Author: ruthvandenbroek

Tolkien’s wisdom

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“It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”
“What are we holding on to Sam?”
“That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo… and it’s worth fighting for.”

Sam to Frodo from ‘The Two Towers’

And she said…

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And she said, ‘I’m tired. And I just can’t seem to care anymore.’

And her Father said, ‘Wait for me, little one, and I will give you strength. I know it won’t be easy but until that day, my little lamb, come to me and I will carry you safe in my bosom. Know that I care for you. Now and forever.’

~~~~~

Isaiah 40:11 & 31
Deuteronomy 32:10
Job 10:12

Self made tombs

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Good morning.

Sunshine? No.
Clouds? Decidedly yes.
Rain? In the foreseeable future.

In Hollywood it’s sunny. Well, either that or the air is filled with big fluffy white snowflakes, perfect for settling on some cute girl’s eyelashes. I’ll allow for some rain, as long as it’s torrential rain that makes for a romantic moment. But next thing, we’re back on with bright, warm sunshine.

I live here. I live in a world where mosquitoes and wasps exist. I live in a world that comes with an 18 certificate. I live in a world where hospital dramas are real, not scripted, cleaned up and wrapped in nice box sets.
A world that does have sunshine sometimes. A world with laughter. A world with daisies and roses. A world with a million books waiting to be read.

Yet I find myself looking at the bad. I find myself building my own tomb. A tomb of bad memories and fear of ones yet to be made. And I look out at the sunshine and the laughter, the daisies and the books from within my self made tomb. And as I do so I watch the death of my life. As I shut out the good and find it easier to focus on the bad, the spark dies.

And so I call out. Is anyone there who can help? I don’t want to be here. I want to be there, out in the sunshine, laughing with my family and friends.

And then I see it. At first it’s just a shadow but as my eyes strain to see it more, as I want it more, the outline of a figure becomes clearer. He walks nearer, rolls the stone of my carefully constructed tomb away, takes my hand and leads me into the sun. And as long as He’s holding my hand, I can’t go back. Sure, I’ll try to. Sunlight makes me blink and shows me cobwebs. But the more I look at Him, the tighter my grip becomes. That’s how I want it to be.

Emma Scrivener’s ‘A New Name’

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Words change us. Stories challenge us. And none more than those of hardship, pain, redemption and grace. And so as I sat down with Emma Scrivener’s new book, A New Name, I have to admit I was both nervous and excited.

Emma tells a gripping story. Unlike many books of its genre, this is a well-written book. Emma’s writing is simple but lovely, poignant and hard-hitting, with sparks of wit.

It starts out simply enough. Raised in a comfortable, safe, Northern Irish home, Emma was the good girl. She got the grades, obeyed the rules and did well. But the good girl eventually became controlled by her desire to be in control. Control comes in different forms for different people. For Emma, it came as anorexia. At thirteen, she began to fall into the trap.

I’m not familiar with anorexia. With the painful physical consequences Emma describes. With the sense of guilt that threatens to tear a person apart for thinking about eating a morsel of food. But I am familiar with some things. With the feeling of control when you are most out of control. With the false promises of an idol, whatever they may be. And with the realisation that there is only one way out. Perhaps that’s why I was drawn into the story. Because the spiritual story of anorexia is repeated in my own life.

But that’s not to lessen the physical and emotional story. Even reading it felt like a punch in the stomach. I’m not familiar with anorexia. But I understand it a little more now. I understand that anorexics don’t just ‘need to snap out of it.’ I understand that what looks like self-destruction to the outside world actually looks like self-deliverance to the inside person. And I understand that it’s a trap of lies upon lies. Hard. Painful. Enclosing.

After her first time/spell/bout (all of those words sound patronising but I really don’t mean to be that) of anorexia, Emma seemed recovered. But years later, after becoming a Christian, working for a church and doing theological training, she relapses.

        My ‘quick-fix’ recovery only confirmed the fears that had triggered my anorexia. It taught me this: my identity did depend on my weight. I was disgusting, and my mess was too much for others to handle. If I wanted to fit in, I had to bury my feelings. I had to perform. (p89)


It’s clear now. This isn’t just a body problem. It’s a heart problem too. Pages 82-85 hold a gem. Emma de-constructs the ‘gospel of anorexia’.

 This may sound archaic, especially if you’re not a churchgoer. But we’re all worshippers. The question is not if we worship; it’s what.
… As my eating disorder took hold, I was just as ‘religious’ as I’d always been. I was still trusting in God. The difference was that this god had a small, rather than a capital ‘g’. And surprise, surprise, it was a god that looked just like me. The god of performance, hard work, externals and rituals. A god that gave nothing of itself, but demanded everything in return.
…In the Bible, worship takes place in the context of a wider body where we are free to be ourselves and speak the truth in love. With anorexia, the opposite is true. I retreat into myself and cut myself off from relationships. I hide and I lie. I turn my hatred against myself and against anyone who comes close.
…At the centre of the Christian faith is Christ’s body and blood, broken and poured out for us… At the centre of the anorexic faith is another body, also broken… It is mine. And it is punished by me and for me.
… The gospel of anorexia isn’t good news at all. It is a system of works, of slavery, of self-salvation and self-destruction. It feels like heaven, but leads to hell. It is a religion, as powerful and addictive as any cult. (p83-85)


Those are my favourite bits but they are only part of a very impressive whole. I’d almost say that the book is worth buying for those 4 pages alone.

Emma is brutally honest. Sometimes I wanted to look away. There’s heart-rending descriptions of what pain and suffering looks like from the inside. Emma talks us through her deep emotions and thoughts as she falls further into anorexia. And we rejoice with her in her real account of her ‘revelation’ as she encounters the Lord Jesus and as he changes her, her marriage and her life.

One of the things that struck me most, was the way that God used ‘normal’ Christians, including Glen, her husband, to help and influence Emma. Walking through hard times with people is one of the most powerful and life-changing things you can do.

This is hard stuff. Don’t come expecting a happy, easy ride. Jesus isn’t the sugar dusting on the nicely-iced cupcake of life. He’s the one who wades into the bog and pulls a filthy, hurting person out. This book is Emma’s testimony. A story of the gut-wrenching reality of anorexia. And a testimony to the power of the risen Christ.

Words change us. Stories challenge us. And none more than those of hardship, pain, redemption and grace. I came to the end of ‘A New Name’ a different person. And for that, Emma, I thank you.

Shadowlands quotes

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Experience is a brutal teacher, but you learn fast.

Self-sufficiency is the enemy of salvation. If you are self-sufficient, you have no need of God. If you have no need of God, you do not seek Him. If you do not seek Him, you will not find Him.

To put it another way, pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a deaf world. Why must it be pain? Why can’t he rouse us more gently, with violins or laughter? Because the dream from which we must be wakened, is the dream that all is well.

I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God, it changes me.

A train journey

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I sit on the train, staring out of the window at the countryside speeding past me. Trees, flowers, lakes, hills. So much beauty. So much creativity. I love the patterns that the combination of cloud and sun creates on the green grass in front of me. But only for a millisecond. It races past and I find myself seeing picture after picture, landscape after landscape. Some prettier than others, some more inspiring than others.

We stop at a station and I’m filled with interest at another part of life. People flood onto the train. Different people with different faces, minds, stories. I don’t know them, don’t know who they are, what they’re thinking. Except for the lady who’s just missed the train. I think I can guess her thoughts.

We start moving again and I delight in watching other people. I give them names and lives. I write stories for them. And yet I know that I can never capture them. They are as complicated as I. They have tastes, dreams, thoughts, whole lives that I can never imagine. The smallness of my mind, of my imaginings amazes me. I could sit here all day and ponder one person and I wouldn’t even begin to scratch the surface.

Some people are frustrated by how much humans still don’t know. I can see why but it doesn’t frustrate me. It excites me. I love learning. The thought of getting to the end of knowledge is a scary thing. A sad thing. That’s why I love that I serve a God who is unfathomable. I love the thought that we can spend forever learning more about him and never get to the end. If you think you’re clever, look at God. If you think you know a lot, look at God. It’s humbling and inspiring. Know your limits. Know your weakness. Know your potential. Know your God.

Small hard things

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I sit on my sofa staring out into the world. I see the vivid green of the overgrown lawn. I see the tiny, moving specks of black that are flies hovering over plants. I see the great dark silhouette of a bird of prey. I see the darkening clouds fast approaching. All parts of life.

There’s a wasp in the room with me. He flies back and forth, crashing repeatedly against windows in his desperation to escape. After every crash, he flies back into the big, open space of our sitting room, braces himself and tries again. He sees something better. He wants more. I’ll try not to be offended that he doesn’t seem to enjoy my hospitality.

I sit on my sofa listening to the world. I hear the deep rumble as a train approaches the nearby station and the almighty clatter as it passes through. I hear the slam of a car door as our neighbour returns from her working day. I hear the rustle of the leaves as the wind teases them playfully. All parts of life.

And I am here, alone. Quiet. Peaceful.

Sometimes I like to be alone. There’s beauty and simplicity in a day spent quietly alone. Running errands, clearing up and cleaning, reading, sewing, sitting, thinking, seeing, listening, being. That’s the introvert in me. But at other times the extrovert, tiny little girl that she is, fights her way through and asks to be with people. And at those times, on those days, being alone is a hard thing.

There’s a whole lot of my life that is made up of easy things. Maybe that’s why I notice the hard things and feel them keenly. But it’s ok to notice hard things and to feel hard things. God gives us hard things and expects them to be hard. If they weren’t then they’d be easy things. Doh. And while easy things are good, they don’t help you to do much growing.

Speaking of hard things, I should go and make dinner. Don’t laugh at me. Cooking day in, day out, is a hard thing for me. Hard things can be small. Don’t worry if you find small things hard. It’s ok. That’s fine. But keep at them. Come on, let’s face the hard things together. Jesus is here too. He’s good at hard things.

But first, I’ll just let out that wasp.

On my own

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It’s the beginning of a Tuesday evening. Dinner is eaten, the dishes are piled up on the counter. Music bursts from the speakers on the shelf, inviting me to join in its happiness. But I am alone. My husband is at college, my family at home in London and here I am. Just me.

I turn off the music and look around. The dishes wait patiently and they can keep waiting. Washing up is not for me tonight. The house is messy, left over from my sister’s visit. It too can wait. I just want to sit here. Listening to the silence. Feeling my aloneness. Existing in my little world. As I sit, images, sounds, feelings come flooding into my mind. My sister’s laughter. The sounds of our voices mingling and clashing as we sang together. The touch of my husband’s kiss on my neck. His voice speaking the Word to me in our devotions. Good things. Perhaps not physically present but they are here in some way.

My soul feeds on memories, my body on crisps and things don’t look so bad after all.

Look up and look out

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‘Be careful what you pray for because it might just happen.’
It’s true. Answers to prayer come in ways that I was never expecting. And often they’re extremely annoying ways. I pray for patience and end up in hospital. I pray for strength and have a diabetes scare. I pray for joy and watch as another part of my world comes crumbling down.

Life is a battle. It’s hard down here in the trenches. It’s hard fighting for your life every day. Fighting for joy. Fighting for hope. Fighting for strength. That’s the thing about being in the trenches. It’s hard to look up and see out over the battlefield. But it’s vital.

Come with me. I need you to see something. You stand on my shoulders, then I’ll stand on yours. Look out, up above the trenches, over the muddied field. Look out past the old, wooden cross. Do you see that flash of white? Do you hear that sound? That’s our King, that’s our Captain. He’s on his white horse, his sword’s in his mouth and his crown is firmly on his head. That’s the sound of the armies of heaven following him. That, my friend, is the sight and sound of victory.

It should be easier to fight when the victory has been won. But often it doesn’t seem like it. And that’s because I forget to look up. I forget the glory. I forget the honour. And I forget how God answers prayer. Just ask Jesus. Not my will but yours. But be careful praying that because it might just happen.

The joys of blue nail varnish

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It’s 10.15am. I’m sitting in the lounge area of a local old people’s home waiting for the lady I’m visiting to finish dressing.

For a while, all is quiet, save for the ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner of a room. And then all at once, several old ladies and gentlemen come in and I stand up. This, you see, is coffee time and one and all are eager for their mid morning beverage. They are various ages and in various degrees of ill health.

One tiny, well dressed lady catches my eye. At least, the flash of bright blue on her fingernails does. She smiles at me and apologises for the amount of time it’s taking her to walk past me. I smile back and on an impulse tell her that I love her brightly coloured nails. With a sweet smile, she leans her head close to mine and whispers to me.

‘I do it to shock, you know. Most people think it’s disgusting!’ 

She laughs a child’s giggle and continues on her way. I go back to my chair with a smile on my face, filled with a ridiculous happiness. Oh, the joys of blue nail varnish.