Before there was sound, there was Word. Before there was time, there was Love— vast, uncontainable, breathing galaxies into being. And Love became flesh, so that flesh might become love. The Eternal bent low, clothed in the smallness of a child, laid where creatures feed. The One who shaped the stars rests now in a trough of straw. The Source of all sustenance becomes the food of the world. The Unbounded becomes breakable, so the frail may taste divine life. In Bethlehem— the

“You brought me out into a spacious place.” – Psalm 18:19 He boards the early train at Minsterleigh. Black coat buttoned, collar set. A Canon on study leave – though others know what that means. The carriage smells of coffee and rain. Across the aisle: a student scrolling, a man tapping at a laptop. He takes the window seat, bag at his feet, carrying the kind of tiredness that lives behind the ribs. He serves at the Cathedral – a place of beauty, liturgy, and gentle control.

Jo and Nina had been coming to Lighthouse for years. A couple, kind to each other, kind to others, and if you watched closely, you’d see they looked out for the ones nobody else noticed. They were in their early fifties, short hair, hoodies, tired eyes and warm smiles. They sat near the back, hands wrapped around mugs, listening more than talking. They were drinkers, gentle with it when at church, but chaos was never far behind. Nina ignored the letters. “What hospital appoin

The Angel of the North rusted, enormous, stands watch over broken estates. Not protection. A witness. Rev Pam walks the cut towards the youth worker’s flat. Grey drizzle. Bin bags spilling. Shouting from upstairs windows. Trained at St Hild near Leeds, cut her teeth in a suburban curacy, but felt the call North, to where the Angel spreads its arms. She passes Kenny, voice like gravel, eyes red from Stella. “Church lot divvent knaa, pet,” he mutters, “kids roond here haven’t a