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.

This past weekend was the Sussex Fall Conference, and though I’ve made the trip before, each time carries its own rhythm, different faces, familiar roads, and the same gentle reminder that fellowship and faith can recharge a weary spirit in ways no solitary effort can.

Justin, Jared, and I started off early Saturday morning, driving through a landscape wrapped in a faint gold light, road rolling out in front of us. We missed the first speaker (we were cutting it close from the start), but the drive itself made up for it, quiet stretches of countryside and that particular New Brunswick light that makes even pasture fences feel like a painting. There’s something about long drives to a place of worship that feels right, almost like a small pilgrimage of its own.

The next portion of the story brings Christian and Pliable to one of the most memorable places in the book—the Slough of Despond, or as it’s often called, the swamp of discouragement.

Depression is a real struggle, and yes, I’ll say it plainly: depression is a bitch. Sorry for the moderate language, but honestly, it feels appropriate. It sneaks up on me, sometimes out of nowhere, sometimes triggered by something small, and sometimes by nothing I can even name. While I’ve never been formally diagnosed, I’ve lived with this on-again, off-again cycle long enough, done the research, and felt the weight of it enough to know what it is: depression.

The strange part is that simply knowing it’s depression doesn’t make it any easier to manage. Knowledge isn’t a cure. If it were, things would be much simpler. Sometimes the heaviness passes quickly, like a passing cloud, while other times it drags on for days. And, unfortunately, sometimes it lasts far longer than I would like to admit.

As the story continues, we’re introduced to two neighbours who chase after Christian, men who reveal very different hearts when confronted with the call to leave the City of Destruction.

I’ve begun the journey through Pilgrim’s Progress, and the first chapter wastes no time in laying a foundation. It’s sobering, but also powerful.

I know many have already read The Pilgrim’s Progress. My own copy came from Timmy, though to be honest I never got past the first chapter until now.

While biking I’ve been catching up on the Practicology Podcast, and a few years back they did several episodes working through the book. That was the final push I needed to finally sit down and read it properly.