Author: ruthvandenbroek

On night time

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It is night. Cold, cheerless darkness surrounds me. I push myself further into my bed, feeling the soft, warm folds of cotton against my skin. I lie there wondering many things. Should I reach for an extra blanket? Is the sudden coldness I will feel on my arm as I stretch it out from under the covers worth the benefit of a slightly warmer night? Instant comfort or a better future? I decide on the latter and slowly, slowly move my arm up towards the edge of the duvet. As my fingers touch the cold expanse above me a sudden reaction pulls my hand back inside my white, cotton cocoon. I will remain here. Perhaps later, when the cold has reached further down the bed, I will try again. But for now, I don’t want to imagine anything but the soothing warmth. I turn over, being careful not to disturb the neatly, crafted ball of sheets around me. This is my home, this is where I belong. But in my safe, bundled space, I start to hear different noises. I pay attention to the world outside my cocoon. I hear my own breathing, very loud in the stillness of night. I hear the tick, tick, tocking of my two comfort clocks. As I notice these sounds, they become one. Unconsciously I begin to breath in time to the speaking of the clocks. My own personal symphony finds a new companion. The sound of air entering and leaving my body mingles with the steady, constant noise of my clocks. This, for me, is security.

I move my pillow to one side. Even though I am longing to stay away from the cold, I can’t resist the coolness of the next part of pillow. But as I move my cheek across the smooth billows of whiteness, I realise that the coolness isn’t just from the pillow. I find, to my astonishment, that tears are slowly making their way down my face. I stay still with slight shock as I contemplate this new revelation. As I lie there I hear the rain splattering on the window sill. 1…2…3…4…5… I count the raindrops as they match my tears, falling faster now. Drop for drop, old water for new water, skies releasing their tension as I release mine. Perhaps they too were not expecting to cry on this cold night.

I listen for more sounds and am rewarded by a solitary bird singing a merry, if subdued song. Does he not realise the time? Maybe he has a good reason to sing. He has just found a beautiful bird to be the mother of his children. Or he has just eaten a good meal. I don’t know. But this little bird with his little song throws my thoughts in another direction. If this bird can find something to sing about on this dark night, why can’t I? Are my feelings too complex for that or should I be tasting and savouring life’s pleasures? Here in my cocoon, I find other pleasures hard to grasp. I snuggle down further enjoying the feeling of comfort. Right now, I don’t want to grasp anything else. I want to dwell on this moment, on the quiet, on the noise, on the still, calm dark. I look over at the window and trace the outline of the windows with my eyes. I would do it with my finger but Cold is still outside my burrow and I do not want to invite him in.

As I look at the window I am aware of more sounds. I have to strain to hear the solitary car on a road some while away. Somewhere, someone is journeying. To where? I don’t know. For what purpose? I don’t know. But my ignorance does not disturb me. I am here, here in my nighttime cocoon, here in my solitary burrow, here in my safe, warm bed. The tears have dried and I turn over for the last time, feeling again the cool expanse of pillow before me. I slowly, blissfully drift off into a new world called Slumber.

Life given from the Life Giver

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Some days it seems as though Life has been stolen from me. Taken away in different ways. I won’t live long. The average life expectancy for a person with cystic fibrosis is 31. My prediction isn’t even that good. And while that is a hard thing, it still feels like a distant thing. My struggle right now is in the fact that I can’t give life. I can’t live life for long and I can’t give life. Yes, yet again, this comes back to motherhood. Or the absence of it.

I had a dream. I had a little girl. But at 8 hours old she passed away. Even in my dreams life is taken from me. I woke up, knelt on the floor and wept. I cried out to the Life Giver. ‘Why? Your Gospel is about Life. How can I be living something so contrary to your Gospel. It seems so empty. So foolish. So void. You give Life. You give abundantly to others. Why not me? I feel like I’m living Death. I wake up breathless, clinging onto life. I fill my body with chemicals in the morning to help it through the day, and in the evening to help it through the night.’

Yet my life is not my body. My true Life is my soul. I will live forever because that was the plan of the One who made me. He didn’t make my body to last. My body will stop working, perhaps before yours, perhaps after. Who knows? Calmness overwhelms me. The tumult of my soul over something as small as my body seems crazy in the grand scheme of things. What’s made to last, will last. My everlasting parts need not worry over the decay of my passing body. God creates, he breathes Life into beings. And the true Life lives on. God’s plan.

My body matters. It’s ok to weep over hard life, over lost life, over life that will never be. Jesus wept. But looking forward helps me. It helps me to see true Life. The Life that never ends. And I have that. It’s a gift from the Life Giver. And no one can take that from me.

The Standard

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It scares me sometimes. The responsibility I have. Sometimes celebrating Life seems hard. I strain to glimpse Glory and it seems as if nothing’s there. Sometimes I wake up and the world seems dark and the air chills me. And I want to stay in the warm burrow of my bed. When I’m there, no one expects things of me.

But the absence of expectation itself is dark and cold. My soul desires expectation. Nature and nurture gave me my standards and I have to live by them. Or feel empty and useless. And I try. I really do. We’re taught by the world that trying is enough. But the more I see of the world, the less I believe it. Aside from the fact that I believe in Grace, of course.

I find it amazing that people believe that trying is enough. ‘Trying doesn’t work,’ I want to cry, ‘Don’t you see all the people who have tried and failed?’ All the sad people, the ill people, the destitute people. They tried. It goes without saying that trying is good. But it’s simply not good enough.

And that’s why Grace is there. If we could have peace and fellowship with the Creator by trying, if we could truly celebrate Life without him, would he have sacrificed his Son? He has his standards too. They’re so much greater than mine that I can hardly even begin to grasp them. But I know they’re there. And I give thanks to God for his standards. I thank him because he is The Standard. And the more I look to The Standard, the more I see Grace.

The joining of worlds

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It feels like a clash of worlds.

It’s a beautiful day. One that sings the song of Life so loudly. It’s a day where the Creator’s love for us is perfectly clear. 
‘Look,’ He says, ‘See the happy children playing in paddling pools, feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, hear the birds having the time of their lives, smell the heady scent of the flowers in bloom. Here is my Love for you. Here is a piece of Glory for you. Here is Beauty in abundance. Here I Am.’
But inside my body, the consequences of sin make themselves known. I am ill. Even on such a day as this. My Life song stumbles out of my mouth with halting breaths, quietly and slowly. And the Creator’s love feels so far away. He created this body, this frail, weak thing. Why? What was the point? And in the silence, in the confusion and in the questions, the answer comes.
‘Look,’ He says, ‘My power is made perfect in weakness. Here is my Love for you. Here is a piece of Glory for you. Here is Beauty in abundance. Just for you. Here I Am.’
For all the joy of a summer’s day, I can bring a greater smile to my Father’s face. For all my weakness, I have a great task. I am loved. I am made glorious. I am made beautiful. And I will strive to see the Glory in my weakness. As easily as I can see the Glory in the beautiful day. Because it is given to me and asked of me.
It feels like a joining of worlds. The glorious day and the glorious task. Made one through the Creator who calls all things to glorify his Name.

For Claire

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I believe in life. I believe in hope. I believe in joy. And yet there are days when believing is hard. When the reality of sin and its consequences hit home in sad ways. Having an illness makes you feel the pinpricks of life often. There isn’t a day when I’m not reminded of illness and sadness, of pain and discomfort. And sometimes, some days I feel those pinpricks harder and bigger than before.

Today I learned of the death of a friend with Cystic Fibrosis. I didn’t know her very well but I knew enough to be amazed at her life, at her hope and at her joy. She fought for over 30 years, she ran the race and crossed the finish line into the arms of the Saviour she loved. She will have a new body one day, a body made perfect, a body with lungs that can breathe long and deep breaths, a body with energy enough to run marathons.

And I weep. Not for Claire. She has found Glory. But for her family and friends. For the fight they will have to believe in life and hope and joy. For my own struggles yet to come. And for my own fight to believe.

But in the sadness, the Life Giver is there. He knows the pinpricks. And he knows the nail wounds. And he tells me that life is eternal, that hope is here and that joy can be found. It’s our job to trust.

The School of Pain

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I used to go to a bright school
Where Youth and Frolic taught in turn;
But idle scholar that I was,
I liked to play, I would not learn;
So the Great Teacher did ordain
That I should try the School of Pain.
One of the infant class I am
With little, easy lessons, set
In a great book; the higher class
Have harder ones than I, and yet
I find mine hard, and can’t restrain
My tears while studying thus with Pain.
There are two Teachers in the school,
One has a gentle voice and low,
And smiles upon her scholars, as
She softly passes to and fro.
Her name is Love; tis very plain
She shuns the sharper teacher, Pain.
Or so I sometimes think; and then,
At other times, they meet and kiss,
And look so strangely like, that I
Am puzzled to tell how it is,
Or whence the change which makes it vain
To guess if it be Love or Pain.
They tell me if I study well,
And learn my lessons, I shall be
Moved upward to that higher class
Where dear Love teaches constantly;
And I work hard, in hopes to gain
Reward, and get away from Pain.
Yet Pain is sometimes kind, and helps
Me on when I am very dull;
I thank him often in my heart;
But Love is far more beautiful;
Under her tender, gentle reign
I must learn faster than of Pain.
So I will do my very best,
Nor chide the clock, nor call it slow
That when the Teacher calls me up
To see if I am fit to go,
I may to Love’s high class attain,
And bid a sweet good-bye to Pain.
~ Susan Coolidge
When I was little, I used to love the What Katy Did books where the above poem can be found. As with so many things, I’ve wanted to adapt it slightly so that it becomes more grace filled than reward based but there’s still a whole host of things that have been helpful to me and that I’m grateful for.
I love metaphors. I love pictures. I love different ways of understanding reality. And I love the idea of a School of Pain and Love. Because life is about learning. And I just can’t stop learning, even if I wanted to. The Great Teacher is everywhere. His lessons are all around. I can learn in the quietness and stillness of a sleepless night. I can learn in the hustle and bustle of a tube train. I can learn in the laughter and joy on my nephew’s face. And I can even learn in Hospital Room 16.
And that’s where I’ve been. On my own little intensive course. The Teacher sent me off. Away from the comfort of my home and my husband and into a new environment with new and harder lessons. I know I haven’t learned the lessons that He has for me. But I’ve made a start. My handwriting’s still messy. I still can’t walk in a straight line. And you should see the way I mispronounce words. But over the course of 16 days in Room 16, I’ve begun learning lessons that last.
I’ve learned that a hospital room doesn’t have to be a place of spiritual barrenness. I’ve struggled with that in the past. They are some of the places that I’ve felt most alone. But it isn’t good for people to be alone. And so God showed himself to me in Room 16 and I knew I was truly loved. I’m not a very emotional person, the emotional capacity of a teaspoon is the way my family often describe it. But I cried more than once because I knew that my Father was with me right there in Room 16. 
I’ve learned to give thanks for small blessings. They’re always there, these small blessings. Even if they come in the form of having an IV line in my left arm instead of my right. Or being able to bless people in little ways – nurses like to be smiled at, cleaners like to be chatted to, catering staff like to be thanked.
I’ve learned the power of prayer. I had an inbox full of emails from people saying that they were praying. Some of the things we were praying for got answered with a no. But the power of prayer isn’t just about getting a yes. It’s about being able to ask in the first place. It’s about the joining of hearts and minds asking that God’s will be done. It’s about the encouragement that knowing people are praying can bring. And it’s about the privilege of talking to the King.
I’ve learned to say thank you. My thank you prayers are often hollow. But I thanked God for the suffering and meant it. I’m learning the joy that comes with saying, ‘Your will be done.’ Joy can be found in the strangest and hardest of places. But it’s worth it. 
I’m not perfect. Far from it. So far from it that God sent me to Room 16. I’m grumpy. I’m ungrateful. My refrain is often, ‘It’s not fair.’ I’m short-sighted. Don’t be fooled into thinking anything else. God is love. And I’m the loved. Wonderful, crazy love.
I need to keep learning these lessons. I know I have many intensive courses in my future. It may not be Room 16 but it’ll be somewhere. And right here, right now that scares me. But the lessons I began to learn in Room 16 are true. They are hard. They are big. But they are the lessons that my God has for me. And I’m here, with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face, learning them.

It gets harder…

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It’s always a sign that things aren’t going well when the baby steps you take get even harder. Foetus steps isn’t a phrase and there’s a good reason for that! Marathons get harder and feel longer when you slow up.

Things took a turn for the worse in our house recently. It was pretty grim. It ended with a GP’s visit, a hospital appointment and a hospital bed. We found out a couple of days ago that if we hadn’t gone through the GP and had a hospital appointment, I would have been put onto a 5 week long waiting list. God never ceases to amaze.

And yet it makes me so ashamed that when God was sorting out my not having to wait for 5 weeks, I was complaining. ‘God, why am I so ill? What is this? Can’t we just have a year of marriage when things go smoothly? Ok, 3 months? Even better, just take CF away, Lord. I don’t want it. It’s not fair, surely you can see that.’ I’m called to trust in the small things and so often I’m blind and so often I’m ungrateful.

This little bout of illness has done two things, taken me into two phases.
The first is the realisation that life will never again be easy. I used to think it was. But I’m older now, a tiny bit wiser. And I know. I know when things aren’t going well. I know when life gets harder.
The second is the realisation that life will never be as wonderful as what’s coming. I watch people having babies and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun playing with the baby. I watch people playing sports and having fun and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun being a cheerleader. I watch people advancing in careers and it hurts. Look at the King, Ruth. Look at his Glorious Kingdom. That’s where you’re going. Now go and have fun listening to people’s stories and encouraging them.

There’s a reason we’re told that God does all things for our good. It’s because it’s true. And in tiny ways I’m being allowed to see this truth. Come and look through the cracks in life with me. Light seems brightest when it’s shining through a small crack. Walk into its glare and you’re dazzled. Better yet, sit down in the ray and bask in the warmth and light of our Father’s choices for us.

There’s a lot I can’t do. I can’t run, some days walking is hard. But I will outrun my illness. For now I can run metaphorically into the arms of my Saviour. I look forward to the day when I will physically run into Glory taking deep gulps of breath. And maybe even yell ‘Hooray!’ at the same time.

On housewives, birds and life

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A housewife’s work is never done, so they say. I would like to tell them that that isn’t the end of the story. A quick, smart sentence summing things up. Or so they think. But surely they’ve missed the second part of the sentence: ‘And that’s what makes it beautiful.’
I get so many chances at life. One pink wash makes me better, one wrongly bleached surface makes me better, one burnt meal makes me better. And I get to wash and clean and cook again. I get to work hard at beautiful things and I don’t even have to leave the house to do it.
Sure, it feels small. And, sure, in one way it is small. But doesn’t God himself tell us that if we are faithful in the small things we will be entrusted with big things? Every time I wash, every time I clean, every time I cook, I make baby steps forward, I cover tiny pieces of ground. And those baby steps, those tiny bits of ground matter. They are the building blocks for bigger things.

A tiny, brown bird hops along the wall outside my window. His head is tilted, his gleaming black eyes watching. I stay as still as I can and stare at him. He stops hopping and stares back. Here we are, two creatures observing each other. With a flick of his tail and a flutter of wings, he disappears. Where to? I don’t know. It’s Spring. Perhaps he has a nest to feather, a worm to take back to his family. He has his song to sing. So different and yet so similar to mine.
Experts estimate that there are 100 billion birds on this planet. All singing their songs. And 7 billion people. All singing theirs.

And so it continues. Life, with its seemingly random pattern. Twisting, jumping, flying, diving, soaring. You can’t predict the ups and downs. You know they’re coming but, like a rollercoaster, your stomach still does roly polys in both the steep climbs and the sheer drops. Patterns, colours, textures, noises all whiz by. You strain your ears to hear, stretch out your hand to touch, open your eyes to see but only manage to hear, touch and see a tiny part of the Glory that has gone before. And it’s gone. At the speed of light. Or perhaps even faster. And all you’re left with is the lingering last moment before the light goes out.

But that seems defeatist. And no one wants to be defeatist. At least, not anyone who truly wants to live. Life tastes good. Life sounds good. Life looks good. Life feels good. There are flowers and cakes, cups of tea and comfy armchairs, good books and clever sitcoms, people to talk to and children to play with, beds to fall into when you’re tired and beds to fall into when you’re in love, the smell of roast beef and the taste of roast potatoes, snowflakes and sunshine. And the list goes on. You have your list and I have mine. Our lists might have the same things on them. They might be different. But they are both celebrations of Life, glimpses of Glory, lyrics of the Song, brush strokes on the Picture. And for that I’m grateful.