“What would you do?”, I asked.
“That’s a hard decision,” my 5-year-old, Deacon, said.
“Would you take the fruit back to Aslan? Or would you do what the White Witch said, and take the fruit back to your mom who was dying? She said that the fruit would heal her and make her well again…”, I said, pursuing the question.
“Well… I think I would take the fruit back to Aslan… because he can make it even stronger and then I would take it to my mom,” Deacon answered. And answer well he did.
It is in these moments that you get a glimpse that you must have done something right—something small—unintentional maybe. Or perhaps it’s not anything we have done actively at all but rather what we have not done that has prepared him for this moment.
Deacon and I just finished the chapter “An Unexpected Meeting” in The Magician’s Nephew from C. S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia.
I read this book a number of years ago, but I wasn’t too impressed.
I was a child then… married, college degree in hand, pursuing a graduate degree… but a child all the same.
Leaving the folly of youth behind, I have returned with a wounded heart—broken, shattered, mended, captured.
I have returned with a renewed mind—humbled by Love and life.
I have returned with a thirsty soul—seeking for Truth that propositions can describe but hardly transpose onto the clef of the soul.
Firsthand, I know the foolishness of Digory’s puerile reason, distraction, and desire.
Firsthand, I know the seduction of the White Witch. I have tasted her, no, devoured her, then choked on the vomit.
In that choking I have pined for that Narnian air.
I have tasted Aslan’s great, shining tears.
And like Digory, I have come to know that despite his unconventional, paradoxical and downright confusing ways, there is one thing that will always set Aslan apart from the Witch—Aslan is Good.
As the last paragraph of the chapter was closing, Deacon was falling asleep, so he did not see the physical manifestation of my gratitude to God for waking me up from from the stupor of my boyish lust for the White Witch to awake to the Dawn of His Grace.
Waking me up as Digory awoke: “And the meanness of the [White Witch’s] suggestion that he should leave Polly behind suddenly made all the other things the Witch had been saying to him sound false and hollow. And even in the midst of all his misery, his head suddenly cleared…”
Beware the White Witch, Deacon! Beware!
Then the boy, like us, still polluted by the Witch’s allure, still wiping the Stupor from his eyes, sees clearly: “[Digory] was very sad and he wasn’t even sure all the time that he had done the right thing; but whenever he remembered the shining tears in Aslan’s eyes he became sure.”
Remember the tears, Deacon. Remember His tears.
Deacon slept. And the tears flowed and flowed.