Where Has All the Magic Gone?

We rented Narnia - The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe this weekend. While some aspects of the movie adaptation left me cold, I am also thankful it wasn't butchered anywhere near as badly as Disney is normally wont to do with British literary classics. In any case, it elicited deep memories of the role the Narnia series of books played in my childhood and spiritual formation.

Narnia was my lifeline. When every part of my waking reality was banal and discouraging, when every message I received said "you are ugly and ordinary and there is nothing more to existence than suburban yards of dirty snow and the dry smell of defeat from the tailpipes of dusty beige cars," when the significant adults in my life told me that it was useless to dream and lofty aspirations were futile to the point of sin, when the churchly version of God confirmed my worst fears that I was forever condemned to apologizing for my existence - C. S. Lewis and Narnia gave me hope. Hope that my nameless longing had an object and an answer, hope that somewhere inside of my frizzy hair and bad skin were the seeds of Being - brave and true and beautiful.