen room waiting for the end credits to play]

God Must Hate Me: Disability Conference Talk

2026-10-03T01:30:00.000+01:00

There is a belief many disabled and neurodivergent people carry quietly, formed by years of being treated as problems by churches, Scripture, and faith.

For some people, that song is uncomfortable. For others, it’s familiar. It names an existence shaped by years of being told your body is wrong, your mind is wrong, your needs are inconvenient, or your presence is something God will fix later.

It forms when Scripture is weaponised. When wholeness is tied to body hierarchy or healing is offered to correct disabled bodies. When disability is blamed on demons or dark spirits. When sin, disobedience, or weak faith are used to explain our bodies. These ideas are still pushed today. Medical truth, disabled lives as celebrations of God’s kingdom, and our identity as divine image‑bearers are abandoned. Is it really a surprise that many think God made a mistake and hates them?

I felt it. I’ve lived all of this.

From thirteen to twenty‑five, before I came to faith, I searched Scripture, theology, and churches. I was desperate to understand where disability fit into God’s world. What I found wasn’t comfort or an all‑loving God. It was judgement, pressure, and the belief that I was broken, unworthy, and wrong— and the hardest part was realising that the very people who call themselves broken and unworthy because of sin still rejected me for being the ‘wrong kind’ of broken.’ Suddenly, John 3:16 sounded less like “God so loved the world” and more like “God so loved the world — except disabled and neurodivergent people.”

Although I persisted, reconciled, and found truth in Disability Theology and grace, these experiences came from churches across our diocese and have continued to affect me to this day.

When you hear that for years, you eventually start to believe God made a mistake or you’re an exception to God’s goodness. The one body God forgot.

Recently, the Archbishop of Canterbury said that neurodivergence is a gift. Many of us felt joy. Disability advocates, disabled people, and especially those who’ve been spiritually harmed by negative representation, celebrated.

I celebrated. It felt like a breakthrough. Disability was finally being recognised and named as a gift.

But the hard truth is this: declaring a human life as a gift should never have been groundbreaking. The fact that it sounded revolutionary shows that disabled and neurodivergent people have not been treated, spoken about, or imagined as gifts.

And that brings us to a deeper question.

If I had asked at the start whether disabled people are part of God’s kingdom, children of God, or loved by God, most of you here would have said yes. If I had asked whether you believe disabled people fit those negative beliefs, I hope most would have said no.

But if I asked you why disabled bodies exist, what would you have said?

Would you have felt confident explaining disabled embodiment without slipping into healing language, fixing language, or “one day in heaven you’ll be different” language?

So, what if someone came to you and said the words of that song out loud:

“God must hate me. God must have made a mistake because I’m disabled.”

What would you say?

Would you reassure them while quietly imagining a future where their body is different?

Would you offer healing prayer?

Or will you say:

“God did not make a mistake with you. Your disabled life is a gift. You bear God’s image. Our church, liturgy, spaces, theology, and worship are here, waiting, just for you, just as God is.”

And then be confident in how you meet, greet, and accommodate them?

That’s the question that must be carried out of this room.

The song doesn’t say that there’s no God and that disability is proof. The people believing this clearly believe in God. They just have the wrong theology. It just needs changing.

Disabled people bring joy to the church — joy that comes from creativity, humour, community, and the ability to find light in places others overlook.

Disabled people bring wisdom — wisdom shaped by patience, resilience, interdependence, and the ability to navigate a world not built for us.

Disabled people bring leadership — leadership that is embodied, imaginative, and grounded in lived experience. Leadership that widens the church’s welcome, deepens its compassion, and teaches it how to love.

When the church finally sees disabled lives as gifts, it becomes more like the kingdom God intended.

As a church, we need to change how we answer questions about and from disabled and neurodivergent people. We need to break the idea that they are problems to be solved, bodies that are broken and need fixing, or lives seen negatively by God. The only thing broken and wrong about us is the same thing broken in all humanity— a state of separation from God because of sin.

We need to replace those assumptions with joy, wisdom, leadership, welcome, and belonging, not as accommodation or token bodies of inclusion, but as recognition of God’s image already present.

Because God did not make a mistake.

If you would like to read the Bible Study that was run as a workshop for this conference, please click here.