Category: God

On easy living

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Call me strange, but I struggle with having an easy life.

I know, I know, my life doesn’t look that easy. But after a bad spell even the simplest things make my life easier. Being able to get up in 2 hours instead of 3 or 4. Not feeling ill all the time. Having a bit of energy to have people to visit or chat on the phone. Not being tired and thinking about bed all day long. Tiny things they may be but they make a big difference. And the difference they make is not just one of a slightly easier practical life but one of a slightly harder spiritual life.

The thing is, when I have quiet after my storm, when I have downhill strolls after my uphill hike, I slip, quickly and easily, into dissatisfaction. I have time and energy to think about the things that my life is missing. I notice the differences between my life and other people’s. I begin to think that things would be better if only I had a baby, a career, a long life expectancy, or whatever that day’s gripe might be.

You see, when I’m in a hospital room or sitting in our flat able to do nothing, I have to run to God. There’s no other way. When things are hard, it’s obvious we can’t do it alone. When illness pervades my life and my mind can only focus on one thing, it fixes on my Lord.

And that’s why David and I sit on our sofa in the evening and thank our Father for the trials and the hardships. That’s why we feel a little scared when we’re thrust into the world of easy living. And that’s why, in a strange, the-world-wouldn’t-understand kind of way, we look forward to our next lesson. No, we’re not being masochistic or martyr-like. We’re just learning lessons. And right now we’re realising that the best place to be is focusing on God and it’s worth whatever it takes to get there.

On being scared

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Before I came into hospital this time someone asked me if I was scared. My fairly unhelpful response was to burst into tears and abandon the phone. But it was a good question.

I’m not scared of death. Why would I be? I firmly believe in an eternity of glory. Bring it on.

Dying, however, is a different thing.
I’m scared of a long and painful dying.
I’m scared of years of watching life go by, as I’m able to do less.
I’m scared of the pain things cause my family.
I’m scared of leaving my husband alone.
So, yes, I’m scared.

At times I think that I’ve lost my faith. After all, how could someone who is so scared and worried be truly trusting in God’s plan? A friend said this to me: ‘Faith is still faith even when you are holding on by your fingertips.’ And it’s so true.

Every day I find something hard. It’s usually health related. And often I can’t find the words when it comes speaking to God about it. In my latest really not great spell, I could hardly make sense of anything. I went in and out of consciousness. But all the time two words echoed round my head: ‘Please Lord.’ I didn’t know what I was asking. I was scared. I didn’t know what was going to happen. But in my fear, I went to the one safe place. I ran to my Father. And that was enough.

God doesn’t demand total and perfect faith and hold it against me when I don’t deliver.
He doesn’t lose his temper when I don’t learn my lessons first time.
And He listens to my prayers when I cry out to Him. Even if those cries are just two words spoken into silence.

In my life, fear isn’t a barrier to faith. It’s a bridge. When I’m scared, I need somewhere to run. And my Father has shown me that in those times He’s the kindest, He’s the best and He’s the safest place to run.

Waiting here

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On Sunday evening I thought I might be going to meet my King. But He said no. Apparently there’s more for me here. And when I look into my husband’s eyes, I know that it’s right. When I read emails from my sisters, I know that I need more time. And when I realise what such a thing would be to my parents, I’m glad  I’m still here.

But this is not the story I planned. This isn’t the 2.5 children, nice house, easy life that I wanted. I have no answers. What is going on?

I know there are good things even in the pain. And I know there are great things ahead. But still, when I wake up at night, I just want to say, ‘Lord, why? Why is this story for me?’

I had a shower today. My first in a few days. Disgusting, I know. But today I managed to stay off oxygen long enough. And I feel clean and happy. A lot cleaner and a lot happier than I do after my usual daily shower. The thing is, when you get really messy, getting clean again is glorious. That’s the way the world works. Loving makes pain worth it, like joy makes sadness worth it and emptying a full bladder makes needing the loo worth it. You laugh, but you know what I mean.

It’s ok to cry. It’s ok to come before the throne and ask what’s going on. Faith doesn’t mean blindly accepting. Faith involves grieving and pain. Faith involves hurting and asking, pleading and screaming.

‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’

But faith knows there is an answer. Because faith trusts in a promise. And in the midst of the questions and the weeping, faith whispers:

‘Your will be done.’

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.

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.

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.