Joy H. Books

Today’s post is about linguist and literary giant J.R.R. Tolkien. Known primarily for his novels The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien has profoundly impacted how I view the depth of God’s goodness and love, and the richness of my relationship with Him. While a lot of people may be familiar with the basic story of Frodo, Middle Earth, and the quest to destroy the ring, few are aware of the remarkable life of the man behind the fantastical story. J.R.R. Tolkien’s life is an amazing tale of loss, rich friendships, and a deep love for God that influenced the very heart of his writing.

Recently, I took a course at college that was centered on the literary works of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. As I did so, I learned more about the life of Tolkien, whose story includes forbidden love, painful battles in World War I, a friendship with Lewis, and the legacy of being the author of one of the most popular book series of all time.

As I learned more about Tolkien’s life and read more of his works, two things in particular stood out to me. One was the faithfulness of God over Tolkien’s life as He weaved together the seemingly purposeless or painful circumstances into a testimony of His goodness that has endured for over a century.

Second was Tolkien’s love of stars. These beautiful orbs of burning light high in the heavens are the fascination of Elves, the jewels of the crown of kings, and the hope for forlorn travelers. In the Bible, God’s command over the stars are used to remind His children of His faithfulness to them. In Isaiah 40, we read:

“To whom will you compare me? Or who is my equal?” says the Holy One. Lift up your eyes and look to the heavens: Who created all these? He who brings out the starry host one by one and calls forth each of them by name. Because of his great power and mighty strength, not one of them is missing.” (Isaiah 40:25-26).

To conclude, this post is a little bit different today. A little while ago, as I was taking the literature class, I was also reading a book about the personal letters of Tolkien (you can read more about that book here). As I was reading, I wrote a “what-if” letter, imagining Tolkien’s feelings as he fought in the notorious Battle of the Somme in France during World War I. The following is merely fictional, but based on Tolkien’s writing style and parts of his life.

I hope that this story is encouraging to you, no matter what you are walking through. As we reflect on God’s goodness, love, and faithfulness I hope that you are turned to the one that set the stars and knows them by name.

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“War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”

J.R.R. TOLKIEN, The Lord of the Rings

A British-held trench, France. July 1916.

Dear Edith,

It is very bad here. I have finally had time to write you a longer letter, dearest. Very sorry for the delay in this particular letter; battles have been terrible of late. Fearsome bombs and sprays of dirt fill the trenches, which have churned into mud-pits of pestilence and fear. Right now, however—silence and a brief breath of air. We’ve been holding our breathes all week, a brief reprisal is welcome after violent combat. Twenty-six more dead from heavy firing last night, several more have infection and need medical care we can’t give. Their days are short and numbered. Perhaps all of ours are. It is a waste, some say. We all feel the sorrow keenly and hate the war, Edith. I write this knowing that you hate it, too. It is terrible here.

The trenches and barracks are quiet for the first time in several weeks, however. Wonder if a storm lies on tomorrow’s horizon, but I’m grateful for the chance to write. I have been working on another poem that I shall send you first, before the T.C.B.S. gets it. I haven’t heard from or written those faithful men of the crazy old society in nearly a month. I pray that all of them are surviving this dreaded war.

Stars are peeking out from clouds tonight as I write you, stars burning pale beauty in the sea of darkness. I think of our walks together, Edith, on the cool streets back at home. I wonder if the crickets chirp there tonight where you sit as they do here, loud into the quiet. The sky seems so much larger, the stars breathing like flaming silver over the hushed darkness. I wish you were here—but no—never that. Not here. I wish I were there with you, back in England, dearest wife. I must force myself to trust in our God who is the loving Hand over both war and homeland, and within our hearts. Must trust you to Him.

Had a little time over a miserably wet morning two days ago to translate the Middle English text I mentioned in my last letter. I am hoping to send it back, and I have some additional edits made. It is a comfort to disappear into the world of myth and beauty, if only to borrow some weapons to fight in the present. The suffering is very deep here, more than I can describe, dear. My friend, Marius, was wounded yesterday, and his cries still ring in my ears as we managed to drag him down into the trench into safety. Dear old Jimmy and Oscar were among the fallen yesterday—it is almost too much to bear, we all feel that every second another brother dies. I cannot believe that Jimmy and Oscar are gone, and perhaps, soon, Marius and the boys from Salisbury. I take comfort, as I stare at these tinkling, crystalline drop-like stars and remember the love of our Savior nearer than they. I remember that those men are no longer in the dark night but see the Light clearer than I. But the war weighs down on my soul, so that words cannot describe, and I could weep sometimes at the thought of it.

I have nearly finished working out in my mind a new story, one about a beautiful land. It’s just a glimmer of a thought, very near to the old Norwegian poetry that I read to you last summer. In this land I’m stewing up, there’s a good deal of emphasis on stars and beautiful things of that sort. They shine on the brow of kings; harrowing grief turned to victory, resulting in parades where flowers petals rain down and war is no more… It’s a nice little story right now, reminiscent of the noble loveliness of past medieval kingdoms that Christopher and the rest of us are so fond of at the T.C.B.S.

I miss you, dear. I pray for you and leave you in the care of our Savior. Pray for your dear husband. The darkness here from the pain, and from the loss, feels overwhelming sometimes.

I am yours with love,

Tolkien stopped before signing his name, his scarred hand hovering over the smudged paper in the dark. The dull pencil he held was trembling, and he leaned back suddenly against the trench wall with a sigh. It must have been near two o’clock at night and the pervading silence was only broken by two sources of noise.

An occasional breath of wind fluttered the paper in his hands and brought with it the scent of summer grass, cool air, and burning gunpowder. The second was the light, fitful snoring of skinny, freckled Peterson a few feet beside him, a classmate from back home. Looking down the narrow, sand-bag supported channels winding away on either side of him into the earth, he could see the purple-black shadows of his fellow soldiers in the gloom. Some were standing, with their arms folded around their bayonets and their metal-tinned hats cocked down in sleep. Other men were leaning against the surface of the trench, with a pair of binoculars to gaze at the long plain stretching beyond the Allied territory into the darkness. Far away, a dull thud and thundering of distant exploding grenades reminded him that the war was not far away.

The stars above glittered in a blanket, pure, deep, and frosty, like penetrating voices scattered down to the falling arc of the night sky. Tolkien stared up at them as crickets chirped softly in the scorched grass beyond the trench. A wind stirred, bringing with it the faint sound of a rusty violin playing far-away along the trench. It softened and all was still.

Dear Savior, Tolkien prayed silently into the still night, his head tilted toward the twinkling, burning stars, Be with her. Be with me . . . I need you. He looked around at the shadowy forms of his companions, sorrow at the loss that could still be. Be with all of us.

Tolkien shifted against the wall, scatters of dirt crumbling behind him, and felt a painful cramp stab his wounded shoulder. He seized it with his dusty fingers, trying to massage the pain away, eyes forced close.

A moment later, he turned his glance to the letter to Edith in his hand, smudged with dirt. How much could he tell her of this place? How much should he trust with her? He could not add fresh pain to the weary anxiety of his sweet wife. Tolkien set aside the paper and looked back into the sky and let unformed prayers fill his heart.

Exhausted, he would wait in the stillness, taking comfort in hope reflected in the stars that, forever, continued to sparkle on.

This post originally appeared on Joy H.’s first blog, Unvisited Lands. Learn more here: https://unvisitedlands.wixsite.com/unvisitedlands/post/stars.