No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close….


God forbid! The same preview showed twice in the overcrowded, anxious, American theatre waiting for the midnight showing of Narnia. Grumbling, groaning, griping over tubs o’ butter popcorn and foot long packages of Mike and Ikes, demanding the digital Aslan. Ironic? Perhaps I was just irritable.

And then there it was, the cool white skin of innocence in pale English fashion, Lucy with eyes like upturned pools, rapturous, believing, and the First to know Something More. Her feet hooking backward, awkward, into the closet, the coats, and then pine nettles. She just believed, Lucy did, instantly, perfectly, and I wanted to be her and knew instead I was Edmund, sulking and pretending I hadn’t seen anything, betraying all forms of trust and affection I am given.

I have seen it, I have known it, and it’s different every time. And I do know his name in this world, I think, I think, (I think too much). Why, when I am given a glimpse of this Narnia, of this Wonderland, do I shut my senses down? If I am seeking truth, I must take the courage of that tiny girl and keep creeping into the wardrobe, finding only the hard oak pane one day, and another world the next.

Truth is not tame. There is something of Lucy here yet, because I know, I know, (I know just enough) it is good.