There’s a quiet joy that comes from doing the same things, again and again, with purpose.
Each day closes with Scripture. After the meetings, the meals, the movement of the day, I return to stillness. The light softens, the world quiets, and I open the text—not out of obligation, but to let the final word belong to something deeper than myself. I read, then I write. Just a short reflection—no more than a paragraph – sometimes a poem, sometimes a question, sometimes a prayer. Lately, I’ve been in Isaiah. The reflections are piling up. Together, they’ve become a kind of personal commentary: intense, confronting, but strangely hopeful. In a world where the geopolitical tectonic plates are shifting, the ancient words feel unnervingly current. Like someone has been paying attention longer than we have.
Earlier in the day, I walk the dog. Rain or shine. We head out before the sun is fully up, before most people are moving. It’s usually too early for children, but I often see our students walking to the university gym. Interestingly, the busier the semester workload, the more of them I see at that hour. I like that. I like knowing they’re looking after their health even when things are full. We exchange a greeting or a few words. These brief encounters feel like gentle acknowledgements: we’re all starting the day with purpose.
I rarely drive. Not because I’m trying to make a statement, but because walking to the shops keeps me active and often takes the same time as driving once you account for traffic and parking. I usually head out just after the supermarket opens, before it gets busy. The staff change from day to day, and I don’t tend to see regulars—but I enjoy the rhythm. Sometimes I pass someone I know. A familiar face. A quick wave. Another small point of connection in the wider web of life.
Each day, I sit down for meals, and I try not to eat alone. I share breakfast or lunch with a student. I don’t have an agenda—I just want to know them. What’s on their mind? What’s giving them energy, or stealing it? They’re often surprised that I remember their names, but of course I do. Naming is part of knowing. Knowing is part of loving.
Each Sunday, I listen to a sermon and then write a poem in response. It’s my way of saying: I heard you. Not just the words, but the hope and heart behind them. I send the poem back to the preacher, and they usually respond. Many have said they find it deeply encouraging—like a mirror held up to the message they offered. At the end of each sermon series, I compile the poems into a booklet and make it freely available to the congregation online. A few people have told me they return to them later, using the poems to revisit the series and reflect again. That brings me quiet joy.
And every week, I visit my elderly parents. Ninety-one and ninety-five, still in the home where I grew up. The kitchen and bathroom have been modernised to eliminate trip points, but the rest is familiar. They have the three things that matter most to them: they’re still in the family home, their children live nearby, and they can look out at their garden. Gardeners tend it now, but it’s still their view, their space, their peace. The conversations are slower. Memory stumbles. Health wanes. But the love remains, strong and familiar. Showing up is the gift.
None of these habits are extraordinary. They won’t make headlines. But they are how I practice attentiveness. They tether me to what matters—God, others, place, time, presence. They remind me that joy is not found in novelty or speed, but in paying attention to what (and who) is already here.
In a world that celebrates loudness, I’ve found joy in listening. In a culture that prizes productivity, I’ve found joy in presence. In the small, daily ways of showing up, I’ve learned to say: this matters.
The Afterword 
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