My Dad died last year.
He wasn't an old man. Aged sixty-six it seemed to me he had been taken well before his time.
You can probably imagine the frustration, the anger, the unexpected flood of tears that have filled the twelve months since then. And I've come to realise that he wasn't "taken before his time". If that was when God chose to take him (and surely it was no one else's call) then that was his time.
On the train heading for Glasgow I raised a subject I'd read about the day before. "Is your church-going a substitute for Christianity?" My wife looked puzzled so I explained. "It's about folk who claim to be Christian because they go to church every Sunday but don't actually lead very Christian lives the other six days of the week."