All of life is here.

Unrequited love. Family feuds. Friendships and quarrels.   Anger and malice and grief and greed.

The beauty who can’t get out of bed. (Depression? Or just too many late nights?)

Fashion victims with crystal slippers and red Prada hoods.

Jack and his magic ‘beans’. Snow White and the apple detox. Ugly ducklings. Wolves in (Granny’s) clothing. Little boys who won’t grow up. Rapunzel and her dodgy hair extensions.

However, according to a recent survey, one in five parents have scrapped telling fairy tales on the grounds that they are unrealistic and unsuitable.

Here’s a few comments;

1. Hansel and Gretel – ‘ likely to scare young children’

2. Jack and the Beanstalk –  ’unrealistic’.

3. Gingerbread Man –  gingerbread man ‘gets eaten by a fox’ … the Horror

4. Cinderella – anti-feminist story about  young girl doing all the housework.

7. Rapunzel – terrifying  kidnap saga

8. Goldilocks and the Three Bears – sends the wrong messages about stealing

I’m not convinced.

Pick up any magazine and it’s selling you some version of the fairy tale.  The royal wedding. X-Factor redemption. The love rivals, vying for glory. The ‘monsters’: be they footballers or bankers.  Quests: for youth and fame and wealth.  The princess rescued by her plastic surgeon.

How many of us are waiting for our prince? The ball dress that’ll transform our fortunes? The decor to make our home a castle?

Who hasn’t moaned about an ugly sibling? Or dreamt of vanquishing an evil boss?

What heart doesn’t harbour dragons?

Sorry guys, but the Big Bad Wolf’s not confined to the library.

That’s the nature of addiction.  Like a pebble in a pond, it ripples outwards, drawing in, not just the sufferer, but all those in its path.

Addicts in particular, exert a certain ‘pull’. It’s agonising to watch – and even harder to help.  But there’s a difference between caring about someone and taking responsibility for them.  You don’t want to drown with them.  Instead, you want to throw them a rope.

Strong love means saying no as well as yes.

- No to doing the things they should be doing themselves.

- No to covering up for them or hiding their mistakes.

- No to the guilt that tries to fix another person.

- No to the temptation to clean everything up.

The truth is this: none of us has the power to rescue anyone else. We can help and love and challenge – but that’s not the same thing.

This is a mistake that Glen and I made for many years. As the ‘victim’ of an addiction,  I demanded from him what no man could provide.  He in turn tried to  ’save’ me by serving my demands.    Instead of husband and wife we acted like  patient and carer.  Neither of us were happy. Both of us were trapped.

For us to move forward, we had to look to Christ, instead of to each other.

Why? Because no-one but Christ can bear the weight of another person’s salvation.  If we try to carry it, it will crush us instead.

Image: Caleb Magnino

This evening I’ve giving a testimonial-talk. Ten years ago, I spoke just around the corner on the same theme. But I’m hoping that the content will have changed.  And I’m praying that the person speaking would be unrecognisable to her old self.

Ten years ago I was studying at Bible college and in the grip of an eating disorder that would almost kill me.  For a while I managed to hide my obsession. I threw myself into church activities, missions and teaching.    I gave talks about the gospel and wrote glittering essays. On the outside I looked pretty good – a  dynamo, burning out ‘for the Lord’.  I even believed it myself. But at the heart of my ‘ministry’ beat a commitment to proving – and saving – myself.

When I though about God, it was as a headmaster – slightly disapproving and far away.  Someone with rights over my soul – but not my body. Someone who wanted me to perform and keep His rules. Grace, I figured, was just for other people.  My problems were much too complex – and in any case, I didn’t need help. I knew the words of the gospel, but not its power.

I tried every avenue possible to prove my own worth. Academia, relationships, beauty, morality. None of these satisfied – instead, they left me emptier than before. In desperation, I cried out to God: ‘If you want me, you can have what’s left.  I’ve exhausted my own resources.  If you’re there, if this grace is possible – even for me – please, show me now’.

There was no blinding flash of light. No smoke or glitter.  Instead, I turned back to the Bible.  I started reading again about the God I thought I knew.  The Lord who comes, not to be served, but to serve – and to give his life, so that we don’t have to.

This is the God I follow.  Not a slave-driver or a despot.  Not a negligent father or a circus-master, cracking His whip.   A lord who wants in on all of us – body, mind and soul. Whose arms are always open and who is waiting for our return.

A God of second chances.

Can your heart and thinking change as well as your behaviour? Or are you destined to remain  a non-practising version of the same old model?

…

Most of the literature I’ve read on addiction says this:  they never really go away – you just get better at managing them.

For some people this is the rational voice of realism: a reminder that no-one is beyond temptation – especially in a familiar guise.

For others, it’s a life sentence. A prophetic shadow that blights the future as well as the past.

But  like so much, perhaps addiction – and recovery – are  matters of definition.

If  addiction is simply behavioural -  then recovery, though not easy, starts to look quite neat.     An in-house affair. Quick.  Achievable. Self-motivated and self-willed. Replacing the old behaviours with something less destructive. Shopping, not drinking.  Exercise, not binge-eating.

These new patterns can be improvements.   But are they freedom? Or  just longer chains?

If hope lies within, then what happens when I lose faith in myself?

..

I believe that recovery – real recovery, is possible.

I believe that there is hope.

That hope is a Person, not a programme.

It’s more than the shape of my body, it’s the shape of my heart.

You’d think it’d be a hot-bed of pulsating sweetness.  An endless procession of sugary tea and apple-checked old ladies.  That’s what Christianity is all about, right?  Benevolence and good intentions. But when I read about the heroes of faith, that’s not what I see. They’re  passionate and godly and brave and kind.  They’re excited and despairing and hopeful and a million other things besides. But ‘nice?’ – No.

‘Nice’ is hard to relate to. It’s pleasant, well mannered and polite.  You could take it home to meet your parents, except you’d have to make conversation on the way. It will never say anything wrong. But it will never stray from small-talk either.

Nice looks friendly.  But the sugar-coating is an armour that keeps others at bay.   Nice you see, deals in pleasantries, but not relationships.  Relationships after all, entail risk. Vulnerability. A sharing and a stretching  beyond what’s comfortable. ‘Nice’ people don’t hurt – and they don’t get hurt either.  They’re not flaky or messy and they don’t make mistakes.

‘Nice’ is a label for things that don’t really matter. Perfectly pleasant.  Neutral.   No strong views on either side.

‘Nice’ is not broken or needy.  It changes no-one. It doesn’t need rescue and it doesn’t need help.

It’s a biscuit. And it’s a holiday destination.

But it’s not a person.  And it’s not a Christian.

‘Nice’ is my nemesis.

Bunkum.  God does not have a fast-track  for dog-collars . But even though we sort of ‘know’ the truth, we sometimes accept such fictions as fact.  My mum for example, thinks that her prayers don’t work as well as mine. I’d laugh at this – except I do it too.   I know God loves us equally  … but in prayer poker, my money’s on the bishop.

This sort of thinking has always been a temptation.  When I first became a Christian I figured that all my problems would suddenly disappear. Some do – (and they’re The Big Uns too), but not as I’d imagined. And by no means all.Jesus turned out to be a Saviour, not a new boyfriend. And  instead of getting easier, life as a Christian became a whole lot harder instead.

This at least, was my experience. I was different to my family.  They hadn’t met Jesus yet and didn’t want to keep talking about Him. There were bits of the Bible I didn’t understand, (Genesis to Revelation mianly). Most of all, despite being converted, I still kept screwing up. I lost my temper, pretty much at the same rate as before.  Wasn’t it meant to disappear, along with all the spots?

Didn’t being religious mean that everything was fixed? Along with the whole forgiveness thing, didn’t we get perks?  A parking space and a Christian boyfriend. An effortlessly sunny disposition. New me: once a Lada, and now a Lamborgini.

I’m not sure where this came from. But it certainly wasn’t Jesus.

Jesus is pretty clear about who he’s calling.  Not religious folks or Holy Joes.  Normal, messed-up humans who need a Saviour.

He’s also clear about what it means to follow Him.  We’ll be persecuted – just like He was.  We won’t fit in the world, no matter how much we want to.

In Christ alone, we find life – but it’ll feel like death.

And that goes for the vicars too.

What’s really scary is not despair.  It’s actually Hope.

With despair, you think you know what you’re getting.   It promises you safety – but this is a lie. You’re used to its habits: impossible to imagine life without it.   But instead of protecting you, it closes you down. It isolates you and moves in for the kill.

Hope on the other hand, seems risky and uncertain. Insubstantial, a dandelion ghost that’s just out of reach. But this too is false. Instead hope is as solid as its object.  If I hope for example, in myself or my circumstances, I’m lost – because these things can be shaken. But if my hope is in Christ, then it’s outside of me. ‘It’ is a Person: and He is an anchor, firm and secure.

Despair should be an enemy – but it feels like a friend. A best friend, who won’t share you with anyone else. That hugs you close and whispers  in the darkness:   ‘Life is pointless: but that’s not all bad.  At least you know where you stand – and you know what’s coming too. You’re in charge.  If you don’t put your heart on the line, then it can’t be crushed. You can protect yourself from risk and unpredictability.  From surprises: good or evil’.

Hope however,  is the true friend that can feel like a threat – the friend who won’t give up when you push them away. The friend who loves you and who dares to speak the truth. This friend won’t let you withdraw.  It engages you and brings you into community.  It tells you, ‘Keep going, keep trusting.   You’re not in charge – but you’re not alone.  God can be trusted.You haven’t reached your goal yet, but listen, can you hear it? Can you  feel it? You’re nearly there and the best is yet to come.  ’

Despair tells you that you can’t change.  It’s too late. Your mistakes can’t be forgiven.  You’re a victim or a perpetrator, but never both.  Despair feels like a duvet, but it smothers you instead. It promises to protect you – from daring to dream, from taking risks, from engagement with the world and from failure and success. What it really does,  is cut you off from life itself.

Gospel hope however, never gives up.  In Christ, there’s forgiveness for every sin.  New mercies, every morning.  Redemption, even in the greatest suffering. A new identity, independent of our people or place.  Gospel hope is risky – but it never disappoints.  It’s  frightening, glorious and beautiful.  It’s life – in all its fullness.

She has my sympathy.  Aside from navy t-shirts, (of which I have hundreds), nothing makes me feel more miserable than trying on outfits.  Jeans are the worst. But even jeans wear out.  So once a year, I sally forth, determined to find a pair that aren’t too baggy in one place and too tight in another.

You’d think it would be easy.  Yet the pursuit of denim seems to require secret knowledge that has passed me by.  Twisted. Straight-leg.  Boyfriend.  Flared.  Boot-leg, pastel, cropped, low-rise.  The labels may as well  be written in Hebrew. Plus, how do you get them back on the stupid hangers?  It’s like the Crystal Maze. In the florescent glare of the three-way mirrors, I freeze, like a rabbit blinking in headlights.   And the story always ends the same. Exit stage left, jean-less but with two more navy t-shirts.

It should be funny.  But sitting in the changing rooms, tears feel more appropriate.

Why?

Maybe because it’s not just  the jeans that don’t fit.  It’s everything about me – or at least, that’s how it feels.

…

I’m not like the women I see in clothes stores or read about in  magazines.  I’ve inherited my dad’s chest and feet.    My skin is crinkly and white, not golden and glowing. My hair frizzes in the rain (and on special occasions).  When I cry, my nose runs and I make horrible hiccupping noises.

What’s more,  I don’t feel like these women either.

I’m not savvy, street-smart, ambitious or go-getting.

I don’t know 60 tips to Drive My Man Wild.

I’m not a domestic goddess.

I’m not a mummy, yummy or otherwise.

I’m not a high-flier. I have no Career Plan or Life Goals.

When I look at these women,  a little part of me curls up and hides.  They’re beautiful, successful, confident and smart. They have Capsule Wardrobes and Perfect Skin. Their clothes fit and they don’t have issues.

But you know what? It’s as much a fantasy as the perfect pair of jeans.

A deep sea diver? A lumberjack or an air hostess? A footballer’s wife?

I’ve always had one ambition: to write. I even had a pen name: Emma Swanne, (emphasis on the ‘e’). Friends inked their names on tables and jotters, but I hugged mine close, like a delicious secret. It was a talisman, a promise that one day I would Make It. Authors you see, weren’t like other people. They were mysterious and powerful. Controlled and shiny and polished and clean. Warriors, wielding words and protected by print. Not messy or human.  And definitely not like me.  I was a recovering anorexic, a tanker of hormones, spilling my mess onto every available surface.  But I swore that one day, this would change. I’d write a new story and leave the old one behind.  I’d perfect myself and the evidence would be a literary masterpiece, a mop that would wipe the past clean.

Despite these ambitions, reality hasn’t worked out quite as I’d planned.  I’ve written a book, yes.  But it’s the one I swore I’d never write.  It’s about a recovery I didn’t orchestrate. And it’s the words of the girl I swore I’d leave behind.

I didn’t want to grow up.  I wanted the fairytale: a perfect princess in a perfect world.

The handsome prince.  The dream castle, full of soft furnishings.

The drink that makes you forget . The magic food that makes you slim.

There is no Emma Swanne.  There never was.  But in God’s hands, perhaps even Emma Scrivener can find a happy ending.

Some people seem to know these things automatically.  I’m guessing they’re the same ones who flushed my head down the toilet at school. The cool girls who wafted white musk and self belief. Like another species – pink and glittery and terrifying.

I watched those girls like a seagull eyeing chips. I was ravenous for what they had.  The boyfriend and the chest and the matching underwear. For a time when I’d stop saying the wrong thing and I’d wear the right clothes and listen to the right music and most of all, I’d finally Fit.  I did my best. But it never happened.  I never grew into my blazer, just like I never grew into my gender: both always seemed a bit too big.

Puberty descends and carries us, kicking and screaming into adulthood. We get better at filling the silences. We start to look the part. But I’m still mystified by life.  I look at other people and can’t believe they’re made of the same messiness that I am. I wonder if I’ll ever fit into the world, or even my body.  I don’t know the answers.  But then, maybe that’s not the point.  Maybe part of growing up is not being frightened of the questions.