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I was born in the Los Angeles port city of San Pedro and spent nearly a quarter century there. I’ve lived for forty-seven years in Scotland, yet when I come out of the concourse at LAX and feel the warmth embracing me, see the traffic challenging me, and breathe its fumes (which must be much less with all the TESLA cars I saw zipping around), I know I’m home. When I see the Pacific rollers, smell the spume, hear the rhythmic pounding of the surf, I know I’m home. When I see my Mom, I know I’m home. My childhood memories replay in my head, and they are great memories.

But what I don’t feel when I arrive in LA is safe.

Not that I worry about shooters, though I probably should. Nor do I feel anxious on the seven-lane freeway, though if I had any sense I would. My unease is triggered by the thought that if, in fact, something goes wrong with my health, it could cost a fortune which the insurance might find a way to wriggle out of covering.

So, after two weeks in southern California, when I arrive back at Heathrow and sit munching an almond croissant, watching the aircraft moving under leaden skies, I also feel home. When I arrive at Dyce Airport and am drawn into an armful of love, I know I’m home. When I listen to the incredible time Don has spent in Berlin helping Ukrainian refugees register for UK visas, I know I’m home. Home with Donald the Lionheart, emotionally recounting some of the anguish he’s witnessed. When he pulls out a bunch of roses for me, having only arrived back himself the previous night, I know I’m home. And when I enter the kitchen where Mhairi is cheerfully preparing to cook dinner, I know I’m home.

Home safe. Safe, thanks to the blessing of our NHS.

The Samaritan who helped a stranger, binding his wounds and putting him up in a hotel at his own expense, comes to mind. Our NHS is like the good Samaritan; as one who still has many dealings with the American health insurance system, I cannot sing the praises of the NHS loudly enough. If for nothing else, for peace of mind when the body is in trouble. No, it may not be perfect, but commercialising health care as they’ve done in the US is not the answer.

May God bless all those NHS employees who work so valiantly under difficult conditions to deliver healthcare which is first-class. May we give them the appreciation they deserve, honour their dedication and skill, and support them as we should.

And may God bless the silent ranks of pray-ers who have supported me over these last two weeks. I am home and feeling better than I was, having had a telephone consultation today, an in-person appointment tomorrow and another one next week. Thank you. God bless you all.