Somewhere under a stack of books, loose notes, and old computer parts, I own a desk. I haven’t seen much of it lately, but I’m fairly sure it’s still there.

Most of my day-to-day work happens at the desk in my bedroom where my desktop and TV live, while the so-called “office” has slowly turned into a storage room with aspirations. Over time it became the place where I put things “for now,” which, as it turns out, is a very effective way to lose them for a year or two. This week I will be trying to undo some of that.

As Christian continues his journey it doesn’t take long for another voice to offer “better” advice. A man called Mr. Worldly Wiseman appears with a more comfortable, respectable alternative to the hard road Christian has begun to walk.

Lately I’ve found my mind drifting toward something a little farther down the road the possibility of holding a day’s meeting at the O’Leary Gospel Hall, maybe late summer or early fall next year. August or September seems like a good window. Thinking about 6 months out from our Winter Weekend Events.

This isn’t anything official, just something that’s been on my heart. I’m not trying to push anything on anyone, but I’ve felt more and more that a focused day of ministry, on subjects that genuinely strengthen the believers, could do a lot of good. We’re blessed with solid teaching throughout the year, but sometimes a concentrated effort around one theme helps us reset, anchor ourselves, and think clearly as an assembly.

Most Sundays in O’Leary follow a familiar rhythm: get ready, get picked up, head to the hall, and gather with the Lord’s people. This one started the same way. My brother, his wife, and their son pulled into the lane, I climbed in, and off we went to the Gospel Hall like we do most weeks.

But by the end of the day, it had turned into something a little different, part ordinary Sunday, part special ministry, part very personal Gospel meeting.

Today marks three years since Emily passed. It still feels strange to write that down… three years. The calendar insists on calling it distance, but grief doesn’t really move in straight lines or neat increments. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. Other days it feels like I’m right back in the moment everything changed, the air turning thin, the world narrowing to a single point.

This month brought something a little different than my usual routines: two new issues of RED: The Island Story Book arrived, the regular Volume 39 and the Special Christmas Edition. Seeing them show up in the mail is always a highlight for me, but this time was especially meaningful because I had writing included in both.

For the second year in a row, I found myself packing a bag for the Blues Mills Conference in Cape Breton. It’s not a large event by any stretch, a small assembly and a small-to-medium-sized conference, but that’s part of what draws me to it. Some of these smaller gatherings have a different feel to them, a kind of warmth and closeness that’s hard to describe but easy to recognise once you’re there.

Last year’s visit left a good mark on me, so when the invitation and opportunity lined up again, it was hard to imagine saying no.

Sometimes blessings show up quietly, without any build-up or fanfare, and then land with enough weight to stop you in your tracks. This week, that blessing came in the form of a trunk full of old books… far more than I ever expected.

For anyone who knows me, I’m usually content to stay close to home. Gravel Hill has a way of keeping me grounded. But every so often the Lord nudges you a little farther than you expected. That’s how I found myself on the road to L’Anse-au-Loup, invited almost out of the blue and suddenly preparing for a trip farther north than I had been before.

So… my bike broke down.

Not in the dramatic movie scene way where sparks fly and a wheel rolls off into traffic, but in the much more inconvenient real-life way.
The kind where everything seems fine one moment, and then suddenly something feels off, and you’re left muttering to yourself on the side of the road.