Forty Years, One Bloke, & a Fire Worth Sitting Beside

I know this man.

I've known this man long enough to tell you the truth about him—and he'd expect nothing less.

I've known him deeply—not just professionally, but in the ordinary, unpolished business of life. I've watched him sit with people when there was nothing clever left to say. I've watched people tell him things they have never told anyone else. I've watched men who were uncomfortable asking for help finally relax enough to do it, and women who had spent years feeling unheard discover what it feels like to be genuinely listened to.

With confidence, I can say that he is a rare combination of counsellor, school chaplain, farmer, husband, father, grandfather, theologian, philosopher, storyteller, riddler and thoroughly decent human being.

Note: Our daughter now torments us with riddles, thanks to Matt. Sigh.

He has spent forty years walking alongside children, men, women and families through trauma, grief, marriage, relationship breakdown and the wonderfully complicated business of being human.

He helps people rediscover hope without allowing their past to become their identity. Trauma may explain part of a person's story, but it does not get to write the title—or the ending.

He works with children who have carried too much too young; adults discovering that what happened to them as children still has something to say before they can finally feel safe enough to put it all down; couples wondering how they became strangers; and families trying to find their way back to one another.

He takes people seriously, but thankfully, not always himself. That distinction has probably saved many a conversation.

He's also a farmer.

Which means, naturally, that he's heard every kind of confession there is.

He Has a Particular Way with People

Men tell him things they've never said out loud—which is no small act of courage.

Asking for support can be an awkward business for a man, especially for men who have been taught to carry everything silently. Particularly in a culture that can sometimes leave men feeling misunderstood, ashamed of their masculinity, or uncertain about what it means to be a man at all.

He understands that men need more than advice. They need somewhere safe to be honest without being mocked, managed or made to feel defective.

He has a deep respect for men and for masculinity. Not the caricature of masculinity, but the real thing: strength, responsibility, courage, protection, tenderness, humour, loyalty and the often-overlooked beauty of the differences between men and women.

And he has spent a lifetime fascinated by those differences.

Not threatened by them.

Not trying to erase them.

Fascinated by them.

He believes those differences are a gift rather than a problem—a truth currently so unfashionable it could probably get him cancelled.

He'll risk it.

Why?

Because he rather likes both sexes and sees no compelling reason for them to be at war with each other.

Women tell me they feel safe (me included), respected and genuinely HEARD. Hallelujah!

I suspect that's because he doesn't regard femininity as something that needs fixing, explaining away or competing with. He respects women as women, just as he respects men as men.

That sounds remarkably simple.

It is also becoming remarkably unusual.

And Then There Is Marriage

Marriage is a particular passion of his.

Especially the complicated ones—the ones that have become painful, tangled or difficult to understand; which, as far as I can tell, is most of them.

You know, the ones where two people have somehow managed to love each other and misunderstand each other at the same time.

His gift is helping two people speak honestly and truly listen, deeply.

His approach is simple: both people matter. Both deserve to be heard.

But being heard isn't enough. People need to feel understood, and that takes a space where both can be honest without being shamed.

He helps two people who've forgotten how to hear each other discover that being understood is possible, even if it's for the first time ever—and that's even when they strongly disagree or, in a moment of almost miraculous humility, admit they may not be the one who is right.

That last part can take some work.

He often does this work alongside his wife, Karen; and yes, she will allow you to ask her: “Do you need to speak with the Manager?” Seriously, who’d survive the intensity of counselling without a sense of humour?!

After more than forty years of marriage, the two of them have developed a rather remarkable partnership. Between them is what I can only describe as an inconvenient amount of accumulated wisdom through experience, honesty and laughter.

Learning love, patience and nurturing a sense of humour is essential household equipment.

Not optional extras.

Because a marriage isn't two people blending into one bland boring “thing”. It's two distinct people learning to guard, strengthen and help each other.

That's the work.

Their shared pastoral insight brings unusual depth to complicated relationships. Their synergy is difficult to explain, but it works.

Watching them work together makes some people uncomfortable and others hopeful—usually in that order—and, after four decades of marriage, they have developed a healthy appreciation for the fact that neither person gets to be right all the time.

The Counselling Room Isn't Really Where His Life Begins

His life has always extended beyond the counselling room.

He's a husband of forty years. A father of six—that includes the spouses of his biological three. A Pappa-bear to six grandchildren. And a much-loved adopted Uncle and Pa to a rotating cast of people who needed one, whether they knew it or not.

His reputation along the Coast has been built quietly over decades.

Not through titles.

Not by trying to be impressive.

But by being present.

By relationships.

He and his wife have spent a lifetime making room at their table for people who weren't technically family—until eventually, they were.

His wife has cultivated much of what is good in him: the farming, the fireside conversations, the wonder at creation and the absurd range of hobbies that make him very hard to bore and very easy to lose in a crowd.

They both find their identities as children of a loving Heavenly Father, and that love tends to leak out sideways into whoever's nearby. I’d say that’s a fair warning :)

This Is Why I Trust Him

There is a particular steadiness in him.

Perhaps it comes from four decades of counselling. Perhaps from being a school chaplain. Or perhaps from farming, where life regularly reminds you that some things cannot be rushed, controlled or reasoned with—weather, livestock and, occasionally, family members (or by those who have intruded by nominating themselves as family members, such as myself).

Besides all that, I've watched him sit with grief.

I've watched him sit with trauma.

I've watched him sit with marriages that are hurting and families that don't know what to do next.

I've watched him listen when it would have been easier to speak.

I've watched him make room for people who weren't sure they deserved it (me included).

I've watched him laugh, and I've watched him cry.

Because he understands something important: a person is not the worst thing that has ever happened to them. Neither is a moment, or a series of moments.

Trauma doesn't get to define you.

It's a chapter, NOT the title.

So if your marriage is complicated, your past is heavy, your family is messy, you're carrying something you haven't been able to put down, or you're simply exhausted from pretending you're fine—he's got time.

Bring your whole self.

He won't flinch.

He's probably seen stranger. I know for sure that he definitely has…

So, just come as you are.

There is probably a cup of something, a story, a laugh—and eventually, a conversation worth having.

Forty Years Later

For those who know him, perhaps the greatest description is simply this:

Safe. Approachable. Unshockable. Deeply pastoral.

And fond of his woman, his dogs, good beer, fire under the stars, and people who are trying.

But I think perhaps the real reason people trust him is because he doesn't pretend to have life completely figured out.

He simply knows how to sit with people while they figure some of theirs out.

And apparently, after forty years of all this, he's still learning.

That's why I would, and do, trust him with the things that matter.

Matt practises on the Coast, and when specifically requested (or if you’re just lucky), alongside his wife Karen too.