God can put you pack together. Today.

I loved English lessons at school. Even at fifteen, when a poem of mine, Plastic Tomorrow, was passed around other classes by my teachers, what really hooked me was learning how to read properly.

Pulling texts apart. Asking what was actually being said. To whom. Not who. By whom. Where. Why. Nursery rhymes included. Not as harmless singalongs, but as stories quietly shaping how we see the world long before we know better.

One such case was Humpty Dumpty. I cannot remember what conclusions we reached back then. But now, as a Christian, it seems worth revisiting.

Life is not Humpty Dumpty. An old children’s rhyme tells the story of a figure who falls and cannot be put back together. Once you fall, that is it. Shattered. Irreversible. It’s like a crime scene – All the king’s horses and all the king’s men gathered around a mess they cannot mend, standing like workmen looking at a pothole casually, looking important while being useless. But Scripture refuses that verdict.

Let’s swipe up to Isaiah 53:5, “He was pierced for our transgressions; he was crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed.” That is not bible app sentiment. That is cost. A heavy cost.

Humpty sat on a wall. Then he fell. That is all the rhyme actually gives us. No backstory. No moral analysis, no finger wagging or raised eyebrow.

And notably, no mention of an egg.

The egg came later, courtesy of the illustrator. We tend to read it back into the text, because images stick harder than words.

We do the same with people.

The rhyme never tells us why he fell. Was he pushed? Did he jump? Did he misjudge the height, the risk, the edge beneath his feet? We love those questions because they let us assign blame. Him or her. Careless. Reckless. Naïve. Deserved it!? If we can explain the fall, we can keep it at a distance. Explanations make us feel perceptive, but they rarely make anyone whole.

Scripture looks away, is not interested in that game. Isaiah does not ask how we fell. He tells us why restoration hurts. Wholeness does not come from being carefully reassembled, piece by piece. It comes through being carried by another who bears the heavy, oppressive weight we cannot.

Why the king’s horses? Power. Speed. Prestige. Muscle. Why the king’s men? Authority. Organisation. Systems. Titles. Committees. Maybe they rushed in like my friend, Paramedic Mike Lee would have done. Maybe they stood around, hands on hips, offering strong but conflicting opinions, debating like football fans after a match. Either way, absolutely nothing changed. Power cannot mend a shattered soul. Structure cannot resurrect a broken heart. The things that look impressive are often helpless in the face of grief.

Then there is the label. The egg was never in the text! It was added later, after the fall, to help us picture the damage. Labels work the same way. Addict. Failure. Divorced. Burnt out. Prophet gone quiet. Labels flatten people into objects, and objects are easier to discard. Labels are hard to erase. Again, scripture refuses that move. It insists you are a person, not a category. Known. Seen. Loved, treasured. Worth the price paid.

And always remember, there was a price – a shocking price. Isaiah makes that unavoidable. Healing came through deep wounds. Peace came through chastisement. Wholeness came through crushing. Not ours. His. God did not glue us back together and call it grace. He gave himself and called it redemption.

Life is not Humpty Dumpty. You are not beyond repair. You will not be made whole by horses, men, power, or pity. You know that. The remedy is that you are healed by the one who stepped into our terrible fall, who fully knew the cost, who chose the cross, and who did not stay in the grave. Who was Humpty Dumpty in the happier context where things turned out differently?

Have a look in the reflection on your mobile phone.

Three things you forget when everything hurts.

I think you will find this useful… I wanted to write something that would be practical. We’re going to walk through three things that help faith hold together when life starts pulling it apart – when the future’s unclear, the prayers fall flat, and nothing moves. You know the moments, you might be in one – the ones that aren’t theory but lived, right now. James doesn’t hand out survival tips for bad days, instead, in just a few verses he gives us advice and encouragement to keep walking, plodding, without losing trust, hope, or clarity.

“Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds…” (James 1:2). He’s not offering a slogan for your fridge. He’s not denying the ache either. It’s there, like an unwelcome guest. Joy here isn’t about feeling good. It’s about seeing straight. It’s knowing that something necessary is happening, even when everything in you wants out. God’s doing work in you that comfort can’t accomplish. And He’s doing far more than you dare imagine. Not hidden – it’s just beyond visual range. Like stars at midday, it’s there. You just can’t see it yet.

First, stay clear on what God is doing – not just what you wish He’d do.
“For you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness” (James 1:3).

Pain does it’s brutal work – distracts your attention. Suddenly all you can see is what hurts. James won’t let the trial or testing take centre stage. He names it – but then names what God is doing in it. That’s important. Critical. Not explaining the pain, but repurposing it. It has a reason. The aim isn’t answers. It’s strength. Not quick relief – but resilient, weight-bearing faith. God is with you, for you, not against you.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve been shocked by the Epstein revelations. Not just by the evil itself, but by the sheer audacity and scale of it. How one man could influence, deceive, and entangle so many people – many of them powerful, influential and frankly, should know better. It’s a shocking reminder of how easily and quickly vision narrows, how charisma can masquerade as substance, and how quickly moral clarity erodes when pressure, fear, or advantage enter the room. James would say the issue isn’t intelligence. It’s orientation. We don’t drift because we don’t know. We drift because we lose north.

God is forming steel where there used to be scaffolding. Not surface polish, but depth. And when you remember that, trust doesn’t bleed out as quickly. The ache might remain. The questions still knock. But you’re not lost in them. You know which way the work is moving.

Second, don’t cut short what God is lengthening.
“And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (James 1:4).

James knows you’ll want to wriggle out early like me. Most of us do. The temptation is subtle: call it finished before it’s done, post the testimony before the roots go deep. But spiritual depth grows in the staying. And staying isn’t passive- or unnecessary, it’s the most defiant kind of trust.

Think of the days when you might sit in the car outside the office at work, not ready or wanting to go in. When you scroll but can’t absorb a word. When Scripture feels like it was written to someone else. That’s where formation happens – if you don’t leave. Not just surviving the season, but staying relationally open while God works in the silence. That’s maturity. Grit, yes – but with grace threaded through it like a silk thread.

And God sees it. Loves it. He rewards it. Not just in eternity, but now. “He is a rewarder of those who seek Him” (Hebrews 11:6). it’s a call for a relentless, quiet, intentional, even faltering perseverance in the dark; and it is never wasted or unnoticed. Every hidden act of trust, every unseen prayer – He marks it. Nothing done in faith disappears into the floorboards. It may be slow, but it’s never fruitless.

Third, ask for wisdom – not reasons.
“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach…” (James 1:5).

James doesn’t say, ask God to explain the trial. That’s not the deal here – or what is expected or anticipated. What’s offered is wisdom. And wisdom is not optional – it’s the solid, immoveable rock face we build on. Total granite. Wisdom keeps you from slipping when the ground stays soft. It steadies your voice. It teaches you how to not harden, how to wait, how to live when you’re not sure what day it is. You are not left alone to your own devices.

And when you don’t have wisdom you don’t need to panic and run in circles. You don’t hurtle around frantically like a headless chicken. You ask. You stop. You lift your eyes. “By faith we understand…” (Hebrews 11:3). Not by clarity. Not by certainty. Faith asks for wisdom and knows God won’t withhold it.

And He doesn’t. He gives. Freely. No guilt. No sighs. No rolled eyes. Just grace, again and again. The kind you didn’t earn, and don’t have to. He never just tolerates you or puts you on probation. You are loved and accepted in Him

So yes – this is for those days when the ground feels a little less steady. When you’re not sure what to pray, or whether it’s doing anything. When the future won’t speak and the present won’t move. You’re not failing. You’re being formed.

James isn’t handing you a catchy slogan. He’s handing you a plough. A way to walk through what you didn’t choose, without losing what matters most. Clarity. Trust. Hope. The kind of faith that holds – not loudly, but truly – even when everything else is shifting.

Keep walking. You’re not alone.