Random Details

It began with a collection of random details: a faun, an umbrella, a sledge, and a lion (whom he first encountered in a nightmare). From them, C. S. Lewis began to tell a story that became The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. He did not set out to tell a story to explain Christianity, as I once thought. Instead, he told a story and through that story, through the random details, people have heard the story that is beyond, or beneath, all stories.

I found this information about the creation of a book I love fascinating. It did not take away from the power of the story. In fact, it added to it.

As much as our egos would love to have us believe we are the masters of our destinies, the authors of our lives, I believe, in the end, our lives are a series of random details. That is not to say they are meaningless. Quite the opposite. What I learned about C. S. Lewis and the writing of his classic tale is that through random details can come a story of profound meaning. Through our stories we can see and hear another story, the story that is beyond, or beneath, all stories.

Many mornings, I attend a meeting where those in attendance share details from their lives. On the surface, they can sound random, sordid, and far from what we sometimes call “sacred.” And yet, from those random details, out of the stories, one can hear another story, a story of forgiveness, undeserved love, grace and genuine humility. When it happens, it’s beyond inspirational.

What’s so moving, though, is not the random details, but the story that comes from them, through them. Fauns, umbrellas, sledges and lions can become so much more. So can DWI’s, lost jobs , and broken relationships. So can a phone call, written note, and a chicken pot pie. The ordinary can become extraordinary, much like bread and wine.

As I write this, sitting on the patio of my studio enjoying a beautiful fall morning, I hear a gentle breeze swirling around me. Looking up, I see that what I hear is not the wind but the sound of the leaves as the wind blows through them. Perhaps that’s what happened when C. S. Lewis wrote his story. Maybe that’s what happens as we live our lives.

Choppy Water

The summer after my father died, my mother rented a house on a New Hampshire lake. When I arrived, it was windy, the water choppy and grey. Only after the winds calmed did the lake settle, revealing clear water through which I could see rocks, sunken logs and fish below. Looking back, I can see a valuable lesson the 20-year-old could not.

Long before that summer, I had formed habits of emotional protection which I can only describe as perpetual motion. I reasoned that if I kept moving, rushing around like the wind, I could keep the waters of my life choppy and would never have to look beneath the surface.  I also thought such frenetic activity made me seem confident and interesting, but what I was, was frightened beyond words. I didn’t want to look at the hurts and insecurities lying submerged like rocks, so I kept the winds blowing. 

I’d like to say that 40 years later I’m a placid contemplative wonderment, but the fact is I still revert to old habits from time to time. Looking around me, I can see I’m not alone. The ways to stir the waters are countless: we spend our days glued to our phones, attended every game our childen play, and accept every invitation. We devote ourselves to our work, our church, or some political cause, so we won’t have time to look beneath the surface of our lives.

Keeping the water choppy can make us feel better, more secure, or more interesting, but it’s also exhausting. 

When I feel the breezes blowing, and the whitecaps remind me of my fear of looking below, I try to remember the lake in New Hampshire. Then, maybe, I’ll step back, breathe, and let the waters settle. Perhaps then I’ll know what the psalmist meant when he spoke of sitting beside still waters.

It doesn’t come naturally, but new life rarely does. 

Back to School

I just can’t change. 

Ever since I first went to the office supply store with my father to stock up for another school year, there’s always been an excitement that permeates the air when another school year is about to begin. Heat gives way to cool, and idleness turns to routine. I resist the temptation to wear a silly hat and blowing a horn, but Labor Day has always felt like New Year’s Eve to me. No matter how distant the school bell, I can hear it ringing in my soul, and I want to go buy number two pencils and color-coded notebooks. Once a student, always a student, I suppose. 

I just can’t change.

What if we stopped trying to fight it and let ourselves go back to school? I don’t mean the part of school where people get pushed down in the playground or deliberately not invited to sleep-overs, but the part when we enter a classroom, get a syllabus, and learn what we’ll be studying in class. Most people I know wish they could go back and learn what they didn’t, read what was assigned, and be who they weren’t. The grades to which people would return varies, but the hunger to do it again, to do it “right,” is a common desire for many, particularly at this time of year.

Since that’s impossible, I wonder if we can return in some other way. Can Labor Day continue to bring its magic and invite us into a new year? 

·     Can we commit ourselves to learning something new? 

·     Can we pick up a paintbrush or dusty instrument and play as if we were young again? 

·     Can we read one of the books assigned years ago, or return to one that took our breath away when we first read it? 

·     Can we write a Once Upon A Time story, the kind that used to make us sit up and pay close attention?

·     Can we play capture the flag or kick-ball once again?

Nothing’s stopping us - except jobs, kids, aging parents, countless bills, and weary bones - but maybe this Labor Day we can join those who are going back to school in some small way. Maybe we can still go to the office supply store, the art store, or nursery and buy something for the child hidden deep inside..

Who knows, we might find hidden talents, rediscover old passions, and walk through the Fall as if we’re children again.