Inside Martyn's Thoughts

Accessibility vs Usability

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

People often believe that if a space is accessible, it must be usable. These words sound similar, but they do not mean the same thing. Accessibility is the presence of something. Usability is the ability to use it safely, independently, and without barriers. The difference becomes clearer when you live with a disability and spend your life navigating the gap between the two.

The Equality Act entered UK law in 2010 and brought more than 100 separate pieces of legislation into one framework. Sixteen years later, the world can feel more accessible and inclusive. New buildings must be legally accessible. Old buildings must make reasonable adjustments. Although some skirt around what “reasonable” means, I have seen many thoughtful adaptations added to historic and listed buildings without fuss. This was especially true when Hannah and I took on our accessibility challenge to make Rochester more accessible in 2020.

Yet systems can look accessible on paper while remaining unusable in practice. Policies, roles, and the language of inclusion often create a polished surface that hides deeper barriers. When power sits unevenly and conformity is rewarded, accessibility becomes a performance rather than a reality. Even soft‑power spaces, like friendly rooms, pastoral tones, reassuring words can disguise pressure. They sound gentle but often guide disabled people toward compliance instead of collaboration. It is the difference between being invited in and being allowed to participate, equality and equity, and accessible and usable.

Last Sunday I was preaching at church. The service was shaped by grief after the sudden loss of our Curate, Sue. Many of us were mourning. I had to hold the space, preach pastorally, honour Pentecost, and link it to our current series. I struggled to write something that felt right. The service and the balance mattered.

When I arrived, the chancel was set for able‑bodied leaders. A table had been placed for the congregation to light candles in Sue’s memory. The lectern and mic stand were positioned where able‑bodied preachers stand. My ramp, which I bought so I could reach the chancel and lead like anyone else, was brought out, but it became obvious that I would hit everything. The ramp gave me access. The layout removed usability.

I asked for the table to be moved back more than once. Each time I explained why. Each time the team struggled to see the problem. The lectern had to be moved to the opposite side because my wheels would catch the tripod legs. Logic vanished. I had the equipment out. I should have been happy. Accessibility was present. Usability was not.

A few days later I was at our fortnightly coffee morning. I sat with a group of people who all live with different disabilities. We spoke about the Diocese Enable Team, the new disability office, my advocacy, this blog, and the difference between equality and equity. Many believed we were already an inclusive and accessible space. I understand why. Over fifteen years we have made huge progress: a toilet with disability supports, custom metal ramps replacing old wooden ones, a bridge ramp for the bell tower, and the foldable ramp for the chancel. We are careful with touch and physical contact. I held coffee mornings for disabled people and carers. The church has twenty‑seven disabled children and adults. I have pushed for change for a long time.

This is all amazing. The church is accessible, but that does not mean it is usable.

The toilet corridor now stores stacked chairs, making the turning circle tight. The kitchen counter is high, which means hot drinks are lowered down towards my face. The cake and biscuits sideboard is blocked by tables and chairs. Even if I reached it, the depth means I cannot access anything at the back. I navigate my chair around furniture, pillars, and people while holding a hot drink. Most weeks someone makes my drink and brings it to me. They tell me what cake is available. They serve me. This is kind, welcoming, and inclusive. It is not usability. It is a workaround. An unspoken reasonable adjustment in an unusable space.

Then came Thursday when I went clothes shopping. Some shops were accessible but not usable. One had a ramp so steep — around a 50 to 60 degree angle — that going down felt unsafe. Going up pushed me sideways. If a plant box stand had not been there, I would have fallen. The staff were confused because the ramp “worked for buggies.” It took all my strength not to roll my eyes. I hate wheelchairs being compared to buggies. The ramp showed they had considered parents with prams, which is good, but their idea of accessibility centred on a group that is not disabled. It was accessible for buggies and maybe manual wheelchairs if being pushed. It was not usable for powerchairs or those with walking issues.

They were kind and meant well, but didn't understand. It was my knowledge of Rochester, the 2020 accessibility campaign, the shops with ramps, and which ramp belonged to which shop that solved the problem. They ran to the comic book shop, borrowed their ramp, and it worked exactly as I said it would. I would have been stuck there otherwise.

These examples highlight the difference between accessibility and usability. Accessibility is the presence of a ramp, a toilet, a lift, or a space. Usability is whether a disabled person can use it safely, independently, and without relying on others to bridge the gaps. Accessibility is a tick‑box. Usability is lived experience. Accessibility opens the door. Usability lets you through it.

Most places aim for accessibility. Disabled people, unfortunately, live in the space between the two. Usable spaces should now be the aim.

A Pentecost Study: Wind

2026-05-29T01:30:00.000+01:00

A Pentecost Study: Part 3 - Wind

“Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting.” (Acts 2:2)

Wind is one of the oldest and most mysterious images of God’s presence. In Hebrew, the word ruach means wind, breath, or spirit — the invisible movement that gives life. In the beginning, the Spirit of God hovered over the waters (Gen. 1:2), stirring creation into being. Later, God breathed into Adam’s nostrils the breath of life (Gen. 2:7). The same breath that moves the air also animates the soul. Wind is not seen, but its effects are felt — it moves, fills, and transforms.

Throughout the Old Testament, wind often marks divine action. It parts the Red Sea (Exod. 14:21), brings rain to the dry land (1 Kings 18:45), and carries the voice of God to prophets in the wilderness. Sometimes it comes as a whisper, sometimes as a storm. Even the very name of God — YHWH, often vocalised as Yah‑weh — moves like breath through the lungs. Ancient teachers noticed that the name itself sounds like inhaling and exhaling: Yah on the in‑breath, weh on the out‑breath. God’s name was heard not only in words but in the wind moving through mountains, deserts, and human bodies. The breath of life was the breath of God.

In the New Testament, this image deepens. Jesus speaks of the Spirit as wind: “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it goes.” (John 3:8) After the resurrection, He breathes on His disciples and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” (John 20:22) Breath and wind become one movement — the life of God entering human lungs, the divine presence animating human hearts.

At Pentecost, this breath becomes a storm. The sound of rushing wind fills the house, sweeping through the gathered disciples. It is creation happening again — the Spirit breathing new life into the world. The same breath that formed Adam now forms the Church. The same wind that carried God’s name across the hills now fills the upper room. It is as if the disciples hear Yah‑weh move through the space — the living name of God filling their lungs and their courage. The Spirit’s arrival is not gentle air but holy power, moving through ordinary people and sending them out with voice and boldness.

So what does that mean for us today?

We live in a world that often feels breathless — hurried, anxious, exhausted. We hold our breath through stress, fear, and uncertainty. Pentecost reminds us that the Spirit still breathes. The wind of God still moves through closed rooms, weary hearts, and silent prayers. It fills what feels empty and revives what feels lost. The Spirit’s wind is not a storm to fear but a breath to receive.

Sometimes the wind comes as renewal — a fresh start, a clearing of the air. Sometimes it comes as rest — the quiet inhale and exhale of grace. Sometimes it comes as calling — pushing us gently toward what God is doing next. Many Christians pray with the rhythm of God’s name: breathing in Yah and breathing out weh, remembering that every breath is a gift of the Spirit. The wind of God is always life‑giving, never life‑taking. It is the breath that carries us forward.

Wind is not a feeling. It is a movement. It is the way the Spirit breathes life into creation and into us.

A reflection

The wind of God is the breath that never ceases. It moves through creation, through history, through us. It is the Spirit’s whisper that revives what is weary and awakens what is waiting. Pentecost wind is the breath of new life — invisible yet undeniable, gentle yet powerful, the living rhythm of God’s presence.

Questions

1. Where have you felt the Spirit’s wind or breath — in renewal, rest, or calling? How did it move you or change you?

2. What parts of your life feel breathless or still, and how might you open yourself to the Spirit’s movement there?

3. As Pentecost continues, what would it look like for you to breathe deeply of God’s Spirit — to let His wind fill, guide, and carry you into new life?

A prayer

Spirit of life, You who breathe creation into being and fill the world with Your wind, breathe on us again. Where we are weary, refresh us. Where we are fearful, steady us. Where we are silent, speak through us. Fill us with Your breath and send us with Your wind, that we may live and move in the rhythm of Your grace.

Amen.

If you would like to read Part 1 and Part 2, please click on the links.

When Your Core Gives Way

2026-05-27T01:30:00.000+01:00

Living with a progressive condition teaches you to recognise patterns, the shifts, changes, the way FSHD reshapes strength, posture, and movement. I have written about the years of falling, pain, feeling trapped in a body like this, the early arm weakness, the journey into mobility aids, the fear of using a chair too early, the misdiagnoses, the institutional barriers, and becoming a full time powerchair user. Despite all the years and the ever evolving health, my rare condition continues to surprise me as the FSHD world keeps progressing.

My lower back and core strength has begun to fail. It feels like the old days when my legs used to give way. My back twitches. It shakes with a weakness that screams through the muscle. A weakness I recognise, but not the location. I wobble when I sit. I slouch more. My body cannot hold a structured frame.

It has become noticeable eating dinner, getting dressed, lifts, transfers, in the shower chair and on the toilet. Places where I should feel secure. Where I have felt secure before.

I am blessed with equipment. I have a Vertica Lift Seat over a Gerberit Aquaclean. The riser has been with me for years. The Aquaclean is new. We converted the bathroom into a wet room and it made sense to keep everything in one place. The problem is the toilet itself, where the back is larger. The riser fits, but the space behind is further back to fit the functions. If I lean even slightly, I collapse into that gap and against the tank. I cling and hold on. My back twitches. I brace in case I fall.

[Image 2. A modern bathroom showing a toilet fitted with a Vertica Lift Seat over a Gerberit Aquaclean system. The riser includes padded handles to support safe transfers and sits within a white, marble‑patterned wet‑room. Storage shelves hold hygiene items, and a tall bamboo plant adds warmth to the space.]

[Image 3. A modern bathroom showing a toilet fitted with a Vertica Lift Seat over a Gerberit Aquaclean system. The riser includes padded handles to support safe transfers and sits within a white, marble‑patterned wet‑room. Storage shelves hold hygiene items, and a tall bamboo plant adds warmth to the space.]

It mirrors getting dressed and undressed. Pulling a top over the head is sometimes just enough to knock me off balance. I think the fact that my arms are restricted makes that worse. I can't hold on. I can't secure myself.

In both scenarios, that old falling anxiety hits, like the days when falling was a weekly expectation. Weekly was optimistic. If I fell once, the chance of another increased. When I transitioned to a wheelchair, that fear stopped. I was safe. I shouldn’t fall again. My mind regained security. Losing it now feels like stepping backwards into an old fear I had outgrown.

The shower chair is worse. It is supposed to be a toilet and shower chair. I have no idea how people sit comfortably on it. My muscle loss means I feel like I am sinking through it. The plastic back is easy to clean but not structured. A push forward pulls me back. A push back throws me forward. My core cannot counter the force. The fear of face planting is real.

[Image 4. A shower chair designed for toileting and washing. It has a grey open‑centre seat, padded armrests, large rear wheels with light green tyres, and smaller front casters. The white frame includes footrests at the front. The chair sits in a wet‑room with marble‑patterned walls, a shower hose, and a hanging sponge.]

Eating has become difficult. I have gained weight since becoming a powerchair user. Less movement does that. I try to eat less or when I am hungry rather than at set times. I think it’s working. The MD belly distorts it, so judgement is difficult. However, where my body slouches, it squashes my stomach. I sit down hungry. I raise my hand as high as I can. My head drops to meet the fork. My back curves. My neck arches. I feel like a crumpled ball. My appetite soon goes. I'm full.

This also affects every day transfers. When Hannah lifts me, it resonates deep inside. I grip, cling, shake, and hold on because I don’t know which way I will fall. Every slide and moment where I need my body to hold itself for even a second. Then the tension and wobble return. I worry I will fall back, fall forward, hit the car door or the floor. I hate that the fear has returned.

I am not even sure what has caused this shift. It could be natural progression. It could be years of relying on a powerchair that holds my posture for me. It could be weight changes. It could be the slow weakening of deep stabilising muscles that FSHD is known for. Many people with muscular dystrophy, MS, spinal conditions, or EDS describe similar stages. Some lose the ability to sit upright. Some develop scoliosis. Some experience nerve pain, spasms, or the crushing fatigue that comes when the core stops supporting the rest of the body. Others talk about diaphragm weakness, rib instability, or the way chronic slouching reshapes the spine. These stories are common online. They are shared quietly in forums, support groups, and disability communities. They are rarely spoken about publicly. It’s an uncomfortable topic.

The pain is part of it. For me, it’s a deep, dragging ache that sits in my lower back, while my front feels weighted and pulls everything forward. The typical “MD belly” as the 2020 photo below shows.

[Image 5. A side‑on photo from 2020 showing your torso, highlighting the curved spine and the typical “MD belly” associated with muscle weakness. You are standing indoors wearing red shorts. A shoe rack, wall dispenser, and door storage basket appear in the background.]

My back feels stretched and compressed. My stomach crushed. My breathing feels heavier when I slouch. My shoulders sag. My neck strains to compensate. It cascades. One muscle to another. It worries me. It feels like the start of a stage I thought I had already lived through. A stage I believed I had left behind when I stopped falling.

This is the reality of progression. It is not dramatic or sudden. It is a quiet shift that changes everything. It is the moment you realise that the muscles you relied on have stepped back and FSHD has stepped forward.

This is what living with FSHD and the top severity looks like. It’s not one story. It’s the journey and constant renegotiation of what your body can do.

This is the next chapter.

Stepping Into Disability Communities

2026-05-23T01:30:00.000+01:00

I have spent most of my life disabled. Thirty years of muscle loss, pain, fatigue, and the slow shift of what my body can and can’t do. Thirty years of adapting, slowly deteriorating, and surviving. A life my children have grown up around. Yet I’m not part of any disability community outside the one we've built at church. Not properly.

I have changed that recently. My faith, knowledge, ministry, and life have grown. I am halfway through the ordination process. I’m shaping my calling and building a disability ministry. I have learnt more about disability theology, disability law, the Equality Act, SEN law, the difference between equality and equity, and the lived experience of disabled adults and children. I have been advocating for years, writing openly, and supporting others, but something shifted. I needed to go deeper and belong somewhere that understood my world.

I joined lots of Facebook groups for FSHD, Muscular Dystrophy, World FSHD news, wheelchair users, accessible places and holidays, keep fit and healthy living, disability theology, disabled families, and fellowship. Spaces where disabled people gather, talk, cry, laugh, and survive together, discussing many different types of institutional harm.

You would think I would have done this years ago. I didn’t.

I grew up in the 90s. It was a different world. My Mum pushed me to be more. Do more. Become more. Disability was something I had. A part of my being. I had to prove myself before I “died at sixteen.” I went to school, Sixth‑form, Uni, work, and created a family to show I was more than my condition. It was the right method for a teenage boy in that exclusive decade but I built internalised ableism that I am still unpicking.

I learned to survive. I minimised, pushed through, hid parts of my disability that made others uncomfortable, hid parts that made me uncomfortable, accepted scraps of accessibility, navigated a world that wasn’t built for me, and accepted that sometimes you take the only option you have, even if it isn’t good enough.

Joining the disability groups has not been easy. I read posts filled with pain. Often finding physical pain in every thread. The recognisable aching, throbbing, and pulsing pain that makes touch unbearable. The painful recovery after physiotherapy that for many doesn’t help. The fear of losing more muscle, falling, and waking up weaker than the day before. I know that pain. I live it. I also see pain I don’t know. Pain that reminds me that suffering is always personal. People deal with pain so differently that something one person can easily deal with, another finds excruciating.

There is psychological pain too. The waking from an able‑bodied dream. The pain of being stared at, judged, belittled, patronised, dismissed, spoken over, and silenced. The pain of feeling like a burden and being treated as anything except a person.

It is hard, especially on the days I feel like that too. Seeing ableism across many corners of the world can sometimes feel so overwhelming. Reality is often difficult to swallow. My condition is degenerative. I’m losing muscle and function. I am in the top one percent of severity. Seeing others further along the path is difficult. It worries me.

Maturity, however, has changed my outlook. People often search for the question, “What is the difference between a disabled person and a person with disabilities?” The last few years have helped me answer it.

[Image 2. This visual contrasts identity‑first and person‑first language in disability discussions. The left side, ‘Disabled Person,’ highlights empowerment and community through the social model of disability. The right side, ‘Person with Disabilities,’ emphasizes individuality and dignity before condition. Both sides feature wheelchair users, illustrating the shared humanity behind different linguistic perspectives.]

A disabled person sees disability as part of identity and community. Empowered by the social model of disability. A person with disabilities sees disability as one aspect of self. Centres individuality and dignity before condition. It is a person‑first or disability‑first mentality within identity politics and understanding.

I was raised believing being a disabled person was wrong. I pushed and fought to prove I was a person with disabilities. I no longer believe that. Both identities are valid, real, lived, and deserve respect.

The top trump comparisons are frustrating though. The “I had a bad night” followed by “I haven’t slept in three days.” The “I have new medication” followed by “I take eleven tablets a day.” The constant reminder that someone always has it worse feels at times like wallowing. Yet, it is the reality of how identifying as disabled first can consume every moment for some, but not all, disabled people. It used to frustrate me. I understand it now as the only language some people have.

I needed to step into this world, learn, listen, and understand the people I feel called to serve. When I’m ordained I want to support disabled people more. Someone needs to sit in the mess with them. To truly advocate you need to hear the stories that break people open. I can’t build accessible spaces if I don’t understand what makes spaces inaccessible in the first place.

These groups help me grow, see, and understand the depth of need, harm, resilience, and faith that many disabled people carry. Life that survives pain, injustice, exclusion, and the world as it is.

It is not easy. I will keep building on it. I will learn, show up, step into community, and shape a ministry that reflects who I am as a disabled man and a man with disabilities. All of it held together.

A Pentecost Study: Fire

2026-05-22T01:30:00.000+01:00

A Pentecost Study: Part 2 - Fire

“Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them and rested on each of them.” (Acts 2:3)

Fire is one of the most powerful images in Scripture. It is never merely decorative. It reveals, purifies, guides, judges, warms, and transforms. In the Old Testament, fire is often the sign of God’s holy presence. Moses meets God in a bush that burns but is not consumed (Exod. 3:2). Israel is led through the wilderness by a pillar of cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night (Exod. 13:21). When the covenant is made with Abraham, God passes between the pieces as a smoking firepot and blazing torch (Gen. 15:17). Fire marks God’s nearness—dangerous, beautiful, and alive.

Fire also purifies. The prophets speak of God as a refiner’s fire, burning away what corrupts so that what is true may remain (Mal. 3:2–3). Elijah calls down fire on Mount Carmel, not as spectacle but as revelation—God answering, God exposing, God calling His people back (1 Kings 18:38). In each moment, fire is not destruction for its own sake but the fierce love of God making Himself known.

The New Testament continues this imagery but gives it a new centre. John the Baptist promises that the Messiah will baptise “with the Holy Spirit and fire” (Matt. 3:11). Jesus speaks of a fire He has come to bring to the earth (Luke 12:49). Fire becomes the symbol of God’s transforming work—burning away what is false, igniting what is true, and empowering what is weak.

At Pentecost, this imagery reaches its fullness. The Spirit comes not as a gentle breeze alone but as wind and fire. Tongues of flame rest on each disciple, not consuming them but commissioning them. This fire does not destroy; it empowers. It does not burn them up; it lights them up. The same God who appeared to Moses now appears to ordinary people—fishermen, women, tax collectors, the fearful, the uncertain—and sets them ablaze with courage, clarity, and calling.

Pentecost fire is not about spectacle. It is about transformation. It is the fire that turns locked‑room disciples into bold witnesses. It is the fire that melts fear, kindles hope, and warms cold hearts. It is the fire that spreads—not by force, but by lives illuminated with the presence of God.

So what does that mean for us today?

We often imagine fire as something dangerous, something to avoid. Yet the fire of God is not reckless. It is purposeful. It burns away what diminishes us—shame, fear, bitterness, apathy—and ignites what reflects Christ—love, courage, compassion, truth. Many of us carry embers rather than flames. We feel tired, stretched, or dimmed by the weight of life. Pentecost reminds us that the Spirit does not demand we generate our own fire. The Spirit brings the fire.

Sometimes the fire comes as conviction, naming what needs to change. Sometimes it comes as comfort, warming what has grown cold. Sometimes it comes as courage, pushing us into conversations, forgiveness, or acts of love we would never choose alone. Sometimes it is simply the quiet flame that refuses to go out, even in the dark.

Pentecost fire is not a moment to admire but a gift to receive. It is the Spirit’s work in us—slow, steady, holy—shaping us into people who carry God’s presence into the world.

Fire is not a feeling. It is a transformation. It is the way the Spirit refines, empowers, and sends us.

A reflection

The fire of God does not consume us but completes us. It burns away what cannot bear the weight of love and kindles what reflects Christ. It is the holy warmth that steadies us, the refining flame that purifies us, and the quiet light that guides us. Pentecost fire is the gift that turns ordinary lives into living signs of God’s presence.

Questions

1. Where have you experienced the fire of God—through conviction, courage, healing, or a renewed sense of purpose? What did that moment reveal?

2. What might the Spirit be seeking to burn away in you, and what might the Spirit be trying to ignite—gifts, compassion, boldness, forgiveness, or hope?

3. As Pentecost continues to unfold, what would it look like for you to welcome the Spirit’s fire—not as destruction, but as transformation?

A prayer

Holy Spirit, You who came as fire, kindle in us the flame of Your love. Burn away what dims our faith, warm what has grown cold, and ignite in us the courage to live as Your people. Refine us, empower us, and send us into the world as bearers of Your light. Make our lives a living flame of Your presence.

Amen.

If you want to read Part 1 and Part 3, please click on the links.

When a Life Shapes a Church Home

2026-05-20T01:30:00.000+01:00

Yesterday we lost a good friend. Our vicar. Our steady presence.

It happened on James’ fifteenth birthday. That detail sits heavily today. It marks the year I started attending our church and being under her wing. It marks the years she has shaped our family and my journey.

I met her before Will was born, back when I attended our sister church. She was newly ordained then, and finding her feet. Her sermons needed polishing. Her confidence needed time. She had the heart, such a massive heart for God, that never needed work.

She was given the chance to open our church as a small church plant. Building something from nothing is a massive achievement. She would insist it was God, not her. Six weeks after James was born my marriage fell apart. Everything shifted. I was told to move to the new church to ease the social strain I was under. I went. Fifteen years later, I am still there. All because of her.

In those early days a friend and I led worship. He played guitar. I played keyboard. Then my mum died. My mental health spiralled. I stepped away. She didn’t let go. She stayed in contact. She told me to lean into my church family. I couldn’t see that family then. I was hurting, avoiding people, and trying to survive.

I wanted to return to church when I stabilised. By then it was open weekly. We went back. We never left again. It became home.

She welcomed me and the boys. She welcomed the noise, meltdowns, and moments that come with undiagnosed little worlds. Every service began with the same line. “Don’t worry if your children make noise. We welcome all children here.” She meant it. We felt it.

Every birthday the kids had a card and chocolates. “From Sue and [her husband] and your church family.” A small gesture that mattered more than she knew. She even came to celebrate James’ birthday one year. She knew my friendships had cracked under the weight of my health and that things with dad were difficult. She showed up anyway. She always did.

She came when dad died. My brother had his family filling the crematorium. I had Hannah and the kids. I thought I would stand alone. I didn’t. She came with two other leaders. She embodied the truth she lived: church family is more than words.

Bereavement was her ministry. She understood loss. She held people through it. The pain today is knowing she’s not here to guide us through losing her. She would have known exactly what to say and do.

It was our pleasure for her to marry us. She made our wedding perfect. She even joined the superhero theme and created an image of me carrying Hannah through the sky. It sits on our windowsill now. A beautiful reminder.

[Image 2. A personalised wedding artwork combining a superhero theme with a romantic occasion. The groom is illustrated as Superman carrying the bride through the sky, surrounded by pink hearts. The image celebrates Martyn and Hannah’s wedding day with playful, affectionate symbolism and bright colours.]

She fought for me too. Being an alcoholic meant I couldn’t take communion. She petitioned our priest every year. He always refused. She kept going. When the new priest said yes the joy on her face said everything. Years of battle won. All for me.

She backed my theology studies, our social media work, and my ordination process. She wasn’t my mentor. She was my cheerleader. She was everyone’s cheerleader.

I keep thinking about the way she held us through every season. She planned to retire. Then Simon arrived. He abandoned us. She didn’t. She sought her PTO (permission to officiate) and carried on. She held our church together when it could have fallen apart. She didn’t fix things. She didn’t need to. She simply stood with us. She stood when my marriage broke, when my mum died, when dad died, when the boys struggled, when I struggled, and when the church struggled. She always stood with you. That was her ministry. Quiet presence. Steady love. Faith lived in the small things that shaped a life.

She saw me. She accepted my disability without hesitation. She understood that things needed to change. She listened. She let those changes ripple out until inclusion became our culture. Not because I made waves, but because she allowed them to spread. She wanted to learn and understand what to avoid. Even last week she was writing in our WhatsApp chat about the dangers of hands‑on healing. Inclusion wasn’t a stance. It was her. She built a space that welcomed us all.

Our church is her legacy. The people there worshipping every week. The way we welcome, hold each other, show up, and love unconditionally. The way we make space for noise, grief, joy, and difference. She taught us that. We are her work. We are her ministry carried forward.

She never preached the loudest sermons. She lived them in the way she welcomed people, protected the vulnerable, fought for the overlooked, and carried the weight of others without ever making it about herself. Her faith was not a performance. It was a life poured out quietly, faithfully, and without hesitation.

We are heartbroken. We are all changed because of who she was. She built a church, home, and a family. She built us. Our prayers and thoughts are with her family now. She was one incredible woman.

Parenting James: Learning Again, Living With Trauma, and What the Diagnosis Really Means

2026-05-18T01:30:00.000+01:00

James has been with his new tutor for three weeks. We didn’t know how it would go. He spent the weekend before the first session begging me to cancel it. His anxiety was through the roof. He didn’t want to go back to anything that looked or sounded like school.

We didn’t cancel. We adjusted. We started at 10am instead of 9.30am so he had space to breathe. That shift made the difference. He met G. They talked. They found a rhythm and lesson interests. She explained that learning didn’t have to be at a table, actively involving worksheets, or be the rigid routine that broke him. They could go out, explore, and learn in the world. Whatever sparked his interest. Lessons, resources, and routines all built around him.

It was the first time in a long time that an educational adult spoke to him like a person rather than a problem. The mutual respect he longed for was happening. James, like he did all those years ago, is back being home educated and happy again.

The council has funded fifteen hours a week. Monday to Wednesday. 10am until 2:30pm. It’s a flexible type of home schooling that mixes elements of unschooling that home educators know well. It’s the opposite of the traumatising environment that pushed him into EBSA.

He studies English and Maths, but has also chosen Business Studies and RE. He’s showing me his work. He’s proud of it, engaged, and curious.

That’s the hopeful part.

The harder part sits underneath it.

James is still traumatised. He says he’s fine, dealing with it, and that he’s not in a bad space. He also says he doesn’t know what to do with the feelings that sit in his chest. He pushes them down. He carries them quietly. He’s nearly fifteen and carrying more than most adults.

He carries the trauma from his first secondary school. The physical beatings for dressing differently. The emotional trauma of being bullied, dismissed, and let down by the system. The feeling that as parents we failed him. He carries the trauma from this last school, where punishment was prioritised over needs and accountability, and was pushed to the point of breaking. He carries the trauma from his mum’s home which led to him moving in with us. He carries fear around my health, the years of change and deterioration, his own acceptance, and the way strangers stare at me, make jokes, and the wider, world‑embedded ableism. All alongside the worry that I’m getting worse.

He isn’t fine. He’s coping. There’s a difference.

The ASD diagnosis came through last month with ADHD in December. It didn’t surprise us, him, or anyone who has spent time with him. It explained everything we had been raising for years. It explained the sensory overload, the shutdowns, the panic, and the “behaviour” that was never behaviour.

This is the part that’s hard to write about without slipping into anger. We raised unmet SEN again and again. We explained what we were seeing and what he needed. We explained that his distress wasn’t a choice, EBSA was a response to trauma, not a compliance refusal, and that the strategies being removed were the strategies keeping him afloat. The system, policies, structure, staff expectations, and dismissal against standardised responses hit him hard. They could never meet him individually.

We weren’t believed.

The school framed it as behaviour, attitude, a child who didn’t want to try, a parent who was difficult, and as misunderstandings and “not best practice.” They dismissed the complaint, the evidence, and the impact.

Now we have the diagnosis. The language. The clarity. The proof that everything we said was accurate. The consequences of those misinterpretations haven’t gone away. James is still living with them. He’s still anxious, rebuilding trust, and trying to work out how to move forward.

Section 19 tutoring is helping him learn again.

For those who don’t know, Section 19 is the legal duty that kicks in when a child can’t attend school because of illness, disability, or emotional need. It’s the moment schools say “we can’t meet this child’s needs,” and parents say “we won’t accept that, so provide something suitable.” The council then must provide education that matches the child’s age, ability, and SEN. It’s the safety net that steps in when school has broken down. For many families it becomes the bridge between trauma and recovery, especially for children with EBSA who need time, trust, and the right support before they can learn again.

Section 19 isn’t healing the trauma, resolving the past, providing accountability, or giving him closure. It’s a lifeline, not a solution.

Healing is slow, messy, and not linear. It’s a fifteen‑year‑old boy sitting at the table saying he’s fine while his anxiety calms. It’s a tutor who understands EBSA and takes things at his pace. It’s a parent trying to give space without stepping back too far. It’s a parent who is grateful for the communication he has but worries about what is not said. It’s a diagnosis that explains the journey but doesn’t erase it.

James is learning again.

James is still hurting.

Both things are true.

So, where next? I responded to the Trust representative this morning. James still desperately needs some accountability. I believe it will help him. We’re not letting anyone dismiss the truth, even if he’s in a good schooling situation now.

A Pentecost Study: Together

2026-05-15T01:30:00.000+01:00

A Pentecost Study: Part 1 - Together

“When the day of Pentecost came, they were all together in one place.” (Acts 2:1)

The Bible never imagines faith as a solitary project. From the first pages of Scripture, togetherness is woven into the fabric of God’s design. The Old Testament word most closely tied to this is ’echad—often translated “one,” but meaning a unity made of many parts. Israel was not a collection of individuals but a people bound together by covenant, memory, worship, and responsibility. Their life with God was always communal: festivals shared, prayers spoken together, burdens carried collectively, justice upheld by the whole community (Deut. 16:20; Lev. 19:18).

Togetherness in the Old Testament is not sentimental. It is costly. When one person sinned, the whole community felt the fracture. When one suffered, the whole camp stopped. When one rejoiced, the whole nation sang. Israel’s identity was not “me and God” but “us and God.” Even God’s presence dwelt in the midst of the people, not at the edge. To be God’s people was to belong to one another.

We see this in Esther’s day, when the whole Jewish community put on sackcloth and ashes, fasting and crying out to God as one people in the face of persecution (Esther 4:3). Their shared lament becomes a powerful picture of togetherness — a community holding fear, hope, and faith collectively rather than alone.

The New Testament deepens this vision. The Greek word koinonia describes a shared life—participation, fellowship, communion. It is not coffee‑after‑church friendliness but a radical joining of lives shaped by Christ. The early church devoted themselves to this (Acts 2:42). They shared possessions, meals, prayers, and stories. They wept together, rejoiced together, discerned together, and suffered together. Paul describes the church as a body—many members, one life (1 Cor. 12). No part can say to another, “I don’t need you.”

Jesus Himself forms community wherever He goes. He gathers disciples, sends them out in pairs, eats with strangers, restores the isolated, and breaks bread with the overlooked. Even in Gethsemane, He asks His friends to stay awake with Him. On the cross, He forms a new family—“Behold your mother… behold your son” (John 19:26–27). Resurrection does not scatter the disciples; it gathers them in locked rooms, on roads, and around tables.

This thread of togetherness becomes the doorway into Pentecost. Before the Spirit comes, the disciples are not scattered or hiding in isolation. They are gathered, waiting, praying, holding one another in uncertainty and hope. Acts begins not with power but with presence—they were all together in one place. Pentecost does not happen to individuals; it happens to a community.

Pentecost becomes the moment this gathered community is filled, empowered, and sent. The Spirit does not create togetherness; the Spirit fills the togetherness already present. The fire rests on each person, but the sound fills the whole house. The languages are many, but the message is one. The Spirit honours difference without dissolving unity. Pentecost is the birth of a people who belong to God and to one another.

So what does that mean for us today?

We live in a culture that prizes independence, privacy, and self‑sufficiency. We curate our lives, protect our space, and often carry our struggles alone. We can be surrounded by people yet feel deeply isolated. Technology connects us but does not always join us. Community becomes something we attend rather than something we are.

Biblical togetherness is different. It is not about constant closeness or forced intimacy. It is about choosing to belong, to show up, to carry and be carried. It is the courage to let others see our wounds and the humility to hold theirs. It is the slow, patient work of building trust, forgiving often, and refusing to walk away when things become difficult. It is the shared life that reveals Christ.

Pentecost reminds us that the Spirit meets us not only as individuals but as a gathered people. Sometimes togetherness looks like prayer whispered in weakness. Sometimes it looks like meals cooked, lifts given, tears shared, or silence held. Sometimes it is simply this: “You do not walk alone.” The Spirit who came upon the disciples together still forms us into one body today. Together is not a feeling. It is a practice. It is the way the Spirit forms us into one body.

A reflection

Togetherness is not about being the same but about being joined by grace. It is the quiet miracle of God weaving many lives into one story, where burdens are shared, wounds are tended, and hope is held between us. It is the place where Christ becomes visible in the love we offer and receive, and the place where the Spirit still descends upon a people gathered in expectation.

Questions

1. Where have you experienced true togetherness—moments where someone carried you, stood with you, or helped you see Christ more clearly? What made that moment possible?

2. What does it look like for you to practise togetherness in your daily life—at home, in church, in friendships, or in places where community feels fragile or strained?

3. As Pentecost approaches, what might it mean for you to wait, pray, or hope together with others—trusting that the Spirit still fills communities who gather in expectation?

A prayer

God who gathers, You call us into a shared life shaped by Your love. Teach us to walk together, to carry one another, to forgive freely, and to hold hope for those who cannot hold it for themselves. As Pentecost draws near, prepare our hearts to receive Your Spirit again—not alone, but as one people. Knit us into one body by Your Spirit, and make our life together a witness to Your grace.

Amen.

If you want to read Part 2 and Part 3, please click on the links.

When Survival Isn’t Abstract

2026-05-14T01:30:00.000+01:00

Tuesday morning I published a post about the difference between being a victim and being a survivor. I wrote about naming harm, refusing minimisation, and understanding the patterns that shape how disabled people are treated.

A few hours later, life handed me another real time example.

Arty, while at school, used his early exit pass to leave class. This is a reasonable adjustment that helps him move between lessons without being overwhelmed by crowded corridors and prevent dysregulation. This has been incredibly helpful. Arty often had issues either from his last lesson, during transition, and social breaks, which resulted in either hyperactive or negative behaviour responses within the next lesson. For a child potentially with ASD, on top of Sensory Processing Disorder, dysregulation is normal.

He was approached by a pastoral staff member who challenged for “loitering.” She didn’t check his emotional state or consider that the pass itself is a sign that he needs to regulate between lessons.

She then told him she would speak to the SENCO about using the pass “properly” and whether it should continue. For a child like Arty, this is a threat. Consequently, his flight or fight kicked in and he breached appropriate behavioural expectations. This was expected. He’s dysregulated. The time between transition is reducing. Its being wasted on behavioural challenges rather than pastoral care by a staff member he’s had issues with before. At his age, I would have done the same. I was often in trouble for opening my mouth against staff.

His response was treated as defiance rather than communication. SEN parents know that's not the case.

[Image 2. A clean, accessible quote graphic about understanding behaviour as communication. It highlights how focusing on how a child communicates rather than why they communicate can lead to misunderstanding or silence.]

The law is clear. Schools must use their best endeavours to meet individual needs. That cannot happen through generic behavioural responses and expectations.

I had no idea about this incident until said staff member called round 10am.

I listened fully. I spoke respectfully, calling her "Miss," as I always do. However, when I tried to clarify two points, I was repeatedly spoken over. She became argumentative. Almost as if she expected me to squawk in shock and surprise at what she was presenting. When I didn't, she had to argue with me. I asked politely to finish my sentences. I wanted to shine a light on something she missed. I didn't want an argument. I was ignored. I tried again. The interruptions continued. To be honest, they never stopped. I had to listen, agree, or just be silent. This was not a conversation.

The patronisation then began. I was told that I didn't understand how exit passes work, more than once, and that I didn’t understand. If you're not going to listen, mutually respond respectfully, and consider what's being said, then the problem isn't my understanding or communication, its your unwillingness to hear it. One-sided respect is not acceptable.

I could have explained my teaching background, knowledge of SEN law, and how all of this applies to Arty, who, as my son, I know well.

I was not given the space to think, let alone speak. It became too much. I had to stop it. The conversation was triggering because it mirrored a lifetime of being spoken over, dismissed, ignored, made into jokes, or patronised as a disabled person. The extent of actions I have survived and many disabled people have to endure.

I was told I was wrong.

About what? My disability? My lived experience? The impact of her behaviour? Or, was she still challenging, wanting to continue the argument regarding exit passes?

The hardest part was not the disagreement, misunderstanding, or dismissal of something that sits at the core of my daily life. It was the lack of reflection and apology once I explained it was triggering.

The Equality Act protects disabled people from unfavourable treatment. Communication is part of that. Interrupting, dismissing, and assuming incompetence are not neutral behaviours. They land differently when you have lived your whole life being treated that way. Ableism sits in the background of all of this. Structural, interpersonal, complicit, and implicit ableism exists. It shapes the society around us like an invisible presence, and unless you recognise it, you never see the impact.

Survivor language matters. While I try to shine a light, sometimes things need to be challenged. Ableism is everywhere. The fight between equality and equity still continues. Naming harm matters. Disabled people often feel unheard in systems that claim to support them. Yet, I still expect for these things not to happen. It was not ok.

I did not break, shrink, and internalise it. I named it. I have since raised a formal complaint.

Survival isn't always a big experience. It can become a daily posture. The decision to speak when silence would be easier. It refuses to accept minimisation as normal. It is the choice to hold your ground even when someone pushes against you.

I will always work cooperatively with schools. I will always support staff, model respect, and name harm when it happens. That is not conflict. That is safeguarding. The SEND Code of Practice states that schools should work in partnership with parents to develop a clear understanding of the child's needs. Communication should be collaborative, respectful, and centred on the child's best interests. This is not dismissing, interruptions, making assumptions, or patronisation. I will have to wait and see if they acknowledged this complaint and want to continue to work collaboratively.

Survivor, Not Victim

2026-05-12T09:09:55.478+01:00

Being a victim and being a survivor sound similar, yet the difference determines how people treat you, hear you, and decide whether your story is valid. This difference has come up in several conversations recently, from ordination discussions, the current CoE safeguarding audit, and general chats. This has caused me to reflect on what I name, why I name it, and how I understand the harm I have survived.

We should distinguish the difference. So, what is the difference between a victim and a survivor? A victim is someone harmed by something they did not choose. A survivor is someone who has lived through it, healed from it, and refuses to let it define or silence them. Both matter, but the difference changes everything.

I am a survivor of childhood abuse that led to my adoption, my alcoholism, decades of spiritual abuse, and some I don't name. I have now healed. They are part of my story, but not the whole of it.

A friend, a priest, and my ADDO have all recently discussed reconciliation, moving forward, what do I do with the things I have named, what counts as spiritual abuse or institutional harm, and what is best left in the past. It's simple. Harm is harm. Abuse is abuse. Whether it makes headlines or not.

Reflection, prayer, guidance, and writing about fifteen years of institutional harm, thirty years of balancing my health, February's unsafe meeting, the bishop, not wanting to be alone with her again, and naming abusive priests has given me clarity. A few months back, I didn’t know what to do. I do now.

I am healed from past actions and have moved on. I'm not in danger. Two people I named were in my life fifteen years ago. Both are now far away. I am now different. I have grown as a Christian, matured in age, mind, and body, and would never allow those things to happen again. Years of being dismissed, abused, or diminished taught me to recognise red flags and to speak up. Those years reshaped my understanding of power, responsibility, and harm.

Then came the more recent harm. A priest, “Simon,” arrived in 2021 and was licensed in 2022. I protected his name on this blog. I am not sure I should have. He's back working in church leadership despite his harm. I don't know if the Church knows. He mocked disabled people. A woman’s limp became a joke. As if we don't suffer from being jokes already. He described disabled people as spiritually lesser and how we're possessed with demons and bad spirits. He pushed healing and exorcism without training and openly scoffed about not being authorised by the church. He blamed our “little faith” when miracles didn’t happen. His behaviour towards LGBTQ people is documented on Wikipedia. He also bullied women. Families left. The relationship with our sister church fractured. The damage was real. We’re now dividing our parish to be two independent churches.

Yet I don’t regret it. I complained, recognised his actions, and refused to minimise it. That came from surviving earlier harm, learning patterns, studying disability theology at college, listening to others, understanding structural, spiritual, interpersonal, accessible, and complict ableism, and the difference between equality and equity. It came from knowing when to fight, when to shine a light, and when silence protects the wrong people.

Healing narratives are complicated. Physical and spiritual healing, like Simon promoted, is a pandemic sweeping through congregations. Maybe it always has been. Maybe I just see it more clearly now. Either way, it harms people. Despite my issues with the Bishop, she commented on this. She knows its spiritual abuse. Healing should be the slow, steady work of naming truth, rebuilding trust, and learning to face the world again. Survivors understand that.

A friend told me recently that she used to minimise and excuse harm, saying things like “maybe it wasn’t that bad”. She did that until people did it with her struggles with Simon. She hated it. I understood that. I’ve lived it. Victims get blamed, questioned, and misunderstood. Survivors name it and refuse to shrink it. She helps others now.

Small things still continue. My ramp blocked the communion table and the route taken last Sunday. The warden initially didn’t place it out. He thought I could lead on the lower level. He couldn’t see the problem. Later, during communion, he didn’t fold it up for safe passage. He wasn't malicious. He simply didn't understand the barriers either I or others faced. The difference between equality and equity. People do not see what does not affect them. Ignorance is bliss.

Our parish has lived through that. Lies spread. Narratives formed. Our sister church believed them. The diocese and even fellow college students heard them. We became the church that “dismissed a priest”. We became the problem. The truth was lost in the noise. Survivors often are. It’s easier to absorb a rumour than confront uncomfortable truths.

The Church of England is trying to address this. After Archbishop Justin Welby stepped down due to his impact towards abuse, harm has become too loud to ignore. I believe Archbishop Sarah Mullally will make a big difference.

I want to help. I'm a survivor. I advocate, support, write, fight, shine a light, guide disability understanding, not only in church but wherever it's needed. I will not back down from naming abuse and harm.

Survivors do not stay silent. Survivors rebuild, help others, and choose truth over comfort. I am one. Strength that brought me here will continue.

When Your Past Leaves No Trace

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

Childhood memories feel like blurry moments once lived. Photos, certificates, medals, and school reports usually prove those moments existed. I do not have that. My past has been erased. Adoption took the first part. Life took the second.

My life before ten months old was written by strangers in a file. No photos, no keepsakes, no stories. No one who remembered me. I grew up knowing I was chosen, although I also knew I had no beginning. My mum and dad became my start. Mum was the anchor. Dad was the contradiction. They gave me a childhood that felt full, although so much of it is now missing.

I have told my wife and children stories about my childhood and teens. I talk about ice skating competitions, karate gradings, Scout camps, Duke of Edinburgh awards, hang gliding, swimming badges, childhood adventures, cycling around Medway, learning instruments, art competitions, the day my artwork ended up in a Japanese museum, and my school and university experiences. I can describe every detail, picturing trophies, uniforms, certificates, and photos. None of it exists now. Not a single piece.

When we cleared Dad’s house after he died, we found a video from my fourth birthday and photos from before my teens. Everything after that was gone. Eleven to twenty one. A decade of life, achievements, and proof. Nothing survived. It felt strange at the time, although grief distracts you. You focus on the loss, not the moments buried in boxes that no longer exist. You simply work through the grieving process.

I have tried to make sense of it. Mum was the fighter. She pushed me to live a full life and refused to let disability define me. She made sure I kept going even when doctors said I would not. She was the one who pushed me to do everything. She was also practical, privately emotional, and protective. She may have removed the reminders of what I used to be able to do, not wanting to hurt me when I looked back. Maybe she could not face the contrast of what I was going through physically. She hated how skinny, skeletal, and ill I looked during my teens. Maybe she wanted to remove that version of me. This wouldn't have been a surprise. She's done it before. I had begged for a mountain bike for so long. I received it on my thirteenth birthday. Then my health kicked in. It stayed in the loft for a few months. Then vanished. Never seen again. Remove it, don't discuss it. Pretend it never happened. That was the way mum worked. However, I will never know why I have nothing now. She died fourteen years ago. The answers died with her.

Dad could not help. Dementia and Alzheimer’s took his memories long before he died. Life became harder when he was diagnosed with cancer and then the stroke. He couldn't recall anything. He was never the historian. Mum remembered the dates, events, and details. She held the timeline and the archive. In some cruel twist of fate, when she died, the archive died too.

This is why the missing decade hurts. It is not about trophies or certificates. It is about validation, knowing who you are, knowing your life happened the way you remember it. It is about having something to show your children. It is about having a past that exists outside your own head.

My health journey adds another layer. I lived through misdiagnosis, fear, and the expectation that I would not reach adulthood. I kept going. I lived a full life. I pushed through everything. I fought because Mum taught me to fight. My body, abilities, and identity changed. The physical reminders of who I was would have shown that journey, the contrast between then and now, and the life I lived before FSHD took over.

What I have instead are memories, stories, and moments that shaped me. I have the life I lived, even if I cannot hold it in my hands. I feel the same ache I felt as an adopted child, where the proof existed before someone chose you. That still stings.

I investigated my adoption. My birth dad was, and still is, a genuinely good and nice man. He’s someone the boys and I are glad to have in our lives. Nevertheless, life, forty‑three years on, has moved in its own direction. My birth mum was completely different. It didn’t matter how much I tried. She was complicated, immature, and at times openly unkind and nasty woman. There were lies, dismissal, ignorance, and petty, vindictive acts, all while hiding the truth and blaming everyone except herself. I never had a willing participant to answer those early years questions. She died in 2024. As with my adopted parents, the truth about me is lost, never to be found. There is no evidence my life happened the way I remember it.

I wish I could turn back time. Maybe I could have collected and saved everything I wanted. None of it felt relevant then. Like everyone else, I assumed my life was kept in tidy boxes in my parents’ loft, a hidden treasure to unearth later. I never expected to feel like my life had been erased.

My past leaves no trace. It leaves me as the one who has to write it down now.

Wrexham, Weddings, and a Family Weekend

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

It’s a bank holiday weekend. May bank holidays usually have us taking part in the Sweeps Festival, but this one is different. The six of us are driving to Wrexham to celebrate Hannah’s brother getting married on Monday. The rest of her family arrive on Sunday. We wanted to stretch the weekend into something more than a timetable and a wedding, so we left today.

I have been looking forward to this trip since the moment Hannah told me about the wedding. I love Wrexham, the football club, and the story. I watched every season of the documentary. I have followed the rise from the National League to League Two, then to League One, then to the Championship. The history‑making back‑to‑back‑to‑back promotions. It’s soaked in history. Wrexham AFC is the third oldest professional club in the world, with their ground, STōK Cae Ras (STōK Racecourse), being the oldest international football stadium still in use. I have loved it so much that I even bought the season pass so I could listen live to every match. I cheer, shout, despair, and celebrate. I am a football fan.

That sentence still surprises me.

I grew up in a house where sport was everything. My dad loved football. Every weekend the TV was locked to whatever match and game he wanted to watch. Often watching multiple. My brother loved it. I didn’t. I was the wrong son for that world. Football became a symbol of everything I wasn’t. It was loud, physical, aggressive, and competitive. It was everything my dad thought I should be. I wrote previously about the weight of being compared, the faces he wore, the man he became at the end, and a eulogy that held truth without rewriting anything. I accepted who he was, who I was, and that we would never have authentically met in the middle. We did manage to maintain a relationship after Mum died, enough to be by his side near the end. That meant a lot.

Maybe that is why this weekend feels layered. I am going to the town of the club I chose for myself. I am being the football fan my dad wanted me to be. I’m finally engaging in an area where we would have mutually met. Saturday is also a big day for Wrexham. The Championship is unpredictable. Results swing wildly. Tables shift in minutes. Wrexham are fighting for a play‑off place. Other teams are pushing against them. The day could be joy or heartbreak. I am trying to manage my expectations. At the start of the season I would have been happy ending mid-table. I didn't expect them to be here. I know how football works. I may have hated it growing up, but my dad at least made sure I understood it. Through him, I know that joy and disappointment is part of the experience. It is part of being a fan. I’m embracing it all.

We will arrive and settle into the hotel today. Tomorrow we will explore the town, walk past the stadium to feel the atmosphere, and I, with some of my gang, will visit the Turf and watch the match against Middlesbrough. I want to hear the noise, see the shirts, flags, players, and fans in the element I have watched from afar.

I have been thinking about my dad a lot while planning this weekend. I think about the things he loved, the things he missed since he passed away, the things we did when I was young, and the distance between us. I want my kids to remember trips like this as something warm, something they did with me, and remember that we built memories. Life isn’t easy. The kids carry their own baggage, just as I did with my dad. I don’t always get this parenting thing right. I hate that they have moments where things went wrong and I wasn’t the dad I should have been. I hope they can read this when they are older and appreciate a good and happy weekend away together.

It’s not all football and weddings. On Sunday we are going to Chester Zoo. It will be one of those days where we walk for hours, take photos, and enjoy the UK’s most popular conservation zoo that houses over 30,000 animals and more than 500 species. These are the family moments I miss from when the kids were little. Not the big events. The small ones. The zoo trips, visiting castles, and embracing culture. The feeling of being together without rushing. All before we head to the hotel where Hannah’s family are staying for Monday’s wedding.

This weekend is a wedding, a holiday, and a football match all rolled into one. It is a family of six in a car heading to Wales to build memories. It is a chance to rewrite my youth through my children now that I am the dad.

I am sure there will be plenty of photos that will lead me to write about this weekend and share it here. For now, I’m happy we're together and heading to Wrexham.

Looking Back at a Diagnosis That Never Fit

2026-04-30T01:30:00.000+01:00

I have been blogging consistently again since December. I have been trying to rebuild good blogging habits and have been working through old posts. As I said in my last post, I have noticed how much my writing has changed. I have gone right back to the start, revamping posts and reflecting on the person behind them.

I wrote about the early days of my mental health journey and rebuilding life around my two boys as a single dad. In many cases I have added forward links, especially to my 2015 Dependent Personality Disorder post. Reading it again felt like opening an old diary written by someone I barely recognise. The words are mine. The feelings were real. The interpretation was not. I can see that clearly now through my post on neurodivergent communication and the many aspects that led me to seek an ASD assessment. The distance between then and now shows it all.

I wrote that post three years after one of the most unstable periods of my life. My marriage ended. My mum died. My health collapsed and changed. I was drinking heavily. My routines disappeared. My support network thinned. My identity cracked. I was grieving and overwhelmed. Maintaining my mental health was difficult in a system that failed so many. I had not long completed psychotherapy. I was trying to parent, co-parent, and rebuild my life. I was also undiagnosed and unaware of how autistic burnout presents in adults. It is no surprise that a clinician saw dependency and emotional instability. It is also no surprise that I believed them.

I described myself as someone who could not make decisions, feared abandonment and clung to people. I said I couldn’t choose clothes, was passive, needy and dependent. I read those lines now and see a person explaining distress without the language to understand it. The problem was not my personality but the collapse of every routine and structure that kept me regulated.

I have always worn the same outfits. I rotate the same combinations. I choose clothes based on texture, comfort and predictability, especially as a disabled person. I struggled in 2015 because my usual clothes were not available. The day had already gone wrong. The routine may have shifted. It might have been a day when I would usually have the boys, but that week their mum swapped a day. I was not unable to choose. I was unable to cope with change. That is not dependency. That is autistic sameness and sensory regulation.

I wrote that I needed people to anchor me, even if it cost them. I can see now that I needed routine, clarity and predictable communication. Those things can be found in relationships, but not because I was dependent on the person. That never truly fitted. The difference is that I understand them. I am not dependent on people. I am dependent on structure. I always have been. The 2015 post reads like a list of autistic traits mislabelled as pathology. Routine disruption. Emotional flooding. Shutdowns. Executive dysfunction. Sensory overwhelm. Literal thinking. Difficulty with transitions. These are not symptoms of Dependent Personality Disorder. These are classic signs of autistic burnout.

I even contradicted myself. I said I was dominant in some areas. I said I was confident, set boundaries and was not attached in the ways the diagnosis suggested. I was describing a person who did not fit the label they had been given. I did not see it then. I see it now.

Hannah helped. She read so much about Dependent Personality Disorder and Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder. It never fitted me. Autism did. For years she kept saying that she did not think I had DPD and that I needed to test for autism. It was only through helping Will and James get their diagnoses that I realised she was right.

The question people search for is simple. How do you know if you were misdiagnosed with a personality disorder. I searched it myself. The answer is in the pattern. Personality disorders do not disappear. They do not lift when life stabilises. They do not vanish for fourteen years. My life stabilised. My routines returned. I formed a stable and lasting relationship. My communication style, sensory needs, literal thinking and autistic traits remained the same. The dependency did not.

I look at the 2015 post and see a man rebuilding life, trying to make sense of himself. I look at my recent posts and see a man who finally understands the map. The communication differences I wrote about were present in 2015. The ASD sensory traits were present in 2015. The routines, overwhelm, shutdowns and emotional intensity were all there. They were just misinterpreted.

I am not replacing the old post because it was wrong or because I want to prove myself autistic. I am not trying to convince myself. I have had over a decade to reflect and know who I am. I am replacing it because I finally have the right language. I can see the difference between crisis behaviour and personality, dependency and dysregulation, and emotional instability and autistic burnout. I can see myself clearly.

Anyone who has followed my mental health posts will know that clarity has taken time. This is part of that journey. The 2015 post was a snapshot. This post is the reflection that makes sense of it.

Studying Theology: Earning My Graduate Diploma

2026-04-27T01:30:00.000+01:00

My blog started in 2010 as a place to reflect on my growth as a new Christian. That stayed the focus for several years, until James was born and Will started home education. I joined the blogger community and became a family, home education, single parent, and disability blogger. I found my stride and unique voice. When the Chritian posts no longer fit the identity of the blog, I returned the posts to drafts. I was not ashamed of them. My writing, voice, and life had changed.

As an ex‑teacher, I knew how to write well, but I lacked the motivation to do it justice. I wrote posts, scheduled them, and published them, perpetually a persistent blogger, with little care for the final result. Nat mocked every mistake she spotted. Hannah often asked if I planned to change things. My answer was usually no. I was never trying to be a top blogger.

My blog style changed. My love for theology never did. I was an armchair theologian long before college. I spent years correcting people on what Scripture actually says. Studying Theology, Ministry, and Mission formally in 2023 felt like stepping into a space I already knew. Those first modules shaped me more than I expected. They reshaped my writing, ministry, and understanding of Scripture. My drive to prove myself kicked in and I presented my best work for every assignment. The grades helped me appreciate my writing again.

People often search for what Level 4 Theology modules include. They cover biblical studies, doctrine, church history, spirituality, and reflective practice. I completed the full set over two years. It gave me the structure I wanted and confidence in the academic side of faith. I wrote assignments on Psalms, Matthew, the Whitby Council, the filioque clause, and how mental health and AA groups shaped my spirituality. The filioque assignment was my highest mark. I finished Level 4 with a First.

I then moved into Level 5 and Level 6. These Graduate Diploma modules covered theology, church history, biblical critical studies, doctrine, and liturgy. The work became more demanding but enjoyable.

I wrote assignments on Daniel and explored moral theology through topics like assisted suicide and Just War theory. I assessed and criticised scholars, examined the structure of services and the importance of tradition, and studied the Church of England’s attempts at outreach throughout history, which became useful during my ordination process, especially the Carousel Conversations. Every module opened a new door.

I finished the Graduate Diploma with a 2:1. I would have achieved a First. One tutor marked me down because he didn't understand disability studies. I checked with him before writing the assignment. He approved the topic, then marked me down because he couldn't understand the arguments and the ableism within the text. I tried to challenge it. He never replied. When I went higher it was too late. The year’s assignments had already been approved. That was frustrating. The rest of the marks show the standard of my work. I am proud of that.

During this time, many students struggled, hitting a moment where Scripture, faith, and theology collided. Texts they trusted were being pulled apart. Words like fairytales and myths were used. Alternate meanings and sources were explored. Scripture built around faith felt undermined by the theology they were learning.

Studying theology did not weaken my faith. It strengthened it. I had spent years holding Scripture tightly and wrestling with the weight of tradition, doctrine, and lived experience. Theology gave me language for the tension. It helped me see that wrestling is part of discipleship. My years of reading, studying, learning across denominations, and tackling those who used Scripture against me and others, meant the foundation was already there. It only needed reinforcing.

The blog has come back to theology a little now. It is not the same as before. I am not writing Christian musings, but structured studies and reflections rooted in Scripture. They are shaped by academic training and accessible for anyone who wants to learn, like my Lent study. It feels like coming full circle, only with more clarity and purpose.

I still plan to do an MA in Theology, Ministry, and Mission. I was meant to start a taster course, but the ordination confusion made that impossible. I did not want to begin something that might not be necessary or could change the type of MA I undertook. I also needed to protect my health. I needed to avoid pushing myself into assignments while balancing church work and rest. Extensions helped, but they eventually overlapped so much that my final assignments were written in four weeks instead of the approved seven. By the end I was mentally and physically exhausted.

[Image 2. My Graduate Certificate in Theology, Ministry and Mission, awarded with Merit by the University of Durham.]

I recently received my Graduate Diploma. I am so happy. It is more than a qualification. Studying theology has shaped my ministry, writing, and understanding of the church. It has given me confidence in my work, language for things I always believed, a second chance at writing better here, and a path forward.

The break has been good. I still plan to do an MA and then a Doctorate. I want to study at the highest level, contribute to it, and keep learning. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

If you’re studying theology or thinking about returning to education, feel free to message me — I’m always happy to share what I’ve learned along the way.

Parenting James: The Long Awaited ASD and ADHD Diagnosis

2026-04-24T01:30:00.000+01:00

James has always been bright, funny, creative, expressive, mischievous, troublesome and mouthy, but “different”. He never needed fixing. He just needed micromanaging. He was never purposefully naughty, despite often finding himself in trouble. For the school, it was always labelled as behavioural.

As an ex-teacher, qualified in child development and psychology, and someone who knows our son’s true character, I knew there was an underlying cause outside of behavioural issues. Nevertheless, a question mark always hovered above him.

That was until this month.

James has been diagnosed with ASD and ADHD.

This diagnosis is not a surprise. Years of confusion, frustration and misunderstanding finally lined up and formed a picture that makes sense. He also mirrors Will’s ASD diagnosis, his Mum’s neurodivergence and many aspects that I have, which is why I’m also seeking an ASD assessment.

In hindsight, I see the early signs. His expressive play, gender freedom, and non‑conforming taste were always part of who he was. He pushed against the idea of “boys will be boys” and the pressure to “Be a man's man and man up." He was always himself. His delayed speech and stammer and struggling with sounds and letters were not stupidity, but early markers of a brain working harder than anyone realised. His emotional intensity, sensory overwhelm, sensory seeking, getting unapologetically messy, and difficulty with transitions were not behaviour problems. They were autistic traits that no one previously recognised.

He has always struggled with eye contact. He has a fake social laugh, and while he denies it, I can always tell the difference between the real one and the one he uses. He masks by being loud and counter-cultural. He has always been fussy with clothes, only now tolerating jeans and denim.

We home educated him for a while. It suited him more than school ever did, despite bringing its own challenges. He needed one to one support and an educational style that matched his interests. He needed space to regulate, calm and understand both the situation and himself. We were already unknowingly parenting him in a neurodivergent-affirming way.

Life became harder when he returned to school. He masked until he could not, especially in environments that were not built for him. He was bullied for his non‑binary dress sense and was attacked stepping off the bus, at every opportunity. The school minimised it. He broke down, refused school and could not cope. No one listened. We knew there was more going on.

He moved to live with his maternal family to attend school. It was the wrong decision for all of us. He was misunderstood there too. Everything was labelled as behaviour. He was punished for being overwhelmed, autistic and simply himself. He may not have had a diagnosis, but it was extremely evident, despite the school constantly finding excuses.

He came home to us while his mum completed her nursing training. He tried again and wanted to move to a third school. The same pattern repeated. His distress grew. Attendance collapsed. His mental health suffered. EBSA (Emotionally Based School Avoidance) became impossible to ignore. We raised concerns. We were dismissed. We filed a complaint. The school responded defensively. A legal letter was sent to intimidate us. The Trust stepped in. It still hasn’t been resolved. James is still treated as the problem, despite significant proof.

James has ADHD and is autistic. James is not naughty. Not in that sense. He never was. He was a child stuck in a system that didn’t meet his needs or understand him.

This diagnosis explains everything. It explains the speech issues, sensory overwhelm, emotional outbursts, burnout, school refusal, gender expression, need for structure, the collapse in unsafe environments, his concentrated belief in set, mutual, unbreakable boundaries and the way he communicates by releasing large info dumps, spiralling and looping through conversations, not regulating volume, processing things slowly, overwhelming himself and others, and struggling to break the hyper focus of what he solely wants to say.

James has not changed. He is still the same expressive, sensitive, creative, funny, stubborn and brilliant teenager he has always been. The difference is that we finally understand him, have the right words to help him, and a framework available that honours him rather than punishing his core self.

Many might find all these conditions hard to get their head around. I feel happy. We have the diagnosis we wanted, the validation we needed and a plan going forward to best support our son. We can finally get him the correct help and look at how to support him in a way that works. It is still a journey ahead, but it is a start.

Is Sunday or Monday the Start of the Week? How a Missed Meeting Exposed a Bigger Cultural Shift

2026-04-22T01:30:00.005+01:00

A simple question about the first day of the week caused me to miss a meeting on Monday. My colleague from a charity I work with asked on Sunday afternoon what day I was free next week. I replied Monday, meaning the 27th. She meant the 20th. For me, Sunday was the first day of the week. Therefore, next week is the week after. Hannah then told me that Monday is the first day of the week, so next week on a Sunday afternoon meant tomorrow onwards. If I had known, I could have said no. It was our anniversary. That moment, however, sent Hannah and I into a deeper reflection on calendars, culture, the quiet loss of rest in modern life, and Hannah feeling she had been lied to her entire life.

I grew up with a clear understanding of time. Jewish Sabbath is Saturday. The day of rest. School finished on a Friday and we rested on the Saturday. Traditionally Sunday starts the week, with Christians holding Sunday as both the first day and the eighth day. Our Gregorian calendar was introduced in October 1582, exactly four hundred years before I was born. It was shaped and applied across Catholic countries early on, with Great Britain and America accepting it in 1752, and places like Russia and Turkey accepting it in the twentieth century. Sunday was always the start. Monday was always the first working day.

The confusion only makes sense when you realise that two calendars now run side by side. The traditional, multi‑millennia biblical and liturgical week begins on Sunday. The modern business and school week begins on Monday. These two systems overlap and collide, creating misunderstandings like mine.

Time didn’t shift instantly. The industrial revolution reframed time around labour. Factories and offices needed standardised working weeks. Monday became the first working day and slowly replaced the older pattern. The change became official in 1988 when ISO‑8601 declared Monday as the first day of the week for business, government and digital systems. Everything from Outlook to payroll adopted it, making the digital age calendar the universal default. Culture naturally followed.

This transition is visible in our culture. Happy Days aired in 1974, before the calendar change. Its intro song demonstrates this, saying,

“Sunday, Monday, happy days. Tuesday, Wednesday, happy days. Thursday, Friday, happy days. Saturday, what a day, rockin’ all week for you.”

Friends aired in 1994, after the digital shift. There, Joey counted the days in a week differently. He says,

“All right, Monday, one‑day, Tuesday, two‑day, Wednesday, when? huh? what day? Thursday. The third day, okay?”

It is funny, yet you can see the cultural transition. Only twenty years divide them, making the shift cultural and generational. We are watching a civilisation change its understanding of time.

This is where Walter Brueggemann becomes important. His book Sabbath as Resistance argues that Sabbath is not only a Christian practice. It is a social rebellion. He describes a world shaped by restrictive consumerism, legislation and economic pressure. These forces create anxiety, entitlement, inequality and a culture where worth is measured by output. In a society defined by production and consumption, everyone is coerced to perform better, produce more and consume more. The result is a normalisation of abuse and a blindness to the system around us. This point stands true when considering the first day of the week.

I previously explored this at college and highlighted Brueggemann’s point. Sabbath, both as a Saturday and a Sunday, confronts this, says no to the institutions and people who demand endless work, and the lie that our value is earned.

The loss of Sunday as the first day of the week is not a small cultural shift. It is a symptom of a deeper problem. Our weekends have become extensions of the working week. Saturday is no longer a day of rest. Sunday is no longer a day of renewal, reflection, re‑energisation or personal and communal worship, whatever shape that takes, even if it is simply honouring yourself. It's no longer what it is or was embedded as. The rhythm of rest then work has been replaced by work then work. The calendar is only one part of this wider system.

This is why the question “Is Sunday or Monday the start of the week?” matters. It reveals the story we live by. It exposes the pressures shaping our time and how easily we accept systems that exhaust us. It also reminds us of a preexisting rhythm that begins with rest, ends with rest and restores one’s sense of presence.

When chatting to Hannah about it, I felt a little crazy, yet I am not alone in feeling the tension. Many people instinctively hold Sunday as the first day because it carries a memory of a healthier pattern. One that encourages us to breathe, rest and prepare for the week ahead rather than recovering from it.

The calendar changed in 1988. The culture changed soon after. The human need for rest has not changed at all.

I think keeping Sunday as the first day of the week remains the best option for us all.

What do you think? What's the first day of the week?

An Anniversary Post: Celebrating Two Years of Marriage

2026-04-20T01:30:00.003+01:00

Today marks two years of marriage for Hannah and I. Our cotton anniversary. I always try to find whatever the theme is so I can connect it to presents each year.

Last year was paper. I made origami flowers and stuck them on a notepad, with origami swans in our blog colours on the inside.

[Image 2. A handmade first anniversary gift with origami flowers on a pink notebook, finished with a heart label marking the date.]

[Image 3. Blue and pink origami swans placed on a handwritten note showing our names and the dates of our first and second anniversaries.]

Cotton feels right though. Its interwoven fibres symbolise the growing strength, durability, and comfort of a marriage. After two years, a couple’s lives are increasingly intertwined, adaptable, and comfortable with each other. Their experiences keep weaving together until they become something resilient, strong, and versatile. It is still soft and flexible, adjusting and growing into something secure.

It is also ordinary, but in the best way. It doesn't need the glamour and sparkle that other materials have.

Our marriage has been exactly that. Everyday. Ours. Ordinary? Well, for us it is.

Our story started back in the early blogging days where we were just two friends writing about our lives. Then 2017 happened. I joked about Take That songs and being single, not knowing what would happen a few months later or that Hannah couldn't stand Take That, specifically Gary Barlow. Seven years later we were getting married.

When I look back at our wedding, I smile at how unapologetically “us” that day was. Six of us. Six Infinity Stones. Jeans, converse, colourful ties and flowers, Care Bear pockets, and a church full of people who loved us. It was simple, joyful, and rooted in the life we had already built. It was nothing like my first marriage. It was all about the wedding, dress, food, and venue. Our wedding was always about us, our family, and the marriage that we were already living.

[Image 4. The six of us gathered for the signing during our wedding, standing around the table with documents, a candle, and a colourful bouquet. From back to front, left to right. Arty, James, Will, Midge, Hannah and Martyn]

I had spent years convinced marriage was something I would never do again. I had lived the big wedding, the relationship collapse, the divorce, and rebuilt my life around being a single dad who didn’t see the point of trying again. Hannah changed that. She changed me. She made marriage make sense. So when she proposed, it was a simple yes.

Dad’s death changed our timeline. We would have married on the 21st of April 2023 if life had not shifted under our feet. That date still feels special. 21st of April 2017 was when we went from communicating on Twitter to a friendly phone call. We both knew something changed between us then. The day that set the tone for everything that followed. Did it matter if we delayed it by a year? Not really. We just decided to spread our love over two days instead.

This last year has been pretty normal, or should I say a typical cotton year. Normal for us means church, study, writing, kids, cats, and the constant juggle of a blended family. Hannah doing her litter picks, eco work, admin role, and running Rebel Club challenges with creativity and imagination. Me trying to keep up with the ordination process, sermons, Bible studies, the emotional weight of the C4 process, and my ever‑changing health.

It also shows something not every couple experiences, as Hannah holds the practical, emotional, changing, and adapting load that comes with being my carer. She does it with love, humour, a steadiness most people will never understand, and often on disturbed sleep.

People say the vows lightly. In sickness and in health. They imagine it as a distant possibility. A life they hope they will not experience until they are old. Hannah married me knowing it was our present and our future. She knew what my health was, would become, and meant for her and the kids. She still chose this life. She chooses it every day. That choice is not small. It is not romantic in the Hollywood sense. It is real and costly. It is love lived out in the ordinary moments for everyone else, and the less than ordinary moments for us, that no one else sees.

We have had some good days out this year.

[Image 5. A busy table of dumplings, fried chicken, and drinks during a relaxed meal out. Hannah, wearing a black jumper, is smiling at the camera]

[Image 6. Hannah and I settled into our seats in a darkened cinema , waiting for the film to begin.]

Wagamamas at the Dockyard after watching Captain America, Brave New World.

[Image 7. A moment from a local Rotary community event, with people gathered around as someone holds a duck for visitors to meet. Hannah to the right, wearing black strokes the therapy duck]

The Sweeps Festival, where Hannah was over the moon to be stroking a therapy duck.

[Image 8. A bright floral red telephone box on the high street, with the Hannah in a black hoody standing next to me, in my powerchair wearing a blue coat and a wooly hat stopping for a quick photo.]

Canterbury, where I dragged her through my old uni haunts after a meeting with the Bishop that felt heavy at the time. Our kid free weekend in February where we ordered curry and watched Friends, remembering what quiet felt like.

[Image 9. I am wrapped up in a bright blue jacket on the high street, while Hannah and I pause on the brick‑paved street for a quick photo together. Hannah is wearing a black and varied shaded purple coat]

The Walk of Witness on Good Friday.

We also realised we barely took any photos of us this year. Plenty of the kids, the cats, the activities, and the places. Hardly any of the couple doing the things. Maybe that is something we can work on this year. Just for us. Proof that we were there too.

Two years in and our marriage feels like cotton. Strong. Soft. Woven through the everyday. Nothing flashy. Nothing performative. Just two people choosing each other, family, faith, and the life we have built. While today we celebrate two years married, tomorrow marks nine years as a couple. It has been a crazy nine years, but the journey has been worth every effort to be where we are now.

[Image 10. A black and white photo of Hannah and I laying on our bed. Hannah is on the left and I'm on the right as we smile at the camera. Photo taken the night before the post was published]

Happy anniversary to us. Here’s to year three and all that it has in store.

Ordination: Where Things Are Now

2026-04-18T01:30:00.003+01:00

I walked into Monday’s meeting with my DDO and ADDO prepared. I was calm and willing to shine a light, not fight, on the meeting with the Bishop, especially after meeting with Tim Goode.

We began discussing my mental health. I struggled understanding the bishop’s problem. Nothing has changed or impacted me in fourteen years. My Dependent Personality Disorder with Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder traits diagnosis came when everything collapsed. My career and marriage ended. My health changed. My mum died. I battled alcoholism. All patterns of loss and substance dependency. Life is now different. Despite losing my dad, my uncles, and navigating difficult situations, I’ve not destabilised. I’m seeking an ASD assessment following a managed, unaffected fourteen year period of stability. It’s not problematic like the bishop implied.

They explained that Personality Disorders struggle with pressure, relationships, and responsibilities in leadership roles. Priests with PD exist, but the bar is higher and treated more cautiously. My stability, strategies from support groups, and explanation help, but still require clarity. ASD and Neurodivergent diagnoses, however, is different. As soon as I’m diagnosed they want to know.

I asked why the bishop mishandled it. They said she only had the fifteen year old information within the C4 forms to work from, which erased my present reality, and focused soley on my marriage. She has no mental health training or experience and subsequently used inappropriate language. The Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report shows it happens a lot. It shouldn’t. The bishop could and should have said she understood the past concerns, recognised my explanation, and wanted to support the ASD process, which my DDO thankfully did.

We moved to the C4.4 and C4.3 issues. Like above, none of my progress or discernment outcomes was provided, completely disadvantaging her when my knowledge blindsided her. She focused on the predetermined C4.4 decision and whether my PD affected my marriage. The problem seens to be departments working independently. If C4 information ran through my DDO, he could have briefed her, but it sits in a separate department, which disadvantaged her and me.

The FWM report matters here. Every conversation and decision should have disability informed oversight, based on training and awareness, but none of that happened. The Church functioning as a broader ecosystem of isolated parts created harm, mirroring examples like the Yorkshire Ripper case where information existed in isolated areas but was never collectively shared.

We then discussed my muscular dystrophy, the FSHD2 rediagnosis, current progression, and future prognosis. It’s a difficult, horrendous sounding conversation. Yet I still work throughout the week. I manage my body, know my limits, when I feel vulnerable, when I need to rest, adapt and carry on, and balance life carefully.

We talked about sacraments as something I might not be able to do. I cannot raise the chalice, break bread, or lift a baby for baptism. My DDO and ADDO mentioned disability theology and contemporary adapted sacramental actions, like adaptations I already do. This sounded positive and inclusive, but the problem is tradition. The idea that things must be done the way they have always been done, causing the bishop in the future to believe I cannot fulfil the role based on institutional expectations. This problem is mentioned in the FWM report.

We explored degeneration and the bishop’s suggestion that I should consider lay ministry instead of priesthood, something I’ve been repeatedly asked. I addressed this carefully. I’ve been called for fifteen years. If I wanted a lesser role, I would have taken it. The FWM report highlights internalised ableism that pushes disabled people into lesser roles. Yet my Carousel Conversations suggested the opposite. They saw priesthood in me and my true calling. This may need assessing clearly later.

We then discussed timeframes. Hannah and my marriage reaches three years in April 2027. Technically I cannot move to Stage 2 until then. The bishop implied a two year pause due to dating issues, despite my DDO and ADDO previously aiming for January 2027. They want to avoid disadvantages and build a plan that is theologically strong, represents me, and prevents potential objections. I mentioned involving Archbishop Sarah Mullally, as Tim suggested, but my DDO found that hostile. They do want to consult her but in their way. If she supports the plan, it carries weight.

Placement was next. They asked what I wanted. I stated either a high church to explore more traditional actions or a mission church to explore different mission and communities, and for either to meet my full access needs. Accepting that accessing churches is difficult, my DDO offered to find a placement in Rochester, the diocese where I live but not worship in. Such cross diocese, inclusive efforts surprised me and wasn’t what the bishop had said. I am hopeful.

We discussed training and me completing Level 4, 5, and 6 and only need two reflections, which can be done independently. This means Stage 2 is almost completed as I've already done it, allowing my ordination to potentially be shortened, countering the pause.

We talked about disability oversight and the new disability officer, Melissa. I am cautious. She was appointed because of what happened and does not share my lived experience. I agreed to contact her as I am happy to explore my world for better support but I also wanted discussions to include me cooperatively.

Finally, we discussed spiritual abuse. I shared the footnotes of fifteen years of institutional harm. They asked what I wanted to do. I didn’t know. I still don’t. It’s no longer raw, but has given me enough experience to spot red flags and to name it. I named three priests but didn’t mention the bishop. I can't shake the feeling that I should have said something. The February meeting was unsafe and reflected the FWM report concerns. Whether that’s her behaviour, the system, lack of information, an unrecognised triggered moment, or a combination, something needs addressing. I don't ever want to be alone in a meeting with her again. This genuinely isn’t about hostility or malice, or the process being affected; it’s about safeguarding me as a disabled candidate. I just didn't know how to word it without it being perceived as me overreacting, being difficult, or undertaking a personalised vendetta.

The meeting ended with a promise of a plan, placement options, and continuing my existing life and ministry. I felt heard. Tim warned me to be careful. I am. Being listened to does not equate to equity. Time will tell, but it feels like a positive direction.

Equality vs Equity

2026-04-15T01:30:00.006+01:00

I have spent 30 years talking about disability, access, and inclusion but I realised that I have never written a post that answers, "What's the difference between equality and equity?"

When I was first diagnosed, my secondary school’s attempt at “inclusion” was to send me to the library every day with my classwork brought down to me. All my lessons were up a flight of stairs, yet no one suggested moving classrooms so I could learn with my peers. I was physically at school, so what’s the problem?

University was meant to be the land of liberation, where curiosity becomes power and you find yourself, and your voice. Yet I still had to challenge lessons, working environments, and social settings to be included. I was technically “included” everywhere, but often isolated, excluded, and watching life happen around me.

Life continued that way. It’s why I’ve written about ramps, buildings, attitudes, inaccessibility, complicit and implicit ableism, structural and interpersonal ableism, institutional harm, and the quiet ways disabled people are pushed to the edges. I have unfortunately lived experiences that have taught the difference between inclusive tokenism and being welcomed, valued, and fully included.

I don’t fully know why I've never named the equality and equity distinction. Maybe partly because disability rights have been furthered these last 15 years, so wasn’t, at first, necessary. I think another reason is that, for years, I was simply surviving systems rather than analysing them. When you’re navigating harm, you don’t always have the language to name it. All your energy and fight is focused on challenging the barriers you face.

The Revd Canon Dr Tim Goode and I discussed this last week. He said the Church is good at inclusion and understands equality, but not equity. That hit me. I knew exactly what he meant, but wondered if others do. Hence this post. A space to now discuss it further.

Equality and equity are often used interchangeably. Both are good, needed, and aim for fairness, but they are different and, when mishandled by well‑meaning people, have opposite consequences.

Equality gives everyone the same thing: the same rules, process, expectations, and treatment. It looks and feels fair. It’s also what many of us fought for decades — the same rights, access, opportunities, and recognition that we exist. Equality became the chant, banner, and rallying cry. That fight still matters, because disabled people are still implicitly and explicitly excluded.

This is where lived experience speaks. When I was first diagnosed, my school didn’t know how to include me. I studied at home for 12 weeks because they couldn’t work out what inclusion looked like. My mum fought for me to have a normal teenage life. Full of friendships, laughter, even the rough edges of bullying and tolerance. The intention was equality: allowing me to be in school, not isolated at home. Nevertheless, I was isolated on school grounds in the name of equality.

Equity is different. Equity gives people what they need to have the same chances. It adapts rules, adjusts processes, and recognises that fairness doesn’t always look equal. It is the quieter word that uncomfortably sounds and feels like the person is asking for something special. It can feel like favouritism, but it isn’t. It’s honest.

This is where confusion appears. Equality feels safe because it treats everyone the same. Equity feels risky because it treats people differently. Equality gets you into the room but leaves you disadvantaged. Equity removes the disadvantage so you can participate fully. Disabled people know that sameness is not fairness. Equal treatment can still create unequal outcomes.

Cue the well‑known meme.

[Image 2. There are 2 similar boxes together. In the lefthand box 3 individuals stand by a fence looking into a sporting arena. This box is titled Equality. It show a tall person, a medium height person, and a wheelchair user all with a wooden box each. Only the wheelchair user is blocked by the fence. The image on the right, titled Equity, is nearly identical. The distinction is listed below]

Equality gives everyone a box, but only two people see over the fence. The wheelchair user still can’t. Equity gives the tall person nothing, the average person two boxes, and the wheelchair user a platform, allowing everyone to see without harm.

That is the difference.

Disabled people live this daily. Equality says everyone follows the same process. Equity adapts the process. Equality assesses everyone the same way. Equity understands disability throughout the assessment. Equality treats everyone the same. Equity recognises that sameness can be discriminatory. Discernment is essential.

This is where tokenism appears. Institutions love equality because it is tidy, measurable, procedural. It avoids discomfort and responsibility. It allows them to say they treat everyone the same. It permits diversity without change. They can include disabled people without supporting or empowering them.

Equity challenges all of that. It asks institutions to change, recognise inherited harm, understand lived experience, and take responsibility. Equity sees the person, not the process.

My recent ordination experiences showed this clearly. I was treated equally, not equitably. The process, expectations, and language were the same for everyone. The outcome was shaped by equality, not equity, which is why it felt unfair and caused harm. That is why Tim named it so clearly, and why he said the meeting was unsafe.

Equality is good. Equity is essential.

Equality welcomes. Equity includes.

Equality invites. Equity enables.

Equality is the starting point. Equity is the destination.

I needed to write this and name it. Equality and equity are not enemies. They are partners, shaping justice, inclusion, and belonging.

Nevertheless, reality, equality, equity, and justice are not the same.

[Image 3. The scene from the above meme is the same, but extended into 4 situations. Box 1 is titled Reality. The tall person is disadvantaged into a hole at the cost of the medium person, making them as disadvantaged as the wheelchair user with words saying "Some get more that they need. Some get less. Some get what they need. Box 2 and then 3 is titled Equality and the Equity and is the same as Image 2. Box 4 is titled Justice, in which the fence is move to show that the problem is the structure, not the people]

Shine a Light; Not Fight

2026-04-13T01:00:00.006+01:00

Today, I meet with my DDO (A Diocesan Director of Ordinands) and ADDO (Assistant Diocesan Director of Ordinands).

In my previous ordination process post I ended with a question. What do I do next, fight or accept? I wasn't sure. I am now.

This week I met with the Revd Canon Dr Tim Goode. I needed someone who understands disability, vocation, and the Church. Someone who has lived the things I have and can personally empathise, not offer misaligned sympathy. I admire his work, his book, and everything he has done for disability theology and inclusion. I even referenced him several times at College. He started and shaped the Church’s Disability Advisory Group, served nationally on disability inclusion, advised dioceses, and pushed Church Inclusion, being one of the few voices changing disability-inclusion from the inside.

I reached out and he kindly offered to meet. He listened, nodded, smiled, shared frustration, sighed at familiar parts, and named things I knew and hadn’t yet put into words.

He explained my situation perfectly. I already understood many aspects, some I had not, but it all mattered. I was heard. He understood. He discussed inherited institutional harm, how it shapes complicit and implicit actions and reactions, and how disabled people feel like they’re the problem when it’s the structure. That's a post in itself.

He made it clear that Today's meeting is not safe. Not because they are bad people. They aren’t. They are kind and pastoral. The danger is the system, their roles, conformity, the power imbalance, and the unspoken ableism not recognised. It risks becoming a meeting with predetermined outcomes, framed as supportive "flourishing," while pushing institutional directives.

Soft‑power spaces and language are additionally troublesome. Meetings held in friendly rooms, like my Church, wrapped in pastoral language, like “flourishing,” can feel gentle while still masking pressure and steering a fixed outcome. All making today unsafe.

He told me I needed an ally. Someone not swayed by institutional language, who makes sure I’m heard and slows the pace. He suggested someone with disability knowledge, theology, and lived experience. There isn’t a trustworthy local disability advocate. That's usually me. Instead, I chose someone steady, not swayed by Anglicanism, not easily intimidated, and will keep things fair. I’ll handle the disability side. Together we’ll cover what is needed.

He also said something I didn’t expect or realise. He told me to request Archbishop Sarah. Not to escalate or complain, but because she’s my diocesan lead. Most dioceses have a diocesan bishop. Canterbury doesn’t. The Archbishop is the Ordinary here. That changes everything. When he heard this, he smiled knowingly. Although I have a bishop, she’s the Bishop in, not of, Canterbury. It means I am not going above anyone’s head, but seeking the person who actually holds authoritative pastoral responsibility for me. Her background means she understands disability, carers, chronic health, and institutional bias, and could potentially see my situation with clarity and compassion.

His last advice will be the hardest. Shine the light; Not fight. Fighting is my instinct. Disabled people often fight by themselves in an able-bodied world, but there's acceptable and unacceptable complicity. Acceptable is something done for our wellbeing, like doctors. Unacceptable is when decisions are made and actions undertaken about and to us without us. A difficult space to navigate, but I need to learn how. The Church, like most places, reacts to fight with defensiveness. Sympathy instead of empathy. Equality without equity. When pushed, they push back, retreating into process. It gets nowhere. His 30 years of experience has shown him that. On reflection, he’s right, I’ve experienced it. No one likes being shown up, told off, or put in their place.

I may have inadvertently done this last time. I highlighted barriers, the Bishop dismissed them, so I showed examples. She made assumptions, I challenged them, and she pushed back, so I showed Tim’s articles. He smiled at that. He also helped reframe her defensiveness. I may have triggered institutional bias that she has faced. She understands intersectional injustice around race and gender, but disability sits outside her lived experience. That mismatch can create a defensive reaction that isn’t personal, but still lands heavily. She may not have even realised she was triggered and needs a pastoral approach. The power of pastoral empathy.

Shining a light, therefore, is different. Slower, calmer, harder. It's naming truth without weaponising it. It invites people on a journey rather than dragging them along or triggering them. It lets God work in the mess instead of forcing the outcome. It trusts that the bush can burn without burning me. A contradiction I need to practice and live.

He also reframed “fighting the Church” because the Church isn’t one giant institution, but a living ecosystem. A patchwork of self‑running parts. There is no single system to push against. This made sense to why fighting exhausts me, alongside past actions. Shining a light works better.

So now I have an ally for the meeting, advice from someone I deeply respect, a clearer understanding of the system, a non-confrontational route to the Archbishop, and a way of approaching this without escalation and a fight to be heard.

I am currently paused, but learning to shine a light, not fight.

That’s the step I couldn’t see. Let’s hope today allows me to do so.

Neurodivergent Communication: A Never‑Ending Word Count

2026-04-10T01:30:00.009+01:00

I saw the below meme recently of a stretched phone screen, a ridiculously long message, and a caption outlining the neurodivergent trait of sharing every detail to avoid miscommunication.

[Image 2. As described above. 2 hands holding a stretched phone writing a really long message. At the top some text says "My neurodivergent brain including every detail possible in basic correspondence because that's how I like to communicated with and prevents miscommunication]

I laughed at first because I’m known for doing this. It's exactly how my brain works. I talk, write, text, email, and explain everything. Yet it also hit a nerve.

I’ve always done this. I don’t give short summaries without feeling like I've left something out. Everything becomes an essay. As a child and an adult, I've constantly watched people misunderstand what I am saying. So I no longer trust that people will understand me without the full picture. I either overshare and get acknowledgements that make me feel bad for oversharing, or I share too little and end up explaining myself again. There is no middle ground. I don’t understand how non‑neurodivergent people do it. It is not intentional or attention-seeking. It’s how my mind processes information.

I get replies like “thank you for your detailed email” or “thank you for outlining everything so thoroughly.”

Image 3. The opening text of an email saying "Dear Martyn, Thanks very much for your detailed and considered response to your meeting with Bishop..." the name of the bishop has been erased.]

[Image 4. A second image of an email. The text says "Good afternoon. Firstly, thank you for your patience, bearing with me, in waiting for my response. Thank you for taking the time to write such a detailed email."]

These phrases are just polite ways of saying I have written too much. Context or setting doesn't matter. I still write essays. James’ recent thirty-two-page school complaint is a perfect example. I reduced it as much as I could using a paraphrasing and shortening tool, and it still ended up being thirty-two pages. Imagine if I hadn't done that.

I try to manage it through a grammar app subscription that fixes spelling, grammar, fluency, summarises paragraphs, checks plagiarism, and reduces text, but I still get told it’s too much. It is frustrating. I am not trying to overwhelm people or be intense. Just concise.

This has always been a thing. As a child I had delayed speech. I couldn’t verbalise everything I wanted to. I struggled to explain what I thought or needed. I knew what I meant, but the words never came out correctly or in a way that matched people's expectations. In primary school I once wrote a two-page answer for one question and missed the other four because time ran out, making me use a writing guide to formulate my work. Nevertheless, my old English workbooks were full of stories that went on for pages, yet, like the rest of my workbooks, none were finished.

Secondary school gave me another example. I once failed a GCSE R.E mock exams because the question said “choose one of the five topics below.” I answered all five. I read the question too quickly and missed the detail. Then I gave so much information that they couldn’t mark it because some answers were stronger than others. I just couldn't break these bad habits.

I always interrupted people because the thought arrived fully formed before I recognised the right moment to speak; something I still do. I always blurted out answers without putting my hand up. The thought appeared and I said it. Even today, Hannah tells me to lower my voice or regulate myself. I just not always realise the position I’m in. I struggle to read situations, to understand what people mean when they say one thing but imply another. Instead, I appear as rude or inappropriate. I hate that.

Friendships were affected too. I never understood why friendships drifted. When people did tell me, they said I was too intense or a burden. I shared so much that they did not know where to begin. It hurt. Imagine feeling like the people you care about are exhausted by your presence because you're having a bad day and communicated poorly. Dating was the same. People don’t want someone complicated or overwhelming.

Communication was also incredibly difficult with my ex‑wife, who is autistic too, and those early days of co‑parenting were some of the hardest because neither of us could always interpret the other’s intentions or tone. I am lucky I have Hannah. She knew this side of me when we got married, although this side of me made things harder when she lived in Cornwall and I lived in Kent.

The reverse is just as frustrating. When I try to be concise, I get responses like “I’m not sure what you mean,” “Let me check I’ve got this right,” or “I think you’re saying...” despite my text being direct. I never imply. Yet, their responses signal confusion, or push the responsibility back onto me. In my head it makes perfect sense. This happened recently with the bishop. It took three attempts before she understood I was talking about disability degeneration, not seeking immediate ordination. She perceived me as impatient and pushy. By the time she understood, she was frustrated, short, and snappy. I was upset and frustrated, questioning myself.

Communication is difficult. I either say too much or miscommunicate.

I'm hoping my ASD assessment helps. My communication style has always been framed as anxiety, dependency, overthinking, or emotional intensity. I hate being seen like that. It has never been viewed as a lifelong pattern of neurodivergent processing and communication.

I am tired of feeling like I am too much and of apologising for the way my brain works. This post is my way of saying it out loud. This is how I communicate and process information. It is not perfect or convenient. It is simply me, wanting to be understood.

Thirty Years: A Health Journey

2026-04-07T01:00:00.006+01:00

I silently celebrated thirty years since I was first diagnosed with a condition on Saturday.

It’s a strange milestone. It’s not a birthday or anniversary, but a reminder of a moment that changed my life. I was thirteen when a doctor told me I had Polymyositis, an autoimmune condition that didn’t fit my age, body, or story. Knowing what we know now, I can see why they said it, it partially explained why my muscles were weakening, I walked differently, and struggled. They told me I might not live past sixteen. At thirteen, I knew what that meant, but I didn’t understand it — not the way I do now.

Looking back, I realise I spent most of my teens and twenties living in that gap between knowing and understanding. I knew I had a condition, that I struggled, was different, and that my life wouldn’t be typical, but I didn’t see myself as disabled. I was just Martyn — the boy who walked funny, occasionally twitched and fell over, used a stick or crutches, pushed through school, achieved and thrived wherever I could, and tried to live as normally as possible. My mum insisted on that. She refused to let a diagnosis define me. She fought for me, and she taught me to fight for myself.

I did so much. I was a Sea Scout and later an Adventure Scout. I gained my Duke of Edinburgh Award. I went canoeing, sailing, camping. Later I went to pubs, clubs, and parties with friends. I got my GCSEs, A‑Levels, went to Uni, worked, and built a career. I got married and had my boys. A typical life, with one small exception.

Every predicted death date passed. I don’t think I ever truly acknowledged them. I pushed through without worrying. After a few years, new prognosis predictions meant very little. I simply knew they wouldn’t come true.

At twenty‑five, the diagnosis shifted to FSHD1. Suddenly the pieces made more sense. The progression was predictable. Yet even then, I didn’t fully grasp how deeply this condition would shape my life. Life still felt normal. I was still doing everything I wanted. My story was written in pencil, constantly erased and redrawn by new information, symptoms, and realities.

The biggest turning point wasn’t a diagnosis at all. It was the moment I stopped walking.

Moving into a wheelchair didn’t make me more disabled — it made the world more visible. I saw, with painful clarity, how deeply society is built for able‑bodied people. The kerbs, doors, attitudes, and assumptions. I had seen and experienced disability before, but not to the extent I did once I was in the chair. The exclusion that had always been there became unavoidable. That was the moment disability stopped being “health stuff” and became a lens through which I saw everything: relationships, work, faith, community, and the effort required to live in a world not designed for bodies like mine.

My vocation didn’t begin with disability.

It began with faith — a teenage search for meaning, grounding, and God in the midst of uncertainty. Disability became the place where faith and calling collided. When I entered the chair, people began gathering around me, asking questions not just about suffering, but about theology, justice, and belonging. They wanted to know how faith speaks into disability, and how disability speaks back.

Then came the moment that changed everything: a vicar whose theology harmed disabled people, framing disability as spiritual failure or dark spiritual influence. I knew it wasn’t true. Years of reading, learning, and wrestling had taught me better. I challenged it. I fought it. I was part of the reason that harmful leadership stepped back. That experience opened my eyes to how many disabled people face the same spiritual violence. Disability ministry wasn’t optional. It’s necessary. I have a voice that can help — and theological college helped give that voice accountability and grounding.

Since then, the work has grown — coffee mornings for disabled people and carers, advocacy, pushing for accessibility in Rochester (Google my name and you’ll see the news pieces), building community online and in church, studying disability theology, and dreaming of a doctorate that continues this work. A community has formed around this journey — not because I sought it, but because people needed it. I was simply willing to acknowledge them. And, of course, this blog. The years of sharing my life and health. Seeing the difference that telling a story can make.

Thirty years after that first wrong diagnosis, I find myself reflecting not with bitterness, but with a thankful heart and hope. My health journey is older than my children. Older than most of my friendships. It has shaped, stretched, broken, rebuilt, and called me into spaces I never expected.

If thirteen‑year‑old me could see the man I’ve become — the advocate, the theologian, the church leader, the friend — I think he’d be surprised. He never wanted to acknowledge his disability. If my mum could see me now, I hope she’d be proud.

Thirty years is a long time.

If this is who I am now, then — God willing — bring on the next thirty.

[Image 2. A picture of Hannah and Martyn together, with the background of a local high street. Hannah is wearing pink glass and a black with a spectrum of purple patterned rain coat. She smiles as she leans over Martyn's left shoulder, as she stands behind his chair. Martyn is in his powerchair. He wears a cream fluffy blanket over his legs, a pair of electric heated gloves, bright blue rain coat, a multicoloured scarf with a matching wooly hat. Martyn is also smiling]

Our Easter 2026

2026-04-06T01:00:00.011+01:00

I’ve always preferred Easter to Christmas. Christmas has grown into something bigger, busier, and more frantic than it ever was when I was a child. Yes, I do realise how old I sound saying that. Easter still feels rooted. It remains focused on why we celebrate, and that grounding means even more to me as I move through the ordination process.

Maundy Thursday

I led our church’s Passover and Last Supper evening, using Seder elements, shared actions, and reflection. We’ve held it on Zoom for the last few years, but we’re hoping to bring it back in person next year.

[Image 2. A bowl of 3 boiled eggs, 2 flatbread, several gluten free wraps, a tupperwear box with chopped apple, honey, and ginger and cinnamon within, a salt water bowl of basil, are upon a tray. There is a candle in the middle and 2 glasses, one for water and one the wine/grape drinks]

Good Friday

We started early with the Walk of Witness along the High Street. Hundreds of Christians from different churches gathered together and walked behind the cross, singing as we went. What struck me most was how many people stepped out of shops, paused their work, or stopped mid‑errand just to watch us pass. Some stood quietly, some smiled, and some simply observed, but all of them noticed. It added a sense of connection as a shared moment that I hadn’t expected.

[Image 3. A crowd of people gathering outside a church at the end of a high street. Some people are wearing High Viz to distinguish themselves as ecent organisers]

[Image 4. A picture of Hannah and Martyn together, with the background of a local high street. Hannah is wearing pink glass and a black with a spectrum of purple patterned rain coat. She smiles as she leans over Martyn's left shoulder, as she stands behind his chair. Martyn is in his powerchair. He wears a cream fluffy blanket over his legs, a pair of electric heated gloves, bright blue rain coat, a multicoloured scarf with a matching wooly hat. Martyn is also smiling]

[Image 5. A black and white picture of the croud walking and singing as part of the procession. A man is leading the way carrying a cross]

[Image 6. A similar photo but in colour and from a different angle as if you were walking within rather than observing outside like Image 5]

[Image 7. A black and white photo of the man carrying the cross above on his knees looking up at the cross contemplating it's presence]

I hadn’t taken part in over ten years. We realised that Hannah has never done it, and we are almost 9 years together, so must have been a while ago! Going with Hannah, walking with her, and experiencing it together made it feel even more meaningful.

After the walk, we met two friends for lunch. I ordered a mixed grill that was delicious and far too filling. Then we headed to church for the Last Hour service, which I was invited to create and lead this year. It was a privilege and deeply moving.

[Image 8. A colour photo taken from the 2nd pew inside Bobbing church, with a woman and a man sat in front of you. Martyn is at the Chancel preaching, while wearing a grey wooly jump and a multicoloured wooly hat]

[Image 9. A similar image, but in black and white. Same position, just angled to the right. It no longer featured the woman, and an accessible ramp is shown, highlighting how Martyn went up to the chancel]

Holy Saturday

A quiet day, which we needed. I spent most of it resting after a horrendous nights sleep coupled with pain. Later that evening, the boys went to a youth celebration that included worship, testimonies, and a rapper. It was an extension of their Youth Alpha course that they attended throughout January to March, so was nice they were able to reconnect with other youths locally again.

[Image 10. From left to right, William is sat wearing dark clothes, his thick black rimmed glasses, with tinted curly hair. James is in all black m, with pink and purple hair visible under his black hood. Martyn wears his outfit from early, as all 3 attend Sittingbourne Baptist Church]

[Image 11. William is enthusiastically dancing to worship music, with his long curly hair flying through the air]

[Image 12. This photo is taken from the 5th row inside the church, which features a collection of youth and some adults watching the preacher who is partially seen at the front]

The music was great. Will really enjoyed expressing himself, which I loved. However, we wasn't keen on the guest speaker and his testimony. Will had multiple issues with it, as did I. It just didn't fit where we were, and who we are. I'm sure others would have enjoyed it, but it definitely wasn't our thing. Will said "I was exhausted and already done after dancing, but listening to him for 40 minutes was too much."

Easter Sunday

We skipped the sunrise service. With the travel time from Rochester to Sittingbourne, it would have meant waking at 4am, and that simply wasn’t realistic, especially trying to attend a 5:30am start. We did make it to the main celebration. It’s one of the few times we manage to be in church as a family of six, and that alone makes Easter special for me.

[Image 13. A colourful photo of the outside institution of Jesus open tomb. The stone door has a sign saying "Jesus is risen. Hallelujah."]

After, we came home for Easter dinner. Normally, we would have lamb but decided to have pork instead, save the fight and cost for the lamb. We would also have a lot, like homemade stuffing, a range of veg, and copy our fully loaded Christmas dinner, but we stripped it back, although we did make my homemade gravy.

[Image 14. A coloured photo of our family of 6 at the dining table. From left to right. Arty wearing a cream jumper, Will wearing a black Nirvana t-shirt, James wearing a black jumper, Martyn wearing achecked grey wooly jumper, Hannah wearing a light grey jumper, and Midge wearing a black Deadpool jumper. A colourfuk flowery tablecloth covers the table]

Then the kids got their chocolate after, and went off to their rooms.

[Image 15. All 4 kids standing holding their easter eggs. From left to right, James holding his rolo egg, Arty a bounty egg, Midge a KitKat egg, and William a milkyway egg]

It was a busy, lovely Easter, but I am exhausted. Juggling church work, pushing different activities, and the commitment to organise and prepare everything really takes it's toll. I still love Easter, but by the evening I was ready to just relax.

I hope you all had a lovely Easter this year!

Holy Saturday Reflection 2026: Hidden

2026-04-04T01:30:00.005+01:00

At three o’clock on Good Friday, Jesus dies.

The world stops for a moment.

Heaven holds its breath.

And then… nothing.

No miracles.

No teachings.

No crowds.

No light breaking through.

No longer misunderstood.

No longer crying out in forsakenness.

Just stillness. Jesus is dead.

But Holy Saturday begins.

It is the day between — the day after loss and before hope, the day when nothing seems to happen. The day most like our ordinary lives. Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just… quiet. The world continues to turn. Life continues around you.

Jesus is taken down from the cross. A friend who was too scared to follow offers a final kindness. He takes his time, layering seventy‑five pounds of myrrh and aloes. A royal amount. Pressing the spices into the linen, embedding them around the body. Jesus is wrapped. Bound. Sealed. He is placed in a tomb. A stone is rolled across the entrance. Guards are posted. The world settles into stillness.

It looks like closure.

It feels like finality.

It appears as though everything has stopped.

This is the mystery of Holy Saturday: what looks like nothing is actually everything. The hidden work of God begins.

We often imagine God’s activity as loud, visible, unmistakable. A chariot on a cloud, rolling in. However, so much of God’s work is quiet, unseen, unfolding beneath the surface. Seeds break open underground. Bones knit back together. Dawn forms behind the horizon long before the sky begins to lighten.

Holy Saturday teaches us that God’s work is often hidden, not absent.

The Gospels say almost nothing about this day.

No angels.

No rebellion.

No earthquakes.

No appearances.

No instructions.

Nothing.

Nevertheless, the early church insisted that this was the day Christ descended into the depths — into death itself — to break it open from the inside. While the world slept, Christ was at work in the one place no one could see.

The hiddenness of God is not inactivity.

It is God working where no one is looking.

This is different from the silence of God.

Silence feels like absence.

Hiddenness is presence we cannot yet perceive.

Holy Saturday is not about waiting for God to speak.

It’s trusting that God is already acting.

This day invites us to pay attention to the places in our own lives where God’s work is concealed — the places that look finished, closed, sealed with a stone. The relationships that seem beyond repair. The situations that feel immovable. The parts of ourselves we assume will never change.

Holy Saturday whispers: God is already doing something you cannot see.

It is also a Sabbath day — a day of rest that is literally woven into creation itself. We know the story of creation. God rests on the Sabbath — not because He steps back, but because His work is complete for that moment. His rest is never withdrawal. We know He walks in Eden with Adam and Eve, He calls Abraham, He moves through generations of people who needed Him, stories and accounts laid before us, and He comes to earth for this very moment. His story does not stop here. His rest is different. Rest becomes the declaration that God is God and we are not. Rest is the quiet confidence that even when we stop, God does not.

On Holy Saturday, Jesus rests in the tomb, and the world holds its breath. It is a divine pause — not emptiness or inactivity, but incubation, preparation, and hiddenness.

Holy Saturday invites us to trust that God is already moving in ways we cannot yet see. That the hidden work of God is still the work of God. That the quiet places of our lives are not forgotten places, but sacred ground where resurrection begins in the dark.

As we sit in this moment, we hold this shared anchor:

Even when God is hidden, God is here. Nothing seems to move, God is at work. The world looks unchanged, resurrection is already stirring.

The world went quiet, but it never stopped turning.

The earth spins at a thousand miles an hour, and we do not feel it.

We are passengers on a silent, thousand‑mile‑an‑hour carousel, standing perfectly still, held by chains of grace, while the world carries us into the dawn.

So it is with God.

Unseen.

Unfelt.

Yet gathering the broken pieces of our lives, holding what has been fractured, and beginning the slow, hidden work of making all things new.

As we sit in this moment — between cross and resurrection, between loss and renewal — we offer Him the fragments we carry, trusting that grace is already at work in the dark.

Amen.

Here is part one of this reflection.

Here is part two.

Good Friday Reflection #2 2026: Forsaken

2026-04-03T14:30:00.005+01:00

There is a moment here where everything seems to collapse into darkness. The sky grows dim, the noise fades, and Jesus cries out with words that have echoed through centuries: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

It is one of the most unsettling sentences in Scripture. Yet it can be painfully familiar.

Most of us know what it is to feel lost, unsupported, or abandoned — as if God has stepped back, heaven has gone quiet, and our prayers hit the ceiling and fall back down unheard. Good Friday brings this experience to the centre.

In the first reflection, we sat with the ache of being misunderstood, but misunderstanding is only one part of the human story. There are times when the ache goes deeper, when God himself seems distant, His presence and voice far away. Jesus enters that place too.

However, many people misunderstand this cry.

The Son is not actually separated from the Father, he isn’t forsaken, despite feeling the God‑forsakenness of human suffering — so deeply that the rawness of human experience becomes too much.

The cry of dereliction is not a dramatic performance, but an honest prayer of a suffering man who feels the absence of the One he has trusted all his life.

In that moment, Jesus does something profoundly important.

He reaches for Scripture.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” is not random. It is the opening line of Psalm 22. In his deepest darkness, Jesus doesn’t search for new words or craft a teachable moment. He returns to the inherited prayers that generations carried before him — the psalms that have held the cries of God’s people and where God has always been found.

While Psalm 22 begins in despair, it ends in trust and vindication. Jesus knew this when his mouth uttered those words. His voice speaks one line; his heart prays the whole psalm.

This is not a tidy theological flourish. It is the act of someone whose inner world is shaped by Scripture, reaching for the only language he has left. It’s not perfect; it is the instinctive cry of a heart formed in prayer.

The psalms are the prayer book of Israel where every human emotion is displayed: love, anger, hope, despair, trust, confusion, joy, dereliction. They give language to the places where language fails.

Jesus has the cross pressing against his back, every painful breath becoming harder, his body close to surrender. As the weight of the world rests on his shoulders, it is not the cross that holds him, but a psalm — a poetic song to pray when prayer feels impossible.

We know what it’s like to enter prayer without words — to sit in silence, feeling the distance like a weight on the tongue. We want to pray but cannot. In those moments, Jesus shows us what to do: go to where God has been found before. Scripture. The Psalms. The songs of faith. Using someone else’s words to carry you.

Here, we learn the difference between feeling forsaken and being forsaken. Jesus feels the full weight of abandonment, yet the Father has not abandoned him. The silence is real, but not the whole story.

Feeling forsaken is not the same as being forsaken.

Good Friday shows us that if Jesus has been there, then that place is not Godless. It’s filled with his presence and experience.

It embraces seasons when God feels distant — when prayer feels like speaking into the dark, faith feels thin, and silence stretches, making distance feel like disinterest.

Jesus’ lament is not hidden. He prays it, gives it to God, and lets the question stand. In doing so, he dignifies our questions too.

God can be present and silent, working and hidden, near and yet unfelt.

The cry of dereliction then is not the end of faith, but faith stripped‑back — faith clinging to an invisible God.

We may withdraw, panic, assume we’ve done something wrong, and stop praying because prayer feels pointless. Some of us may keep going, but with a quiet ache we can’t name.

Good Friday invites us to respond differently — not by pretending everything is fine, not by forcing ourselves to feel something we do not feel, but by doing what Jesus does: bringing the truth of our experience to God, even when God feels far away.

Like Jesus, we can pray into the silence, trusting that silence is not empty.

We can speak our questions, knowing they are not signs of failure.

We can name our forsakenness, knowing Christ has stood in that place before us.

This moment does not resolve quickly.

It is not meant to.

The cry still hangs in the air.

The question remains unanswered.

The darkness has not yet lifted.

Yet, even here — especially here — Christ stands with us.

As we move through this hour, we hold this truth gently:

God’s presence is not always felt.

Silence is not abandonment. Even when we cannot sense Him, Christ has already stepped into the depths we fear.

Here is part one of this reflection.

Here is part three.